Windflowers

by Tamara McKinley

  Ellie sighed as she stood up and crossed to the verandah railings. With her gaze fixed on the pale yellow light drifting from the bunkhouse windows she leaned against the post. ‘But fate has a way of tricking us,’ she said eventually. ‘Two years later Charlie was made to learn a very harsh lesson.’

  *

  Aurelia pulled her jacket more firmly over her bosom. It was getting cold – a sure sign they’d have rain some time tonight. Yet it would be a shame to spoil the mood by going indoors and this part of the story was almost over. She glanced across at Ellie and their eyes met in a silent acknowledgement that although this retelling of the history of Warratah was painful, it was better out in the open.

  ‘It was a month before Christmas of 1938,’ she began. ‘Ellie was sixteen. The drought had already lasted six years. Ellie had had the usual ghastly frothy dress from her mother which went straight to the house lubra for one of her kids, and we were sitting in the kitchen discussing Australia’s commitment to the Commonwealth and the part our men would have to play if war was declared.’

  Aurelia glanced across at Ellie again and knew she was remembering certain elements of that conversation only too well. She felt the heat rise in her face and looked away. Claire didn’t need to know about her and Jack – not yet. ‘I had come to think of Ellie as my own child,’ she said hastily. ‘She was still short and far too thin, but she made up for that with a personality that could not be ignored. She also had a strong will and a short temper.’ She and Ellie exchanged glances and smiled at the memories of the tussles they’d had through those awkward growing years.

  ‘Joe surprised me by staying on after that to-do with his brother, but he had a natural way with horses I admired. A shy, almost gentle nature, and a smile that warmed me to him. He was intelligent and amazingly well read for a country boy and I’d grown to like him very much. Seamus Maughan on the other hand was a rogue,’ she said fondly. ‘A dark haired, Irish boy with laughing blue eyes and a restless spirit that often led him into all sorts of pickles. I was much taken with him, and as he was Mickey’s son and heir to Jarrah, I had high hopes for him and Ellie.’

  Aurelia fell silent as she remembered how the three youngsters had taken to each other. She’d called them her Three Musketeers and when work allowed it, they were rarely apart. Seamus and Joe had forged a strong bond in the wake of Charlie’s departure, and didn’t seem to mind Ellie tagging along as they rode out across the plains. They were both several years older than Ellie, but she’d noticed how the girl’s eyes shone when she worked alongside Joe in the stables, and how she seemed bewitched by Seamus’ blarney. Mickey Maughan and his son were regular visitors to Warratah and Aurelia had tried not to comment on how Ellie would make a point of sitting next to Seamus at the dinner table. She’d known Ellie was in the throes of hero-worship, and hoped that one day this might turn into something more tangible.

  She sighed. They had been happy days despite the drought and the threat of war, for the world had still been innocent then. ‘The drought broke that day. It started with a clap of thunder and the sky grew dark and before we knew it we were all dancing in the mud, drenched to the skin and as drunk as skunks from the sheer relief.’ She paused. She remembered that day only too well – for it had been the day she’d broken down and cried for only the second time in her life. ‘We were safe,’ she whispered. ‘Warratah would survive.’

  ‘But what has this to do with Charlie?’ asked Claire with a frown. ‘I thought you said something happened to him?’

  Aurelia smiled at her. Claire had the same inquisitive mind as her mother, the same persistent need to know it all. ‘It might not seem as if it does just yet,’ she murmured. ‘But you have to understand how things were on Warratah in those days, how relationships were beginning to form that would have a bearing later on.’

  Claire shivered and pulled a cardigan out of her bag. ‘So what happened to Charlie and Satan?’

  Aurelia looked across at Ellie. ‘You know that part of it better than I,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell her.’

  *

  Borroloola was a country town in the middle of nowhere that had dusted itself down to prepare for the annual excitement that would be crammed into this one weekend. Nothing much happened in this sleepy outback town in the Northern Territory except for the yearly weekend race meeting, and it almost looked startled in its bunting and banners as Charlie led Satan down the main street that Friday morning.

