Paycheque (17 page)

‘Hey there, little mate,' Jack said, rubbing the horse's forehead. ‘Got a bit of a fright, eh? You'll be right. Claire, do you mind holding him in case it's a tying-up problem.' The horse was no longer quivering but continued to eye Jack warily.

Claire felt a twinge of guilt at the horse's acceptance of her but not her father. Paycheque seemed fine so she sat on the edge of the water trough while keeping a loose hold on the frayed rope. The sun was on her back and in her wandering mind she remembered her childhood when she'd do exactly this: keep her father company under the pretence her help was needed.

Suddenly there was a sharp tug on the rope. She held on and allowed herself to be pulled from her perch and a couple of steps out into the main yard. She turned to see her father, brush in hand, staring bewildered, lips pursed, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

‘Some bastard's definitely beaten him,' he growled. He sat down on the trough Claire had vacated and ran his hands through his thick white pepper-flecked hair. ‘He's fine until I bend down.' He frowned.

‘Hmm,' Claire said. The horse now stood forlornly by her side.

‘It's okay, mate. It's not your fault,' Jack said, getting up carefully and going over to the horse. ‘See Claire, it's not me or the brush he's scared of.'

‘No, it was definitely you bending down that did it.'

‘God, if I ever find out what they did and who did it,' he growled.

They carefully groomed the horse, which was calm but still exceedingly wary, then put his dust rugs on and turned him out into the smallest of the paddocks behind the stables. Jack and Claire stood shoulder to shoulder at the wire gate for a few moments, each silently chewing over their thoughts of what had gone on and their optimism – or otherwise – for the future.

‘Think I need a lie down after all the excitement,' Jack finally announced with a tight laugh.

‘Good idea. I'll just do those few dishes and then head over to see Bernadette – give you some peace.' Paycheque stood a little way off, returning their gaze, but still with a perplexed look about him, as if he felt punished or insulted, rather than rewarded, by his freedom.

‘Mmm, better find him a friend,' Jack said. He nodded to himself and turned from the gate. Claire crossed her fingers. The last thing she
wanted was a return to the old days where they had paddocks full of has-beens and never-will-bes, horses Jack had felt compelled to give a home to. Most had never come remotely close to making the grade.

The trouble with Jack McIntyre was that he was a softy. Any small prize was a win to Jack. Sometimes the way he reacted you'd think he'd won the Melbourne Cup instead of a dinner-for-two voucher for a local pub out bush. For Jack, the horse's victory was more important than his own.

Claire's heart swelled with pride as she remembered the most memorable victories: old Duke, partially blind, who couldn't see the finish line but trusted his rider to lead the way.

Back in the eighties, Trigger was both Jack's quickest and laziest horse, which was a major challenge until Jack discovered his motivation was food. A smear of molasses in his nose and he finally won his first race, which just so happened to be a local feed merchant voucher!

Claire felt her heart tug at remembering Tango, a small grey who had initially been so timid he wouldn't put his head down to eat until no one was watching and the stable lights had been turned off.

So what if Jack hadn't won even a Group Two race?
He
was happy, and that was most important. There was a deep niggle of envy inside her. Her father had found his passion in life and had the courage to follow it, whatever the price. It was his ‘everything will be okay' attitude that saw him keep going despite all the knockbacks. Claire groaned inwardly. She didn't have that. She was not a ‘go with the flow' kind of girl – a trait unfortunately inherited from her mother. Keith had got a lot of mileage from teasing her about it. Was it something that could be changed, or was it one of those fundamental personality traits that could only be tempered a little?

Well, she
had
agreed to take the year off from the corporate world.

Claire was rinsing the last of the cutlery, staring out the kitchen window at nothing in particular and wondering if she would learn to enjoy this relaxed lifestyle long-term or become bored, when she noticed a cloud of dust rising from the driveway. She pulled the plug, dragged her gloves off and lay them over the drainer, realising she was excited at the prospect of a visitor. She checked her watch. It wouldn't be Bernadette, they weren't meeting for another hour. Probably Bill and Daphne Markson for her father. There had been a constant trickle of phone calls, but no visitors since his return from hospital.

A silver BMW rounded the huge lemon-scented gum and pulled up in front of the house. No one in her father's racing circle owned a Beemer, and the only people who used the front door were Jehovah's Witnesses and insurance salesmen – and whoever this was. Who the hell was it? The dark-tinted windows made any identification impossible.

Claire made her way up the hall and opened the front door, noting the spiderwebs behind the screen. Why was the person taking so
long to get out of the car? Must be a woman checking makeup and applying lipstick, she concluded, instantly feeling territorial and on guard. Finally the car door opened and a man emerged. Claire stifled a snorting laugh at how far off she'd been in her surmising. She took in the solid build and broad shoulders and well-cut, slightly spiky, greying brown hair. Handsome, even at this distance. But her mouth dropped open as the dark sunglasses came off and she recognised the man in the lime green and sky blue checked shirt and pale chinos.

‘Derek?' She felt weird, almost faint. It was like she'd entered a parallel universe or something. Derek was someone in a suit, not this laid-back country fellow. And not here. To her, he only really existed in public places – the office, the members' stand at the races. But here he was, looking all country squire in his brogues and Akubra. Claire stifled another laugh – he
so
didn't look country. Well-clipped hedge and shiny picket fence country, maybe, but definitely not barbed wire and peeling paint country. But Jesus, she did. Claire looked down at herself and cringed. She couldn't have looked worse if she'd tried.

