I Own the Racecourse!

by Patricia Wrightson

  Andy was almost as tall as Mike and Joe, and a little heavier. From the time the boys were very small, so long ago that even Joe and Mike could hardly remember, they had all played together in their narrow back yards and in the lanes and streets of Appington Hill. In those days they were all the same as each other, or as nearly the same as five different boys can be; and in those days Andy was the one everyone wanted to play with. It was Andy who invented the best games, who would always lend his ball or his bike, who was always so glad to see people that it was fun just to meet him. When there were fights it was Mike or Terry who started them, Joe who fretted about them, Matt who was hurt and astonished by them, and Andy who patched them up. It was Joe who watched and worried over the two smaller boys, but Andy who made them feel wanted in the game. In other ways, Andy was the same as the other four. They all started school at nearly the same time, and they were all the same. Then something happened. Somehow, little by little, a window seemed to close on Andy. Now he went to a separate school and they all knew, even Andy himself, that he was different.

  Andy lived behind a closed window. When he smiled his warm smile and spoke a little too loudly, it was as if he was speaking through the glass. When he listened carefully to what people said and paused for a second before he answered, it was as though their words came to him through the glass. Sometimes when he was with other people his face wore a patient, waiting look as if he didn’t know they were there. Sometimes he walked by himself with bright eyes and a ready smile, as if he didn’t realize that the other people had gone. He had moments of noisy laughter or fierce anger when it seemed that he was knocking against the window. Even his face looked a little distorted, as things sometimes look through glass. Still, because he was Andy, always warm and admiring, always glad to see them and careful not to be a nuisance, the others were still his friends.

  Andy and Matt lived in the same row of squashed cottages, all joined together, with front doors opening straight on to the street. When they sat in their front rooms watching television, only a yard of space and a brick wall separated them from the people walking by on the pavement. Their street ran into the one where Joe lived in a house that stood by itself, squat and important. It had bulging front windows, and there were garlands of plaster fruits and flowers decorating its outer walls. Farther along this street there was a terrace of tall, well-shaped cottages with grilles of delicate iron lace across their upper balconies. The O’Day boys lived in one of these. Their back yards, hidden behind high fences of palings or rusty corrugated iron, opened into a narrow lane. The boys turned into this lane so that Terry could push the skateboard through the O’Days’ back gate. Then they went on, through steep streets and narrow lanes, towards the waterfront where the Chinese joss house was tucked away.

  ‘Not worth it, really,’ Mike pointed out. ‘Even if you climb up the fence, what can you see? A couple of old houses, one dragon and a lantern or two. We’ve seen all that. I’d rather poke about in the timber-yards near the water.’

  ‘Do that too, why not?’ said Joe. ‘It’s not much further.’

  ‘I’ll charge you to go in,’ said Matt with a grin. ‘I own the timber-yards.’

  This was part of a game they had played continuously for a long time. Once it had been half serious; now it had become a habit.

  ‘You do? I thought that was Terry’s?’

  ‘I bought it off him one day a couple of weeks back. Didn’t I, Terry?’

  ‘For a measly eight thousand,’ Terry grumbled. ‘I should’ve charged you more.’

  ‘Have you spent the eight thousand yet?’ Mike asked him. ‘Sell you the Public Library for it.’

  ‘No, it’s too far away—you hardly ever see it. I’ll look around for a bit, I reckon.’

  ‘I own the Port Jackson Steamship Company,’ said Joe suddenly. He added, ‘That gives me all their ferries.’

  There was a respectful silence. No one had thought of claiming the Steamship Company before, though they ‘owned’ all the most valuable parts of Sydney between them. The usual way to acquire property these days was to buy or swap for it from each other; but Joe had discovered a new claim, and could take it up free. It was a good one, too.

  ‘Swap you the timber-yards for it,’ said Matt.

  ‘Swap you the Town Hall,’ said Terry.

  Joe smiled a little, pleased with his new property. ‘No, thanks, I reckon I’ll stick to the ferries for a bit.’

  From behind came a hopeful voice. ‘I own Stebbins’ shop. Matt! Hey, Mike! I own Stebbins’ shop.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Joe explained patiently over his shoulder. ‘Old Tom Stebbin owns that.’ Andy could never understand this game, however hard he tried. No one could make him see that you couldn’t simply claim something that belonged to someone else. It had to be public property; or owned by so many people that you couldn’t know who they were, so that they might as well not exist. You couldn’t simply pinch his shop from old Tom Stebbin.

  Andy tried again. ‘I own the police station!’

  They broke into laughter, remembering Constable Grace.

  ‘Good on you, Andy!’

  ‘That’s it, boy, you show ’em!’

  ‘The police station—that’ll come in handy!’

  The lonely, shut-in look closed over Andy’s face. He had lost contact with his friends again. At the next corner he slipped quietly away. It was some time before the others noticed, and when they did they were not very surprised.

  ‘Old Andy’s faded out somewhere.’

  ‘Probably got hungry and went home.’