  The locals looked stiff and awkward in the unaccustomed catalogue dresses and suits and hats as they paraded their finery and renewed acquaintances with neighbours they rarely saw. Visitors from the city swaggered self-consciously down the main street, out of place in their polished boots and fashionable bush hats, making the kids on the boardwalks snigger. Yet there was an air of excitement that couldn’t be denied, a warmth of feeling even for the townies – for Borroloola was momentarily alive again.

  Charlie eyed the pubs that were already doing a roaring trade and thought of the cold beer he could kill after his long ride from the Alice. It would have to wait, he decided regretfully. Satan had to be entered into the race, and he didn’t like the thought of leaving him outside a pub in case he was knobbled.

  His stock horse danced away as three men were forcefully ejected from one particular hotel to carry on their fight in the middle of the street. They were blind drunk and Charlie, who was no stranger to what the drink could do, grinned and wondered if they even knew what day of the week it was. But seconds later they were all the best of mates and they staggered arm in arm back to the hotel for another drink.

  Charlie continued on through the town and approached the racecourse which was a bright splash of colour in the midst of the ochre surroundings. It was already busy despite the early hour, and as Charlie led Satan towards the stalls behind the freshly painted stand, he took note of the sulkies and carts drawn up on the outside of the track where a dozen or so horses were already being worked. The Southern Cross fluttered lethargically above the single stand, and the narrow white fence surrounding the course looked stark against the backdrop of timbered hills on the far side. A brass band was tuning up and the bookies were oiling their throats in the beer tent before the day’s onslaught.

  He felt the first tremor of excitement as he watched the horses being worked on the fast, firm track. None of them had the class or speed of Satan he noticed happily. This should be an easy run.

  This wasn’t the first racetrack he’d been to since taking Satan from his brother, and it wouldn’t be the last. The bloody horse was a marvel now he’d got the message and calmed down, and Charlie had made a fair bit of money on him. He led the chestnut into the stable yard, watered him and rubbed him down. The long journey hadn’t affected him, he noticed. He looked as if he was raring to go.

  ‘Nice lookin’ horse,’ drawled a familiar voice.

  Charlie turned round sharply. ‘Snowy White!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the blue blazes are you doin’ here?’ He looked in amazement at the rangy figure and strong, dark features of the Aboriginal stockman. It had been at least five years since he’d seen him back on Gowrie Station, and although there were strands of silver in the tousled red-brown hair, Snowy didn’t really look any older.

  ‘Having a bit of an ‘oliday, ain’t I?’ Snowy said with his usual cheerfulness. They shook hands. ‘Hear yer brother’s still on Warratah. Shame you and him fell out.’ He eyed the horse for a long moment then turned his accusing gaze back to Charlie. ‘Ain’t right, Charlie. Not another bloke’s horse.’

  Charlie was stunned to realise word of his theft had spread. ‘Dunno what you ‘eard mate, but me brother give me Satan. He’s mine.’ He squared his broad shoulders and defied Snowy to challenge him. If it came to a fight, Charlie thought heatedly, then he’d make mincemeat of Snowy even if he was bigger.

  Snowy eyed him thoughtfully, seemingly unconvinced. ‘Not what I heard, mate.’ He must have seen the light of battle in Charlie’s eyes, for he shrugge
d and chewed on a matchstick. ‘Still, ain’t none of my business,’ he muttered.

  There was a long silence as he stroked the chestnut’s neck. He seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘What you reckon on his chances?’

  Charlie was relieved to change the subject, but he’d learned early on in his intermittent racing career to be as cautious as an echidna, and he didn’t know where Snowy’s loyalties lay as regards to his brother or to his horse. ‘You never know with these sort of meetings,’ he replied warily. ‘Could be a couple of good ’uns hidden away I don’t know about. Local horses and the like.’

  ‘Run ‘im before?’ asked Snowy with a little too much nonchalance for Charlie’s liking.

