Mrs Whitlam, page 1
Mrs Whitlam
Mrs Whitlam
BRUCE PASCOE
First published 2016
Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation, Broome, Western Australia
Website: www.magabala.com Email: sales@magabala.com
Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts advisory body. The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries. Magabala Books would like to acknowledge the support of the Shire of Broome, Western Australia.
Magabala Books is Australia’s only independent Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander publishing house. Magabala Books acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We recognise the unbroken connection to traditional lands, waters and cultures. Through what we publish, we honour all our Elders, peoples and stories, past, present and future.
Copyright © Text Bruce Pascoe 2016
The author asserts his moral rights.
All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
Original internal design Tracey Gibbs
This edition cover & design Jo Hunt
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia
9781925360240 (paperback)
For Marnie, Mrs Whitlam (the horse and the woman), Gillian Mears, Rachel Womanbird and Quinn
One
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marnie.’
The woman looked from the girl to her hands holding the teacup.
‘Marnie,’ she paused. ‘They say you can ride.’
‘Yeah — a bit.’
‘Mr Marriner says you ride very well but you don’t have a horse.’
I shrugged my shoulders. Of course I didn’t have a horse.
‘Would you be able to look after a horse, Marnie? Feed it? Groom it? Keep it shod?’ I shrugged again.
‘Where would you keep a horse?’
‘Mr Marriner said I could keep it with his — if I ever got one.’ I knew what Mrs Arnold was getting at but it was taking a while. Even so I was trying not to hope too much.
‘I have a horse here which I need taken good care of. She’s been … well looked after and ridden every day.’ Mrs Arnold stopped and looked down at her hands which were twisting the teacup, grinding it softly on the saucer.
‘She’s a good horse, Marnie. She needs to be well looked after … loved. She’s used to being loved.’
Well we all need that.
‘Her name is Mrs Margaret Whitlam. You might think it’s a silly name but she is a beautiful horse — big and bold. Nothing scares her, she’ll jump anything for you.’
You. You … I hoped.
‘You can have Mrs Whitlam. The saddle, bridle, halter, blankets, rugs, combs.’ Mrs Arnold thought for a moment. ‘Helmet, boots, jodhpurs. The lot. Have you somewhere to keep these things?’
Uh-oh, I thought, she’s seen our house, maybe even heard about my family.
‘Mr Marriner said if I got a horse I could keep all the gear in his tack room.’
‘Yes, he’s a nice man. I asked him about you.’ Mrs Arnold went back to twisting the cup. She stayed silent for a while. The grating of cup against saucer was getting on my nerves.
‘My daughter is dead, you know.’
Of course I knew, she went to the same school as me.
‘I can’t have the horse here or the gear. I can’t … ’
She stopped twisting the cup as if realising for the first time what she’d been doing.
‘So, Marnie, I’d be very grateful if you could take the horse away today. I can’t help you. I hope you understand. I don’t want to see the horse again. Please don’t ride her past here. I couldn’t bear to see her. My daughter loved Maggie so much.’
I nodded, hoping Mrs Arnold would see that I understood and not start bawling.
Two
She was right. Everything was there. Mrs Whitlam was mouthing my fist with big, soft, bristly lips. I looked at the gear hanging from the pegs in the stable. The boots were the cutest things I had ever seen. And that riding hat — dark blue velvet. It made my stomach wriggle to think of feeling that in my hands. I felt like a thief. But Mrs Arnold had asked me and in the end I could see she was begging me to take the horse and all the things — to get them out of her sight.
I took the halter off a peg and Mrs Whitlam’s big eyes followed me. She looked me straight in the eye as I drew the halter over her ears and clipped the lead rope to the ring. She threw her head up and showed me the whites of her eyes.
‘Look, Mrs Whitlam, Mrs Arnold said I’ve got to look after you. Vicki’s gone. You know that. So you’re coming with me. No use hanging around here with no one coming out of the house to even say hello.’
The horse looked down at me. When I held the bridle under her chin, she accepted the bit like an angel. She even stood patiently as I saddled her up and tightened her girth. I stuffed as much tack as I could in my backpack and tied the rest of the gear to the two rings at the back of the saddle.
My stomach gave a surge as I imagined tying a saddlebag to those rings and riding along the river to swim her. And having a barbecue afterwards. I couldn’t believe it. It was a dream. An incredible dream with me, Marnie Clark, on a horse — and the whole world to ride it in.
I could compete in the show, take Maggie to pony club … I could … I shook my head. Get the horse over to Mr Marriner and then start to dream. I could keep working at the chemist to pay for the hard feed and the vet and … ugh, come on, get on with it. Take the horse out of Mrs Arnold’s sight. Poor thing, she was going mad. Ever since her daughter was killed in that car crash.
I pressed my face into Mrs Whitlam’s neck, tears rolled down my cheeks. I was hoping they were for Vicki but really, I knew most of them were for me.
I decided to walk her over to her new home. I held the reins loosely and Maggie followed along but tossed her head every now and then with her eyes rolling, trying to glance back at the paddock.
