In Lonnie's Shadow

by Chrissie Michaels

  Riding hands and heels, he constantly whispered,

  ‘Come on boy, you can do it.’ As he did, the horse grew in confidence and he gently eased it forward, making up a little ground. Although still too far behind, he was unruffled, deciding it would be wise to remain out wide for the time being.

  Still running last, but going much smoother, he rounded the next corner. Lonnie found time to have a quick look around the street. He spotted Billy Bottle and his mob beneath a sign on a wall. No Nuisance. What a laugh. They hooted and bawled at the riders, but when Billy saw Lonnie bringing up the rear, his larrikin shouts turned downright nasty, ‘Move up, yer little runt.’ He waved a knife menacingly. So Billy Bottle had backed him, great!

  Tails swished. Manes flew. The nostrils of the horses flared open, dragging in more oxygen. Their used breath blew out like hot steam. All seven riders were racing to win and soon Lonnie was travelling as well as anyone.

  As his horse cruised past the second-last runner, his thoughts drifted back to the track work at the Golden Acres and the number of times he had secretly ridden this horse, always believing it was exceptional. He had been longing for the day when he could actually race, have the chance to prove himself.

  As Lonnie moved up into fifth place, he thought about all his friends who had bet on him. Carlo would be nervous. His glance at Lonnie as the race began was a telltale one. More than likely, he would be pushing his way through the spectators to find the best place to witness the finish. He would be wondering what game Lonnie was playing. He’d been a little upset all along over this race. Say they did lose, Carlo would be heavily out of pocket. It would set him back a considerable way in his business ventures. There would be no ice works built for a long time.

  Lonnie crept into fourth place and thought about Pearl. What a big mistake there, thinking she really wanted him as a husband. How wrong could he have been? They were an unlikely match. Not a mistake he’d make again in his life. For the time being he was going to stick to his vow of no ladies. But Pearl had been a mate a lot longer than she had been his girl. She was counting on him to win this race. He couldn’t let her down.

  He stole a look away to his left. The Push had regathered and was gleefully cheering him on. Was there anyone in Little Lon who hadn’t backed him? He nearly dropped the reins at the sudden mental picture of Slasher laid under a layer of turf. Had George already made his move?

  ‘Steady, boy.’ Lonnie was not only talking to the horse. Beads of sweat formed like raindrops on his neck. He tried to readjust his thinking. All this extra weight on his shoulders mustn’t get him down. He gained more ground and eased up into third place.

  By the time they rounded the final corner and were heading up the straight in sight of the fountain, there was only one horse in front of him, ridden by Thomas Crick two lengths to the good. Crick belted his whip against the horse’s hindquarters.

  Lonnie recalled dropping his whip at the beginning of the race. He had no need, nor wish, to hit his horse. He could feel the power of the magnificent creature going along effortlessly beneath him. The horse’s stride lengthened, reaching out, gobbling up the ground with each pace.

  Crick turned his head. Lonnie reined in a little, allowing him to maintain his lead. He hoped above all he was not leaving his run too late.

  Standing close by the winning line, watching the two riders engaged in their final run, it was more obvious to Carlo viewing the race from a distance, than it was to Crick on top of the leader, that Lonnie wasn’t riding his horse flat chat. He seemed to be deliberately holding it back, leaving Crick in front.

  ‘Come on, mate, come on,’ he yelled, going hoarse with the effort. This wasn’t the time to ease off. ‘Ride hard, come on.’

  With only fifty metres left to go, Crick again turned to check his lead. The smirk on his face hardly had time to fade, his whip scarcely time to be raised, before Lonnie’s horse swept past and crossed the winning line, to win by almost a length. The third horse finished a good three lengths from the winner. The also-rans never got into the race and came in many lengths further back.

  Never in his life had Carlo seen such acceleration from a horse at the end of a race, after running that distance. As soon as the track was clear he bolted over and threw both arms around the horse’s neck.

  ‘You beaut, you did it,’ he gasped, looking up at

  Lonnie. ‘We’re set. We’re fixed.’ Lonnie gave him a breathless grin.

