Do You Dare? The Last Horse Race

by James Moloney

  Toby waited for more.

  When she didn’t go on, he asked a question of his own. ‘Do you think she’s right?’

  Mrs Thompson stopped soaping the sheets and turned to face him. ‘That depends on what she means by bad influence. The only time I’ve seen her boy smile is when he’s with you, Toby. Doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me.’ Then she laughed. Toby liked to hear his mother’s laugh.

  ‘Those Pooles are too big for their boots, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘They think they’re royalty because her uncle was knighted by the Queen. Or was it her grandfather knighted by old King George? She keeps changing the story.’

  Toby was laughing himself now. He didn’t think much of people who put on airs either. His mother was a servant, but she’d never told him gentlemen were any better than he was. ‘Their house isn’t even as grand as the one we live in,’ he pointed out.

  Mind you, this house didn’t belong to them, did it? thought Toby. They slept in the kitchen that was built a little way from the house in case of fire. The walls had wide gaps between the wooden slabs, letting in drafts. For most of the year that was a good thing, except for the mosquitoes.

  ‘This house is better than the one we lived in before,’ he said. ‘Before our name was Thompson, I mean.’

  The smile disappeared from Mrs Thompson’s face. ‘Shush now, Toby.’ She glanced quickly behind them to see if Mrs Ballow had been listening, but her mistress was inside the house.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a calmer voice. ‘This house is better, the way heaven is better than hell.’

  Toby still remembered the hut they had lived in near Parramatta, but what he remembered even more was a face that was always angry and a voice that was always harsh. The face and the voice belonged to a farmer Toby’s mother had to work for, by order of the government. He treated his convict workers like slaves, and from the beginning he’d wanted her to give Toby away to an orphanage so she could work even harder. Toby knew this because he’d listened from beneath threadbare blankets while they had argued.

  Finally the farmer got his way, or so he thought. He’d informed Toby’s mother that the constable was coming to take her son away.

  But the night before the constable was due, Toby and his mother had escaped, walking all the way to Sydney and glancing over their shoulders every minute. The fear still haunted Toby in his dreams.

  All through that awful morning in Sydney, they’d turned a corner every time a constable appeared on the street. By noon, they’d been forced down to the docks where suspicious faces frowned at the sight of a woman dressed in rags and alone except for a boy.

  ‘They’ll ask me for my papers any moment,’ his mother had whispered to him in despair.

  And then they’d heard Mrs Ballow. They didn’t know it was Mrs Ballow then, of course, but they certainly knew she was angry.

  ‘I’m not setting foot on the gangplank until you convince Molly to come with us.’

  Toby had looked for the Molly she was talking about but there was only the woman’s husband and their two little sons on the dock. Toby’s mother guessed what was happening, though. She stepped forward boldly and said, ‘Do you need a servant, sir, because I’m in need of a job.’

  ‘In fact I do, madam,’ said Dr Ballow. ‘Some fool has told our servant that Moreton Bay is full of savages and the worst kind of convicts. She’s refusing to come with us.’

  ‘I was a convict once, myself, sir, as you can guess. I’m not afraid of such a place.’

  ‘There’s no need in any case. The convicts have all been taken away. What’s your name?’

  That was the first time Toby had heard his new name, but he was no fool and didn’t let the doctor see his surprise.

  ‘Can I please see your Ticket of Leave, Mrs Thompson?’ Dr Ballow had asked.

  ‘Oh a terrible thing happened,’ said Toby’s mother. ‘It was lost in the fire when my last employer’s house burned down.’

  It was a lie and Dr Ballow knew it, but the ship was ready to sail and he was desperate to get his wife onboard. He inspected the two people standing before him and seemed to sense how frightened and vulnerable they were. ‘From the look of you, I would guess your last employer was not a pleasant man – the kind of man you might run away from if there was a chance of something better?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he was that kind of man,’ said the newly named Mrs Thompson, straightening her shoulders.

  ‘It’s a sad thing so many good souls are forced into chains when their only crime is poverty.’ The doctor looked towards his wife for a long moment and then at Toby’s mother. ‘I treat my servants well and in return I expect them to work hard and not steal from me. Can I trust you in those two things?’

