But never as lucky (or unlucky, as some would argue) as this—
As they both kneeled down and cleaned up the glass, he spoke absently into the floorboards.
“Of course I read the paper—the horse’s name is Matador.”
* * *
—
Eventually, Catherine slapped her.
It’s funny what a slap can do:
Her water-color eyes were that little bit brighter—unmanaged, alive with anger. Her hair was lifted, just a few strands, and Ted was alone in the doorway.
“You really shouldn’t have done that.”
He was talking and pointing at Carey.
But then the fact of something else.
Catherine only slapped you when you’d won.
* * *
—
This is what Carey had done:
One of the best old childhood chestnuts.
School holidays.
She’d left in the morning and was supposedly staying the night at Kelly Entwistle’s house, but caught a train to the city instead. Late afternoon, she stood for close to an hour, outside the McAndrew Stables; the small office in need of a paint job. When finally she could loiter no longer, she walked in and faced the desk. McAndrew’s wife was behind it. She was in the midst of a mathematical working-out, and chewing a ball of gum.
“Excuse me?” Carey asked, outrageously jittery and quiet. “I’m after Mr. Ennis?”
The woman looked at her; she was permed and Stimoroled, then curious. “I think you might mean McAndrew.”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” She half smiled. “I’m a bit nervous,” and now the woman noticed; she’d reached up and lowered her glasses. In one motion she’d gone from clueless to all summed up.
“You wouldn’t be old Trackwork Ted’s daughter, would you?”
Shit!
“Yes, Miss.”
“Your mum and dad know you’re here?”
Carey’s hair was in a braid, wired tautly down her head. “No, Miss.”
There was almost remorse, almost regret. “Good lord, girl, did you get here on your own?”
“Yes, I got the train. And the bus.” She almost started babbling. “Well, I got the wrong bus the first time.” She controlled it. “Mrs. McAndrew, I’m looking for a job.”
And there, right there, she had her.
She’d stuck a pen in the curls of her hair.