The Brumby of Summerhill Park

By Derina McLaughlin

Alexia and her brother, Brad, travel to the Snowy Mountains, where they rescue a starving brumby whom they name Prince of the Brumbies. When Alexia wants to enter in the annual Stockman's Bush Race over the old gold fields, her hopes are dashed when her chosen ride, the retired race horse Stormy, proves too big and naughty for her. Alexia and her best friend Enya work hard to try and prepare the bush brumby Prince in time for the contest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528956765

Derina McLaughlin

Derina’s bustling career in national cultural institutions in Australia and her years spent on a UNESCO Committee have led her to treasure the time she now dedicates to writing and gardening. Derina has earned accolades for scriptwriting in Canada and the UK. Her debut book, The Brumby of Summerhill Park, received the Charlotte Waring Barton Mentorship Award from the Children’s Book Council of Australia NSW Branch. She continues to craft children’s stories that immerse them in a world of horsey challenges, providing an escape and a role as a judge in horse shows. Earlier in her career, she delivered science radio talks for ABC Radio and served as the publications manager at the National Archives of Australia, overseeing the production of history books and a history magazine. While contributing to the Community Heritage grants with the National Library of Australia, Derina seized the opportunity to advocate for the preservation of gardening archives. This endeavour sparked her research into the lives of those who pioneered horticulture in Australia, including the protagonist in her latest novel, The Lure of Eden.

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About the Author

Derina’s hectic career in national cultural institutions in Australia and a 6-year stint on a UNESCO Committee makes her cherish the time she now spends on her farm in Australia with her two sons, ponies and cats.

She has won accolades for script writing in Canada and the UK. Derina was presented with the Charlotte Waring Barton Mentorship Award by the Children’s Book Council of Australia NSW branch in November 2015. She continues to pen children’s stories that create a world of horsey challenges for children to escape into. Her earlier career included science radio talks for ABC Radio.

She has a passion for gardening and cooking for friends. She still rides horses for pleasure when possible and judges at horse shows. She is currently dedicating time to a historical fiction novel on the development of horticulture in Victorian Australia.

Dedication

To Heath and Cameron, who enjoyed a childhood of pony adventures of their own.

To Joanne Fox, who has been a great encourager of my creativity since our primary school days in the remote outback of the Northern Territory.

Copyright Information ©

Derina McLaughlin (2019)

The right of Derina McLaughlin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528900256 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528900263 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528956765 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

A Brumby Shock

The day we went to Cooma to adopt a herd of goats, we got a brumby instead.

Brad and I were trying to behave in the back seat of the Holden Wagon as we meandered from the Yass Valley across to the highlands of Cooma. It was a slow trip, as we had the horse trailer hitched to the car to carry home our newly adopted goats.

Mum had purchased several bags of jelly lollies, and each time my younger brother Brad dug me in the ribs and I tried to shove him back, Mum would say,

‘That’s another bag of lollies going to the possums.’

That meant the lollies would go out the car window a handful at a time, if we kept on at our backseat warfare.

We were bored with the whole idea of spending our precious weekend rescuing goats. We could have been going trail riding, or fishing in the dam.

The dreary view out the car window was one bare brown paddock after another. Puffs of wind were sending spirals of precious top soil into the sky.

Every now and then, rising out of the landscape, was a tumble-down stone cottage with a lonely chimney, showing that people once lived there.

‘Those people didn’t have enough money for bricks,’ said Brad. ‘They had to use stones.’

‘Those cottages were built before they had bricks,’ I laughed.

‘Really?’ Brad seemed really surprised.

‘Alexia’s right, those cottages were built by the first settlers,’ said Dad. ‘It was a hard and dangerous life.’

‘What’s so dangerous about living here?’ asked Brad.

‘If you got bitten by a snake or a tree fell on you, there wasn’t a doctor for miles,’ Mum explained.

Over 150 years ago, settlers came to the valley. The miners scratched for gold and the squatters found land to graze their sheep and cattle; they all battled cold winds and the high altitude with its winter snow to scrape a living.

The toughness of the mountain men and their scraggy but fast horses had been the subject of poems and songs.

From the car window we saw ridges of old timbered forest, far off in the distance.

Mum pointed to the forest.

‘That forest would have covered the whole valley 200 years ago.’

I glanced across at the stunted mountain gums and saw a movement near the roadside.

‘Brumbies!’ screamed Brad.

‘Watch out, Dad!’ I yelled.

Dad put the brake pedal on so hard that there was a screech and the smell of smoking rubber tyres.

‘Cool, Dad,’ said Brad. ‘You saved it.’

A black horse was beckoning from the roadside, shaking his head up and down, like he was king of the highway.

I gulped in surprise as the black horse dived in front of our car, crossing the road with a clatter of hooves. It jumped the drainage gully on the other side of the road, and then plunged downwards, into the gum tree and wattle scrub.

Then there were more and more horses, plummeting down from the mountain. They dashed across the road, close enough for their tails to flick the front of the car. Brown ponies and mares with foals all galloped after their leader.

Mum put down the window and coughed at the dust that was still swirling from the passing herd.

’Wow, look at that little fellow there,’ said Mum.

Mum was pointing to a straggler following the end of the mob. He was a red bay, a large skinny pony, with four black legs. He was slowed down by a dreadful limp.

His herd instinct should have been to gallop after his friends. Instead, when I opened the car door, he snorted in fear. Then he stopped and looked across at me.

His coat was a mixture of long hair and bald patches. I could see his ribs clearly. His rump had a high point to it, from lack of weight, and his hips poked out like they belonged to a dairy cow. His head hung low with misery, bobbing up only when he put weight on his sore hoof.

‘We need to help him, Dad!’ I said, upset about how poorly he was.

‘Alexia’s right. I need to get a look at that hoof,’ said Mum. My mum never liked to see any animal suffering.

Dad didn’t seem convinced about that. ‘Alexia, he’s a wild pony and they have to rough it out,’ he said.

‘Wild dogs and dingoes will track him if he can’t keep up with the herd,’ explained Mum.

Brad was upset by the pathetic sight too. ‘I thought this place was only dangerous for early settlers.’

‘I think it’s safer for him at home, Dad,’ I pleaded.

By then the pony had staggered closer and looked at us. He had an odd squiggly white blaze on his face that ran in a zigzag pattern from his eyes to his nose.

‘Honey, I doubt if you can catch him,’ Dad said to Mum.

I could see the remains of autumn bot fly eggs still holding onto the long hair of his mane and legs. That would mean he had a tummy full of hungry, risky worms. He snickered like he had just found new friends.