‘There’s the Glenelg Inn, of course, but it can be a rowdy place – especially during race meets. If you’d like to offer your services, you could put your animals and yourself at my new place of business, The Livery and Letting Stables. I offer first-class accommodation and attentive grooms. I’d be delighted to accommodate such a fine mare and colt.’
‘And I’d be delighted to offer my services as an attentive groom,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘At least until I find work on a station.’
‘Well then, Mr Gleeson, we have an agreement. We shall meet you there this evening.’
Jack tipped his hat again and rode on, with Idle trotting at Bailey’s heels. The mare had a spring in her step, as if she knew she was headed for Mr Cawker’s stall of fresh sawdust and a nosebag full of oaten chaff.
Chapter 11
Rosie and Margaret pulled up outside Mr Seymour’s rickety house in Casterton’s main street. Rosie carried a plate of food to the front door and followed her mother inside. She felt a darkness swamp her, and musty air fold over her skin and clothes. In the living room, the smell of cat’s urine was overwhelming.
The low-ceilinged room had drab wallpaper covering damp walls. Rosie’s eyes scanned the collection of framed black-and-white photographs from another era. They were mostly of elegant, long-legged racehorses, their jockeys holding up trophies by the track. In the corner, looking as worn, untidy and dirty as the room, was an old man slumped in a grotty armchair. The chair sprouted tufts of horsehair, as if it were growing whiskers like the man who sat in it.
‘Mr Seymour? This is my daughter, Rosemary,’ Margaret shouted at the shrivelled old man. Resting his gnarled, knuckly hand on his walking stick, he leant forward and peered at Rosie.
‘Pretty,’ was all he said.
‘Here’s your roast lamb,’ yelled Margaret as she took the plate from Rosie, removed the foil and placed the meal on a tray. She set a knife and fork on either side of the plate and sat it on Mr Seymour’s lap.
‘Fine filly,’ he said, looking at Rosie. ‘Want to go to the races?’ He slapped his thigh so hard that the tray nearly tipped off his lap.
‘Oh eat up, you silly old goat,’ muttered Margaret as she steadied the tray and began to cut the meat into small pieces. He continued chattering and staring at Rosie.
‘Good days, race days. Fine fillies on race days … good set of legs. Bloody good set of legs.’
‘Ex-jockey and stockman,’ Margaret whispered to Rosie. ‘His father was a jockey too. Dreadful family. Dreadful. This one’s deaf as a post and silly as a wheel.’
She rolled her eyes and stooped to yell at the old man, ‘See you next week, Mr Seymour. Mrs Chillcott-Clark will drop in tomorrow with your lunch. She can deal with the cat’s litter. It’s wash day tomorrow too, so have your clothes handy for her.’ Then she rose to her full height and looked down her nose at him with distaste.
‘No need to treat him like an imbecile. He’s just old,’ Rosie whispered. Margaret cast her a hurt glance and walked back along the hall.
Cautiously, Rosie walked over to Mr Seymour.
‘Mr Seymour? Er … excuse me, but you obviously know a thing or two about horses. How do you know when a mare is going to have her foal?’
‘Filly. Fine one,’ he slurred as a dollop of gravy slid from his chin. Rosie touched the old man on his arm and asked the question again. He turned his head and looked at her. The directness of his gaze startled her.
‘Your mare in foal?’
‘Yes, she’s in foal.’
‘Ah!’ he said, as if the penny had dropped. ‘She’s off her tucker first. Then her bag goes spotty. White spots. And she’ll kick. At her belly, she’ll kick. And her twat. Gets a nice loose spring in it. Nice loose twat along with her bum-cheeks. Loose bum-cheeks, not tight like yours. Then her teat wax goes clear. Yellow then clear. And she’ll eat fast and back up. She’ll back up. You hear, girl? She’ll have a fine colt, that mare. Or a fine filly. With good legs and a tight backside.’
‘Thanks. I’ll know what to look for now,’ said Rosie.
‘She’s been on a bender that mum of yours,’ he went on. ‘Been on a bender. Can smell it. But you’ll be right.’ The old man laughed, and Rosie could see the half-chewed food in his mouth.
She backed away, saying, ‘Thank you again, Mr Seymour. See you. Bye.’
