Christmas at Waratah Bay Read Online Free PDF Page A

they adored Mum. All their money went on Mum’s horses. Mum did little to help. Finally, when I was about five, Grandma died of a heart attack. Eric got a job in IT in the city and Mum got pregnant again. Gramps finally asked Mum to leave.”
    “With you?”
    “Gramps had arthritis and couldn’t care for me. But Mum didn’t seem to mind. She was little, cute, persuasive, and within weeks of Gramps’ ultimatum, she and I moved in with a local small-time horse trainer. I still don’t know if he was the baby’s father. Ron was kind, but useless. They had three kids and then Ron went bankrupt and disappeared. Mum moved on, to a widower with a horse stud and three kids already. But, it didn’t stop the pregnancies. They had four more kids between them before Pete died of a heart attack, probably brought on by worrying about where the next meal was coming from. Mum’s still on his farm, but she’s had two more kids, and no one’s asking who the father is.”
    “So that makes?” she said faintly.
    “Thirteen in total,” he said, wearily now, remembering the endless pregnancies, his mother screeching that he’d have to look after the kids, he was the oldest, how did he expect her to cope? “She just . . . didn’t notice us. I remember when I was about fourteen the social welfare people came to our house. My step dad was recently dead. The welfare worker was horrified by the chaos, but there was no way she could re-house so many. She turned on me—“ You’re old enough to take responsibility. Surely you’re old enough to get your brothers and sisters on the school bus .” That’s pretty much all I was to everyone. The oldest. The responsible one.
    “Oh, Max . . . ”
    “I don’t blame the welfare worker. It was the end of a long day and she’d had a frustrating session with my mother, who was only concerned that her favorite horse was lame. And she was right, I was the responsible one. But, from that moment I decided all I want for the rest of my life was to be alone. I loved my brothers and sisters—I still do and I see them from time to time, but on my terms. Not here. If they came here they’d overrun the place. I visit them—when they need me.”
    “So, how did you manage to be here?”
    “Kids find solitude any way they can.” Why was he telling her this? He had no idea. He didn’t tell anyone. Keeping himself to himself was a skill he’d learned early, but the way she was looking at him . . . There wasn’t sympathy. It was more . . . empathy. Like, she saw things? He couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but the compulsion to explain was almost overwhelming.
    “I keep in touch with Eric,” he said. “Mum’s brother. He’s a bachelor, a loner. He does something nerdy in the US in Silicon Valley. He hardly ever comes home, but he did when my grandfather died. He was appalled by Mum’s tribe and couldn’t get away fast enough, but as he was leaving he gave me a computer. A small laptop I could hide, so Mum couldn’t sell it for horse feed. He also sent me money from time to time so I could access the internet, and spent time with me online. For me, it felt like a lifeline. Eventually, he encouraged me to build some of the games I loved playing. I never told my family, but I lived in that computer.”
    “So you studied computing?’
    “Money for university when Mum needed any available money for horse feed? Ha. It didn’t matter though. By the time I was sixteen I was designing games. I got a job as a jackaroo on a bigger farm near ours where I could still live at home and keep an eye on the kids. I learned about farming from people who really knew it, but I kept on designing. Then, I hit pay-dirt. My uncle helped me sell a game for a fortune. Finally, the kids were old enough to be independent, this place was for sale and I had money. So, here I am. Harold keeps teaching me about best farming practices. I still design and sell games, but I love the farm and I still love