The Pony Question Read online

  They pushed their way through the double wooden doors of the only bakery open at this hour – or maybe, Essie thought, glancing about, the only bakery in town. They were greeted by a round-shouldered man behind the counter who looked like he’d been up even earlier than them, or hadn’t been to bed yet. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Two large takeaway hot chocolates please, no marshmallows,” said Francesca, handing over their travel mugs, “and a couple of muffins. What flavours do you have?” Francesca looked hopefully into the glass-fronted cabinet.

  “Just one flavour, white chocolate and orange,” replied the man, seeming to suggest they should count themselves lucky at that.

  “Lovely, that makes life easy. Two of those thanks,” said Francesca, poking around in her wallet. “Do you know how much further we need to go to get to the Victoria clearing sale?” she asked over the racket of the milk being frothed.

  “The state of Victoria, or the property Victoria?” questioned the man over his shoulder. He might have been trying to be funny, or rude – it was hard to tell which.

  “The property Victoria.” Francesca smiled, not missing a beat.

  “As you leave town, follow the sign to Harden, about fifteen minutes. You won’t miss it – two-storey sandstone place, big, old. There are signs on the gate. If you hit a fork in the road you’ve gone too far.” With that, he passed the cups over and placed the muffins in bags. “Did you want these heated up?”

  “No, thank you, they’ll be fine,” Francesca said, taking them with a smile. “You have a lovely day.”

  “After anything particular at the sale?” asked the man, leaning over the counter as they started to walk away.

  “No, nothing,” replied Francesca. “Just a bit of a weekend hobby to go to these things.”

  “Right,” said the man, turning away. “Usually just a bunch of old furniture and farm junk anyway,” he added.

  “Oh, let’s hope so!” said Francesca. Clearly thinking she was being smart, the man raised an eyebrow and grunted.

  “He was happy,” muttered Essie sarcastically as she pulled the van door shut. Francesca shrugged, placing her hot chocolate into the cup holder.

  “Maybe just not a morning person,” Francesca said, turning on the engine.

  “Maybe he shouldn’t be a baker then, given the morning thing,” replied Essie.

  “At least we’re nearly there,” said Francesca, “that will give me plenty of time to have a good look at everything. Did you remember to bring a book?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Essie said, pulling her muffin apart.

  “You can just rest, you know,” teased her mum. “You don’t have to study all the time.”

  “It’s a novel this time.” Essie smiled. “I did a heap of study at Dad’s.” It was true. She’d used those faithful science and maths books to shut Caroline and her dad out. She was determined to keep interaction with Caroline to a minimum. Besides, she didn’t want to fall any further behind. She was missing so much school.

  “No arguments from me,” Francesca replied, accelerating onto the main road. “I just hope you won’t be bored.” Wordlessly she pointed and smiled as black cockatoos with their splashes of yellow passed slowly over their heads. Leaning over the steering wheel and pointing into the distance, Francesca said, “Look, I bet that’s it.”

  Lifting up the sun visor, Essie remarked, “What did the bakery man say, ‘Old, and big’? He forgot to say ‘neglected’.” The old place looked cold.

  A “Clearing Sale” sign with an arrow pointed them up a long, wide gravel driveway that was more like a dirt road. The house loomed over them.

  Francesca started mumbling to herself, “Yep, at the fork in the track go left and then to the sheds for viewing.”

  She always started to talk faster at this point, getting excited about the possible finds. Essie often thought that if Francesca had been born in ancient times she’d have made a good hunter.

  As Van-essa swung into the paddock, Essie looked over at the house through the trees. It was enormous. Made of butter-yellow stone, with rust-stained white iron lace on the second-storey verandah, it appeared, Essie decided, more unloved than anything else.

  “Look,” she said to her mum, pointing towards the house as it caught the first weak sunbeams of the day. A sign reading “Victoria” in faded script hung from a post that leaned precariously.

  “Wow,” Francesca sighed, “Victoria must have been some property once, magnificent old house. Sad to see it so run down.”

