Paycheque (29 page)

‘It's just because Christmas is…'

‘…a milestone in the first year. I know, and I'm sick of hearing it. I just want it to be over.'

‘Well it will be soon. You just have to hang in there. Look, I'd better get cracking. Just wanted to say hi. I'll speak to you tomorrow. Have a good day – I'm sure it won't be as bad as you think.'

‘I know. Thanks for ringing.'

‘Love to Jack.'

‘Okay – same from him. See ya.'

Claire hung up. ‘Bernie sends her love, Dad.'

‘Oh thanks. And back from me.'

‘Did that.' Claire got up from the table.

‘What's she up to for Christmas, anyway?'

‘No idea. She wouldn't tell me.' She'd asked her friend at their last three weekly lunches. But Bernie had replied vaguely, and quickly changed the subject. There was no point pushing. When Bernie
Armstrong didn't want to tell you something, there was nothing to do but wait until she was ready to spill the beans.

‘Probably spending it with that nice David fellow.'

‘Probably.' Claire supposed she'd find out soon enough. ‘Well I'd better get these horses sorted.'

‘Remember, I've told Daph we'll be over at eleven.'

‘Yes. I know,' Claire said with a slight groan.

‘Don't roll your eyes like that. One day the wind will change.'

‘Yes, Dad,' she said, scrunching her nose at him.

‘Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?' Jack said as they drove away from the Marksons' at five o'clock that evening.

‘No, it wasn't.' It had actually been quite nice. There'd been no awkward moments, and not once had anyone asked her ‘how she was getting on' without Keith. She was that bit closer to leaving the ‘Poor Claire' tag behind and being just plain old Claire again.

Claire finally got the call from the real estate agent on the day before New Year's. The cottage was hers – or would be in early March. So it was done. Her last ties with city life were gone and she really was moving back to the country for good. There was no going back now.

Claire tried to get excited about moving, but couldn't get past the thoughts of packing up one house, cleaning it, and then cleaning and unpacking again at the other end.

It was early days, but David and Bernadette were pushing for a housewarming party the day after moving, insisting that if she didn't do it then she'd never get around to it. Claire was sitting at Jack's kitchen table making a half-hearted guest list – just in case she lost her mind and agreed to the party.

The last thing she wanted to do was stand around making polite conversation while a herd of people traipsed through her home,
opening all her cupboards and scrutinising her life, spilling wine and crumbs all over the place. She just wanted to move in and spend the next month alone curled up on the couch. She closed her eyes and indulged in her conjured idea of bliss, smiling and sighing with contentment.

‘Ah the simple things,' she mused aloud, and realised with a mild shock how truly spinsterish her life had become.

Claire looked about her and felt an odd sense of emptiness and apprehension at the prospect of leaving her childhood home for the second time. It was exciting, so why did she feel uneasy? Claire tried to analyse it in the hope of making it go away. After all that had gone on this year, surely it was a simple task of closing one door and opening another.

She turned her page over, wrote the heading ‘What I need in life' and began her list. It was a list she made every New Year's, and it always started the same: ‘secure job', followed by ‘house', ‘reliable car' and so on. She knew it by heart – they were all the things Claire McIntyre felt she needed in order to survive. After writing for a few minutes, she stopped. She stared at the first entry: ‘secure job'. There was no way what she was doing was secure. Beyond twelve months she didn't have a clue what she'd do. But she was okay – she hadn't fallen apart yet, had she?

Bernadette had once pointed out that most of the things she listed were
wants
not
needs
. Bernie saw needs as things like food, water and shelter, not all the other ‘luxuries' she had written down. They used to argue about it, but eventually they'd agreed to disagree. Claire looked down through her list.

Bernadette might be able to live happily with cats and not men, but she – Claire McIntyre – wanted more.

That was what was missing: the love of a good man. A tear escaped as she thought of Keith – the man who had shared her home and heart for over ten years. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He was also the same man who had driven her nuts with his obsession for all things golf and electronic – she certainly didn't miss that.

Lately she wondered whether it was
Keith
she missed or just having
someone
to come home to. Why did the prospect of living alone seem so daunting? And why now, when she was moving into her own little cottage. She'd lived alone for months in her big city house.

Look what had happened to her in the past year: a loving – if at times totally frustrating – husband taken from her; her father's accident; a so-called secure job taken from her; and houses having to be bought and sold.

Bernie was right: there really was no such thing as security. You had to be responsible for your own happiness. Only when you were truly independent could you live in harmony with someone else. It didn't mean you couldn't enjoy company, you just didn't have to suffocate it. Like cats – now
they
had it all sussed. Claire smiled to herself and added ‘kittens' to her list.

