Race Girl

by Leigh Hutton

  Tully chuckled and shook her head at the surprising surge of confidence, then struck up a conversation about the brave mare, Xena. She fell asleep in the passenger seat with her phone in her hands, ready to orchestrate a final meeting with Brandon Weston as soon as they were back in reception.

  They stopped to fuel up at Windorah. Tully stayed in the car, sunk down low in her seat and searched for Brandon’s name, then hit ‘Call’. She realised when it was ringing that it was still early, maybe too early to be calling a teenage boy.

  She was considering hanging up when a woman’s voice answered, ‘The person you are trying to reach is currently out of the service area . . .’ Oh, Tully thought, chewing her bottom lip. Right . . . Well, where is he, then?!

  ‘Got this for ya, chickie,’ Fia said as she hopped back in, chucking Tully a pack of beef jerky and a mango iced tea.

  ‘Thanks, Aunt Fia,’ Tully said. She ripped off the top of the bag, offered Fia some. Tully shoved a few pieces of the succulent jerky into her mouth, trying to focus on the juicy, meaty flavour, rather than all the possible places in the world Brandon could be right now.

  She tried again a few hours later, but was greeted by the same automated voice on the other end of the line, so shot him a text:

  Hi Brandon, just wondering how you are . . . Tully A.

  Home again, and when days passed without a reply, Tully considered sending him a message on Facebook, but held back, not wanting to seem too desperate.

  Why am I so desperate?!

  Tully was thrilled for the distraction when she spotted the signs up for their local show the following weekend. She dragged Tam along to sideshow alley that Sunday to grab bags of fairy floss, have a go in the dodgem cars and ride the ferris wheel. The Beaudesert Show was the one community social event not linked with racing that her mum had always made time for, and Tully had always looked forward to it. They had even showed Frangipani in the Shetland classes, before her mum’s career had become too demanding and even Sundays, a sacred day off in the racing world, had seemed consumed by emergency vet’s visits, feed ordering and race planning, shop talking, and even the spelled horses needing attention.

  Tully breathed in the nostalgic atmosphere, looking out across the historic show grounds from the top of the ferris wheel – the smell of sheep and cows and ponies, Dagwood Dogs and lollies. The sounds of squealing kids and squeaky rides in the bright twinkling sideshow alley.

  Carneys called out to come play their games as the girls hopped off and hurried to catch the end of Izzie’s show jumping round on her adorable paint mare, Cally. Afterwards they checked out the cattle, the pony trap race and the cute local boys in the wood chopping competition. They stayed with Izzie and her pony pals to watch the fireworks late into the night. Tully couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to Brandon Weston.

  She was grateful she’d had the day off as her life got hectic in the lead up to and during the spring races. She’d learned how to get her head in the game come race day, and used visualisation a lot before a race to make sure she was ready. She and Dahlia scored more wins for Mr. Barnes and a trainer from the Sunshine Coast even chucked a few rides Tully’s way. It wasn’t until Tully was back home for the holidays, loping around the windy warm up ring of a local Sunday rodeo on Jacko, that Brandon’s name again came up in conversation.

  ‘Brandon’s back, apparently,’ Tam said from Elsa, cantering around the sand ring beside her. ‘Not just for the holidays, either. He’s finished Year 12 and he’s back for good, or so I hear.’

  Tully gritted her teeth, but remained silent, urging Jacko forward.

  ‘Whoa!’ Tam called, just catching up. ‘Don’t wear him out before I get him in front of a barrel, Tulls!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tully said, bringing Jacko back down to a trot alongside the chutes and wooden rails where a row of cowboys in hats and chaps sat watching the barrel girls. One whistled at Tam, and she tipped her Stetson. ‘He just really gets my blood boiling,’ Tully said.

  ‘He hasn’t tried to call you, or anything—has he?’

  ‘No! Sorry . . .’ Tully said, instantly ashamed at her snappish tone. ‘Not that I care.’

  Tam raised her hands in surrender. ‘Totally understand, hon. Just wanted to give you the heads up, in case you run into him somewhere.’

  ‘Thanks, Tim Tam,’ Tully said, smiling tightly. ‘Go kill it, girls.’

