Paycheque (22 page)

Claire wanted to sneak off for a weep – it was how she always felt in the moments just after the finish.

Bernadette was screeching wildly. ‘Wasn't he yours?'

‘Yeah, he was.'

‘Well, don't get too excited, will you.'

‘My head's in a spin. That's all.'

‘Can you believe he got out from the rail like that? I thought he was boxed in for sure.'

They paused to watch the replay of the final stages and winner's connections going mad in the stands.

‘That'll be you next year,' Bernadette said.

‘Yeah, right.' Claire laughed.

‘No reason why not. They do say it's the most difficult race to predict.'

‘We'd need one hell of a miracle – or three or four.'

‘Miracles happen every day,' Bernadette said sagely. ‘'Nother champers?' she asked, getting up with a wobble.

‘Yes, thanks.'

Claire remained sitting, eyes glued to the screen. Why
couldn't
that be them up there talking about what a special horse it was?
Exactly
, there was no reason. Claire McIntyre decided then and there that she had exactly one year to make a miracle happen. She looked around the room and across at Jack, wanting to escape and begin her newfound quest.

This was what her father had described: passion. The feeling right to the depths of your soul that you would give up everything in order to do this one thing, that no matter how many battles you lost along the way you'd win the war because you'd stayed true to yourself. She hadn't felt so fired up in years. Claire wanted to spring to her feet and tell the room all about it. But her bum was glued to the chair and her head was starting to spin. She realised she was a more than a little tipsy.

She'd have to wait until tomorrow. She just hoped it wouldn't all seem impossible when she went out in the morning to do the feeds and face the grim reality of what lay ahead. In the meantime, she'd start with something more achievable: the dishes.

A few minutes later, David caught her staring out the kitchen window, rubber-gloved hand stuffed in a mug, biting on her lip in concentration.

‘The nation is moving again, you know?' he said with a grin, waving a tea towel in front of her face.

Claire blinked, apologised and returned to her task.

‘A few too many bubbles has this one had,' he said theatrically.

‘Haven't we all?' Bernadette said, flicking the tea towel at him while keeping one eye on Claire.

She too had noticed the vacant look in her best friend's eyes, and instantly recognised it for what it was. Claire had turned another corner today.

That night, Claire McIntyre watched every news bulletin, feeling more and more determined. Curtain Call's trainer dropped a poignant comment about the horse's second chance. It went right over the heads of the commentators but sent a knowing ripple through racing's inner circles. Claire felt a surge of respect for the new owners of the horse, and wished Todd Newman would hurry up and get what was coming to him.

When she caught a glimpse of him on camera – shrugging and saying the almost-win by a horse he'd discarded was merely luck of the draw – she wanted to punch his lights out. It was no secret that the Newman stables had been inspected by the RSPCA on a number of occasions, but no charges had ever been laid. The mystery was how he kept getting away with it. But then there was always a stable hand to use as a scapegoat.

Claire lay in bed exhausted but unable to sleep. Whirling around in her head were abstract images of the highs and lows of her year ahead. On the one hand she felt exhilarated – imagine actually being there on television as the trainer of the next Cup winner. On the other she felt terrified – what if it didn't work? What if Todd Newman was right and the horses really were useless and untrainable? Claire felt like she was on a seesaw that had just crashed to ground.

She'd keep her plans to herself, that's what she'd do. Carry on with
Jack's meandering and try and pretend there was no urgency. It would be difficult, but not as difficult as failing and being seen as just another wannabe trainer trying to score in the big league when others had spent decades on a fruitless quest.

But why shouldn't I give it a go, damn it? I'm stuck here for the year anyway
. The seesaw went up.
Because I don't believe in my team
, she thought guiltily, and the seesaw crashed back down to the ground with an even heavier thud. It really ate at Claire to have less than total respect for her father, but he just seemed to wander through life dealing with things as they arose. There was no great show of determination – no grand plan beyond having enough money to keep himself and the horses fed.

And speaking of horses – they were the other glitch in her grand plan. None of them bore any resemblance to the sleek elite athletes filmed at Flemington that day.

But they could, a little voice somewhere behind the seesawing thoughts and champagne haze piped up. Yes, she'd give it a shot – she had nothing to lose. And if it didn't work, at least she'd have tried. And with that last thought, Claire set her morning alarm for five o'clock and rolled over.

