Race Girl

by Leigh Hutton

  ‘Yeww!’ Tully squealed, hugging Bear and jumping on her bed until she collapsed. She pressed the letter to her chest, kissed it for luck. Finally, she thought, the excitement and anticipation blazing within her. I’m ready to race. For real.

  Tully had to ride five winners at a ‘Country, Non-TAB’ meeting before being allowed to ride in any ‘Provincial’ meets, like Ipswich, or a Metro one, like Brisbane, Sydney or Melbourne. Mr. Barnes gave her a ride on Fin at Toowoomba the week after her last barrier trial. Her first race and she’d be riding a gorgeous horse that was considered a contender on a Saturday in a decent-money class – a dream come true. One Tully prayed would not turn into a nightmare.

  She rode in the truck with Mr. Barnes, Pete and Peta and four horses including Fin and Dahlia in the big trailer Mr. Barnes often hired, through the dark early morning, up over the Great Dividing Range into Toowoomba. ‘Shotgun’ would be meeting them there to ride Mr. Barnes’s best sprinters, Bundy Black and Sienna La Vie, in the big money classes. A leading female jockey from Gympie, Taneisha Ward, would ride Dahlia in her first official meet.

  It was Saturday at the races and the Toowoomba locals were out in all their finery. The punters had pulled up stumps around the bar and betting area where a wall of screens displayed races from all over the country running that day, some hollering for a winner, others quietly sipping a beer, race cards in hand. Tully noticed the posters advertising Toowoomba’s famous twilight races. I’d love to ride one, she decided, following Mr. Barnes through to the race office. Once I’ve gained a bit more experience. Like when I’ve actually ridden a race. In the daytime.

  The track was groomed to perfection, not too soft and not too hard. Prime conditions, and a clear, bright day to boot – perfect for racing, and even more exciting than cup day at Ipswich had been for Tully. As today, an Athens would again be among the jockeys mounting up.

  Tully loitered around the stalls, helping Peta groom Fin and Dahlia, until Mr. Barnes hollered and pointed her over to the main building. ‘Ya ridin’ today, or what, lovie?’

  Tully flashed him a smile and a thumbs up. She watched Mr. Barnes lift and flex each of Fin’s legs, stretching them out as he would a few times before his race. Then she kissed the horses goodbye, grabbed her bag from the front seat of the ute, shoving her hands into the pockets of her green Barnes Racing jumper as she hurried along the stalls, past the mounting area to the female jockey room.

  The first race had already been called and her fingers were stiff like frozen hinges, the nerves creeping up Tully’s neck in hot, tingling flashes as she struggled to get her clothes off and her tight skivvy on. Next were her lucky socks, which were so small they cut off the circulation to her feet by the end of a ride and had developed gaping holes in the heels and in the ends so both her little toes poked out. Still, Tully wouldn’t get on a horse without them – her mother had given the socks to her, along with Frangipani, for Christmas when she was six years old. Next were her stockings and borrowed silks, leggings and silk jersey in the Barnes Racing colours, then her restrictive, albeit necessary, race vest and equally annoying gloves, which made it hard to feel the horse’s mouth. Tully had nice callouses on her hands now, so rarely got blisters from track work or gallops, but still had to wear gloves for protection. Her purple-topped boots, which she’d found with matching jockey pad, breast plate, girth and surcingle for a steal in a second-hand shop, came next. Lastly, Tully grabbed her goggles, fitted with slightly tinted lenses to dilute the glare of the sun on this blinding day.

  The nerves continued to build until Tully was contemplating whether or not she needed to rush to the toilets to spew. She was on her way there when Tam strode in, her hair long, curled and streaked with pink, belt buckle flashing, boobs bouncing inside a western button-down shirt. ‘Tulls!’ Tam cried, swooping her up in a hug. ‘You look a bit green!’

  Tully tried to shake her head, but her body was too weak and and her legs were trembly. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves on turf – Race 1 under way. Maybe I’m not ready for this . . . Tully cried inside. Everyone knew that race day was vastly different to practice; more intense, more dangerous . . . I thought I was ready!

