Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER
17
At fifteen, Rory is too old for a babysitter, but when Shelley has Sunday shifts she’d prefer he come to the saddlery than hang around town with his mates. The ground is soggy after last week’s rain. As Rory jumps over puddles to the fence, Shelley takes his bag from the boot of her car and throws it onto the verandah.
‘Thanks, Mac,’ she shouts.
I slip Phoenix’s halter over his nose and strap it up. ‘No problem.’
‘See you at six. Schnitzel or burger?’
‘A burger would be great.’
Rory climbs the rungs of the gate and perches on the top. ‘You gonna let me ride Phoenix today?’
‘I love your optimism.’
Taking care not to land too close, Rory jumps to the ground and holds out a hand so Phoenix can check him out. Then, staying near the thoroughbred’s shoulder, he runs a hand down his leg. When Phoenix picks up his foot, Rory keeps hold of it. He examines the scars on Phoenix’s fetlock.
‘It’s getting better, isn’t it?’
‘Two more weeks of rest and he should be fine.’
‘You can ride him first.’ He grins as he takes the lead rope and rubs under Phoenix’s forelock. ‘I’ll be second.’
Rory’s handling and riding experience is limited but as he’s respectful and confident, he’s naturally good with horses. I consider the saddles lined up on a railing near the water trough. ‘I thought we could fit him for a saddle.’
‘Ace!’ When Phoenix’s head shoots up, Rory lowers his voice. ‘Why’ve you got three?’
‘One is my old dressage saddle; another is a stock saddle Grandpa picked up somewhere. I’m not sure where the all-purpose saddle came from.’
Phoenix lifts his nose and Rory rubs his face against it. ‘Are you the right size for all the saddles?’
‘Yes, but saddles are like shoes. If the fit isn’t right for the horse, it could be uncomfortable. A saddle that stops the horse moving forward as it should can be harmful to the horse and to the rider.’
‘I need to know this to be a saddler, don’t I?’
Did I want to be a saddler when I was growing up? To Mum, shopping at designer boutiques was the epitome of the mother– daughter experience, but the only shops I liked were the ones that took me back to the saddlery. Gucci. Chanel. Louis Vuitton. Bulgari. Versace. Jimmy Choo. Prada. The smell of leather, the textures, the stitching. I think you need a new handbag, Mum.
Hermès was one of Mum’s favourite shops. The last time we went there together, I was sitting on one of the leather ottomans when a shop assistant with the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen asked me which handbag I thought Mum should buy. Pink or red or burgundy. I opened the bags, considered the leather inside and out.
‘This one.’
Mum was happy with my choice, delighted I’d not only suggested this outing but engaged with it.
‘You like the pink best, my darling?’
‘Barenia leather is smooth but strong—that’s why they use it for saddles.’ When I dug a fingernail into the leather and ran it back and forth, the shop assistant gasped. ‘Look.’ I showed her the bag. ‘It doesn’t scratch.’
It was then that Mum must have twigged what I was up to. She snatched the bag. ‘That’s quite enough.’ She gave the bag to the shop assistant. ‘Not this one.’
‘Barenia leather is waterproof, Mum, that could be useful.’
‘Call me Mummy,’ she hissed.
After I lead Phoenix to level ground and tie him to a piece of string hanging from a post, Rory climbs onto an upturned milk crate and strokes along his side. I point out Phoenix’s scapula, the paddle-shaped shoulder bone that’s connected to the humerus. Then I run a hand along Phoenix’s spine.
‘The saddle sits between the eighth and eighteenth vertebra.’ I guide Rory’s hand two fingers up from the scapula to find the eighth vertebra. ‘This is the starting point.’
‘What about the ending point?’
‘A horse’s eighteenth vertebra is above the final rib. Find the rib …’ I guide Rory’s hand again. ‘… then come up at an angle from Phoenix’s flank.’
When Phoenix looks around curiously, Rory laughs. ‘He’s telling us to hurry up and get the saddle on.’
‘Between the eighth and eighteenth vertebra is the bearing surface, where the weight of the saddle sits. It’s also where, provided the saddle fits correctly, the weight of the rider should fall.’
After picking up the dressage saddle, I show it to Phoenix. As he stands quietly, I go to his shoulder and lift it onto his back. Rory watches closely as I lift the leg flap.
‘You can’t see the saddle tree, the spine of the saddle, because it’s covered by padding and leather, but the tree is like the foundations of a house. It’s the starting point. It determines the length of the saddle and the width.’