‘Come on, old Maggie, you’ll like it over at Bimbi Park. We’ll look after you real good. You know Mr Marriner is the best horseman around here. He’ll help me take care of you.’
I looked down at the huge, hairy feet of the horse. Everyone knew Maggie had Clydesdale in her. Even when Vicki had ridden her, some of the girls had laughed at Maggie’s big feet and huge bum.
‘It doesn’t matter Maggie. Everyone knows that you’re the fastest horse in the sand — even faster than Flicker, Sarah Valentino’s racehorse.’ Flicker. I scoffed at the name but then thought of Mrs Whitlam.
I kicked at the stones as we walked along, the horse’s breath puffing warmly on my hair. Every now and then I could feel her soft rubbery lips and whiskers just touch my ear. The horse was doing it deliberately. I’m here, Marnie, don’t forget me.
She needed to be loved, this great heavy-footed horse. And I could love her. I could love this horse, Maggie, and defy anyone to laugh. I’d fight them rather than let them laugh at my horse … even her name. I’d love to call her Cloud or Windrush or Willow or Riverstone, anything but Mrs Whitlam. I knew my mother would have something to say about that. You’re thinking of yourself. What about the horse? She thinks she is Mrs Whitlam. Change her name and how’s the poor thing going to feel?
So Mrs Margaret Whitlam it would have to be. Maggie. I’d just call her Maggie and maybe people would forget the Mrs Whitlam bit. I knew what Mum would say about that too. You should be proud to have a horse named after that lady — she was a wonderful woman, her old man wasn’t a bad bloke either, even if he was Prime Minister. Did a bit for black people too. More than most of them!
Mum talked like that a fair bit. She left school at twelve but she was smart. She knew everything that was going on. If you got up in the middle of the night you’d find her reading the newspaper. She read every word: car accidents, deaths, famous divorces, unlikely marriages, discoveries of half alligator-half humans in the North American Everglades, political and world news. The only thing she wouldn’t read was the business page. What’s the good of reading about money when you got none? Like talkin’ about pancakes when the kitchen cupboards got nothin’ but dead cockroaches and starving mice. She talked like that, my mum.
And now Marnie Clark of Curdie Vale had a horse. The horse was a Clydesdale and had a strange name but she was mine and what’s more she was quite prepared to allow me to love her, to let me press my face into the hard muscles of her neck and feel the warmth of her chestnut hair.
Yep, the horse that used to belong to a dead girl. I had never really known Vicki. We went to the same school and lived in the same district but Vicki was older. She mixed with the pony club kids and the families with flash cars and holiday houses. But now I had a horse too and if Mr Marriner had room in his float I’d be able to ride at the Warrnambool Show. Who cares if the judges laughed when they saw a Clydesdale jumping fences!
I remembered seeing a show on TV, where a Clydesdale galloped beside a river and leapt over a log. This was how I imagined Mrs … er, Maggie, would look with Marnie Clark on her back riding up to get the blue ribbon. And I’d hang the ribbon in my bedroom and if any of my brothers touched it, I’d open our birdcage and let their canaries go. My brothers loved their canaries. What did they call the
Three
‘Hey Clarky, what you doin’ with that carthorse? Goin’ out to plough the paddock are ya?’
I should have been watching where I was going instead of daydreaming. Should have seen those boys coming from a kilometre away.
And Stevenson was with them. He always made a comment about the colour of my skin or my family. Stinky Stevenson he was called, ever since he filled his pants in primary school. My brothers reminded him of it every time I told them he’d been teasing me.
‘Hey, Stinky, how heavy are ya jocks brah?’ they’d call out to him in front of his mates.
Maggie flinched as the first stone skidded under-neath her. The next one hit her on the flank and she threw her head back.
‘Carthorse, carthorse,’ Stinky yelled as he picked up another big stone.
Maggie was still hauling herself back and her eyes were looking wild. She might break free, run back to Vicki’s house and then Mrs Arnold might scream and say stuff like I couldn’t look after her. She might take Maggie off me and give her to someone else — someone who already had a horse.
I hardly had time to think what to do before I found myself doing it. I grabbed hold of Maggie’s mane, put my foot in the stirrup, and hoisted myself up onto her back. I kept the reins short and gave Maggie a little rap with my heels. One hand on the reins and the other knotted in the mane, I charged her back through the boys who, seeing the great beast bearing down on them, leapt the church hedge.
I trotted away smugly but not before I heard Stinky yell out, ‘Carthorse, carthorse, dark horse, darky’s horse.’
I turned Maggie around again and rode back to the boys who, stupidly, thought it was safe to come back on the footpath.
This time Maggie was in stride and understood the game. She arched her regal neck and made sure her feet came down on the road like clattering claps of thunder. It wasn’t the clip-clop, clip-clop, like the nice horses in storybooks. It was the club-clap club-clap clubbidy-clappity club-clap like the mighty warrior horse she was. It must have sounded like the detonations of bombs and the boys took off like scared rabbits.
I brought my face down to rest on Maggie’s neck as I walked her along the creek behind the footy oval. She was warm as toast and had that wonderful horsey smell that you woke up in the middle of the night thinking about. What a horse!