  Tam grinned as she trotted Elsa to the entrance of the ring, to take her turn at the barrels.

  So, he’s back from Brissie. . . Tully thought, circling Jacko into the swirling wind. Rain was finally forecast and the sky had been darkening for days, the summer heat intensifying. And he still hasn’t returned my calls, or messages . . . Well, screw him, Tully told herself, pushing through the pain in her heart, riding hard into the advancing storm. I’m done with him.

  ★

  It was hardest for Tully not to call Brandon over Christmas and a part of her wondered if he’d get in touch on her birthday, but she tried not to let herself hope too much, or be too disappointed. Although, the thought of Brandon and Annalise together – no doubt laughing and flirting at her parents’ annual party – did threaten to send Tully into a jealous rage. She stormed around her room until she noticed Bear cowering on her bed, and instantly felt guilty for scaring him.

  No matter how many deep breaths she took, Tully couldn’t force the hot, roiling anger down. She contemplated stalking them both on Facebook, or shredding the card he’d given her exactly one year before, that she still hadn’t opened. But something stopped her – she just couldn’t let go.

  As the weeks passed it did get easier to forget, but only marginally.

  The clouds grew darker and the sky rumbled every afternoon come early autumn, the humidity pushing the temperatures to such an intensity that morning track work was almost a chore. Tully had to remember to drink enough to replace the sweat that soaked her shirt and often felt dizzy with a pounding headache from dehydration and exhaustion after riding her ten to twelve horses, helping to hose down and groom them, feed and muck out, before heading home. She actually slept in that Sunday morning for the first time she could remember and woke wet with sweat, seeing the promise of rain in the thick charcoal clouds.

  She headed out to get stuck in to the day and was grooming Greg at his turnout paddock when their next door neighbour came tearing up their driveway in her rusted old hatchback and screeched to a halt opposite Tully, a cloud of dust engulfing the tiny red car.

  ‘Tully Athens!’ The woman bellowed out the window, her long, curly grey hair flying about like Medusa’s.

  Greg jumped back from the rail. Tully reached into her grooming bucket for a few treats, scattered them on the ground to keep him busy, then let him loose and ducked under the fence to go see what the fuss was about.

  ‘That bloody hoon of a postie put this in my letter box instead of yours,’ the neighbour said. ‘Come get it, will ya!’

  Tully ran over to the car. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hoxton.’ She accepted the satin envelope from the woman’s outstretched hand. ‘So sorry for the hassle.’

  Mrs. Hoxton opened her tight, lined mouth, hesitated, then wound up her window and revved the engine, spinning around in a wide, haphazard circle, nearly taking out one of the jacarandas.

  Tully did her best not to giggle she watched the car bomb back down the driveway, squinting to read the stickers plastered across the back windscreen: ‘NO! To Animal Testing’ and ‘Animals First!’ were among those Tully could make out. Mrs. Hoxton was known around town as the ‘crazy anti-everything lady’ and could often be spotted picketing out the front of the racecourse or chatting to a local journo, along with her mate, Mr. Geortzen – Tully’s ‘llama neighbour’ on the opposite side of the range – with their ‘Racing is a Bleeding Crime’ and ‘Save the Horses!’ placards.

  Mrs. Hoxton’s tyres screeched as she swung left onto the lane, then sped the few hundred metres down to her tiny cottage on an overgrown five acres borderin
g the Athens’ land.

  Tully cast her eyes to the envelope in her hands. Her name had been hand-written across the front but there was no address, or return address on the back . . .

  Before she could hesitate, Tully ripped open the envelope, her eyes going wide and heart skipping a beat as she took in the formal invitation bearing the Weston’s crest in their black and red colours:

  You are invited . . .

  ~

  Weston Park 1st Annual Easter Ball

  Master Brandon Weston invites you to celebrate Weston Park’s 100th year, and to help raise funds for local charity.

  Date: Saturday, April 4th / Time: From 6.00pm onwards / Location: Weston Park Main House

  Please RSVP to Trinity at 0400 861 550 by March 10th

  ~

  What the heck is going on with this guy?! Tully’s mind reeled and she fell back against the top rail of the fence, holding the invitation as far away from her body as she could without dropping it. Greg trotted up and nudged her for more treats and she ran her hand absentmindedly down his forelock, over his soft ears. Her whole body shook with shock, confusion, anger and longing, her legs weak beneath her. She stared blinking at the invitation, wishing she was happy to have received it – but it felt like a trick, a cruel trick to lure her in, only to shatter her heart once more. He’s not going to do this to me, Tully decided, not again . . .