‘You’ve got different sized trees in your shed.’
‘What a saddler does is add to that foundation. You can see the front of the tree by looking at these.’ I point to two silver disks, one to the side of the pommel at the top, and one a little lower down on the smaller flap, the skirt, that covers the stirrup bar. ‘The front point of the tree should sit at the eighth vertebra.’
‘It fits!’ Rory says.
I lay my hand on Phoenix’s shoulder. ‘See how the saddle sits behind the line of the scapula? That allows his shoulder to swing, so all good there. But we’ve also got to check the length.’
‘How long is it supposed to be?’
‘Remember the eighteenth vertebra? It can’t go past there.’
Rory puts his hand on Phoenix’s flank, tracing a line on an angle like I showed him. ‘It’s not too long.’
Using my thumb and index finger, I measure the space from the back of the saddle to the eighteenth vertebra. ‘The trouble is, it’s not long enough.’ I tap the seat of the saddle, the lowest part between the pommel at the front and the cantle at the back. ‘This is where the weight of the rider will sit. As the saddle is too short, the rider’s weight will be too far forward.’
When I run the same checks with the stock saddle, Rory spots the problem straight away. ‘That one’s too far back!’
I put my hand lightly behind the saddle. ‘Phoenix’s kidneys are just beneath my hand. The last thing he’d want is to have the weight of a saddle, let alone a rider, back here.’
The final saddle is the saddle Grandpa made for my sixteenth birthday. And as I had a thoroughbred then, a big-boned bay called Theodore, it’s not so surprising it fits Phoenix well. I run through all the checks for Rory’s benefit, putting fingers between Phoenix’s wither and the underside of the pommel.
‘A saddle needs a three-finger clearance here, or it’ll be too low at the front.’ I move my hand. ‘It also needs a two-finger clearance either side of the wither.’
Rory draws lines from the scapula to the eighth vertebra. ‘This is good.’
I run my hand across the seat of the saddle. ‘The deepest part of the seat should be over the horse’s centre of gravity, usually between the twelfth and thirteenth ribs.’ After checking the panels on the underside of the saddle are making contact with Phoenix’s back, I lift a flap to expose the stirrup bar. ‘Imagine sitting on his back with the leathers and stirrups hanging down from here. You’d be well balanced, and Phoenix would be comfortable.’
Rory talks non-stop as we feed Phoenix and walk back to the saddlery. He perches on one of the containers in the living room as I pour juice and make him a sandwich.
‘Should I help put the containers under the house?’
‘I’ve put all Dad’s documents and other stuff back in them, so that’d be great.’
‘Do you reckon the crim will be back?’
‘There’s nothing here worth taking. He knows that now.’
‘I guess.’ Rory takes a bite of the sandwich and talks with his mouth open. ‘You were sixteen when you finished school, right?’
‘If I’d stuck it out, I might have been able to keep my accounts in order better than I can. Maybe you could learn from my mistake.’
Was leaving school a mistake? How could it have been when I enjoy being a saddler, when fitting a saddle properly gives me a buzz? Transferring my designs onto clothing and other materials also gives me a buzz. Will I get a buzz from being in front of a camera and answering questions?
The documentary is important to Grandpa, Summerfield and the planet. I’ll do my best.
***
Grandpa is sitting up in bed with pillows at his back. He’s pale, and for the past three nights he’s had trouble swallowing, but he listens intently to whatever conversation I think up.
‘I showed Rory how to fit a saddle for Phoenix. He can be flighty, and I’m not sure his stunt training has done him any favours, but he has a kind nature.’
Grandpa smiles. ‘You, Mary Mackenzie, have never come across a horse you didn’t like.’
‘I’m looking forward to riding him.’
‘You’re not long over your broken bones. Don’t you go climbing on his back too soon.’
‘The orthopaedic surgeon said I had to be careful for at least twelve weeks.’ Providing you don’t reinjure yourself. ‘I’m up to fourteen.’
‘It still hurts you sometimes.’
‘Not too often.’
‘Walking along the street and doing your job is different to riding a hot-headed thoroughbred.’
‘I’ll wait a little longer. And I’ll take care, I promise.’
‘They’re not loading you up for the hike, are they?’
‘According to Erik, the producer, carrying a pack was on Kit’s list of things I’m not allowed to do.’
‘Happy to hear that.’
‘I’m also not allowed to pitch a tent or abseil, so I suspect he wants me out of the way.’
