Riding on Air (6 page)

Gary looked up from contemplating his cup and caught me looking at him.

“What?”

Hmm. Maybe my hair could just hang loose today. It'd get hell-knots when I rode, but I could put some conditioner on it in the shower afterwards and work a comb through. Maybe.

“Nothing. Do you know where Brendan is?”

“Do I look like his keeper?”

I opened my mouth to deliver the obvious response but closed it again, deciding against chancing my luck this morning. Although generally I got along pretty well with Gary, sometimes his sense of humour and mine sort of missed each other. We'd often start out joking and end up fighting. Instead, I pushed my remaining piece of toast across my plate until a corner stuck over the edge and I could pick it up. I took a huge bite and balanced the toast on my plate again, pausing to carefully lick marmalade off my thumb.

Outside the dogs started barking and went charging off the veranda, claws scrabbling on the boards, almost drowning out the sound of an approaching car. Gary cocked his head, listening.

“That's your Dad back. Wonder what he forgot.”

We shared a grin, on the same page with that one. Dad was notorious for making false starts whenever he went anywhere, whether it was to town to post a letter or into his office to meet clients. He's an agronomist, which means he tells people how to make their crops and their animals better. I think he needs someone to tell him how to collect everything he needs to take with him before he gets in his car.

Maybe there's a career opening for that. I need to think about some sort of job at some point. I mean, I know I want to stay on the farm but there is always going to be a need for steady off-farm income in times like this; drought and a bad economy. Dad and Jennie were living proof of that. Sadly, horses weren't really a viable career option. Not for me.

We listened to Dad telling the dogs to get down and the dogs' excited happy-barks greeting his return (the dogs never did seem to realise the first time he left was nearly always a false start). I could hear a second set of boot heels along with Dad's good shoes and the dog's claws, which were rattling ever closer across the planks. They turned out to belong to Brendan, wearing yesterday's shirt and a scowl. His brown hair was flat on one side and sticking straight out like a toothbrush on the other. He moved with wincing deliberation, a method of getting from one place to another as painlessly as possible that I was completely familiar with. Across from me, Gary's face wore a smug grin.

“Where you been, little brother? Out getting some?”

“Gary,” Dad said with a glance at me. “Little ears.”

Gary snorted. “Not that little anymore.”

“Still,” Dad said and Gary shrugged.

I watched Brendan as he got down a mug and poured from the glass pot sitting under the coffee machine. His hand shook and when he slid into a seat at the head of the table I saw his face was pale, the skin tight around his mouth.

I wasn't sure if Gary was hassling Brendan about going out on a pub crawl or a girl-trawl, but one thing was for sure—my favourite stepbrother had the mother of all hangovers. He might be willing to do me a ponytail, though, even if he wasn't up for a braid.

Dad passed through the kitchen, muttering about files, and I leaned closer to Brendan.

“Brendan, are you really sick? Do you reckon you could maybe do my hair for me later? Please? Just a ponytail would be fine.”

“Yeah, cause Brendan always wanted to be a hairdresser.”

“Shh,” I said, peering past Gary in alarm that Dad might be coming back.

Brendan swallowed a mouthful of coffee and sat very still for a long moment. Sweat rose on his forehead and his face went from white to red to green and back to white. Even before he mumbled a negative, I knew he wasn't going to be up for it. Looking at him, I thought that was probably a good thing; I hadn't wanted marmalade in my hair, puke would be worse.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Why don't you do it yourself?” Gary said.

“I can't,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Don't be thick, Gary,” Brendan said.

“Oh, right.”

“I know I should get it cut—”

“Don't you dare,” Brendan said at exactly the same time as Gary said “But it's so pretty.”. Guys and hair. I looked hopefully at Gary; maybe he wasn't a lost cause. But before I could ask him, Dad came into the kitchen carrying a plastic file box and a CD case.

“Right, I'm off then. Melissa, I want to make sure we're clear, no riding for you today, OK? Not for the next few days, at least, and then we'll see.”

“What?” I exclaimed, my heart leaping in alarm. “But
why
?”

“You know why.”