  ‘You nearly stopped my heart, mate. I’m beside myself. But you conned me, didn’t you? You were on Trident, weren’t you?’ Carlo’s excitement bordered on reproach. ‘I felt the scar on his neck. You didn’t switch horses back. You knew all along you were riding Trident and not Lightning, didn’t you?’

  ‘I won, didn’t I?’

  ‘How, I don’t know, when Lightning is supposed to outclass every bloody horse in Melbourne. My heart’s barely pumping. You’re a dark horse. I thought I knew all there was to know about you. I may be your best mate, yet you’re still keeping secrets from me.’

  Lonnie laughed away his friend’s ticking off.

  ‘You’re right, there’s something I never came clean about. But I reckon you’ll understand. I’ll save it for later while we’re doing a bit of celebrating.’

  They were interrupted as some of the spectators milled around, slapping the horse and winning jockey in congratulations, before they hurried off to collect their winnings from Bookie Win.

  Lonnie shook his head in amazement, now intent on sharing a rundown of the race with Carlo. ‘What about when I missed the start? Bet you thought I was a goner.’

  ‘When you dropped your whip!’ Carlo gave a crow of indignation. ‘Did the jitters get you or what?’

  Before he could answer, Bookie Win approached them and stuffed a purse into Lonnie’s hand. ‘You save Bookie. I take big bet on Crick before race start. If he win, I broke.’ Bookie Win had a puzzled look on his face, but he managed a secret smile. ‘You very luckee to get ride. Best horse win.’

  With a sly grin and a wink at Carlo, Lonnie answered, ‘Yes, the best horse won. And as far as being lucky, I sure am.’ His fingers gripped the bulging purse, Bookie Win’s gift, which, on top of the winning bets and the prize money he still had to collect, added up to a handsome sum.

  ‘Keep quiet about the money,’ he muttered to Carlo as the beaten riders began to circle around on their horses, handing over their ten-pound bets and congratulating him. Thomas Crick, true to his colours, remained sulking in the background, a pur- plish blot of humiliation spreading across his face.

  Spotting him, Lonnie couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘Aren’t you going to shake my hand like a gentleman, Mr Crick?’

  ‘Come on over and congratulate our new cham- pion jockey,’ Carlo called out.

  With all the others observing, Crick had little choice but to ride forward and reluctantly shake the hand of the stable boy who had beaten him fair and square. Only Lonnie heard him say, ‘You’re finished at Golden Acres. I never forgive and I never forget.’ He flung the ten pounds at Lonnie. Throwing his horse around, he nearly knocked Carlo to the ground as he rode off in a mad gallop.

  ‘You can keep it if you let me see Rose again,’ Lonnie called with relish, knowing his proposition had the desired effect of making Crick even angrier. As if Lonnie planned ever to cross Rose Payne’s path again. Not in this lifetime.

  ‘He’s just riffraff,’ Carlo said furiously.

  ‘The likes of Thomas Crick don’t bother me.’ Lonnie slipped Carlo the purse to which he had added the winner’s stake. ‘This’ll perk us up.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Carlo gave a snort of admiration, forgetting in the rush of excitement that he had faith- fully promised his mamma never to take the name of the Lord in vain. He swiftly stashed the money into his pockets. ‘We’re loaded.’

  ‘We’ve got more winnings coming.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yep, but it’s your turn to collect. Reckon I’ve done most of t
he work up till now.’

  The worry of picking up more money overtook Carlo’s mood. There was no sign of his usual sharp efficiency as he floundered about like a landed fish.

  ‘Where’s Bookie? I better catch him while he’s still got our money. Hey, d’ya think I need Bella and the cart to carry home all our cash?’

  Lonnie smirked. ‘I’d like to think so. Uh-oh, more trouble.’

  Crick’s strapper came striding towards Lonnie.

  ‘Great ride, mate. Nothing personal, but I’ve gotta take the horse from you. Better follow orders or I’ll be in for a roasting.’

  Lonnie dismounted and handed him the reins. ‘Be sure you rub him down well before you put him in the stables for the night.’

  ‘Will do. Be careful. You gave it to the boss so bad he’s spitting blood.’