  “Doesn’t look like anybody lives there.” Essie craned her neck to get a better look, realising that, out of habit, she was searching for signs of horses – an arena or something – but there were none.

  “Probably not,” said Francesca. “It’s a deceased estate; everything has to go today.” She sighed. “Imagine how lovely it would be in the summer with the wisteria on the verandah in flower. More importantly though, being a grand, if tired, house, hopefully it will have lots of lovely, delightful, interesting treasures for auction!” Francesca wouldn’t be distracted from her mission for long.

  Essie held onto the handle above the door as they bumped and dipped their way across the paddock to park. They weren’t the first ones there, not by a long shot. Most of the vehicles were farm utes and four-wheel drives – Essie couldn’t see any vans or trucks belonging to furniture traders who might bid against her mum. Hopefully it would stay that way.

  Footprints in frosty grass guided them to the auction area, ice flicking off the toes of their boots as they walked. Squeezing through a little wooden gate between two low outbuildings, they found themselves in a cobblestone courtyard formed by a large barn, a row of big old stables and a shed attached to cattle yards, all facing each other. Laid out in the centre were tarpaulins and big tables loaded with old bits of machinery, tools, box after box of funny old house ornaments and other things that Essie couldn’t imagine what they were. Piles of old family photos held together with rubber bands sat dry and discoloured in a cane basket, leaving a sad feeling in Essie’s chest. Where were their family photos? she wondered. Not that it mattered now that they weren’t a family. Pulling her beanie down lower, she looked for Francesca.

  She spied her wandering slowly across the yard, and smiled at her steady, consistent pace. She was careful not to give away which lots she was interested in.

  Essie decided to have a look in the barn and stables. It was even cooler under the shed’s tin roof than it was outside. Fingers of weak light streamed in through the gaps in the wooden walls, and dust from people’s feet in the musty straw came up in little puffs.

  An old harness hung in stiff loops from the shed wall, but no one was interested in it. Instead, they were looking at a black horse carriage with four wheels. A rope kept people back, and a “NOT FOR SALE” sign sat on the seat.

  Skirting the edge of the group, something on the other side of the shed caught Essie’s eye. It was a bunch of old stock saddles – auction lot number forty-seven. The leather on the big knee pads and deep seats was cracked. Judging by the layers of dust and dirt, the saddles hadn’t been used in a very long time.

  Essie suddenly wondered how her clean-freak, white-furniture, no-dirt dad had coped with the mud, dust and horse hair she used to bring home. Maybe having Chet on agistment had helped. Horses at arm’s length. Essie shook her head. They didn’t have the money for things like that any more – Francesca didn’t, anyway. Her dad had the money and had made his offer, but the price – that she move away from her mum – was too high.

  Francesca said that once her business was more established, they’d find somewhere for her to ride, but Essie never mentioned it. Her mum was doing her absolute best, and besides, Essie didn’t really want to ride other people’s horses. She’d never considered herself good at many things, but she’d been proud of Chet. They hadn’t been superstars, but she’d worked hard and they’d done okay.

  Francesca had suggested that Essie ask her
dad to pay for some riding lessons, so she could at least get back in the saddle, but Essie refused. She wasn’t going to discuss horses with him in any way, and she’d forbidden Francesca to mention it.

  Essie heard the auctioneer welcoming everyone. Running her gloved finger down the seat of the old stock saddle one more time, she left the barn in search of Francesca. She was easy to spot – with her fur headband on and bright scarf artistically draped around her neck, she stood out from the farmers in their dark blues and khakis like a tropical bird. Essie smiled. If Francesca was a parrot then Essie was a brown wood duck – nothing flashy, blending in. She liked it like that. Reaching her mum, Essie whispered, “Was there anything good?”

  “Yes,” her mum replied softly, “a lovely lounge with wooden arms and back, and one big old broad chair. Unfortunately, the lounge is way down the list, so it might be a long day.” She pulled a sympathetic face at Essie.

  “That’s all right. I’ll watch them auction the boxes of stuff,” said Essie, turning and strolling over to the tables.