“But, Dad, I have to train. We've got the competition at Goulburn and the selectors will be looking out for Jinx there.” My throat had tightened and I hated the way I sounded like I was about cry. I swallowed, trying to get on top of the rising panic.

“The Goulburn comp is not a done deal. We'll have to see how you're feeling. Take a few days off, give your hands a chance to recover.”

“But Jinx needs work. He needs to get better at self-carriage. I need to get better. Dad, please.” All my lovely plans of training were riding off into the sunset without me and I gave Dad my best begging pretty-please look, but my stomach sank at the way he was shaking his head.

“Jinx needs a rest too, Melissa. He's had a hard few days at camp; being ridden all day and standing around cooped up in a tiny yard at night with no grass. A week in the paddock to stretch his legs and graze will do him the world of good.”

Even as I blinked back unshed tears, I scowled at my father. Bringing in Jinx's welfare was a low, low blow.

“A week? You said a few days,” I protested, but I was done and both Dad and I knew it. That meant I was going to be back at school before I was even allowed to ride again. And with winter coming, the days were getting so short I'd be pushing it to ride by the time I got home off the bus. It wasn't fair.

“This isn't a punishment, honey. It's a precaution. I want to make sure this flare up has run its course before you go aggravating those joints. OK?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, throat thick with frustration. So much for the silver lining. Whoever thought up that saying up is a total moron.

After Dad left I sat staring at my plate, blinking frantically to keep the tears from falling. Gary would tease me for being a sook if he saw me cry over something so stupid. Only, it wasn't stupid to me.

“Melissa, are you gonna eat that?” Gary said finally.

I shook my head, my appetite gone. “You can have it,” I said and went to push the plate towards him at the same time he reached out to grab the slice of toast. His hand banged into mine and a molten-steel explosion of pain engulfed me from my fingertips to my shoulder. I yelped and snatched my hand back, too late. I could only hunch over with it cradled to my chest, trying not to let the pathetic whimpers escape along with the tears that gushed helplessly out of my eyes.

“Careful, Gary, dickhead!” shouted Brendan.

“Shit, Melissa, shit. God, I'm sorry.”

I sensed them hovering, hangovers and toast and everything else forgotten as they had to sit and wait for the pain to ease, me just as helpless to do anything about it as they were. I rocked, gritting my teeth, unable to speak or think or move. Only able to wait and pray and hope that eventually the millions of razor-sharp little knives slicing and dicing inside my fingers would stop waging their war on my joints. And after an eternity, they did.

I trembled, gulping back tears and carefully sat up a bit, letting out a shuddering sigh that turned into a hiccup as the wicked claws finally released their grip on my bones. My vision cleared and I blinked as my stepbrothers' anxious faces came slowly back into focus. Brendan was green again and Gary looked as though he might cry himself. I grinned at the thought and the relief that washed through their expressions would have been funny if I wasn't still frozen on the edge of the pain shadow, when the dull throb of the after tremors started rattling up from my bone-marrow.

I drew another cautious breath and leaned back gingerly in my chair. I lifted my other arm and used the back of my arm to swipe at the tears drying stickily on my cheeks. When I felt like I was steady enough to speak I looked at Gary. I didn't want him getting all anxious and over-protective on me. He hadn't meant to hurt me, it was just one of those things. I managed to give him a reassuring smile, even though my hands were doing a little crappy-dance, the pain tango.

“I still need someone to do my hair,” I said.

“I'm really sorry Melissa.”

“I know.”

“I didn't mean it.”

“I know.”

Brendan hopped up and turned the kettle on. “I'll make you a tea, Melissa. Do you need a pill? I'll think of something to tell Dad.”

“Thanks,” I said and hesitated, really tempted. “Nah, not yet. I'll wait and see if it settles down.”

“I'm so—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get the picture,” Brendan said. “Dickhead.”

“Shut up.”

The kettle boiled and switched itself off, distracting Brendan, luckily, because he looked as though it wouldn't take much to get him going. He's usually by far the more easy-going of the two of them, but he doesn't handle hangovers too well. Makes you wonder why he does it to himself.

