Winter by John Marsden Read Free Book Online Page B

silence.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘I’d better be going. I’ve got three essays due Wednesday and I haven’t started any of them. But listen, Winter. I know I played you along a bit the other day, and I’m sorry about that, but you’ve got to admit, you did ask for it.’
    He was laughing again, something he seemed physically unable to avoid. Laughing at me, anyway.
    He went on: ‘Anyway it’d be good to get to know you a bit better. I mean, the average age in this district is about ninety-three, and you’ve just lowered that a bit, thank God. So if you want to meet a few people, well, give me a call maybe? Or even, there’s a whole bunch of us going into Exley next Friday to see Night of the Long Knives . You’d be welcome. I could give you a lift. Have you got a car?’
    â€˜I don’t even have a licence,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, OK. What are you, sixteen?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Well, are you interested in the movie? Friday night?’
    â€˜I’ll give you a call, maybe.’
    â€˜OK, that’s cool.’
    He lifted up in the saddle to get the horse moving again, but just as he did, I said: ‘It’d help if I knew your name.’
    â€˜What? Oh yeah!’ He laughed and laughed at that. ‘Oh, what a pisser. My name’s Matthew. Matt Kennedy. The best way to get the phone number is in the Yellow Pages, under Horse Studs. It’s easier than trying to remember it now. Or else, take Ralph and Sylvia’s number and add three. Theirs ends in five; ours ends in eight.’
    â€˜OK, thanks,’ I said.
    He gave a casual wave and stirred the horse into a canter. He did that pretty well too. No kicking, nothing dramatic. I don’t ride, but I know a bit about it, and I know a good rider from a bad one.
    When I saw riders like Matthew I kind of thought I should have a go, wished I could become that good. I knew exactly why I’d never tried of course. I wasn’t going to risk being compared to the great Phyllis De Salis. It’s hard to beat a legend, especially when the person’s dead. Especially when she’s your mother.
    And yet from out of my collection of dim memories were some definite images of me on a horse. It seemed like it had been an enormous horse, but it probably wasn’t. To a four-year-old I bet any horse would look enormous.
    As I walked back towards Warriewood I couldn’t help thinking about Matthew. Matthew Kennedy. Nice name. It was so annoying, I’d met him twice now and both times he hadn’t put a foot wrong. Hadn’t said anything sarcastic or aggressive or mean. I was the one who’d taken care of those categories for both of us. He’d been good humoured, friendly, good looking. The last one he couldn’t take any credit for, but I guess the others he could. He hadn’t even minded when I’d been so casual about his invitation for next Friday. The trouble was, he had an unfair advantage being on a horse all the time. It meant he could look down on me too easily. The next time we met, if there was a next time, it would have to be on an equal footing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    S aturday morning there was no sign of Mr Carruthers and no message from him, which annoyed me. I felt restless, with nothing specific or definite to do, so I decided to take another walk. At this rate I’d never need to go to the gym again.
    I knew where I wanted to go, but I also knew it would be an unusual walk; I’d do ninety-nine per cent of it and then come home without finishing it off.
    Funny how already I was calling Warriewood ‘home’ in my mind, so easily, so comfortably. I’d never called the Robinsons’ place home, except as an occasional slip of the tongue.
    It was a cold morning. Each day seemed shorter than the one before, with daylight savings ended, and the leaves starting to turn. There was a Japanese maple near the homestead that had gone from