Claire was just getting back from working three of the horses – riding Paycheque and leading another two – when Jack arrived at the stables.

‘How did they go?'

‘Okay. I didn't exactly put them through their paces – just trotted them out to the old tank and back. Howie and Bell are happy enough, but God, Paycheque is a real grump. Aren't you?' She laughed, and scratched the horse behind the ears.

Jack took the two lead-ropes and moved the other horses away so Claire had room to dismount. She unsaddled Paycheque and put the gear on the railing.

‘What about Larry?' she asked. ‘Do you want me to take him out?'

‘No, I'll do him from the ute.'

‘You sure you'll be okay?'

‘Positive. He's a dream next to cranky pants here,' he said, slapping Paycheque's damp neck affectionately.

‘Tell me about it,' Claire groaned. ‘He tried to bite me as I was getting on.'

‘Didn't get you, did he?'

‘Nope – I was ready for him. I don't know what his problem is. He's been here the longest and settled in the worst.'

‘Well these other guys have been stable mates at one time or another. Maybe he's feeling left out.'

‘But he's come
home
. Surely life's good after what he's been through.'

Jack shrugged. ‘He'll be all right. Just give him time.'

Claire shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant as she led the horse into his stable yard. If this was how he was now, what would happen when they actually started putting him under pressure? She'd have to have him a bit better before that happened or else risk life and limb.

Claire shuddered with a mixture of dread and excitement. Other than the redundancy, the scariest thing she'd faced in her last few months at work was a paper cut – hardly life-threatening.

She stood with her arms folded across the top railing, enjoying the warm sun on her back as the three horses tucked into their breakfast. Howie's ears still twitched, and he'd stop chewing at the slightest noise or movement, but at least he was eating in her presence. Only a week ago he would wait until completely alone before lowering his head into his feed drum. Claire had persisted with standing at a safe distance. With all the goings-on at Flemington, he'd have to get used to people. You couldn't have a half-starved horse run the Melbourne Cup – not if it was to have any hope of winning.

Next she'd try to give him a brush while he ate. If she could manage that without him freaking, a routine could almost work. She made mental notes while she soaked up the rays and watched the rhythmic sway of the horse's large glistening jaw.

The weeks after the Melbourne Cup blurred as Claire settled into a routine of working the horses in the mornings, and then bringing
them in at night. But as the summer came on and the warm days grew longer, Claire began to feel the void of her empty afternoons and yearned for her own space.

Some days she just wanted to curl up with a good book or DVD but always felt self-conscious when her father came in, despite his cheery calls of ‘Sorry, don't mind me'. She began spending more time in her bedroom when she wasn't out with Bernadette or helping in her shop.

One Friday morning, Claire was taking a cup of coffee to her bedroom when she realised with a shock that she had come full circle. She was a teenager all over again – though without the lack of responsibility.

She stopped mid-stride, the coffee slapping dangerously close to the edges of the mug. Or maybe it wasn't adolescence but the future – old fartdom – that she was seeing. She looked down at her large fluffy pink slippers and shuffled quickly to the phone, slamming her coffee down on the bench.

‘Bernie.'

‘Hey Claire, how's it going?'

‘Bernie, I'm turning into an old fart.'

‘What, you've just realised
this minute?
'

‘I'm serious – you've got to help me.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Tell me what you see when I say, “thirty-five-year-old jobless woman living with her father, wearing fluffy slippers at ten o'clock in the morning, carting a cup of coffee to her bedroom so she won't get caught reading a book”.'

‘Ah, yes. All the classic symptoms. Two questions: is the coffee instant, and do you actually enjoy drinking it?'

‘Yes and yes.' Claire laughed despite herself.

‘Well there's only one cure.'

‘What's that?'

‘Come over here and I'll tell you. This calls for serious measures – I'll break out the Tim Tams and get us some real coffee.'

Claire knew exactly what had to be done, but it was always so much easier having Bernadette take the lead – not to mention more fun.

‘Thanks Bern, see you soon.'

Just before she left, Claire phoned the city real estate agent she'd chosen for when this day came. She was in luck – a lovely couple had come in only the day before looking for a similar property, and gave the impression they were cashed up and ready to buy. Claire could almost hear the agent wringing his hands in delight at earning such an easy commission. She was glad she'd taken Bernadette's advice a few weeks back and set the ball in motion.