  ‘I would swear it on the Bible, sir.’

  ‘Then come over and meet my wife,’ said Dr Ballow.

  Nothing more was said about a Ticket of Leave, and Dr Ballow had lived up to his side of the bargain. But if anyone else found out, even Mrs Ballow, then Toby’s mother would be sent back to prison, probably in Van Diemen’s Land, and Toby might be sent to an orphanage after all. He’d heard tales about orphanages; they were little more than work-houses where children died like rats.

  Two years had passed since that time, but still his mother warned him. ‘Be careful what you say, Toby darling. If someone tells the constables who we are, Dr Ballow won’t be able to rescue us a second time. You and I might never see one another again.’

  They worked for an hour before the sheets were wrung out and spread to dry in the sun. The shirts, the dresses and the dinner napkins were waiting their turn, but Toby decided he had done his duty. When his mother was called into the house, he ducked away.

  He had seen a sail on the river. The cutter was working its way around the bends before setting its passengers ashore at Queens’ Wharf. Toby wanted to be there when they came ashore.

  There was no need to hurry, though, and he took time to enjoy the smell from the bakery and ask the traders in the old convict barracks if they had any jobs for him. Paying jobs, of course. As usual the answer was a sharp, ‘No!’ Then it was on past the sergeant’s house and the soldiers’ quarters before he climbed down to the riverbank. There was a spot at the corner of the commissioner’s store, a large stone building like the ones in Sydney, from where he could watch the people disembark without being seen himself.

  He had beaten the little ship by a few minutes and he used the time to stare across the river. There weren’t as many buildings on the south side of the river. There was a pub, of course, which made a roaring trade when the squatters came in from the Darling Downs to sell their wool, although recently they had begun bringing the sheep instead. The livestock were sold to the boiling-down works further around the river because there was more money in tallow for candles than in wool these days, he’d heard men say.

  The river was too wide for Toby to swim across, although it wasn’t so far he couldn’t hear people speaking on the opposite bank when the air was still. There were more bodies than usual today and Toby began to suspect they were visitors from the Downs. Among them he saw a boy his own age. That would have drawn his eye in any case, but more exciting still, the boy was riding a horse with the confidence of a grown man.

  Toby had to look away because the cutter had tied up by then and the gangplank was clattering onto the dock. He was suddenly nervous and drew back so only part of his face was visible. One, two, three men left the ship. No women, which was how it normally was. Toby didn’t recognise any of the new arrivals and immediately he breathed more easily. It would take only one person who remembered them from Parramatta to have the constables down on them in a trice. His mother would be relieved to hear that no one they knew had come off the ship. And maybe she wouldn’t be as angry with him for running off before the laundry was finished.

  Toby came out from his hiding place, hoping to catch a second glimpse of the horseriding boy across the river.

  ‘Excuse me, young man,’ said a voice.
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  Toby turned quickly and found himself looking up at one of the men who had arrived on the cutter. A thick black beard made him look like a bushranger, or what Toby imagined a bushranger would look like, anyway.

  ‘Can you tell me where to find lodgings?’ Despite his fierce appearance, the man’s voice seemed friendly.

  ‘There aren’t many places,’ Toby answered. ‘The squatters stay with Mr Petrie or Captain Wickham or they camp across the river. And there’s Wright’s hostel, but it might be full.’

  ‘I’ll have to take my chances then,’ said the bearded man and he smiled to show he wouldn’t blame Toby if he missed out.

  Toby saw a chance to earn another penny. ‘I’ll show you the way, if you like. I’ll even carry one of your bags.’

  To force the stranger’s hand, Toby picked up the bag closest to him. Or he tried to. At the first attempt, it barely budged. He wasn’t going to give up on the chance of a penny, though, so he put his back into it and heaved the bag over his shoulder. He heard the clink of metal against metal. God’s truth, what was in this thing?

  The bearded man didn’t just smile this time, he laughed out loud. ‘What’s your name?’ And when Toby introduced himself, the stranger put out his hand. ‘I’m Harry Kelso. Why don’t you carry my other bag instead?’

