Prologue

Helene watched the little girl bounce around the course of small jumps on the mothy skewbald pony. The girl’s enthusiasm brought a smile to her lips. The pony must have been at least 25, with the most garish splashes of chocolate brown and white. She had one brown eye and one blue eye, and lop-ears like a mule. Her stomach had dropped, her back hammocked with age. But she bumbled steadily over the low jumping course, as her rider threw her hands up the pony’s neck in an over-zealous crest release. The girl’s face was red with effort and her mousy hair was escaping from under her helmet, but she smiled joyously as she popped over each fence.

‘Alright now, Sweety, that’s about it. You can give her a walk and cool her down now. That was good - that last time.’
‘Already?!’ said the girl, ‘Was that an hour already?’ Helene smiled and nodded, pointing quickly to the girls hands which hand become horizontal. The little girl blushed and quickly checked her hand position, steering the stubborn pony away from the grass at the edge of the arena. The pony sighed in matyrdom, wandering lazily away.

That idealism, thought Helene. Was I really like that once? Helene remembered back to her days of competition riding. She had sacrificed so much, boyfriends, parties, a degree in law. She had broken her back each day, rising early, riding, training, plaiting until her fingers bled and her toes froze. She remembered those days of being so tired she fell asleep on at the dining table. Of coming home at 4am from an event wet, cold miserable. Unloading exhausted, disappointed, grumpy horses in the dark, and falling fully-dressed into bed, then being woken by a piercing alarm clock to feed and work horses at 7am the next morning. Now all she had to show for it was her cynicism, an arthritic hip and her lined, sun-damaged skin.

She knew the disappointments this little girl had in store for her. She was quite stocky; it would be hard for her to maintain the right physique for competitive riding. At 12, she was already developing small, girlish breasts and had little rolls of puppy-fat curling over her jodhpurs under her t-shirt. She was keen, and Helene had to admit that she had a fairly good ‘feel’ for riding. She had progressed quite far, considering her youth and the fact that her horse was a ‘freebie’ from a farm, outfitted in tired, borrowed equipment. But her main problem would always be money. Her parents were quite poor, and Helene had learned the hard way, that you could work until your hands bled, but money made the horse-world go round. You either had it or you didn’t. It was as simple as that.

Helene sighed, glancing up at the burning sun and rubbed her cracked, scurf-caked hands together. It all looked so glamerous from the outside; the world of muscled, shining horses, sparkling silver cups, champagne, rosettes, tall athletic men and cultured, elegant women. But Helene knew better. And eventually it would crush this poor little girl too.

The girl’s mother came bustling up in a sienna-coloured kaftan with her long wavy hair piled up on top of her head held by a brown scarf. She wore brown leather sandals.

‘Hi Helene. Thanks again for this! How’d she go? She’s a good old mare isn’t she? We’re so lucky she was free! We’d never have been able to get her a horse otherwise!’ The woman rummaged through her shoulder bag, un-earthing an eruption of hairpins, loose change, shredded tissues and old grocery receipts. ‘$40 wasn’t it? Sheesh. Here you go… um… I might book her in for another lesson for her birthday. That’ll give me enough time to save up…’ Helene waved away the woman’s apologies and pocketed the money.

‘She’s doing well. You should be proud of her. She’s so determined! She actually is pretty hard on herself, a perfectionist.’ Said Helene folding up her deck chair. Noticing the spring grass turning brown with the coming of the sudden heat of an Australian summer.

‘I’ll be so glad when she discovers boys!’ laughed the girls mother.
Behind them, they didn’t notice little Ebony had overheard them. Didn’t notice how she shook her head once, defiant, her fingernails biting into her palms in determination.