Chapter 2 #2
I take a carrot from the cockatiels’ stash of vegetables before walking to the stables. As the regular trainers don’t have the time to exercise Martin’s favourite ex-racehorse mare, Delphinium, and she’s now retired from broodmare duties, I take her out on Wednesdays and Sundays.
‘Martin has a soft spot for you, doesn’t he?’
Delphinium chomps on the carrot as I saddle her.
Martin was perplexed that I’d refused the role on Morrison Island.
Hardly surprising, as I don’t have a permanent job or home to worry about.
My work since I graduated five years ago has comprised of casual positions, working on research projects and filling in when staff take maternity and other extended leave.
There’s a chance of a full-time role at the Dubbo zoo, but that won’t come up until the second half of next year.
Ten minutes after saddling her, I’m on Delphinium’s back and unlatching the gate that leads to the track.
Her hooves pad softly on the spongy ground as, railings and trees a blur, she breaks into a canter then lengthens her stride.
Two circuits of the track and then I sit back.
The mare’s sides are heaving as we slow to a walk.
I pat her neck and tidy her mane. ‘You’re getting more sedate in middle age.’
When my phone rings, I tap an earpiece.
‘Flick,’ Mum says, ‘did you get my message?’
‘I’m out on Delphinium. I was going to call when I got back to my room.’
‘I was too excited to wait. Guess what? I’ve booked a cruise!’
My heart sinks. ‘To where?’
‘The South Island of New Zealand. Four whole weeks. I spent the money you gave me for my birthday.’
‘That money was for repairs to your car.’
‘Didn’t I tell you I took out a loan for that?’
The tightness in my chest ramps up. ‘No.’
‘The cruise starts next month and hadn’t sold out, which was why it was half price. How could I resist such an opportunity?’
My young and very pretty mother was the spoilt only child of parents who disowned her when she fell in love with my father.
A musician and the lead singer in a popular band, Dad was notorious for drug-fuelled off-stage volatility even before he met Mum.
He never supported her, me or my older brother.
Dad was also unfaithful, but Mum always forgave him.
A few times a year, she’d leave my brother Matt and me with friends while she flew across the country to see him.
After Dad died from an accidental drug overdose, Mum said she’d lost the only love she’d ever have.
And as she’s never had a long-term relationship with anyone else, maybe she was right about that.
‘Does the cruise leave from Brisbane?’ I ask.
‘Sydney.’
‘Are flights included?’
‘I don’t think so.’ A shuffling of papers. ‘They need to be booked. Would you mind doing that for me?’
My mother, who is only fifty-six, is impulsive. She refuses to change her spending habits or acknowledge that spending more money than she has—than I have—upsets me.
When Delphinium skitters, I soften my hands on the reins. ‘A bus might be cheaper.’
‘With all that luggage? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You can’t afford to—’
‘I could sublet my apartment to help with the cost.’
‘Last time that happened, the bathroom got flooded and cost thousands to repair, and your landlord threatened to evict you if you ever sublet again.’
‘I’ll find a more reliable tenant this time.’
‘You could cancel the cruise instead. Is it refundable?’
‘At such a bargain price? Of course not. Anyway …’ a quivery voice, ‘… please don’t deny me this opportunity.’
‘Mum—’
‘This isn’t only a cruise, it’s a wellness retreat with special guests, including Yogi Bishnu. He’s a counsellor in loss and grief, Flick, and just thinking about talking to him about my precious son gives me comfort.’
‘Do you promise not to sublet?’
‘If you pay for the flights, I won’t have to. Thank you, darling. I’d be ever so grateful. Maybe you could come and stay here yourself? Have a break by the ocean.’
As my father didn’t contribute to the costs of raising his children, Mum juggled casual gigs in a hairdressing salon so we always had a roof over our heads and three meals a day.
In her own way, she taught Matt and me right from wrong.
And she made sure we went to school. We were educated and we were safe.
Delphinium shies at shadows as we approach the gate. ‘Email me the details of the cruise and I’ll book the flights.’
‘The retreat will make me stronger, I’m sure of it.’
Mum lived on prescription drugs and little else after Matt’s death, and when she finally came out of that stupor, she fell into another.