Claire was mesmerised by the hooves in the heavy sand as the horse circled her at the end of the lunge rein. If someone had told her six months ago that she'd be actually enjoying life – not just living it – she wouldn't have believed them. But a lot had happened since she'd lost her job last October: Jack was almost back to his old self; and she'd settled into her role as co-trainer. Apart from a few bumps, the partnership seemed to be working. And she was loving being able to spend so much time with Bernie again. Not long now and she'd be moving into the cottage.

She hugged her oilskin coat around her as the autumn sun was swallowed by clouds, and tucked her gloved hands into her armpits. Winter was closing in fast, and soon she'd be cursing the cold and rain and wishing she was back in the comfort of an office with central heating. The stifling heat of summer had been bearable because, with nothing much to be done with the horses in the middle of the day, she'd been able to retreat indoors when it got too much. But if Jack could tough it out at his age, then she could too.

The horses were all progressing well, if a little slowly. For the last few weeks Claire had been left in charge of training, having questioned her father's seemingly haphazard ‘suck it and see' approach once too often. They hadn't had a fight over it, Jack had just shrugged and walked away. Since then, Claire had often seen his silhouette in the kitchen window, watching her as she worked the horses in the front paddock. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut, because she still didn't really have much strategy beyond getting them fit and looking good. But she was winning there. Even if none of the horses ever won a race, each was a picture of rippling muscles under a gleaming satin coat.

Claire studied Howie's form as he cantered around her, his breath puffing out grey from his lips as the warmth collided with the cold morning air around him. His head was lowered in submission and his hooves dragged, kicking up sand. The poor creature had to be bored out of its brain going round and round in circles – she was.

‘Aaaaand walk,' she called. The horse registered her voice with a slight flick of his ears and stumbled into a walk. ‘Aaaaand halt.' Howie did as he was told and stood on the outer track, his head turned towards her, brown eyes patiently awaiting her next instructions. ‘Come here, there's a good boy.'

Howie lifted his head and ambled towards the centre where Claire stood like a circus ringmaster.

As she rubbed his head and fed him a carrot from her pocket, she noticed his eyes were dull – gone was the cheekiness. Part of her knew it meant she had control: this was what most trainers strove for. But a bigger part of Claire felt an overwhelming sadness. Howie was losing his individuality, his personality.

She thought back to the days she'd been a state Pony Club eventer with her mother in charge, and the many successes they'd had. Standing there with her hand on this horse's big willing sad face, she realised that her successes were only in the ribbons and trophies she'd acquired. Really, the higher the level of competition and the more schooled the horse, the less fun she'd had.

The early days of Pony Club had been a blast – the times after class when they'd roared around on the ponies bareback, sitting on the ground in fits of laughter after falling off when the animal shied sideways for no reason. So when had it got so serious? But it had to, didn't it? You couldn't be a kid forever.

‘If only,' Claire heard herself say. She looked from Howie to the other three horses with heads hung over their stable doors awaiting their turns. What did they think? Were they happy to perform in return for a comfortable stable and food, or did they hate the sight of her striding towards them, lunge rein in hand?

‘Come on then, let's give you a hose down.'

Howie would stand with a stream beating his forehead all day if you let him. The absolute contentment was clear in his half-closed eyes. Every now and then he'd grab the hose with his teeth, fill his mouth with water and squirt and dribble in a playful display of huge flapping lips that saw strings of gooey saliva land on anything within five feet.

She turned the water off just as Jack ambled over.

‘How'd he go?'

‘Good, but I think he finds the lunge too boring. He's lost his spark.'

‘Hmm. Never saw much point in going round and round – it was more your mother's style. And what about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘Do you find the lunge boring?'

‘Yes, but so what?'

‘You're a partnership. He's looking to you for leadership. If your heart's not in it, his won't be – same with all of them. What do you enjoy doing?'

‘Um, I don't know.'

‘Yes you do, just think. Remember back to when you were first starting out in Pony Club. What was it you loved doing the most?'

Claire flushed slightly and shrugged. ‘Games, jumping, formation riding. Oh, and roaring around like an idiot,' she added with a grin.

‘What you need, my girl, is to recapture your youth. Put him away and come inside – we're going to find ourselves a new strategy.'

‘Okay. I'll be over soon. And Dad?'

Jack turned around.

‘Thanks.'

He batted her thanks away and kept going to the house.

Claire stood at Howie's gate for a while, enjoying his contentment while he ate. As she watched his ears flick back and forth in time with the movement of his jaw, it struck her that her father was right: it really was more about the journey. Why hadn't she seen it before? She wondered if she should say something to Jack, maybe apologise and tell him things would be different from now on. Jack had never been one for soppy discussions; she'd just have to show him.