Biddy was only just four. The painting of small landscapes episode with her Mother which she'd longed for each day for a week had ended. On tip toes leaning on the edge of the sink she peered out over the paddock at Blackjack, her father's stallion for mustering.

Every time, her father returned from a hard day's rounding up cattle, the horse would be tethered in that same spot... there, breathing heavily, gleaming with sweat. She'd longed each day for this as well... to sit on him... just sit on him. She pleaded and cajoled her mother until she had had her way.

Sitting on him, she could, despite her tiny age sense that he'd been worked hard that

morning. It was lovely to be up so high. Holding the reins her mother told her to

grip the mane tightly. As she did, Blackjack reared frighteningly... trying with

each successive twisting and rearing of his muscular body and bucking hooves to throw her off.

Her father heard her cries for help. She hit the ground forcefully.

Just in time, before the horses hooves came down on her small body, her

father dragged her to safety.

She ran to her room. As Biddy lay on her bed and sobbing with pain she could hear her father's angry bellowing, the railing and screaming against her mother. These heated exchanges between them lasted so long that Biddy fell asleep quietly sobbing. The next day, all she remembers is returning with her father to the rusting, cast iron homestead with her left arm in a plaster cast.

Her mother ignored her and for all her years to come.

That girl was me.

Anne

A Moodscope member.