The elastic sides of her boots had gone, her jeans bore badly done patches in hot pink floral in all the wrong places – a joke of Bernie's from years ago – and her once-white t-shirt – that was now a pale splotchy pink thanks to a stray red sock in the wash – had a large dollop of dirt-infused horse snot on the front that only a legally blind person could fail to see.

‘Howdy Claire,' Derek said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. She wondered if he'd watched a couple of episodes of
McLeod's Daughters
on DVD in preparation for his foray out bush.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked, failing to keep the suspicion from her voice.

‘Came to visit an old friend.' He shrugged.

And see what goes on out here
, Claire mentally finished his sentence. She had butterflies rising in her stomach. God, what if he was there to ask her out? Or worse, what if he had a problem at work he needed
her to sort out? No, he would have phoned. The insects had made a ball and were now leaping as one inside her.

‘How did you find me?'

‘It's a small town, Claire. And your lovely friend at the garden shop gave me directions.'

Claire felt unnerved – he'd infiltrated her entire world.

‘I'm really sorry if I've intruded, but I just wanted to see how you are, you know, after…'

Claire wanted to snap, ‘I'm fine, no thanks to you,' but she felt a wave of compassion for him standing there in his crisp clothes, trying to look casual, squinting against the sun, so obviously uncomfortable. She smiled. He was so different to the Derek she'd worked with for so long – and he'd probably driven a long way to see her.

‘You'd better come in – sun's a bit fierce,' she said, holding the screen door open. Derek bounded up the three verandah steps.

Claire was glad she'd got rid of the last few days' newspapers – the place was presentable in its rustic, old-fashioned country charm.

‘What a lovely spot – I can see why you're here,' Derek said, sitting at the table as indicated and placing his hat carefully on the chair beside him.

‘If you like quiet, it's great. Coffee? Only instant, I'm afraid.'

‘Oh. You wouldn't have a tea bag, would you?'

‘I would, as a matter of fact,' Claire said, trying not to laugh aloud at his polite rejection of instant coffee. She'd once been the same. When she'd moved back into the farmhouse, she'd brought her coffee machine with her, but found she couldn't really be bothered. After two days she'd put it away under the kitchen bench. The ease of instant coffee somehow just went with the country.

‘Great,' he said, clearly relieved. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.'

Claire plonked an open packet of Scotch Finger biscuits on the table and noted Derek's slight look of disappointment. Unable to resist, Claire said, ‘Sorry, I'm not baking until this afternoon.' She flicked her hair and offered her most angelic expression.

‘Oh, right, well, no worries,' Derek said, his faith in the country lifestyle seemingly restored. He grabbed a biscuit from the pack and dunked it into his tea.

They chatted easily about the weather, horseracing and the merits of country living. Derek avoided any discussion of the office, but when he realised Claire had little interest beyond news of old work colleagues, he gave in. Claire was surprised to find she didn't really miss anyone from the office, and there was no sense of being on the outer. But most surprising of all, she realised she was actually beginning to enjoy Derek's company.

He'd swapped his persona like a hat. Off was his business-like formality – which Claire likened to a bowler – and on (literally) was a pastoralist style Akubra, making him appear down-to-earth and genuine. She couldn't help wondering which one was the real Derek, the one he'd reveal with the reality of domesticity. Claire mentally kicked herself under the table. Domesticity?! He hadn't even so much as asked her out.

This brought her back to postulating over why he was really there, sitting at the table across from her, drinking his second cup of tea. They lapsed into silence, having done a cursory skim across the surface of their lives. The room seemed to have become starved of oxygen. They were looking into their cups, around the room, the table, the carpet – anything to avoid holding each other's gaze too long.

Claire waited for Derek, who was fidgeting with the tags of the discarded tea bags on the small plate in front of him, to make the first move. His face became slightly red and puffed up. He took a deep breath and made his hands into a steeple in front of him.

She was suddenly struck with fear and a sense of foreboding – he always did this with his hands in meetings when he had tough decisions to make or bad news to give. Like her redundancy. But hang on, Claire checked herself. She was being irrational. He was no longer her boss, she was free. Her full redundancy payout was safely in the bank – there was no bad news he could bring her now. She let herself relax.

‘Um, Claire?'

‘Yes?'

‘I was wondering if, er…' Claire was urging him on in her mind as a door banged and Jack appeared. He looked like an oversized child, hair all over the place, rubbing his eyes against the apparent bright light. Claire groaned inwards.

‘Oh,' he said, stopping short when he noticed Derek at the table. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had company. I'll leave you to it,' he added, and began turning away.

‘No, that's okay, I was just leaving.' Derek stood up and collected his hat from the chair. He moved around the table and offered his hand. ‘You must be Jack. Derek Anderson, pleased to meet you.' Claire was in knots of annoyance. What the hell was he about to say before they were interrupted?

‘Likewise,' Jack said, shaking the hand.

There was an awkward moment when it seemed Derek wanted to say more. Jack seemed to be wondering how he knew the name Derek Anderson.

A frowning Claire followed Derek out to his car. They stopped on the verandah. ‘Derek, why are you really here?'

He shrugged. ‘Like I said, wanted to check you were okay.'

‘And?'

He sighed deeply and stared into her dark green searching eyes. ‘And to offer you your old job back.'

‘What?! Why didn't you say?'

Derek shrugged again. ‘When I got here I realised I didn't want you to have to choose – you look so relaxed, at least ten years younger.'

‘Derek Anderson, flattery will get you nowhere,' she said, unconsciously pushing her hair back from her face with a flirtatious sweep of her hand.

‘I know,' he said, and dropped his gaze to the ground.

‘I can make my own decisions,' Claire snapped.

‘I'm sure you can.'