She looked behind her then back up the driveway to the mass of trees that hid the shabby, basic weatherboard home she’d grown up in. Bernadette was the only friend she’d not been too embarrassed to invite out to the rundown, untidy farm.
It was time Jack got real, ended this nonsense. He’d been slowly winding down anyway, hadn’t he? Thirty years was long enough for chasing rainbows and the elusive pot of gold. At least he’d be able to say it hadn’t been his decision, and could bow out with his dignity intact. He’d thank her for that, wouldn’t he?
So what was she so afraid of? Was it the guilt of being the one to end his dreams after all these years? Even her mother hadn’t done that.
When he came out of the coma he was likely to be incapacitated. Surely he wouldn’t want the constant reminder of what he could no longer do. The place really wasn’t the same without the horses. But she hadn’t had a choice, had she?
Her grip was as tight on the steering wheel as sweaty palms allowed. Her knuckles were beginning to ache. Claire took a deep breath, put the car in gear and slowly edged forward. Outside the car, the fence posts and dry paddocks began to blur as she picked up speed. She kept her eyes fixed on her destination, forcing herself not to think about what was missing, or exactly what had become of the horses that had once provided so much atmosphere.
Claire pulled into the carport behind the old white rust-stained ute, just like she had so many times before. When she turned the key and got out it felt like nothing had changed; she could have been going in to share a lunch of steak, chips and eggs with her father before he put her to work cleaning stables or mixing feeds. But when she reached the back door, reality hit. She’d had a new lock fitted a couple of days after her father had been rushed to hospital. The key was in her glove box.
Claire left it where it was, deciding instead to look around outside and enjoy the soothing sun on her back. She walked around the side, past her mother’s shade-house that was now empty except for a few skeletons of plants scratching at each other in the gusty breeze. The unusual orange and chocolate leopard-spotted rock, once a childhood treasure and proud feature of the corner fernery, was now covered in spiders’ webs and dead leaves. Claire moved on, swallowing thoughts of how devastated her mother would be if she could see it.
The gates of the day yards in front of each of the four stables stood open, and the piles of manure dotted around bore evidence of the hasty evacuation. Each water trough had an unhealthy layer of green slime covering its surface. Claire leapt back in fright as a sudden gust caused a loose sheet of roof iron to flap and then settle with a piercing squeal. She was halfway through a mental note to have someone out to fix it when she realised how ridiculous she was being. She could fix the damn thing herself – she’d helped her dad build them in the first place. Anyway, he’d be disappointed if she paid someone for something so simple. ‘More money than sense,’ he’d say. ‘That’s the city life for you.’ And of course he’d be right. An only child, she’d been raised a tomboy, and had been more capable with cars and DIY than most boys her age. But since she’d left the farm she’d adopted the ‘pay someone else to do it, my time is too important’ attitude.
First, she’d stopped doing the minor services on her car. And then the new one was computerised and so complicated it made sense not to touch it. It was funny how quickly you lost touch and confidence if you didn’t keep your hand in. There was no way she could ever tell her father she’d called the RAA out to change a tyre. But she was in her work suit and it was beginning to rain – and get dark – as she made the call. For the whole forty minutes they took to arrive she scolded herself for becoming a helpless woman. She was almost at the point of doing it herself when the yellow van turned up. In a matter of minutes the cheery man was done and beaming while she signed the form.
Claire smiled when she slid the shed door back to find the ladder leaning nearby, with an old paint tin half full of roofing nails and a claw hammer sticking out underneath it. She grabbed the wire handle and tucked the long but relatively light ladder under her arm, relieved that she hadn’t had to rummage through the untidy, echoing space.
After banging in the last of the nails, Claire sat back with a sense of pride that she’d been able to do something practical for her father. She’d tell him tomorrow evening. She put her chin on her bent knees and scanned the property stretching out before her.
It seemed a million miles from the responsibilities of a mortgage, a stressful job, and her grief. She’d done this often as a child: hidden herself away from it all in her own style of meditation. Now she felt so at peace she was annoyed she’d let herself grow up and get caught up in the web of city life. But everything was a compromise; a quiet farm meant being at the mercy of the seasons and other uncontrollable forces. No, there was no way she could ever live this way again.
Sitting back at Bernadette’s kitchen table, Claire looked up from her laptop as her friend made a loud bustling entrance, laden with over-flowing calico shopping bags.
‘So sorry I’m late. Old Mrs Jericho couldn’t make up her mind between the Edwardian or Victorian settings.’
‘No worries.’
‘I’m starving. Let’s eat, then get you over to the farm before you chicken out.’ Bernadette tipped a pile of butcher’s paper-wrapped parcels and large loaf of crusty bread onto the table.
‘I’ve already been,’ Claire said quietly.
Bernadette stopped with the calico bag still aloft. ‘Oh,’ she said.
Claire shrugged. ‘Yeah, it just felt right.’
Bernadette got out plates and cutlery and brought them to the table.
‘Was it okay?’ Bernadette asked. They’d spent so many hours this year with arms wrapped around each other, Claire sobbing, Bernadette fighting back tears of sympathy. She’d really hoped those clouds were behind them.
‘No. Depressing.’ Claire laughed, trying to play her mood down.
‘I knew it would be – that’s why I didn’t want you going alone.’ Bernadette thought Claire had been a little hasty in getting rid of the horses, like she’d been waiting for the opportunity. She’d tried to talk her out of it, had even offered to feed them and keep an eye on them herself. But Claire had been adamant.
‘It was like those ghost towns you read about – void of life. There was even iron flapping in the wind.’
‘Oh Claire.’ Bernadette moved to put her arms around her best friend, but Claire waved her away.
‘Don’t. I’ll become a basket case.’ Claire laughed tightly.
‘Focus on the positives – he’s going to pull through. Remember, where there’s life there’s hope.’
Unlike with Keith, who was gone forever. The unspoken words hung between them. Bernadette really felt for Claire – the poor thing had had one hell of a year.
Even though Bernadette had no evidence, she wondered if the universe was conspiring to get Claire back up into the Adelaide Hills. Maybe it was just selfishness, wishful thinking on her part. Claire’s husband had been cruelly taken – that certainly wouldn’t do anything to bring her back. Instead, it had made her focus more on her career in order to outrun the memories. And Jack’s accident