Buddhism and mindfulness might’ve assisted with her recovery, but hallucinogenic mushrooms and supposedly medicinal doses of weed set her back.
Dad’s death had been hard, but she’d continued to function.
After Matt’s death, she couldn’t work, couldn’t pay bills, could barely get out of bed.
Reminders of Dad tripped her up; reminders of Matt tipped her over the edge.
My brother and I were eight years apart, but people often said we were peas in a pod.
We took after our father: fair hair and skin, blue eyes and long legs.
And because she liked to say to strangers ‘you would have heard of their father’, Mum didn’t mind that.
Until she did.
After Matt’s death, I became a reminder of all that Mum had lost—not only the love of her life but the son she adored.
When I was fifteen and Mum was at her lowest, I did what I could to please her.
I gave her clothes, perfume, candles, potted orchids, picture frames, the things she’d always liked.
I stole, I got caught. I stole, I got caught.
I was angry and antagonistic. When I bolted from a shop and slammed the door behind me, I didn’t mean to break a policeman’s finger in three places, but that’s what I did.
Break and enter. Theft. Aggravated assault.
When I was at university, Mum and I would see each other a few times a year, birthdays and Christmas, when she’d visit friends down south.
I’d only just graduated when Covid and lockdowns kept us apart for two years.
Ever since, we talk on the phone but rarely in person. She makes excuses. I back down.
‘Hang on a minute. I have to get Delphinium through the gate.’
‘Aren’t horses very expensive?’
Mandy Flanagan, a psychologist at the juvenile detention centre, introduced me to the Welsh mountain ponies she bred at her stud.
I’d known nothing about horses, but they taught me about trust, how it had little to do with what assets you had and everything to do with predictability, respect and sensitivity.
Mandy also sent me to a teacher at Horseshoe Hill, who ran horse therapy sessions for kids at risk.
By then I was straightening myself out, so I was given a part-time job at Sapphie’s stables and taught to ride.
‘I exercise other people’s horses. I don’t have my own.’
‘If you didn’t pay Matilda’s exorbitant school fees, you could buy yourself a horse.’
I focus on Delphinium’s glossy coat, flick her mane so it sits on one side. Neat. Even. Orderly. Like I’d like my life to be. ‘I want to support Matilda.’
A long delay. ‘I was in a good mood when I called. Let’s not argue now. How is your work going?’
A curl of smoke spiralling from one of the many chimneys in Martin’s house gets lost in the clouds. When I let go of the reins and stretch my fingers, Delphinium breaks into a trot.
‘I need to find another position.’
‘With two children to support, I couldn’t afford to be fussy about the kind of work I did.’
Besides the odd cash-in-hand payment for a haircut or blow dry, Mum hasn’t worked in the thirteen years since Matt died.
The disability pension covers food and a few other monthly expenses, but I pay her rent and fund her activities.
I can’t stay at Roxburgh Estate indefinitely.
Even in a share house, rent will be high and—
‘Can you book Tipsy-Cat into boarding?’ Mum says. ‘I’d do it, but they’ll want a deposit up front. My dates aren’t in school holiday times, so it won’t be as pricey as usual.’
When her doorbell rings, Mum trills a goodbye and disconnects.
Losing a child would be unimaginably tragic, but Mum went off the rails after Dad died, too. Did she love him too much?
When I slide from Delphinium’s back and pull the reins over her head, she rubs her nose against my thigh.
‘That kind of love will never be for me,’ I tell her.
I don’t know where Mum thought the money was coming from when I gave her the gifts I’d stolen, but she wasn’t in a state to question anything back then. I was a magpie. I collected. I hid things away and, when her moods were particularly low, I’d make her feel better by giving her something.
After I’d injured the policeman and been charged, Mum got in touch with her mother.
She did better than Mum had in finding me a lawyer, but she was elderly, on the pension and lived a thousand kilometres away in Perth.
In the weeks leading up to the court case—even though I was angry and resentful that Matt wasn’t there—I hung around with Matt’s friends in the hope it would bring me closer to him.
I wanted to forget. To escape. To fly free.
But there was no escaping a custodial sentence.
I was a bird locked up.
Sebastien Thorsen thought I could work on my own. He also thought I was resilient.
I’ve had to be.