by Leigh Hutton
Tully pushed her bags onto the floor at her feet and quickly surveyed her clothes, praying they were clean. She felt like she should’ve been encased in cling wrap before being allowed in this vehicle. ‘Righto . . .’ She spotted ‘Birdsville’ out in the far corner of the state, nearly on the border with South Australia and a finger’s width from Alice Springs. ‘The outback!’ she said, glancing across at her aunt. ‘Hel-lo adventure! Like I said, though, Aunt Fia—I woulda been more than happy to jump in with the horses. I thought you would’ve wanted to fly, at least part of the way . . .’
Fia laughed, cosied down low in her seat. Her phone started ringing through the hands free, but she flicked it to silent. ‘I would normally, sure,’ she said, one hand on the top of the wheel. ‘But this time I had my gorgeous niece to enjoy, and lots of country I’ve never seen to finally take in. Life’s too short to miss these things, Tully. And it’s definitely too short to miss a good girls’ road trip!’
Tully grinned, her eyes finding the clear expanse of highway as they turned out of their lane.
‘What a way this is gonna be to see the outback,’ Fia said, cranking up the stereo. Tully was surprised to find the frolicking classical tune a pleasure to her ears, and she relaxed a fraction in her seat. ‘It’s all guts or no glory out there,’ Fia continued, ‘You’re going to love the mare I brought for you, just bought her from a guy on the Goldie. She’s tough as, a real warhorse. I’ve also got Kirkston coming to ride a few young ones and this big brute of a colt we’ve just cut – needs a good hard run. He’s a darling, though.’
Tully smiled, not sure if her aunt was fond of the horse, or the jockey. She decided it was probably both. ‘I can’t wait, Fia,’ she said, pushing her hands in between her thighs. ‘Thank you again, for the opportunity.’
‘Racing out here with these blokes’ll really bring out those balls of yours!’
Could be just what I need . . . Tully thought, stifling a grin. More confidence. And better yet, it’s thousands of kilometres away from any Westons . . .
The Athens girls smiled at each other as they cruised deep into the brilliant sunset, out of Beaudesert and into the dark, open road. They chatted all the way to Toowoomba, then on to the rich pastoral and wheat-growing town of Roma where they stopped at a stable owned by a friend of Fia’s to rest the horses overnight.
The next day was a big one, over thirteen hours of driving through only a few towns and into the flat, red centre of Australia. Tully marvelled at the never-ending expanse of earth and sky, at the rich crimson sand dunes and bold spinifex grass, which she imagined was hiding plenty of bilby burrows. It was as if one could live in the sky, nourished by the abundant, unfaltering land, and just breathe and breathe forever.
It was a shock, therefore, and they were starting to panic, when the Rover managed to get two flats within ten kilometres of each other just after the sealed highway turned to dirt on the Birdsville Track. They could have been stranded hundreds of kilometres from mobile reception, a town, a servo, even a pub, if the truck driver hadn’t brought along a spare jack and tyre puncture repair kit.
Tully stood on tiptoes to try and console the horses, who snorted and stamped at the delay in the trailer, while Fia grumbled that she definitely needed a Chardonnay. ‘They do serve white wine in the outback, don’t they, Mick?’
Mick howled at her and slapped his dirty jeaned thigh, wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Fia promised to shout all his beers for changing the tyres and getting them rolling again.
It was just after nightfall when they pulled into the tiny town, leaving a cloud of dust over the horse transporter and the row of vehicles rolling in behind them. Birdsville was already bursting with horse trailers, utes, cars and four-wheel-drives, as well as buses carrying what Fia explained were: ‘locals, station owners and workers from all across the outback, spectators and revellers from all over Australia and even the world attracted by this long-standing meet!’ The buzz of anticipation in this two-street town transformed by its prodigious annual event was loud enough to crash through the walls of the Rover. It was an adventurous energy that charged Tully up, tingling down the length of her spine, settling in her core. Such a strong, feverish excitement, and she didn’t feel far from home in the least.