  Tam propped one hand on her hip, then strode over to the sinks, yanked her phone out of a tight, embellished back pocket. ‘You know I’m a diehard country music girl,’ she said, switching on some heavy rap song Tully had never heard before. ‘But times like this call for a little booty shakin’.’ In an instant, Tam was pulling Tully into the middle of the room, swinging her around like they were in a nightclub. ‘You need to get pumped up, girl,’ she said, her soft hair flowing around her like a mahogany halo. ‘Always works for me!’

  ‘Works for you to get pumped up, for what?!’ Tully teased.

  ‘Barrels, of course,’ Tam winked. She was really twerking now, thrusting her hips and popping her boobs like she was in a new-age music video.

  ‘Omigod!’ Tully shoved her bestie on the shoulder, but the doof doof beat was luring her, thoroughly ensnaring and elevating her soul. She took a step back and let the lyrics wash over her: get do-wn, get dir-ty, come ’er gurl, you’re mi-ne to-night . . . and the DOOF DOOF DOOF pouring out.

  Tully’s hips started to move. Tam grabbed her by the hands and the girls were singing along, dropping to the floor in no time. Tully’s heart sung right along with the melody, her arms in the air, body pulsing with the intoxicating beat.

  Shotgun and Simmons strutted passed, then halted, pausing in the doorway to watch the girls, huge grins plastered on their boyish faces.

  Tully couldn’t stop – it felt too good to let go and have fun – until Tam ground up to the guys, much to their excitement. Tully grabbed her friend, bursting with laughter as she pulled her towards the opposite door, snatched up her jockey pad, helmet and goggles and lead a protesting Tam out into the dazzling sunshine.

  ‘See?’ Tam said with a wicked grin. ‘You’re ready to race now, aren’t you? Race Girl.’

  Tully was certain Tam was right, until the nerves crept back – attacking her fingers first, then weakening her core as she mounted up, rode the circle and headed out onto the track. She reluctantly released Fin into a trot to follow the others down to the barriers, her heart speeding and mind scattering thoughts like a whirlwind. ‘He’ll want to lead early,’ Mr. Barnes’s words echoed through her mind. ‘Get to the inside and let him go — he hates being caught in the pack . . .’

  A barrier attendant led them down to the one they’d drawn: number 11, not a great place to start, as number 1 – on the inside rail – was prime. Fin led in easily enough, but when the gates closed up his rump and the horse next-door reared, smacking his jockey hard against the metal bars, Fin started jumping around beneath Tully. He jammed her foot against the metal side. She stifled a cry. ‘The barriers are the most dangerous part of the track,’ Mr. Bradley, the steward, had cautioned Tully before her first trial. It hadn’t been nearly as intense with only a few horses on her trial days, but with a full grid of thirteen thoroughbreds breathing fire, this is where racing got real.

  Survival mode!

  Tully did her best to steady her breathing. She blocked out the sounds of the snorting horses, the clanging metal, the chatting and cursing amongst the other jockeys, the barrier attendants announcing who was up next – already thinking past her race. Her boots dug into her ankles, her thumb were already raw from holding the whip she used only occasionally, but still had to carry. Tully blocked it all: the noise, the pain – none of it mattered, ceased to exist. It was just her and Fin. Race face on. Ready.

  Fin’s heart charged beneath her, beating strong and fast, his heat seeping up into her trembling body. The smell of his sweat mixed with her own, the rich, wonderful scent of his coat. She was overcome by his enthusiasm, his spirit, his strength – at that moment, Tully felt all of it heightened a million times. Their lives on the line together.

  Those seconds in the barrier before the race had been her mother’s favour
ite and in this moment Tully fully understood why. It was simply exhilarating, perfection – like heaven. Nothing will ever compare to this! Tully thought, eyeing the gate. Well, except maybe his kiss . . . She was screaming at herself for thinking about Brandon at such a dangerous time when the lights flicked on and the gates flung open . . .

  ‘And, they’re racing!’ the race caller said.

  Fin surged out of the barrier, his long, strong legs eating up the ground at serious pace. Within a few strides he was at full gallop, ahead of the rest, cutting for the inside rail.

  The force of his speed punched the breath from Tully’s chest, her body pummelled by the freezing rush of air. She imagined herself in one of those cartoons where the horse takes off and the rider is left sitting on air. He was magnificent; his speed felt twice that of trial day.