As she hurried along the crooked hallway she wondered if Mr Seymour knew anything about Jack Gleeson. Perhaps she should go back and ask him? She was halfway along the hall when she jumped in fright and screamed. She had just bumped into what she’d thought was a shadow, cast by the coats hanging on the hallstand. But it was a man, not a shadow, silhouetted against the bright light of the open doorway. Rosie pressed her back to the wall and looked down at the floor as she let him pass.
‘Sorry. You gave me a fright. Sorry. ’Scuse me,’ she said. Goosebumps rose on her skin as he passed her. She looked up and caught the glance of a gorgeous guy with the bluest eyes. She sucked in a timid breath and then bolted from the house.
Her mother was waiting impatiently in the passenger seat of the Pajero.
‘What were you doing in there with that dreadful old man?’ She saw her daughter’s pale face. ‘What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
Rosie shook her head and started the engine. ‘Where to next?’
‘Just two more to drop off. Then we’re due at Susannah Moorecroft’s for a late luncheon.’
Rosie turned to her mother incredulously.
‘You’re joking?’
‘Now, Rose,’ her mother cautioned, ‘it’s been on the calendar for –’
‘No! No way, Mum! You can stick your friends. I’ve had enough. I’ll drop you there and you can find your own way home!’
Later, after depositing her stunned mother on the Moorecrofts’ driveway, Rosie drove back into town to hunt around the old Casterton museum on the railway siding. She stood for a long time looking at the old bottles and bits and pieces that sat silent and still in the glass cases.
Then she drove to the big hill overlooking Casterton. She got out and sat in the long yellow grass, letting the warm wind touch her face as she looked out across the river and up the main street. She stared at the photocopy of an old photograph of the town that she held in her hands. Is that how it had looked to Jack Gleeson when he’d come riding into town?
CASTERTON TOWN, THE CROSSING PLACE
Bailey’s ears shot forward when Jack pulled her to a halt on top of the big hill overlooking the town of Casterton. He looked down at the bridge spanning the slow-moving water of the Glenelg River. It was flanked by impressive red gums that cast an olive-green reflection over the river. Near the bridge he could see the stone front of the Glenelg Inn. It stood on the corner of a wide, dusty street that ran up a hill away from the river and was lined by a scattering of buildings. Despite the February heat, smoke drifted from chimneys as women inside warmed water for washing or cooked the evening meal.
Jack descended the winding track and Cooley danced and snorted on the bridge at his own hollow-sounding hoofbeats. On a shaded river bank, a woman standing outside a tent placed a pot on the smouldering campfire and then stood up stretching her back. She watched Jack pass. He tipped his hat.
Jack rode up the main street, whistling Idle in close to the horses as he went. He rode past a blacksmith’s shop, a post office, several huts and wattle-and-daub houses. At the top of town Jack turned around outside the doctor’s house, noting the red lantern, unlit, hanging from the window. Then he rode back down the street and dismounted outside the Livery, glad to be out of the saddle. He led Bailey into the dim entrance of the stable that bustled with grooms and horses. The town was humming like a hornet’s nest in anticipation of the race meet. Jack felt his life as a stockman would begin in earnest in this very town.
At the Casterton races the next morning, in the shade of the river red gums, Jack sipped on a cup of tea. Ladies stood beneath a large canvas shadecloth in their
best white dresses, high lace collars and large straw hats decked with silk ribbons and bows. Children in their Sunday best ran about calling to each other with shrill voices. A scattering of gentlemen stood among the ladies. Silver fob chains hung from their waistcoats and their knee-high riding boots were polished to gleaming.
‘Jack.’ Thomas Cawker stood a little way off and was motioning him over.
‘Come, I’d like you to meet a gent.’ Thomas inclined his head towards a short man with pasty skin and hooded dark eyes. He carried himself importantly and stood beside his even shorter wife, who was dressed in dull navy blue.
‘George Robertson,’ whispered Thomas. ‘He and his wife are childless, so they have dedicated their lives to their magnificent station, Warrock. It’s reputed he looks after his staff well and encourages them all to worship our Lord regularly on the station, although I think not in your faith, Jack. Shall we seek his attention and ask him if there’s work for you?’ Jack nodded and they moved over to the short gentleman wearing a top hat.
‘I’d like you to meet George Robertson, of Warrock station,’ Cawker said. Jack offered his hand but sensed Robertson was loath to shake it.