Fia pointed out the private jets and personal aircraft lined up in the dozens on the airstrip as they cruised past, naming a few of the owners. ‘I’ve heard the number of planes will grow into the hundreds by Friday – and helicopters, too.’ Fia’s face erupted with a gleaming smile. ‘Life feels real out here, Tully . . .’
Tully understood completely; that feeling of being connected to the country and the land. She found herself squealing and clapping when she spotted the white Birdsville Hotel with its heritage green trim. Statuesque, historic and gorgeous – the heart of the town, the outback even – set on the corner of the two main streets. Tully was stunned to see beer cans spread out onto the footpath, mounded up against the natural dirt kerb of the street.
‘Adds a bit of character, don’t you think?’ Fia said. ‘They’ll be gone by morning, apparently.’
‘Ready for another day!’ Tully said.
‘You’ve got it, girl.’
The buzz of the race only seemed to intensify when word spread about such a high profile, east-coast trainer venturing so far west to try her hand at the Birdsville Cup. Fia had dressed the part, in an Akubra and scuffed boots and while she had plenty of fans rushing up to get a pic with her, she also copped an esky full of disapproving glances and raises of brows from some of the dedicated bush trainers and locals.
Fia’s charm started to wear them down by the end of their first day in Birdsville, however, when Tully, Fia, Mick and the strappers made their way over to Fred Brophy’s boxing tent to witness his world-exclusive show. The girls shared a few drinks with the locals to the sound of the beating drum and ringing bell, even had a good yarn after the boxers downed their gloves. By the following night, Fia was really in her element, organising rounds as the ‘hostess with the mostess’ of the pre-race cocktail party, which was lit up with pink and purple lights, complete with a swinging country band.
Tully sipped at a lemonade, listening from their table as Fia regaled the joint with the tale of her Melbourne Cup win two years earlier. ‘We were neck and neck, the bastard—I mean, the ex and I!’ Fia sang, sending riotous laughter ripping through the snazzed-up patrons at the bar. ‘And I got him! It was the best moment of my life, seriously, the best! Should’ve seen the look on the smug slug’s face. Absolutely priceless . . . He was always tellin’ me: ‘Fia, if you’re not cheatin’, you’re not competin’’, but I hated him sedating the horses and would never let him use cobalt or anything else! And didn’t I show him?! You can be a big city trainer and win without it; all you need is the right horse.
‘I’m hoping to replicate the win this year, actually. I just got a new owner – the husband of a girlfriend of mine – and he’s just bought a cracker of a colt, named Gold Rushing, that I’ve got coming up. I reckon we’ve got a real shot at getting the Cup back this year . . .’
Tully looked up when a tall, broad young man in a tuxedo and a stockman’s hat dropped down next to Fia, who beamed across at him, knocking back her Cosmo. ‘I’m getting this little ripper of a jockey over from France to ride him this year,’ Fia went on, her hand sweeping out across the crowd.
Tully’s eyes went wide and the butterflies stirred in her stomach when the stockman slipped his arm through her aunt’s, leading her out onto the dance floor.
‘M’Lady?’
Tully jumped with surprise when Mick’s greasy hand appeared in front of her. She smiled up at him, let him swing her out onto the floor.
She cried with laughter as they danced daggily alongside her aunt and her handsome new jackaroo friend, tugging at the hem of the short black dress Fia had brought for her and tripping frequently in the too big kitten heels, feeling totally out of place and uncomfortable, but partying anyway into the w
ee hours of the morning.
Dawn rose quick and heavy on Friday and Tully had to shake Fia out of her swag to get her going before the first race was called. It was a two-day meet, with a thirteen race program and more than $170,000 on offer – a huge few days, and they’d certainly kicked it off in style. A foggy headache was causing Tully to regret her first ever wine as she stumbled around in the blinding sun, trying to organise her gear and find her way to the jockeys’ room out the back of the main tin building.
The track would be the first claypan Tully had ever ridden and was situated three kilometres to the southeast of the town, alongside stunning, rolling sand dunes. It would also be the first time Tully would race anti-clockwise, which would take a few laps to get used to; tipping in to the left, instead of the right.