  She shoved the invitation into the back pocket of her shorts, wrapped her arms around Greg’s strong, warm neck, speaking to him softly, ‘I’ll go to his ball, Greg,’ Tully said, a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘But he won’t see me coming . . .’

  25

  A Royal Invitation

  The sky cleared the following week, leaving the earth as dry and languishing as ever. Tully wanted to cry after the tease and torment and promise of rain, but she did have something to look forward to, at least. A chance to do some teasing and tormenting of her own, and better yet, to a Weston.

  Tully nearly fainted from shock when she received a text from Brandon that Friday, saying ‘Hi’ and asking if she’d received his invitation. A Facebook message followed a few days later, but Tully didn’t reply. None of the dressing down she had in mind for him would have the desired impact over the phone. Besides, spoilt and entitled as he was, he deserved to be kept waiting. She wanted to make him squirm.

  The following Saturday evening, Tully told her father she had a work ‘do’ on, packed her bag and fled to Tam’s. Tully had met Tam at the op-shop that Thursday afternoon after spotting a gown in the window on her way to track work. She’d never desired such a dress before, but once she’d slipped the long, silky folds over her head and exited the change room to an eruption of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from everyone in the shop, Tully had known this was the one – the dress that would reveal to Brandon Weston the young lady he had lost. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his stupid, handsome face.

  Clearly the excitement the girls felt was infectious, because Judy exceeded the speed limit for the first time Tully had ever known her to as they drove out of town. Tully’s heart really started to race as Judy passed Avalon, then turned in between the stone pillars and the wrought-iron main gates of Weston Park.

  ‘Hooley, dooley,’ Tam said from the back, letting out a low whistle. ‘I can see why they keep these gates locked.’

  ‘Yep . . .’ Bands of anxiety spun into a heavy ball in Tully’s stomach. She tightened her grip on her invitation and the silver sequined clutch Tam had lent her, praying she wouldn’t spew.

  The RAV-4 purred up the crest of the drive, under the light of lanterns sprinkled in towering hoop pines, sending an artificial white glow across the wide, paved driveway.

  Tully sat up tall in her seat to see over the white post and rail fence and the low hedge in front of it where pregnant mares grazed on green, irrigated grass, surreal in the twilight. It’s just like Pearce, Tully thought, her stomach tightening even further with a twinge of anger. To leave the mares out for his guests’ benefit . . . The exposed paddocks were no place for mares or foals at night, especially with the increase in wild dogs in the area. They looked magical, but Tully hoped someone would be catching them up soon to take them into the safety of the barn.

  ‘Must be up here,’ Judy said when they’d reached a fork in the road. She switched her indicator on, then laughed at herself and switched it off, before taking the right turn up the hill.

  Tully’s eyes widened at the biggest mansion she’d ever seen, but she found her interest caught by the mammoth, sprawling horse set up down a bitumen road to the left of the house. Tully marvelled at the racecourse-sized parade ring, set in prime position opposite the house and just up from the stables and turnout paddocks, with its grandstand under the shade of a towering, ancient fig tree. A sand track led up to it, which connected to a paved road down to the barns and the hot walkers and what looked like a rectangular Olympic pool for horses on one side, and the never-ending, sand-footed, white-railed exercise track on the other. The track ran the full rim of the property, dipping and rising with the ridges of land that swept down off the mountain range, and around the lake-sized, man-built dam, spreading across the far western corner of the property.

  ‘What a place,’ Judy said, drawing Tully’s attention back to the mansion in front of them. The house itself was more like a palace, or a grand chateau – a far cry from the traditional Queenslanders Tully had always loved. With its commanding white walls and black-shuttered windows, turrets above patios and the endless sweep of its rooflines, the house looked like it had been transported from a French or American movie.