I thought of Mrs Arnold who had lost her daughter and of Vicki, who had lost everything including this mighty horse. I began to cry. What could I ever do to honour Vicki’s memory and how could I thank Mrs Arnold?
My heart was beating as strongly as Maggie’s. I was so lucky and so in love with this horse that already seemed to understand exactly what I wanted her to do.
Four
Mr Marriner had a riding school on the other side of the creek. I stopped under a big gum tree to look across at his farm and the paddock where he said I could keep a horse — if I ever got one. He’d painted all the sheds in the brown and gold of our local footy team.
The farm looked beautiful in the late afternoon sun, the white fences and the lush green grass of the creek flats. Luck, luck, I had it all. No one had any idea how good my life was at this moment.
I thought about getting off to walk Maggie through the creek, it was only centimetres deep, but on a day like this you ride your luck. I urged Maggie into the water and the big horse strode through it as proud as a queen.
‘I saw those kids from the hill,’ Mr Marriner called out as I rode into the yard. ‘Saw you ride through them. They came past here like they were training for the hundred metre sprint. Mind you, Marnie, that wasn’t a good idea, a horse you didn’t know. She could have done anything, reared, shied, bolted. Don’t let me see you doing that when you take kids out on a ride for me. There’s rules you know. You’ve gotta behave yourself. I can’t have people thinkin’ this riding school’s a race track!’
I turned Maggie toward the yards.
‘Did you hear me? You’ll have to make that horse love you. Getting her into a trot is one thing, getting her to respect you is another. And you’ll have to work on it. I don’t want no rogues here.’
I slipped down from the saddle. It was a bit like sliding off an elephant. I felt small again beside such a horse. My face just reached the muscle of her shoulder, which was glistening with sweat and flickering under the fine red hide as she relaxed. Gee, she was a beautiful animal.
Vicki’s mum said Maggie wasn’t scared of anything and neither was I. Well, I had been sometimes but with a horse like this it’d have to be something pretty awful to make me scared again.
I was pretty full of myself as I led Maggie into the yard. I squeezed between her and the fence post and felt the enormous power of her shoulder. She could crush you without knowing it. She’d have to remember that I was there or I’d get hurt. Maggie would have to be aware of everything I did and everywhere she put her feet. I’d have to teach her that. Mr Marriner didn’t make idle threats, one hint of rogue behaviour and she’d be out the gate.
‘Here,’ Mr Marriner was at my shoulder. ‘Here’s some sugar cubes. Wait until she wanders away and then call her back. Give her the sugar and walk away, give her another one if she follows you. Do it every day for ten days and on day two give her sugar every third time she comes when you call. Right?’
Of course it was right. I knew the rules but I also knew that ten days of teaching my horse was never going to be a problem. I wanted her to love me, not just do what she was told. I wanted a mate.
Five
‘She give you that horse, then?’ my mother asked as she was making hamburgers on the stove. She called them rissoles but us kids said the only way to make them sound interesting was to call them hamburgers.
Dad was sitting at the table trying to fix another clock. For want of something to do he picked things up at the tip and repaired them. We all had bikes with mismatched wheels and pedals, footballs and basketballs with patched bladders, and my youngest brother Eric even wore a beanie and jumper from a rival football team.
‘Well?’ Mum asked. ‘Did she give you that girl’s horse?’
‘Yes, she’s over at Mr Marriner’s. Helmet and clothes too. Good saddle and tack.’
‘Is she quiet?’ Mum asked, turning from the stove.
‘She’s beautiful, Mum. She does everything you say. She’s not scared of anything.’
‘You’ll have to thank that lady.’
‘She said she never wanted to see the horse again. She’s real upset.’
‘Wouldn’t any mother be?’ said Mum, turning the hamburgers as they sizzled in the pan. ‘But we’ll have to thank her somehow.’
‘She could have one of my clocks,’ Dad said, giving the one he was working on a cautious wind.
‘Um … it’s not that kind of house, Dad. Everything’s new and it’s all neat and tidy, like no one lives there.’
‘Hmmm, well there’s someone missing from that house. Make any place look empty I reckon,’ Mum said softly.
‘Anyway, she’s beautiful. Mrs Whitlam her name is. Maggie for short.’
‘Mrs Whitlam,’ said Dad. ‘Who’d give a horse a name like that?’
Mum brought a huge plate of hamburgers and toasted buns to the table. My brothers turned up and in the chaos of voices and scraping chairs, the hamburgers vanished.
‘What about your poor old mother?’ Mum sighed.
‘Yes, you kids, what about your poor old mother?’ Dad chuckled through a huge mouthful of bun.
‘Anyway,’ Mum said ignoring Dad and turning to me. ‘If she’s called Mrs Whitlam, then that’s that. If the horse thinks that’s her name then you can’t go confusing the poor beast by calling her something else. She’s had enough upsets for the time being.’
Spot on, just what I thought she’d say. Just then, the first of the clocks in the house began to strike the hour. This continued on for another ten minutes with all of Dad’s second-hand clocks chiming in with their idea of the right time, although none of them ever agreed.