Tully hurried in the entrance of the Birdsville Race Club, stopping by the office to grab a program. She studied the track rating and distance out to the rail. Noted that there was a fair bit of speed in the race, but from what she’d learned about Xena Queen – the mare she’d be riding for Fia – Tully guessed they’d be in for a fair chance in their 1000 metre class B handicap. As an apprentice jockey with less than five wins in country meets, Tully had been enjoying a four-kilo weight advantage over the rest of the field, which would also be a great help for her and Xena. Tully went to weigh out, dressed in her full gear, holding her jockey pad on the scale.
The mare was already breathing fire by the time Tully headed to the small round yard to mount up. The dust was something like she’d never experienced before, the tan clouds replacing churned up turf and adding a dangerous, exciting element to the racing.
Fia had warned that Xena wasn’t a huge fan of the barriers. They were starting out in a chute, unlike the longer races which started on the course proper, and it took two attendants to pull Xena in, then push her powerful chestnut hindquarters into the heritage green gate. Tully didn’t have time for nerves out here – the other jockeys, many who were Birdsville veterans, called out to her and chatted like bar patrons as they waited for the lights to turn and the gates to open.
Tully stifled a cry as Xena jumped backwards, then slammed her into the right side with a sharp clang of metal. Xena reared, then dropped her head, bringing all four legs up into a cow hop. Jesus, Tully thought, yanking the mare up, doing her best to keep her feet shielded from any further assaults. Aunt Fia, what have you gotten me into!
Xena reared again at the sound of a foghorn in the roiling, several-thousand strong crowd – a rowdier, more colourful bunch than Tully, and Xena, apparently, was used to. Xena pulled for her head and arched her back like she was going to buck, sending Tully’s heart up through the top of the barrier—‘Holy—’
The gate flung open and Tully was sure she heard a jockey holler: ‘Welcome to Birdsville, darlin’!’ before the horses tore off across the dry clay surface, vying for the rail.
She had to blink her eyes like the wings of a hummingbird to see in the dust and was glad she’d used clear lenses in her goggles. The huge chestnut had a positively mammoth stride, tearing at the track and fighting up the back of the horse in front. Tully couldn’t see past the few rumps in front of them, haloed by the mist of brown. She crouched low, loving the solidity and power of the mare, finding herself grinning in her helmet. These boys are in trouble.
Tully clicked her tongue as if she were out on her exercise track and it didn’t take much encouragement to find another gear from Xena, rocketing around a slender bay to take the rail just after the first turn. Tully found the clear air a haven and the pale track an oasis in the sea of colour all around them. They tore down the back straight, the pack on their heels in a cyclone of dust.
The slender bay nudged up the outside coming back home, the rest of the horses closing in. Tully grimaced at the thought of being passed. ‘C’mon, Xena,’ she screamed into the wind. ‘Go girl!’ She wished at that instant she was on Dahlia, with her perpetual engine and distance frame . . . Xena was losing her legs beneath Tully, the solid mare – a true sprinter unaccustomed to the harder going – possibly lacked a bit of condition, coming into the final lengths on fumes.
The sleek bay shoved against them. The rail scraped Tully’s foot – a bolt of shock and pain lashed through her body, but she didn’t ease up. Another horse pushed up behind them and Xena stepped awkwardly to the right – in a flash Tully saw the scene of her mother’s death before her eyes. The way the horse’s front legs had just crumpled, driving her mother head first into the track.
‘Xena!’ Tully cried, pushing the memory away in her mind. ‘We can do this!’
The mare found her feet and with one huge final stride, they’d crossed the line half a length behind the sleek bay and a few more back from a flighty chestnut.
Tully squealed with delight to the calls of the crowd. ‘Third place is good for me, sweetheart!’ she sang, showering Xena’s neck with pats. The mare breathed hard, ears flicking forward as Tully brought her slowly down in pace, following the others round the track to the exit.
What a rush, Tully thought, recalling every moment of the race, praising herself for not losing her head. She’d come a long way and being out here in the strength and rawness of the land had given her an added buzz. Put it all in perspective.
There’s life, there’s love, and then there’s death, Tully thought, casting her eyes across the Birdsville course and the thousands of revellers embracing the pure joy of the occasion. We just need to grab life by the reins and enjoy the ride before it’s too late . . .
