going off to confront Katie. ‘We’ve all got a kid like it, or an appalling niece. Daughters. They give ninety per cent of the problems only to grow into marvellously responsible and even-tempered mothers. I was a proper bitch from age fifteen till eighteen. Let’s have another wine.’
‘But you’re driving, Sue.’
‘Stop being so Jennings-safe. I grew up with you, hon. You never did anything even mildly wrong. I live three kays down a country road: who am I going to wipe out if I’m a little bit pissed?’
‘Come on,’ Claire said, ‘let’s get you outside in the open air and maybe save a life on the road.’
Got a look from Sue to say: don’t patronise me.
As always, no matter how many regular visits, Sue exclaimed out on the lengthy deck, ‘Wow. Some place, eh?’
Looking up at ancient sandstone escarpments of the Wollemi National Park. One horse was responsible for all this, 1100 hectares, not only saving the business but expanding it to paddocks lush with special grass scientifically developed for thoroughbred grazing; a large mixed broodmare and stud operation. Laneways of crushed stone and lime ensured efficiency of animal movement. Stables and barns had, at Claire’s suggestion, stonework tastefully placed to give a quality look, affecting age and maturity, and every fence railing was dark stained. Specimen trees of Riley’s choosing lined the driveway, when Claire would have preferred a single variety, and over a thousand metres of trimmed barberry hedges gave an extra finish to a well-ordered property.
Six years earlier Raimona’s stud fees had paid for their house on this elevated site, clear of the shadow of the rocky escarpments. Grand enough to entertain the numerous clients comfortably, accommodatethose who came from abroad, but nowhere was the new homestead ostentatious.
Riley’s maternal grandfather, Sean Riley, had named the original broodmare farm Galahrity, a play on the noisy galah’s name as his way of cocking a snook at convention. It sounded Irish, he said. ‘Like my convict grandfather was.’ Back then it was 250 acres of a dreamer’s operation; now it was ten times the size. Grandfather Sean’s eyes would have boggled. Claire had three years of knowing the old boy before he dropped dead of a heart attack: she recalled a lively, cheerful optimist, even — or especially — when the chips were down. He loved Riley, helped no doubt by his carrying the family name, even if it was, as Sean put it, at the front.
‘No horse raised here will be at the rear,’ he had vowed. Words Riley took to heart as he strove, along with Straw Mathews, to create winners.
The Hunter was best known for its vineyards, but Galahrity in the Widden Valley was one of several famous local horse-breeding estates, if not yet in the legendary class like Coolmore and Arrowfield in nearby Jerrys Plains. Claire had written a couple of times asking the local shire authority to reinstate the missing apostrophe. She was more pragmatic about the valley’s numerous open-cast coal mines, a blot on the landscape to some but providing jobs and adding wealth to the region. At least till the worldwide economic collapse.
Sitting out here as friends of a lifetime, the kookaburra calling from the gums, Claire and Sue toasted each other and a good life in the Lucky Country.
Out of nowhere, Sue said, ‘Did you hear Madeline Bradley’s husband has been bonking his secretary?’
‘No, I hadn’t.’ Claire taken more by surprise than she ought to be. Not as if the woman in question was a close friend, just someone you ran into at the supermarket, at the hairdresser. Besides, hardly anyone passed on gossip to Claire; they probably figured, quite rightly, she was not the type.
‘I’d cut Mike’s crown jewels off if he did that to me.’ Clearly the subject meant something to Sue. ‘’Specially as I don’t deserve it.’
Claire wondering if the same response was expected from her,when she didn’t think
‘But you’re driving, Sue.’
‘Stop being so Jennings-safe. I grew up with you, hon. You never did anything even mildly wrong. I live three kays down a country road: who am I going to wipe out if I’m a little bit pissed?’
‘Come on,’ Claire said, ‘let’s get you outside in the open air and maybe save a life on the road.’
Got a look from Sue to say: don’t patronise me.
As always, no matter how many regular visits, Sue exclaimed out on the lengthy deck, ‘Wow. Some place, eh?’
Looking up at ancient sandstone escarpments of the Wollemi National Park. One horse was responsible for all this, 1100 hectares, not only saving the business but expanding it to paddocks lush with special grass scientifically developed for thoroughbred grazing; a large mixed broodmare and stud operation. Laneways of crushed stone and lime ensured efficiency of animal movement. Stables and barns had, at Claire’s suggestion, stonework tastefully placed to give a quality look, affecting age and maturity, and every fence railing was dark stained. Specimen trees of Riley’s choosing lined the driveway, when Claire would have preferred a single variety, and over a thousand metres of trimmed barberry hedges gave an extra finish to a well-ordered property.
Six years earlier Raimona’s stud fees had paid for their house on this elevated site, clear of the shadow of the rocky escarpments. Grand enough to entertain the numerous clients comfortably, accommodatethose who came from abroad, but nowhere was the new homestead ostentatious.
Riley’s maternal grandfather, Sean Riley, had named the original broodmare farm Galahrity, a play on the noisy galah’s name as his way of cocking a snook at convention. It sounded Irish, he said. ‘Like my convict grandfather was.’ Back then it was 250 acres of a dreamer’s operation; now it was ten times the size. Grandfather Sean’s eyes would have boggled. Claire had three years of knowing the old boy before he dropped dead of a heart attack: she recalled a lively, cheerful optimist, even — or especially — when the chips were down. He loved Riley, helped no doubt by his carrying the family name, even if it was, as Sean put it, at the front.
‘No horse raised here will be at the rear,’ he had vowed. Words Riley took to heart as he strove, along with Straw Mathews, to create winners.
The Hunter was best known for its vineyards, but Galahrity in the Widden Valley was one of several famous local horse-breeding estates, if not yet in the legendary class like Coolmore and Arrowfield in nearby Jerrys Plains. Claire had written a couple of times asking the local shire authority to reinstate the missing apostrophe. She was more pragmatic about the valley’s numerous open-cast coal mines, a blot on the landscape to some but providing jobs and adding wealth to the region. At least till the worldwide economic collapse.
Sitting out here as friends of a lifetime, the kookaburra calling from the gums, Claire and Sue toasted each other and a good life in the Lucky Country.
Out of nowhere, Sue said, ‘Did you hear Madeline Bradley’s husband has been bonking his secretary?’
‘No, I hadn’t.’ Claire taken more by surprise than she ought to be. Not as if the woman in question was a close friend, just someone you ran into at the supermarket, at the hairdresser. Besides, hardly anyone passed on gossip to Claire; they probably figured, quite rightly, she was not the type.
‘I’d cut Mike’s crown jewels off if he did that to me.’ Clearly the subject meant something to Sue. ‘’Specially as I don’t deserve it.’
Claire wondering if the same response was expected from her,when she didn’t think
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