  Lonnie nodded and gave the horse a stroke of tranquil assurance. His feelings were mixed as he realised his favourite horse was being led away forever. Pride in their achievement. Regret about his loss. Trident was Crick’s horse when all was said and done. There was nothing he could do. He wondered anxiously if the Glen had bought Trident. Because if they hadn’t, no amount of money offered in the future would. I’ll really miss that horse, he thought sadly.

  He slung his arm around Carlo. ‘Meet me at number four in about half an hour with the cash. We’ll raid Pearl’s stash of grog. I’ll explain everything then.’ He’d already decided he could pretend as well as Pearl that nothing had ever happened between them. ‘Keep out of the back lanes and watch your- self. The strapper’s right, I’ve made a few too many enemies here tonight and they know you’re a mate.’

  HOBBLE

  Item No. 1616

  Spoil heap. Location unknown. Fragment of a rope used to restrain an animal. Commonly used for a quiet night horse, kept outside overnight on a homestead and used to muster the other horses in the morning.

  Lonnie should have listened to his own advice. He made his way alone down a street that had been in full life during the race. But in the early hours of the morning the air had turned chill, the windows were latched, the curtains drawn, the onlookers departed.

  Life’s changes were coming thick and fast for Lonnie and he wanted to do some hard thinking. The win had spelt an abrupt end to his working days at Golden Acres. All his attachments with those detestable Cricks were severed. Good riddance to the lot of them. All being well, Mr Alcock would let him start work soon at the Glen.

  If Lonnie had been able to traverse distance and time, he would have understood the effect his winning ride was already having on the Crick dynasty; been able to eavesdrop on the dressing-down Crick senior was about to give his son – Thomas skulking into his

  father’s office in the early hours of that same Sunday morning, not expecting his father to be there. Crick senior sitting in a chair by the fire, his head down, in apparent calmness. Holding his palms forward towards to the flames, rubbing them vigorously to warm them, repeating the action in mindless repetition.

  Thomas removing his greatcoat and walking despondently towards the warmth of the fire. Standing by his father’s chair. Breaking the silence that was hanging like a nerve end between them.

  ‘How shall I face all my friends tomorrow?’

  His father looking up in disgust and opening his mouth in one long and seething complaint. ‘Your friends? Does the whole world revolve around you? Only an imbecile loses a rigged, unlosable race to a half-wit kid from the slums! I told everyone I know of importance to back you. Henry Payne lost a small fortune. And he put more on you minutes before the off. You’ve ruined our reputation. Our credibility’s gone. No one in Melbourne will want to deal with us. All because of your blindness and stupidity. And to top it all off, you let me sell Trident to the Alcocks for a pittance.’

  Thomas uttering a few miserable words in self- defence: ‘I tried to stop you selling, you know I did.’

  ‘You tried to stop me selling a nag for one hundred guineas. That would have been a good price for a nag. Only it wasn’t a nag, was it? It’s the horse who beat our champion. And you were too stupid to see. You wouldn’t know a champion from a night horse.’ His ranting temper moving to a crescendo: ‘You dare call yourself a son of mine! Get out of my sight!’

  If only Lonnie could have witnessed this carry-on for himself. But the reality was he was still making his way down the street towards Pearl’s, and by this time feeling mighty proud of himself. One thing was for sure, his dream of becoming a professional jockey had taken a giant leap forward. Those riders were no amateurs. They were all first-class horsemen and gentlemen. Fancy little Lonnie McGuinness, the stableboy, beating the likes of them.

  He chuckled, imagining a procession of trainers calling by and asking for the jockey named McGuinness, in the hope of engaging him to ride their very best horses. Maybe one day he would have the pick of their best stables. Maybe one day, with a bit more luck, he’d be dressed in cap and racing silks and bringing home the winner of the Melbourne Cup. Leading it into the unsaddling enclosure to the cheers of the crowd. Standing up in the irons victorious. Waving his whip in salute. He could even hear the unmistakeable sound of pounding hoofs – of horse and rider in full gallop, as if it were happening – closing from behind, closing in on him.