‘With all the worthwhile projects they had to consider, getting this far in the process is an achievement. I don’t want you to be hurting yourself again or getting hot under the collar about Kit Thorsen.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘You’ve got an independent spirit, Mackenzie. If the snow bloke wants to boss you around, it won’t be easy for you.’
‘My biggest concern is leaving you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I’ll be here for dinner on Tuesday.’
‘One night or ten, you get back whenever it suits. I’ll be here safe and sound, ready to hear all the news like I did when you and your dad went adventuring in the bush.’
‘I hope I’ll have good news.’
‘The snow bloke will see as clear as day what can be done with the mine site. And don’t forget we’ve got other runs on the board. You with your drawing, your dad with his photographs.’
‘Why didn’t …’ When I pull back the question, Grandpa smiles encouragingly.
‘Spit it out.’
‘Dad’s camera gear, all that film, has been under the house for years. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’
When Grandpa’s eyes flutter closed, I jump from my chair and put my hand on his arm. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to tell me.’
He pats my hand. ‘It’s long past time I did.’
‘Not if you don’t—’
‘Your dad was as stubborn as a mule and always up to something,’ Grandpa says. ‘In light of that, no one round here was too surprised when he took off at sixteen. First to the rodeo circuit to make some cash, then to the city and round the world.’
‘He’d always taken photos, hadn’t he?’
‘He worked odd jobs in Summerfield to pay for his hobby. Even at twelve and thirteen, he had more cameras than I could poke a stick at. After he took off, he’d call every Sunday to fill me in on all the news. Antarctica came out of the blue. Working in the coldest and windiest place on earth. It was Samuel’s big break and he knew it.’
‘He never got to make his documentary.’
‘Because you were on top of his list.’ When Grandpa holds out a hand, I take it. ‘And you’d remember enough of your dad to know that’s how he wanted it.’
‘No regrets. He said that all the time.’
‘And he never stopped doing what he loved. He’d be off for days at a time, taking pictures of all and sundry. He said looking through a lens was a special way of seeing things.’
‘When I sketch, I see things differently too.’
‘You got that from Sam.’
I squeeze Grandpa’s hand. ‘I haven’t looked at his photos of Summerfield yet.’
‘There’s no need to look till you’re ready.’
‘You didn’t want to see the photos, did you? That’s why you kept everything under the house.’
His smile is shaky. ‘After Samuel passed away, leaving his cameras and all those canisters and cartridges behind, I didn’t want anything to do with them. My boy was gone. He didn’t have his special way of seeing any more.’ Grandpa’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I should’ve told you about the film as soon as you got back from staying with your mum.’
‘If I’d asked you about it, you would have.’
‘You had no idea how much he had,’ Grandpa says sadly. ‘It was wrong of me to keep it from you.’
‘When Dad was alive, I asked him why he didn’t develop his film so I could see the photos. He always said the time wasn’t right. I sensed it though, how he wouldn’t have had the time and resources to do his talent justice.’
‘He would’ve saved up a bit of cash eventually, hired a darkroom and sorted everything out. He wanted to do it himself, not hand it over to somebody else.’
‘The photos of Antarctica are beautiful. I can’t believe no one had ever seen them before.’
‘Your dad would be happy, Mackenzie, knowing his work is going to Mr Thorsen and the Polar Institute.’
‘If Kit uses it.’
‘If it isn’t used in one way, it’ll be used in another.’
‘I’ll do my best on the trial, Grandpa.’
‘No fault of yours if it doesn’t work out.’
I kiss Grandpa’s cheek. ‘I won’t always have reception on my phone, but I’ll call when I can.’
‘The snow bloke is bound to have walkie-talkies and one of them satellite phones. He doesn’t take risks.’
‘Does that come across in all his documentaries?’
‘He’s up half the night checking equipment and setting things out for the following day. The other expeditioners and scientists joke about it, how more happens in the camp when they’re asleep than when they’re awake, but you can tell they rely on him. They trust him.’
I could trust him in that way too, but what about in other ways? After we kissed, I told myself I didn’t have to be curious any more. Done and dusted. Over. Wrong.
‘Kit gave me this number.’ I put a notebook on the tray. ‘If anything happens, anything at all, you can call. The staff have the number too.’
Grandpa takes my hand again. ‘Now he’s got his film, the snow bloke gets to see things through your father’s eyes. After this trial, he’ll see things through your eyes too.’
‘Through my sketches? I guess.’
‘Whatever the outcome of this trip, Mary Mackenzie, I couldn’t be prouder.’