“I really do need someone to brush my hair for me,” I said. “Don't tell Dad,” I added, more for Gary's benefit. It wasn't that he didn't care, more that my problems were a bit beneath his notice most of the time. He'd been making noises about getting a place of his own for ages. He just hadn't been able to find a place with affordable rent where he could have his dogs and horses.

I didn't want him to go. Despite the way he teased me and the way he and Brendan sometimes sniped at each other, making everyone else uncomfortable, he could also be counted on (after a suitable amount of grumbling) to provide lifts into town or home from swimming to save me the tedium of the school bus and he was an unbelievable source of wisdom on horses. He might not know dressage—he couldn't pick a half-pass from a half-halt—but he'd helped me improve Jinx in more ways than I could count.

“I'll do your hair, Melissa,” Brendan offered. He put one of my mugs with the oversized handle down on the table in front of me and collected Gary's and his own cups.

“You make a fresh pot of coffee,” Gary said. “I'll do Melissa's hair. I suppose you want it braided?”

“Yes please,” I said. “My brush and bands are in the bathroom.”

Gary pushed his chair back and started out of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway to the hall and looked back at me.

“If you tell anyone I braid your hair, you do know I'll have to kill you, right?”

I grinned. “Sure.”

His secret was safe with me. If I was careful, one of Gary's tight braids would last me for days and it would keep my hair out of the way when I worked Jinx in the round yard. Dad had said I wasn't to ride and that Jinx would like a holiday. He hadn't actually said I wasn't allowed to work Jinx at all, had he?

“And trot on,” I said to Jinx, who obediently moved from walk into trot, circling the perimeter of the round yard with his back nicely lifted and his neck arched as he reached delicately for the bit, legs moving in rhythmic pairs.

“Good boy, and walk—and trot!” Jinx had slowed down at the walk command, only to bounce back into an energetic trot. This sort of rapid transition work was really good for getting a horse to shift his weight back onto his hindquarters and lighten his front end, an essential skill for good dressage.

“And whoa.” Jinx gathered his back legs beneath himself and stopped smartly.

“Good boy!” I tucked the lightweight whip I carried carefully under my arm and walked out to meet Jinx where he stood waiting beside the rails. He knew better than to come in, although it had taken some persistence to get that through to him in the early days. As soon as he stopped he used to turn anxiously to face me and then I wouldn't be able to get him to go forward again. I was glad now that I'd listened to my instructors and insisted on him doing it correctly. Not only did it make him more obedient and responsive, now that my hands were too dodgy to hold a lunge rope I had to rely even more on Jinx's training rather than being able to influence him through direct contact from the lunge rope.

“You're such a good boy,” I told him as I tugged gently on the rein closest to me to turn him around so he faced the opposite direction. I checked to make sure the cotton rope and leather chambon he wore to encourage him to stretch his back and neck was sitting correctly and then stepped back, giving a gentle flick of the whip as I told him to walk on again.

Jinx moved off calmly, his thick glossy black tail swinging like a swirl of dark silk from side to side, and I nodded in satisfaction at this visible proof he was relaxed and using his back properly. I glanced down at the oversized sports watch strapped to my arm to check the time and asked Jinx to trot. Five minutes in this direction and that would be all for today.

It's important to work a horse evenly on both sides and to make sure he uses himself equally athletically. Just like people, horses usually had a stronger and weaker side, but dressage was all about symmetry. A big part of his training—and mine—was making sure we could do all the movements and paces equally well going to the right or the left. My right hand is more badly affected by the JRA than my left, which actually means I tend to have more trouble going to the left as that's when my right hand has the outside rein, the more active and important one.

Unfortunately, Jinx is most stiff going to the left too because he was always working in the same direction during his racing days and we sometimes found things harder than they needed to be. It sucked; when Jinx most badly needed me to help him through new movements or training hiccups, I couldn't give him the support he needed. But free-lunging helped make up for that. With the chambon giving him the even contact my damaged hands can't always supply, he can not only work with support, I can see exactly how he is going. Some training aids are cheating, or even worse, actually hurt the horse, but the chambon is a classic piece of equipment used by the dressage masters for centuries. If used incorrectly it can be bad, but just about everything we put on a horse, from a bridle to a rug, can hurt them if we don't take care.