  Tully clutched the reins, knotted her hands high up in the colt’s mane, and it was Brandon’s words that found her there, on the brink of reverting to panic. Relax . . . He’d commented about their race together. You need to breathe . . . Tully exhaled an almighty breath, gritted her teeth – furious that even here, in this crucial moment of her life and career, Brandon could still get to her.

  She moved forward with Fin’s next stride, crouching down low over his mighty withers, coming forward to that sweet spot of equilibrium. Moved her hands with his body, using her whole torso to will him forward, doing her best to catch up to his pace.

  Here I am, Tully realised with a flash of thrill, hurtling along at about sixty kilometres an hour on a half-ton animal. Mum was right, the rush is positively formidable.

  Tully was about to tip Fin into the second turn when the deafening growl of the pack closed around them. A stab of panic froze her limbs, her hesitation bleeding down into her mount. Fin faltered for a second, shying off the rail.

  Even within Fin’s blinkered head collar, Tully could feel the colt’s eyes rolling, his body tensing right along with hers . . . CRAP! Tully scolded herself in despair, sure her mistake had cost Fin his race.

  Her heart sank as horse after horse surged past, boxing them out of the rail. She summoned all of her strength, searching the pack for a line in. Her eyes lit with hope and she urged Fin right, towards a slim but opening gap in the rumps . . .

  Too late – a lithe chestnut filled the hole as quickly as it had opened. Tully cursed herself as she imagined any punters who’d backed them yelling and shaking their fists at the screens, ‘Bloody jockey went via the Cape!’ She’d run too wide and she knew it was her hesitation, her weakness, that’d got them there.

  Mere seconds later and Tully and Fin crossed the line to the roar of the crowd, but the cheers weren’t for them. They’d slipped back to dead last by a furlong. Fin ground the bit and snorted in annoyance, dragging on Tully’s hands. She hauled him up, then gave him a pat, praying for his forgiveness as she eased him down to a trot.

  Tully forced a brave smile and held her posture as she trotted back to Pete, Mr. Barnes, and the stalls. A champion never gives up . . . They were words her mother often chanted under her breath, and Tully was reminded of them now. If her first race had given her nothing else, Tully was hungrier than ever to get back in those barriers. To succeed.

  A few classes along and it was Dahlia’s turn. Tully strapped for Dahlia and introduced her to Taneisha, letting the filly know it was okay to trust her. Stewards came along to Mr. Barnes’s race day stalls to check Dahlia and confirm her identity. Their steward raised his wand, ran it over Dahlia’s nuchal ligament just under her mane – a spot void of nerves where microchips were inserted. The wand picked up Dahlia’s new microchip number that she’d been assigned when Tully and Bucko got her registered, which was interfaced with her owner information – a procedure completed before races to make sure the correct horse started in the right race.

  Tully watched at the rail of the connections viewing stand as Dahlia was led in next the colts. The filly pinned her ears, but was too busy snapping at the horses and jockeys beside her to get a good jump out of the gate.

  Dahlia ran right in amongst it – the total opposite of Fin. Mr. Barnes cursed her aggressiveness; the filly baring her teeth at the horses closest to her and ignoring her jockey’s cues to go. By the time Dahlia focused and seemed concerned with finding her rhythm, the race was run. Tully was thrilled to see her filly cross the wire in one piece and a fourth place finish was brilliant as far as she was concerned. Even in the money.

  ‘We need to work on her barrier speed,’ Mr. Barnes said as he hurried with Tully down from the stand. ‘And she needs a longer race . . .’ He pursed his lips, then threw his head back and laughed. ‘Too busy pushing the boys around to get to the front! She needs to learn to be comfortable leading early, Tully, even though she’ll probably need a few in front to battle past. Man—she’s a little scrapper, isn’t she?! Let’s give the little scrapper something to get her attention.’

  23

  Birdsville

  Tully was incredibly thankful to Mr. Barnes for giving her a second chance and showered Fin with kisses and a steady procession of sugar lumps and apple pieces for days after their first race – although he forgave her quite quickly when food was involved, a ‘typical male’, as her mother would have said.