Tully and Fia took a few minutes the next day to watch the Fashions on the Field, marvelling at the pretty outfits and proud entrants of all shapes and ages – everyone out having a ball. Then it was back to the ponies; Xena and Tully took the win in the 1000 metres, which earned Tully – as the jockey – a tidy five percent of the $7,475.00 prize money. She wished she had another ride for the day but was incredibly grateful for the cash, which she knew was going straight towards Dahlia’s training fees and expenses.
Fia’s colt was up next in the prestigious 1600m Birdsville Cup and Tully was thrilled to get to strap for him. The colt was out with a point to prove and galloped hard and early – a bit too early – losing the Cup by a grain of sand to a horse trained by a veteran of Birdsville.
But by the time the horses had been bathed, groomed, fed and put to bed in the stalls at a sprawling, nearby cattle station and the spectators, locals and jockeys alike had headed back to the big tent, pub or tent city to enjoy their final night in the outback, the rivalry on track had settled with the dust. A silver magic rose with the moon, casting its light down over Birdsville.
Tully sunk into the earth, cross-legged in front of the crackling fire. She breathed in the scent arising from plumes of smoke and sizzling logs, listening to the bench racing between Fia and a few bush trainers who had become fast friends. Fia’s jackaroo friend appeared behind her, pecked her on the cheek and plonked his stockman’s hat down on Tully’s head. Tully grinned up at him, pulled the hat down gently, tucking her hair behind her ears. The rugged hat was loose, but Tully loved it; a perfect fit. She wished with a stab of yearning that Brandon could see her in it.
It was after a few cans of drink and ripping yarns from the jackaroo that a young jockey named Zack ambled over and sat down next to Tully, offering her a beer. Tully smiled, but shook her head, holding up her can of SOLO.
She nuzzled down behind her shirt collar and a soft pink scarf she’d found in her mother’s chest of drawers, breathing in the rich scent of the wool and the fading floral note of her mother’s perfume. Zack moved in close, chatting hurriedly about his rides, his trainer, the pace of the field. He was a cute boy, Tully decided, with dimpled cheeks and eager eyes. But he wasn’t Brandon Weston.
Tully’s heart ached as she imagined Brandon sliding in behind her, his lips meeting her skin, the heat of his body moulding to hers under this burning, twinkling, vast spread of stars.
It was at this moment, while on
the grandest of adventures – when her life had finally started to align and she’d found the strength to be herself, striving towards her extraordinary dream – that Tully realised with a churning angst that part of her would always be hollow without Brandon Weston.
24
Done With Him
Tully did her best to keep her spirits high on the long trek home from Birdsville, to keep the positive energy she’d had on their time out there – an energy, she’d realised, had a lot to do with the hope of finding a potent enough distraction from Brandon Weston. She would never forget Xena, or the parties, or any detail about the greatest bush meet on the planet. But she still couldn’t tear her mind away from the possibility of getting back in touch with him.
Tully knew Brandon didn’t deserve to be forgiven; the way he’d treated her was inexcusable – she knew all that. But it didn’t change the fact she needed him.
What?! Tully thought with a sharp, sudden panic. I don’t need Brandon Weston! He’s a total ass!
She searched for her phone in the side pocket of her bag, yanked it out. Still no service. What I wouldn’t give to call Tam right now, Tully thought. The stories of Tam’s escapades always got Tully laughing, pulled her back into reality. You know, the reality where Brandon Weston is a dickhead, who broke my heart!
It’s infatuation, Tully told herself, gazing out across a brilliant yellow and tiger-orange outback sunrise. A silly infatuation, and you let it get out of control . . .
Tully considered talking to Fia, but couldn’t bring herself to spill the entire humiliating tale, not to someone she held in such high regard. The only person who could cure Tully of her infatuation was Brandon himself, she decided, seeing him again, just one more time, will remind me why we can’t be together. Why he doesn’t deserve to be with me . . . That thought made her laugh out loud – we are thinking like a cocky jockey now, aren’t we?!