We cantered out along the sandy track first and then, as I could feel Fozzles getting tired, slowed down to a gentle walk through the bush and up the rocky path that led to the top of the plateau, out on the south end of the farm. I patted her and talked to her as we went, and from the way she was so willing to do everything I asked, I knew she knew she belonged to me now.
‘You’re my birthday horse.’ I leaned down and whispered it in her ear. ‘You’re what I’ve been dreaming of ever since I was four and a half.’
It was true. I’d first discovered horses when I was tiny. It was Mum’s fault. She’d taken the three of us to the library near our house in Sydney’s eastern suburbs, which was where we lived then, all buildings and cars and traffic lights with crossings — so different from Budgong’s green paddocks and bush views. I remember it was a hot day outside and my nose was wet enough with sweat that I had to keep wiping it off on the back of my hand. The library, with its noisy air-conditioning and cool breezes shooting out of the ceiling, made us feel like we could breathe again.
Mum led us over to the children’s section. ‘Okay kids, go find something to borrow.’
Josh went off, probably to find his favourite Power Rangers DVDs on the shelf, Coco was entranced with some kind of princess book and I wandered amongst the flower shaped chairs and the elephant tables until Mum called me over.
‘Charlie, come and look at this.’ She stood next to a clanky red shelf with lots of books on it, all stacked up together, but there was something in her hand. ‘Sit with me.’
We squashed into a grey armchair together in the corner and she opened the book flat on her lap.
When I saw what was on the page, my mouth dropped open, and my world changed forever. It was like the pictures of the horses and ponies were alive on the paper. They seemed actually real to me, like they were walking and breathing and making noises. I could almost smell them.
‘I had a horse just like this once.’ Mum pointed to a picture of one with gold hair and the longest white mane I’d ever seen, apart from on a My Little Pony toy. It had long, pricked up ears and eyes that asked me to pat it.
‘Just like that?’ I breathed.
‘Just like,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a Palomino.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s the colour. That gold colour is palomino. There are also chestnut horses. And black ones that are actually brown. And piebalds.’
‘Do they eat pies?’
‘No, silly.’ She laughed at me and turned the page. ‘They’re kind of spotty. Like that one.’
I gazed at it, and then I jumped up and ran across to show Coco. ‘Look.’ I dragged her face towards the picture. ‘It’s a piebulb.’
Behind me, Mum laughed. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
Coco looked at the horse and then back at me, but blankly, like she had no idea what on earth I was talking about. She picked up her princess book again. ‘I’m reading.’
That was the start. I insisted Mum borrow every horse book on the shelf that same day and spent the next fortnight memorising every picture and practicing the word ‘piebald’.
‘Mum, what’s this again?’ I asked twenty times a day. I needed to know what a bridle was and what a headstall was, and why that horse had its tail braided but the other one didn’t. Dad complained about reading the same horse book to me every night and Coco got mad when I wanted to change all our puppy and kitten games into pony games.
As I got older and learned to read on my own I turned to horse novels. Then it became horse documentaries, horse bed linen and wearing jodhpurs whenever I wasn’t either in school uniform or my swimming togs.
I asked for riding lessons when I was nine and was led around Centennial Park on a huge grey mare for an afternoon. I asked for more when I was ten and they sent me off to a place overlooking the sea for three hours on a weekend. I begged and begged for more lessons and more stable time and of course, my very own horse, and Dad rolled his eyes at Mum and said, ‘See what you’ve started?’
‘She would have discovered them anyway.’ Her face was pinched. ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t—’
‘Who’s got the time?’ he said, his mouth all stiff and his voice tense like it got when he was angry and we three kids knew we should stop asking questions.
Mum breathed in heavily. ‘It’s always time that seems to be the issue.’
I clenched my thumbs inside my fists under the table when I heard her voice change. It’s my nervous habit when I feel scared.
‘Maybe if you came home earlier,’ said Mum. ‘From work, I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Dad. ‘We all know what you mean.’
I looked over at Coco. She always went sulky in these arguments. Josh looked angry, but me, I just wanted to cry, mostly for Mum. It was always about the same thing: Dad working too much, and us never seeing him, and when were they ever going to do what they’d been talking about for so many years, and move? They always got over it, of course. I mean, eventually, once they’d yelled and Mum had cried and a few doors were slammed. But for a while I stopped asking for riding lessons. It made everything too tense.
What I didn’t give up was dreaming of having my own horse. Even before Dad finally had enough of city life and being a banker, and bought the farm and we built our own house out of mud; even before all that crazy, amazing stuff happened, I still held out hope that one day I’d have a horse.
‘You’re the one, Fozzles.’ I laughed out loud. No one was around. It was just me, the flat clearing and my horse. My very own horse.
‘Gallop!’
I leant down over her neck and she took off. I stayed on, laughing and whooping and going crazy with joy.
When we reached the lookout I pulled her back. ‘Whoa.’
She came to a stop and we waited for a while, looking back over the farm and Ness’s place, with the river in the distance.
‘You’re the best horse ever.’ She flicked her tail and caught my leg. ‘And we’re going to do something totally awesome together.
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