  Their next race was on home soil at Beaudesert. An improved finish of sixth led to another ride on both horses further inland at Dalby, then down south to Warwick, back up to Gatton and to the Sunshine Coast. Each race, Tully grew more comfortable with the speed, finishing hungrier and with renewed aggression for the next one. She even managed to race the track where her mother was killed – she and Fin ran last, but the relief and pride Tully felt after being brave enough to get around that turn remained in her memory long after the race.

  Fin was really finding his stride now Tully was riding like a real jockey, and had won more already than he had in the last two seasons combined. But Dahlia was the one really stealing the show, running in every meet Mr. Barnes could get her to that had classes over 1800 metres and winning the lot. It brought Tully the most joy when she beat a few of Weston’s horses. Avalon-Sky Dahlia was being hailed as potentially the best filly to come out of Gulherin in over two decades and Curtis had finally agreed that Tully be allowed to ride her. And so, here they were: on Tully’s home track; her second time at Beaudesert.

  Judy and Tam, Bucko, Grace, Fia, even Izzie and Tully’s old manager from Macca’s, Moe – along with a few of the guys she used to work with – cheered loudly from the stands. Tully didn’t expect to see her father, but she still searched for him before mounting up. She was more nervous here than she had been at any of the other tracks, remembering all those times she had come here to watch her mother race since she was two – when Dahlia would tether Tully to a pole with her little horsey backpack/harness to play with her toy ponies while she rode track work.

  Tully told herself not to worry, to remember everything she’d learned since beginning her apprenticeship and ride like she knew she could. But she was still disappointed, scared . . . Her father’s absence and the ghost-like memories of her mother still haunted her.

  When Tully rode Dahlia into the barriers, however, and the world fell silent with the exception of her breathing and the gentle pulsing of Dahlia’s heart beneath her, the will to overcome, to succeed, rushed forth within her – carrying Tully through the nerves and the exertion and the jostle of the race.

  The roar of the crowd as they crossed the line three lengths ahead – Dahlia’s most commanding victory yet, and Tully’s first race win – was louder than many swore they’d heard in years. The local girl and her mystery filly had annihilated the competition on home soil, truly claiming the heart of the town.

  ‘I’d be crazy not to let you be Dahlia’s regular jockey!’ Mr. Barnes said as Tully dismounted Dahlia to go weigh in. Back at the winner’s enclosure and Tully beamed at the crowd, ecstatic beyond words but she still found herself searching for her father’s face, then Brandon Bloody Weston’s, and it was as i
f a ribbon of sourness bled through into her sweet, sweet day.

  ★

  The months crept by with more race wins but still without word from ‘Master’ Weston. Tully fought the urge to press his number in her phone, but one night just went ahead and deleted it – if she couldn’t see his name, it would be easier to forget. She hoped.

  It was late one windy August evening, just after the EKKA Show and the official ‘birthday’ of all thoroughbred foals for the year, when Tully’s mobile rang. She answered it quickly, but the line crackled. ‘Sorry, Aunt Fia?’

  ‘Birdsville, darling! The biggest bush meet in the country.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Tully said. ‘Have you ever been, Aunt Fia?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But it’s a travesty I aim to rectify. And you, my dear, are coming to ride for me.’

  A few weeks later Fia tore through the front gates of Avalon, the Germaine Racing semi-truck horse transporter following closely behind. Tully hurried to grab her bags, calling out to her dad to say goodbye. She assumed he was at the stables when he didn’t answer, so sprinted down to say bye to Bear, Greg and Frangi, Bucko, Grace and her father, who waved at her from the office but didn’t come over.

  Tully hopped into the passenger side of Fia’s Range Rover, her eyes going wide as she took in the plush red and black leather interior of the luxury SUV. ‘Wow,’ she said, kissing her aunt on both cheeks. ‘What a ride, Aunt Fia!’

  Fia sounded the horn and waved at Gerald, who had appeared in the doorway of the office, arms crossed. ‘Thank you, darling,’ Fia said, flicking her sunnies down over her eyes. She handed Tully a roadmap out of the centre console. ‘I’m old school, I’m afraid, and I’m not sure we’ll get mobile reception out where we’re going . . .’ She pushed her sunnies back up onto her head, pointing across the map at a town out near the middle of Australia. ‘Straight west from here, onto the Birdsville Track . . .’