  The second bag was more like what Toby was expecting. ‘What’s in that one?’

  ‘Tools. I’m a carpenter. Do you think there’ll be any work for me, Toby?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there’s a whole town to build.’

  Harry laughed again, an easy laugh that invited sharing. On the way to the hostel Toby told him about living in Moreton Bay and who the important people were.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Since 1842,’ said Toby. He couldn’t read words, but he knew his numbers and he especially liked dates. If Harry had asked, Toby could have told him it was the twenty-third of September, 1844.

  ‘Here’s a halfpenny for carrying my bag,’ said Harry, ‘and another for all the news.’

  Toby headed back the way he had come, hoping to spot the boy on horseback again. When he reached the dock, he discovered the boy had swapped the horse for the punt that brought travellers across the river. He wasn’t alone in the punt, either. A sun-weathered man helped with the rowing and at the rear of the boat sat a woman and two little girls.

  Toby wasn’t a shy boy, but he could hardly march straight up to a family he had never seen before and ask who they were. By now he had guessed, anyway. They were probably squatters from the Darling Downs. The sheep he’d seen delivered to the slaughterhouse yesterday must be theirs.

  When the squatter led his family up from the riverbank and into the township, Toby followed. The father was a large man and he walked with an air about him, as though he could buy and sell everything he saw. Squatters could be like that.

  Outside Bow’s Hotel, the procession came to a halt. Words passed between the mother and father – not very happy words. The conversation ended when the squatter went into the hotel. His wife and the two daughters headed off down the street, leaving the boy to trail after them, both hands in his pockets and kicking up dust as he went.

  Toby soon knew why he was so reluctant. The females in his family had come to buy material to make dresses. He felt sorry for the boy left waiting outside the store.

  Toby crossed the street. ‘You must be new,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you in town before.’

  The boy looked him up and down, his eyes coming to rest on Toby’s bare feet.

  ‘I don’t like wearing boots,’ said Toby.

  The truth was he didn’t own any. In the summer it didn’t matter, and besides, he liked the way the soles of his feet were tough as leather.

  ‘Yeah, I go barefoot when I can,’ said the boy. ‘My mother’s always worried I’ll get bitten by a snake.’

  ‘You wear boots when you ride a horse, though,’ said Toby.

  The new boy nodded. ‘If you don’t want it to tread on your toes.’

  Toby laughed. ‘Yes, I’ve found that out already.’

  ‘Boots are good for control in the stirrups, too. It’s not just the reins, eh?’ he said, as though he was talking to another horseman.

  Toby nodded, pretending to know this too. ‘My name’s Toby. What’s yours?’

  The boy thought about this for a moment, which seemed odd to Toby. ‘My family call me Sprout, ’cause Mum says I am sprouting like a weed.’

  ‘Yeah, but you must have a proper name.’

  ‘I like Sprout better,’ the boy said, defiantly.

  Toby recognised the tone in the boy’s voice. ‘All right then. So how long have you been riding, Sprout?’

  ‘Since I could walk,’ came the answer. ‘I was herding sheep by the time I was six years old.’

  Toby could feel the amazement shining in his own face. Should he hide it? No, he decided. If he pretended any more now, he would only embarrass himself later. ‘You know, I’ve never even sat on a horse’s back.’

  Shock jumped across the gap between them. ‘Never?’ cried Sprout, drawing a startled look from a man passing by. ‘Well, come across the river tomorrow and I’ll teach you how to ride.’

  Toby could hardly believe his ears. ‘I’ve got a friend. Can he come too?’

  ‘Sure. Best to come in the morning, before it gets hot.’

  The friends were standing on the unsteady boards of Mr William’s punt as it worked its way slowly across the Brisbane River. Very slowly.

  ‘They call this boat the Time Killer,’ said Toby.

  ‘I can see why,’ Robert replied.

  ‘Before the punt, men used to swim across here, like the aborigines,’ Toby explained. ‘They couldn’t swim with their clothes on, so they stuffed them into a sack and tied them around their necks.’