‘Jack’s in search of work as a stockman,’ Cawker explained. ‘He’s a fine horseman, and honest too.’
‘It’s good of you to present him to me, Mr Cawker, but I’ll not be needing any more men this year,’ Robertson said a trifle gruffly. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to inquire elsewhere.’ He began to walk away. Then, as if regretting his snub, he called back to Jack, ‘I’d advise you to try Muntham station.’
‘Come, Jack,’ said Thomas as he handed his empty cup to a lady in a pinafore. ‘We’re bound to find you work. But for now, let’s get some fun under our belts.’
Jack had never seen such a fine collection of horses. All were lean and fit and their coats reflected sunlight. Many were tethered to carts or trees, waiting to be saddled for the races to come. Jack’s eyes came to rest on a tall, muscular, bay thoroughbred. The man who saddled him was striking too. His black hair was parted neatly in the middle and his moustache and sideburns framed a lean, determined face and stern dark eyes. His face softened to a grin when Thomas approached him.
‘Why, Mr Cawker, a pleasure to see you again.’
‘Mr Cuthbert Featherstonhaugh!’ Thomas said as he vigorously shook the man’s hand. ‘What red-blooded courage and recklessness will you exhibit to the crowd today?’
‘Ah, Mr Cawker, I’ll grant you my blood will be up when I ride against that rascal Billy Trainor!’
Jack detected the Irish lilt in the man’s voice, much like his own.
‘I’d like you to meet a newcomer to the Crossing Place – Mr Jack Gleeson.’
Jack offered his hand and Cuthbert shook it with enthusiasm.
‘Don’t let the flowery nature of his name fool you, Jack,’ said Thomas.
‘Aye. My mother wasn’t right in the head the day she named me,’ said Cuthbert with a wink.
‘It might sound like a name for a gentleman as soft as butter,’ Thomas went on, ‘but Cuthbert will ride a horse over anything and his horse here, Robinson Crusoe, will gallop eight miles and jump seventy fences before raising a sweat.’
‘Aye, he’s as mad as the man who rides him,’ laughed Cuthbert. ‘Will you be riding around the track too, Mr Gleeson? The novice events are open to anyone sober enough to scramble on to his horse.’
‘Yes, I’ll be riding today,’ said Jack. ‘My mare’s fit from the road, though she may throw her head about a bit when she leaves her colt.’
‘When she lines up with the rest to race, she’ll soon forget him! Good luck to you then,’ Cuthbert said.
‘Jack here is looking for station work,’ continued Thomas. ‘Would it be worth his inquiring on Muntham?’
Cuthbert shook his head.
‘Not likely this time of year. We’ve already got twenty men for the New Year. But work is about. I’d try for Mr Murray’s Dunrobin station. He’s always in need of good men. Now if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’ll take my leave and see if I can’t kill myself this time round the jumps.’
Jack felt his heart sink a little as he watched Cuthbert lead his horse away. Last night at the stables he’d heard tales of Muntham Station and of Cuthbert Featherstonhaugh’s legendary horsemanship. He had met a rowdy group of workers from the place. They had told him Muntham was some seventy-seven thousand acres and Jack had already ridden over some of it on his journey into town. On its bush runs it carried fifty-five thousand sheep, eight thousand fat Shorthorn and Durham cattle, and five hundred horses. Some of the tough, nuggety horses from Muntham were at the races today. Jack longed to work and ride alongside Cuthbert but it sounded like it wasn’t to be. He frowned a little. Thomas sensed his disappointment and patted him on the back.
‘Come now, Jack. We’ve got three days of racing ahead of us. Let’s enjoy the company of ladies … a rarity in these parts, you’ll find. Though don’t expect to begin courting any in earnest. These girls are mostly in search of a grazier whether he’s a gent or not. They barely cast a glance over a mere coachman or stockman.’
Jack scanned the pretty girls who stood about in the shade.
‘If only that weren’t so,’ he said.
At the end of the meet, Jack found himself standing on the filthy sawdust floor of the makeshift bar at the racetrack. Cuthbert had one arm slung over his shoulders and was holding a mug of ale aloft.
‘To the district’s finest new rider, Jack Gleeson,’ he declared, before sculling his drink.