  It was as if someone had emptied the drawers and cupboards from the house one by one into the boxes. Some looked like junk, others had maybe one good thing, others were a mystery. Essie wondered if it was the gamble that made people bid on them.

  As the smell of the free sausage sizzle put on by the auction firm drifted across the yard, and the last of the boxed items were sold, Essie’s tummy grumbled, the muffin not quite filling the hungry hole made by the cold. She headed back to Francesca, who was talking to a man in a blue work shirt. He must be freezing, thought Essie as she watched him touch his cap and wander off.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Didn’t get his name,” said Francesca. “Just making small talk while we wait.”

  Essie’s tummy rumbled again, louder this time. Francesca raised an eyebrow. “Want a sausage? They do smell good.”

  “Yes, please. Then, if it’s okay,” said Essie, “I might go and read my book in Van-essa for a while.”

  “Good idea. Are you all right?” Francesca asked, suddenly concerned.

  “I’m good,” Essie replied, “just thought I’d go read, kill some time.”

  “I’d join you, but imagine if I missed my lots and all this waiting was for nothing.” Francesca rolled her eyes. Passing Essie the keys, she said, “Keep the doors locked though, won’t you?”

  Leaving Francesca to the hunt, Essie got her sausage in bread and headed out to the van. Sliding the side door open, she smelled hot chocolate and muffin, and the earthy odour of the old woollen blankets Francesca kept in the back to cover the furniture she bought. Grabbing her novel and pulling a heap of blankets onto the floor to make a nest, Essie settled in. Several hours later, novel finished, Essie stopped fighting the tiredness that had been stalking her since she’d first curled up and thought, I’ll just close my eyes for a moment before I go and see how Mum is doing. She didn’t feel herself drift off to sleep.

  She woke to the sound of men laughing as they passed by. She felt like she’d been asleep for hours, but it was impossible to tell in the back of the van. Pulling her beanie back on and sliding open the door, she sucked in her breath. If she had to guess, she’d have said it was about 2 pm. The air swirled around, sharp with an icy chill. Another hour and it would be warning that it was time to head for home. She couldn’t believe she’d slept for so long.

  Walking through the gates, Essie saw that the numbers had thinned, but some were staying the distance. Francesca didn’t appear to have moved since Essie last saw her. Gosh she’s patient, she thought.

  Seeing her approach, her mum’s face broke into a wide grin. “That must be one good book! Finished it?” she asked.

  “Finished and slept for I don’t know how long,” said Essie, yawning and shifting from one foot to the other to ward off the cold.

  “Not long now,” said Francesca. “The lounge is coming up soon, and I got the big chair.” She smiled, pleased with herself.

  “I’ll find somewhere to sit,” said Essie. Turning around, she saw the empty cattle yard. If she climbed up and sat on the top rail, she should be able to see everything from there.

  Lot by lot, the auctioneer worked his way through the last of the items. The rail started to bite into Essie’s bum. Just as she was about to jump down, the auctioneer announced, “Lot number one hundred and sixty-three, only a few to go now, is on display in the cattle yards.” The crowd turned and shifted to the rails, blocking Essie in. Curious, she spun around, looking back into the yard.

  There was the clang of metal gates being opened inside the shed, and the auctioneer’s helpers yelling, then everything went quiet as through the open shed gate came the saddest, most neglected pony Essie had ever seen, its head hanging down. It was skinny, its mane matted together where it wasn’t rubbed out, hooves long, broken and split. Its coat was a dull, shaggy, washed-out yellow – barely what you would call palomino. On its head was a web halter, faded to almost white. It had been on the pony’s head so long it had rubbed bald patches on its cheeks, the webbing ends shredded, buckles rusted. Essie heard herself give a small cry.

  Murmurs of disgust rose from the small crowd. Two men below Essie said, “What a disgrace” and “I didn’t know old Sandy still had a horse. He’d turn in his grave.”

  Essie guessed that Sandy was the old man who’d owned the house and died.

  But the auctioneer had a job to do, and ignoring all the groans and complaints, he began to call for bids from up on the stock loading ramp.