  ‘You mean they swam naked?’ said Robert, looking shocked. But when Toby nodded, Robert began to laugh. ‘My mother would want the constable to arrest them. You should have heard her when she caught an aborigine in our garden last month. All she talked about was how he was . . .’ He paused to remember her exact word. ‘Uncovered,’ he said, when the word came to him.

  They laughed again at Robert’s mother and because today was Saturday when they were both free to roam without worrying about school or laundry in the tub or who might arrive on the next boat.

  ‘My mother says I’m supposed to stay away from you,’ said Robert.

  ‘You’re not doing a very good job, then.’

  ‘If she sees us, I’ll say you kidnapped me,’ said Robert, grinning. He hadn’t looked over his shoulder for his mother all morning.

  He’s growing a mind of his own, Toby decided. Bob wasn’t such a bad cove, especially when Toby was heading to his first riding lesson only with Robert’s help.

  ‘What will you tell her about these?’ Toby asked, looking down at the oversized shoes on his feet. They were an old pair of Mr Poole’s that Robert had filched for Toby to wear around horses.

  ‘I’ll tell her you stole them.’

  ‘Great! Kidnapping, stealing – they’ll send me to Van Diemen’s Land,’ wailed Toby, pretending to be petrified. Only afterwards did he think of his mother and feel real fear.

  Toby could see Sprout waiting for them on the riverbank. Behind him stood the horse he’d been riding yesterday, the reins held loosely in his hands. Toby’s eyes were already sizing her up, the handsome head, the rich brown coat with the glimmer of orange that made it like no other colour he knew. Her feet were white and there was a dash of the same on her nose. She looked sturdy, more than fast, and maybe that was a good thing for a first-timer.

  At last the boys jumped ashore where Toby quickly introduced Robert and in no time all three were walking together like old friends towards Williams’ Hotel.

  ‘There was a fight in there last night,’ Sprout told them.

  ‘There’s a fight in Bow’s every night,’ said Toby.

  Beyond the hotel, empty bull
ock wagons waited for cargo. Their drivers lay under them, sleeping off last night’s rum. The boys could see the bullocks grazing peacefully in a paddock nearby.

  ‘One of those wagons will carry our supplies when we go home to the Downs,’ said Sprout. The last of the few huts and houses were behind them by this time, leaving only a scattering of tents on the edge of the bush.

  ‘They are the drovers,’ Sprout explained, ‘and the shepherds who come down with the stock as well, for a bit of a holiday.’

  At last they reached a patch of open ground trampled flat by flocks of sheep before they’d been driven along the river to the slaughterhouse.

  ‘All right then, let’s get started,’ said Sprout. ‘First you should get to know the horse.’

  ‘What’s her name, then?’ Toby had been going to ask earlier, but they’d been talking about other things – of Sprout’s life on the sheep run and what it was like to live so far from everyone. The way Sprout spoke, he had the perfect life and Toby felt even more unhappy with his own boring days washing sheets and chopping wood for the Ballows.

  ‘Dad named her Charlotte, after some princess in England. I just call her Lottie,’ said Sprout.

  ‘Hello there, Lottie,’ said Toby, stroking her forelock gently then trying to pat her cheek.

  Lottie pulled her head away at first but he kept at it. ‘You’re a smart-looking girl, aren’t you? We’re going to be the best of friends.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ said Sprout, impressed. ‘Soft hands, soft words. If you treat her kindly, she’ll do whatever you tell her.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘She’ll throw you off and stomp on you.’

  Toby wasn’t entirely sure Sprout was joking. He didn’t know the boy well enough yet to tell. He kept stroking Lottie until Sprout said, ‘Time to mount.’

  Toby took a breath then lifted one of his borrowed shoes into the stirrup. The boots were too big for him, making the walk from the riverbank uncomfortable, but he forgot that now.

  ‘Always mount from the left side, whatever horse you ride. They’re all trained that way,’ said Sprout. ‘Now, hands on the pommel, ready?’ And with Robert lending a hand, they boosted Toby onto the horse’s back.