  He spun around, the breath of a horse almost upon him. Too slow to recognise the danger; too late to avoid the rope tossed skilfully over his head and shoulders, the slipknot tightening around him, pinning his arms fast against his sides; too helpless to withstand the final power and momentum of the passing horse as it lurched him clean off his feet.

  Lonnie was helpless, being dragged face down along the full length of the cobbled street. The roughness of the road drove like nails through his trousers, skinning his knees raw. The skin on his face was burning.

  Just when he thought he was a goner, he heard the horse’s iron shoes pull up. The rope loosened. He levered his head painfully upwards, trying to identify the rider. Nothing more than a black outline, a phantom. Lonnie clenched his fist, set for some hard hitting.

  The whip cracked. The horse moved back and forth, restless and uneasy. An angry order urged it to trample. Disobediently, the horse reared. Such a murderous act wasn’t instinctive. The rider spurred the horse away, spinning it hard around, galloping back up the street.

  Lonnie waited for the inevitable: his assailant coming back for another go. The frightened animal would have little or no choice but to obey the command. He wasn’t wrong. The rider was already turning his horse around and heading back towards him. The anticipation turned the noise into a pounding echo. Lonnie threw the loose rope over his head. Too injured and weak to even crawl, he rolled himself into a ball and covered his face with his arms. With the side of his head half buried in the dirt he could feel the vibrations of the approaching hooves. He braced himself for the impact.

  So this was how it would end. Not from any mongrel dog or pickaxe handle; no Uncle Dick with his screwed neck and sucking blood, nor bodies lying around the rick; no stabbings by Slasher Jack; no cut by Billy Bottle; no swinging at the end of a rope in the Melbourne Gaol alongside George. Of all things, he was going to be trampled by a horse in the shadows of Little Lon. His thoughts flew to his mam and how she would receive the news of his death. He would trust Carlo to see her right from the winnings. There was enough to tide her over for a while.

  Lonnie felt a whoosh of air above him. The disobedient horse, still unwilling to trample, had launched itself high and long into the air, clearing him with ease. A vicious crack of the whip made the horse rear. Whinnying in terror, the stallion stood almost vertical on hind legs. It tried to dislodge its tormentor from the saddle. Lonnie heard a venomous curse. The whip cracked again. The rider was too experienced and strong a horseman. He subdued the resentful animal. When the horse was finally standing quietly, the rider dismounted.

  Lonnie tried to drag himself out of the way. The footsteps closed in. A savage kick landed in his lower back, another drove
into his shoulderblades; no mercy shown, the man was intending to teach him a lesson.

  Lonnie was swept away on a cloud of impressions entirely disconnected from his own body. Scream, after scream, after scream. The pounding of a galloping horse. The rush of feet on stones. A soft hand brushing his face. A cold wind blowing over him. He caved into an overwhelming desire to drift away.

  FLAT IRON

  Item No. 21

  Heavy cast iron. Heated and used to smooth freshly laundered clothes.

  A light touch on Lonnie’s face sent a rush of feverish heat through his cheek. As gentle as it was, it felt red hot, as though someone had pressed a flat iron down hard.

  From far away in the distance, a voice that sounded dimly recognisable was asking him a question.

  ‘Lonnie, can you hear me?’

  He longed to reply. He worked his way through a range of words as if he were speaking them aloud. He came from behind, lassoed me, he was trying to say, but the words forming deep inside came out only as dribbles of air and blood.

  The voice sounded annoyed. ‘Will you stop blubbering and give me a hand, you cowardly custard.’

  ‘But he looks so heavy,’ came the answer. ‘I can’t carry the poor lug all the way to Casselden Place. Leave him be. We have to get back.’

  ‘You brainless scallywag, we can’t leave him here.

  Anyways, we only have to get him through the door, past the curtain and up the stairs. Help me, or I swear I’ll tell Madam about how you’ve been drinking the French wine, and watering it down. And don’t think I haven’t seen, because I have, you moocher.’

  ‘But you told me to do it and you’re the one adding the water.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind me telling Madam how much you’ve been drinking, will you? Last week alone I counted five missing bottles. We’ll see who she believes the most.’