  No one bid. Even as the price dropped lower and lower, everyone was silent. No one was going to buy the pony. Essie turned around, desperately looking for her mum – not that there was anything Francesca could do.

  Finally she spotted her, way over the other side near the shed. Throwing her arm up, Essie waved as hard as she could, but Francesca was on the phone. Even from her perch on the rails, Essie could tell she was deep in conversation.

  Taking her beanie off, Essie waved it over her head so hard she nearly lost her seat in the process. Finally, she caught her distracted mum’s eye. Francesca waved back, then went straight back to her phone call, a frown on her face.

  Essie sighed. It was no use. What did she think they could do anyway? Suddenly she heard the auctioneer say, “Sold for one hundred and ten dollars to bidder number fifty-five.”

  Essie was confused – she hadn’t seen anyone bid. Then she looked back at her mum and realised with a terrible sinking feeling that 55 was Francesca’s number. Francesca was one step ahead of her, Essie realised, seeing her cut her phone call off and look to Essie in shock.

  Without thinking, she’d waved at Essie holding her bidder number, accidentally bidding on the pony, and worse, buying her.

  Francesca came hustling across the yard to speak to one of the auctioneers’ assistants.

  Essie climbed down off the rail, leaning back against the fence, unsure what to do. She knew Francesca wouldn’t be angry; it wasn’t like Essie meant it to happen. What were they going to do now? Surely they wouldn’t make them buy the pony.

  Essie’s imagination was already running away with the hope that, somehow, they could keep her, at least get her healthy so someone might want her. She began making a mental list of the horse people she knew who could help, but then suddenly, unbidden, the image of their fenceless gate popped into her head, along with the realisation that anyone she knew who had anything to do with horses was a long way away and from a long time ago, too far back for favours. With a sinking feeling, Essie realised she wasn’t a horse person anymore.

  In the yard, the pony hadn’t moved. It showed no interest in anything around it. Francesca was talking animatedly with the auctioneer, but Essie could tell by the way he was shaking his head and going back to work, calling out the next lot, that he was going to make them take the pony. How would that even be possible?

  Moving back through the crowd, Francesca suddenly raised her bidding number again and just in time t
oo, as the auctioneer said “going, going, gone”. At least she got her lounge, thought Essie, though she doubted that would make up for the mess she’d got them into.

  With a last glance at the pony, Essie threaded her way over to Francesca, relieved to see that she didn’t look cranky. As Essie reached her, she gave a soft smile and said, “Well, this is not the adventure, expedition, safari we set out for. Just give me a minute to try and figure out what to do. You know we can’t keep her, right? It’s not like we can put her in Van-essa and take her home.” She gave a small, anxious smile at the ridiculousness of the situation. Essie had nothing to offer.

  As they looked across the dwindling crowd, a small wiry man in a dirty faded blue hat appeared beside them. Something about him made Essie uneasy. She took a step closer to her mum, who must have felt the same way because she pulled Essie in to her side, presenting a united front.

  The man coughed, a gurgling, rattling sound, looking like he wanted to spit something up.

  “’Scuse me,” he said, still trying to get the gunk out of his throat. “See you got yourselves that old nag by accident. I’ll give you what you paid for it, take it off your hands. I’d have bought it myself, but I was late.”

  Essie felt Francesca focus carefully on the man, as a solution seemed to so easily present itself.

  “Well,” said Francesca, “we’re a bit stuck, but we haven’t quite decided what we’re doing.”

  Now Essie was sure that Francesca felt uneasy about the man, just like her, even if they didn’t know why, just gut instinct.

  But he wasn’t taking no for an answer. As if Francesca hadn’t spoken, he went on. “I’ll go to me truck, get your one hundred and ten dollars – actually, let’s make it one hundred and twenty, you can make a little profit. Won’t be long.”

  Before they could reply, he turned on his bowed, skinny legs, shuffling off at an uneven trot, lighting a cigarette as he went. No wonder he had that disgusting cough, thought Essie.