Jack had yarded the colt and saddled up Bailey for as many novice races as he could. She had triumphed in the Hurdle and the Steeplechase. He could feel the heart and soul of the mare as she leapt the jumps, her ears flattened back and her neck stretched out. Like Jack, she gave the races her all. By the last day of the meet many of the racegoers were talking about the new Irish lad from the south.
Jack looked around the bar. Some of the crowd were singing songs and dancing jigs as a young lad whipped his bow in double time across a fiddle. Others slumped on rough-cut benches, leaning against the tent posts with pipes smouldering in their hands as they recounted stories of the race meet. Many relived the vision of Cuthbert pelting down the track over the last jump, his horse dark with sweat and bleeding from the spur. The roar of the crowd as Cuthbert overtook Billy Trainor at the post to win the Hurdle Race lingered on in their ears. He’d also won the Sweepstakes of three miles, and his horse was saddled up again to win the Open Handicap of two and a half miles. Robinson Crusoe now stood tethered in the racetrack shelter with his head down, sound asleep. Not even the sounds of fistfights and the shouts of drunken men could wake him. In the next stall Bailey dozed too, Cooley nuzzling at her flank, relieved to be back by her side.
Yet another mug was thrust into Jack’s hands. He took it with glee. There was much to celebrate. Not only had he shone in the novice field but he had also secured a job. Tomorrow he was to ride to Dunrobin station, and present himself to Mr Murray for work.
Chapter 12
Rosie parked her mother’s car beside the cluster of buildings at the Casterton racetrack. Her eyes scanned the empty track, heat shimmering above treetops in the distance. The grandstand stretched open like a wide mouth in the midst of a yawn. The expanse of dried lawn, no longer buzzing with people, took on an eerie emptiness.
‘Hello?’ she called out as she ducked her head inside the secretary’s office. No answer. Just the click of heat in the iron roof. Then she heard hoofbeats behind her. Swinging round she sucked in a breath as a man astride a fidgety horse loomed above her. With the sun behind him it might have been Sam on Oakwood. But as the horse danced into the shade she realised it was Billy O’Rourke, riding another of his client’s youngsters.
‘Hello, Rosie. Are you searching for your Irish man?’ Billy said.
‘I am,’ Rosie answered, admiring how confidently he sat on the nervous young horse.
‘Go on in. The
re’s a cupboard full of old stuff in there. You’re welcome to rifle through it. I’ll track down the key and be back in a sec.’
Standing in the secretary’s office, Rosie looked at the photos on the wall while a fly bashed itself against the windowpane. In one photo ladies in white dresses stood chatting beneath the shade of giant red gums. Rosie’s eyes scanned the photo for the men in the crowd. There were very few amidst the ladies. Perhaps, she thought, they were all off looking at the horses. She spun round as Billy came through the door, a smile on his face.
‘This’ll be interesting,’ he said.
When Rosie drove over the grid at Highgrove station Julian was driving towards her, his collie dog leaning eagerly over the side of the ute. She stopped and wound down her window. Julian pulled up and got out.
‘Where’s Mum?’ he asked.
Rosie shrugged. ‘I dumped her.’
‘You serious?’
‘No. I wish. She’s getting a lift home, I think.’
‘Oh. Well, can’t say I would’ve blamed you.’
‘Where are you off to anyway?’ Rosie asked, noticing the bags in the back of the ute.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Got something on in Melbourne?’
‘No. I mean I’m leaving leaving. You know.’
‘You’re what?’ Rosie leapt out of the Pajero and stood in front of her brother. ‘You can’t!’
‘Yes I can.’
‘But what about Mum and Dad?’ Rosie shook her head. ‘I mean your dad.’
‘This isn’t about them. It’s about me,’ Julian said.
‘But … the farm? You –’
‘It’s not my farm. I’ve never wanted it – not with Dad breathing down my neck.’
‘But I need you. What about Sam’s horses and dogs? I need you to give me a hand.’
‘That’s just the thing, isn’t it?’ Julian said, his jaw clenching in anger. ‘Anyone need a hand? Call on Julian! He’ll fix it, he’ll lug it, he’ll feed it, he’ll drench it, he’ll weed it, prune it, cut it, cart it. No, Rose. I’ve had enough of this place. I’m leaving.’
The Stockmen Page 9