  ‘He’s right. Got some toe, but can’t hold it over more’n a mile.’ His expression was deliberately bland as he lied. Satan had proved himself several times over longer distances, but it would do Charlie’s pocket no good to have the price backed down to odds-on if word got out.

  Snowy ran an expert hand over Satan’s gleaming coat. ‘Looks better than that, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘I know a prime piece of horseflesh when I see it.’ His expression was cold, his steady, amber gaze unnerving. ‘Reckon you got a beaut there.’

  ‘So what you been doing since we left Gowrie?’ asked Charlie in a desperate attempt to get Snowy off the subject of Satan.

  Snowy chewed on the matchstick, the shadow of his hat brim masking his broad features. ‘This and that,’ he drawled. ‘Left Gowrie about a year back. Done some fence posting, mustering, horse breaking. That’s what I do now. Breaking for Vestey over at Wave Hill.’

  Charlie reckoned Snowy had done all right for himself if he was working for Lord Vestey. The family owned at least seventeen cattle stations that ran in an almost unbroken line from Western Australia to the Overland Telegraph Line, totalling something in excess of over forty thousand square miles. ‘Good on yer mate. But you’re a long ways from Wave Hill. What’s brought you to Borroloola?’

  ‘I’m on me way to one of his other stations. They’ve got problems there and they want me to sort ‘em out.’

  Charlie realised Snowy was being as tight-lipped as he was, but let it pass. ‘Don’t happen to know if there’s a job for me, do you?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I finished brumby mustering down the Alice and got nothing lined up.’

  ‘We’re always looking for ringers,’ replied Snowy, his gaze still fixed on the magnificent stallion. ‘Why don’t you and me talk about it after the race?’

  ‘Thanks mate. I owe you one.’

  ‘Not if that beaut comes in for me, you won’t,’ Snowy said, his face lighting up with a smile. ‘Reckon I’ll put a couple of bob on him just to see what he can do. Catch yer later.’

  Charlie watched as Snowy loped off into the milling crowd. Strange, he thought. I see the same faces and hear the same stories wherever I go. Distances might be endless, but everyone knew everyone else – and each other’s business. It was as bad as living back in Lorraine. He stared off into the distance, seeing nothing as his thoughts whirled. It was worrying though how far the story had got about Satan. Perhaps he should change his name, pretend he was a different horse all together?

  Charlie chewed his lip as he pondered the problem. He couldn’t afford to lose the chance of making money on Satan while he was running so well, yet he couldn’t risk an enquiry into his ownership either. He patted the sleek neck and looked into the intelligent eyes. The only way to salve his conscience was to give Joe some of the prize money, but that would mean having to face his brother again – having to admit he’d done wrong.

  Impatient and uneasy, he blew out his cheeks and stuffed his hands in his pockets. What was a bloke supposed to do, he wondered heatedly, when every option could only lead to trouble? If only he’d stop and think before he did things. If only he could resist the things that weren’t his. But then life wouldn’t be half as interesting, he admitted.

  He forced the worry from his mind and changed into the white breeches and green shirt he’d bought to race in. Dressed and ready he pulled on the green and yellow cap and strolled out of the shadows of the stalls and pushed his way through the overexcited, beer fuelled crowd to register Satan for the fifth race and place his bet. After this race meeting, he decided, Satan would have a new name.

  The Borroloola Stakes was a race of a mile and a half which would take the sixteen runners and riders twice past the stand before they reached the finishing line. The winner of the Stakes was expected to win the Borroloola Cup on Sunday and Charlie was already planning how he would spend his winnings as he and Satan trotted out on to the course.

  He sat astride Satan as cocky as a rooster in a chook house as he waited for the starter to call them into line. He’d drawn number five, and the only competition looked like the rangy black horse with the good head and powerful lines that was second from the rails and the local favourite.

  The starter called them into line and a hush fell. Satan was ready, ears pricked, nostrils distended, already lathering up as he danced on his toes.