  From what Tully could see, none of the original Weston Park still stood. Pearce hadn’t even bothered to renovate or retain a single feature of the main house – a spectacular old homestead Tully’s mother had showed her pictures of, which Pearce’s father had built with his own two hands. All of the infrastructure, from the feed buildings to machinery sheds to the secondary houses for staff, were built in white and black to match the main house, with immaculate watered gardens and paved drives. Tully felt a pang of sadness and anger as she imagined the original house and outbuildings being demolished to make way for these cold, modern palaces. The history, the heart of the place had been stripped, leaving a glossy, hollow showpiece that reeked of Pearce Weston’s stamp.

  Judy pulled up behind a line of luxury cars queuing to drop their glamorous passengers off under the cover of the main entrance. Tully peered out at the vast courtyard and gardens of the house, huge enough to accommodate what looked like about a hundred shiny vehicles. She spotted Brandon’s white ute, parked haphazardly off the side of a ten-car garage. Another helicopter was landing on the pad.

  Tully took a deep breath, then glanced back at Tam, who gave her a hug from the back and a thumbs up. ‘You give it to him, girl,’ Tam said with a wink.

  Judy shot Tam a chastising look. ‘I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean, Missy . . .’

  ‘Oh!’ Tully covered her face with a hand. ‘She totally doesn’t, Mrs. T. She means; give him a piece of my mind.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ Judy said, raising an eyebrow at Tully. ‘Good, well, be careful in there, sweetheart—have fun, but be careful.’

  Tully reached across, pecked Judy on the cheek. ‘Thanks so much for the lift.’

  ‘Just ring me when you’d like me back to pick you up, okay?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tully flashed a smile, reaching for the door handle. ‘Will do.’ She glanced back at Tam, winked, gave her a high five.

  Crisp wind swept through the valley, blowing the turquoise silk of Tully’s gown against her skin as she eased out of the car, then stepped back to wave goodbye. She watched the taillights of the RAV disappear down the driveway, then stood, taking in the astonishing valley. Mist drifted down from the peaks of the mountain range and the slate grey sky. Tully could just make out the rusted roofline of her house, hazy in the distance.

  Goosebumps raced over her flesh and she turned to the mansion
, to the noises of laughter and clinking of glasses. The smell of rich food and strong alcohol drifted out of the castle-like front doors and off the patios leading out into a maze of gardens, filled with stone statues of Grecian women and pergolas and benches.

  I’m way, way out of my league here, Tully thought, her body begging her to flee. But I’m doing this . . .

  She forced herself up onto the footpath, where a red carpet had been rolled out all the way to the base of the stone front steps.

  Her stilettos sank into the soft pile of the red carpet – her arms flung to the sides, her heart hitting the limiter. She’d have to find equilibrium on the towering silver heels, like she would on the back of the horse, Tully realised. This party business is a lot harder than riding a racehorse, Tully thought as she teetered across the carpet, up the stone front steps to the cavernous front entrance.

  Classical music like her aunt’s favourites swept from inside and a butler greeted her, offering a tray of drinks. Tully accepted an orange juice, then handed her invitation to a rigid woman in black, perched behind a silver lectern just inside the front door.

  ‘Miss Athens,’ the woman read off the envelope, then slipped out the invitation, scanning the clipboard in front of her. She eyed Tully with cool glacier-blue eyes, ran a finger down her list, then back up, before flipping it over to where only a few names were handwritten. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said, offering a thin, hollow smile. ‘One of Master Weston’s guests.’ Then she snatched Tully’s invitation spiked it onto a pile growing up a metal rod on the shelf of her lectern. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tully said. She realised she’d been holding her breath and stepped quickly inside, one hand on her waist. She tried her best to breathe deeply, moving to the white wall of the room.

  ‘Just through there, Miss Athens,’ the woman appeared, pointing down a long hall to the left.

  ‘Right, sorry.’ Tully forced her legs forward and tapped down the hall, gazing up at a vast double staircase sweeping up to higher levels. A marble kitchen lay ahead and what looked to Tully like a top-class, hotel-furnished lounge room. She took a left, towards the music and dim candle lighting. Her breath caught as the room opened up, and a short stone staircase descended into a vast great room about the size of the Athens’s main house combined with the stable and the worker’s cottage and the dam – pretty much the whole working area of her farm.