  Charlie became aware of the heat of the broiling sun that beat down from the raw sky. Aware of the smell of leather and sweating horseflesh – the rapid drum of his pulse. He heard only the sound of nervous hoofs in the dust and the curses of the jockeys around him as he shortened the reins and settled his feet more firmly in the stirrups. The track wound into the distance before him and he tugged down the peak of his cap as he squinted into the glare. He was planning his race.

  ‘Go!’ yelled the starter as he waved his flag.

  Charlie got Satan away quickly to escape being trapped in that first mad dash, and once they had settled down he was on the rails, tucked in behind the black and another chestnut. They were all running easily as they led the mob around the first long bend, each jockey watchful of the other two.

  The rest of the field began tailing off as they passed the stand for the first time. The spectators were already yelling and Charlie gave Satan a bit more leeway on the reins, but not enough to blow him too soon.

  The leading chestnut was slowing now, his jockey urging him on with spurs and whip. Satan lengthened his stride, gaining on the outside of the black until they were racing side by side. Charlie kept his gaze focused on the other chestnut as they thundered around the last bend. The finishing line was already in sight.

  The game little chestnut tried to make a race of it, but he just didn’t have the wind, and as they passed the stand for the second time he fell behind with the others and Satan and the black were now neck-and-neck.

  Charlie let Satan have his head. Standing in the stirrups he crouched over the arched neck and urged him on. The black was still beside him, matching him stride for stride. The winning post was less than twenty yards away.

  The crack of the other jockey’s whip lashed Charlie’s cheek. He flinched, losing his balance and his concentration. The boot caught his leg, knocking his foot from the stirrup as the black began to draw away.

  Satan’s ears flattened at the unusual yank on the reins as Charlie desperately tried to maintain his seat. The black was a nose ahead now, lengthening his stride again, moving further on. Satan missed his footing, confused and frightened by what was happening to the man on his back. He stumbled, his front hoof digging into the hard, impacted earth, cruelly twisting the slender leg.

  The black raced across the finishing line to the roar of the delighted crowd, the local jockey standing in the stirrups, his arms wide to receive their adulation.

  Satan gave a whinny of fear and pain as he crashed to the ground. Charlie saw black spots dance before his eyes as his head hit the earth and the horse rolled on top of him. Winded, he lay there aware only of the silence that followed the other horses as they thundered past and the weight of Satan as he writhed in agony on top of him.

  Rough hands pulled him to his feet as the vet quickly examined Satan. Charlie was dazed and confused, but as his senses returned he became aware of the loud voices arguing around him and the satisfied smirk
of the winning jockey looming out of the crowd.

  ‘You no good mongrel,’ he yelled, wrenching away from the restraining hands, trying to get through the crush to the weasel faced little runt. ‘I’ll knock yer bloody block off yer bastard.’

  The smirking face disappeared in the crowd and Charlie suddenly became aware of one voice that stood out in the babel. It was a quiet voice, full of experience and sadness. ‘This horse will have to be put down,’ it said.

  Charlie fought his way back to Satan, the copper taste of fear in his mouth, the sweat cold on his skin despite the heat.

  Satan was lying on his side, the great chest rising and falling as he struggled to breathe. The beautiful sheen of his coat already looked dull, and the reproachful, pain filled eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible. His noble neck arched, the teeth bared to the sky.

  ‘Satan?’ Charlie whispered as he dropped to his knees beside the animal. ‘Oh, Satan. What have I done?’ At that moment he would have gladly taken the horse’s agony on himself. Would have gladly sacrificed all the winnings he might ever earn if only Satan could be well again.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Busted his leg good and proper. There’s nothing I can do for him.’

  Charlie looked up as he heard the click of the bullet in the gun chamber. ‘Don’t. Please don’t,’ he begged. ‘There has to be some other way.’

  The solemn face looked down at him, the eyes kind. ‘There’s no other way, son,’ he said softly. ‘Poor bastard’s in agony. We can’t let it go on.’