  By then, Andy was sitting on a small corner of vacant land above one of the plunging streets of Appington Hill. It was a place he often came to when he was alone. The ground was covered with rank grass, scraggy bushes, old cardboard cartons and a scattering of tins and bottles. A great old Port Jackson fig hung over a fence behind it, making dark caves of shadow under its wide branches. A lane ran off from one corner. In the mouth of this lane, and under bushes, and deep in the shadows of the fig, green and yellow eyes blinked and widened where the brave, shabby cats were hiding. Andy had already sought out two or three and spoken a few words to them. They gave him evil looks, ears flattened and lips drawn into silent snarls; but they stayed where they were. Andy thought it was friendly of them. He liked to look about and see them waiting and blinking in the shadows.

  He sat on a rock in the late afternoon sun, muttering to himself and looking at the world. From here, the steep slopes of Appington Hill were like one half of a broken basin with bare, green parkland spilling out of the bottom and running away to the waterfront. Across its base were the walls of the trotting course, and behind them its grandstands rising at the edge of the park. Round the sides and rim of the basin crowded rows of old houses, clumsy, quaint, graceful or stolid. To the right, not very far away, rose the tall buildings of the city of Sydney. Beyond the park and the upper reach of the harbour, rose other ridges with other climbing streets and clustering houses. The roofs, towers and chimneys of the skyline were softened by a haze that the late sun was turning to gold. Andy sat on his rock and looked at it all until he began to feel hungry. Then he wandered away down the lane to his own street.

  Andy’s mother was a dressmaker, and her work filled their small front room. There were paper patterns, tape measures, scissors and pins on the big table. There were oddly shaped snippets of red, green and gold material on the floor. Half-finished dresses and blouses hung on hangers against the wall. Mrs Hoddel herself was in the kitchen cooking dinner. She was thin, fair and very neat, and she looked at Andy with a bright smile that had something darker and more troubled behind it.

  ‘Sausages!’ said Andy, and laughed. He went to sit at the table, but his mother stopped him.

  ‘You know better than that, love. You haven’t washed your hands, have you? I don’t know what people must think of you, getting in such a mess. Go and clean up, now.’

  Andy went down a narrow passage to the bathroom. It
had brick walls, a sloping ceiling, and a bath that stood on four clawed feet. In the bottom of the bath a long strip of black showed through the white enamel. Andy washed, combed his hair and went back to the table.

  He ate his dinner carefully because his mother was watching; but when she went to the stove to make the tea, his hand crept quietly to his plate to gather up a few peas and pop them in his mouth. When he had finished, he frowned solemnly.

  ‘That policeman’s a great big urger,’ he told his mother.

  She sat quite still for a second. ‘Policeman? Andrew Hoddel, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Wasn’t doing no harm. Mike and Joe wasn’t either. Just riding their skateboard, that’s all. He’s a big urger.’

  Mrs Hoddel relaxed and brushed the hair back from her forehead. ‘Don’t you go using words like that, or you’ll have your mouth washed out. The police are there to look after you. A fine job they’d be doing, letting you get yourselves knocked over and killed.’

  All at once an immense voice spoke across the roof-tops of Appington Hill. It was like a giant’s voice, reaching down into the room where they sat, and full of authority. Mrs Hoddel gave it a moment’s attention and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Andy shifted restlessly in his chair. This was the voice that spoke from the amplifiers of Beecham Park, intoning the approach of the first race.

  Mrs Hoddel stood up. ‘Nearly six—I’d better get going. What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Going to Matt’s,’ said Andy, pushing back his chair.

  ‘Mind you stay with him, then. Don’t get mixed up with any strangers. You never know who you’ll run into on a race night.’

  Andy nodded wisely and went out to the front door.

  2

  View from a Cliff

  It was still light when Andy stepped out on the pavement; a glowing apricot light that threw no shadows but washed the ugly little houses with pink and lit their chimneys with gold. The streets, that had been so quiet in the afternoon, were full of the sound of cars. There were cars lining both sides of the narrow street and the lanes that led from it, leaving barely room between the rows for other cars to drive. A man in a white dust-coat patrolled the lines of cars in a solemn and watchful manner with his hands clasped behind his back. The giant voice hung over the roofs and filled the street, singing a chant composed of the names of horses.

  Another car came nosing along the street, its worried driver looking for a place to park. The man in the white coat became active and commanding. His arms made comforting, beckoning sweeps; he led the way into the nearest lane; he pointed to a certain spot and, like an experienced conductor directing an orchestra of nervous beginners, his waving arms coaxed the car into the narrowest possible space. Andy watched respectfully, knowing that the driver would pay twenty cents for this performance. Twenty cents for every single car in this street and its lanes—how rich the man in the white coat must be!

  The chanting voice had swept into a frenzy and died away. The first race was over. Andy went up the crooked street to Matt’s place. The door from the pavement stood open for coolness, and just inside it Mr and Mrs Pasan were watching television. The white light from the screen flickered over them: Mrs Pasan with her black hair drawn tightly back from her thin bird’s face; Mr Pasan sprawled heavily in a large chair, his shirt open in front and his feet stretched out in red and black socks. An unnaturally large face on the screen spoke to them in a friendly and confiding way about the Common Market.

  ‘Lotta bull,’ said Mr Pasan. ‘They’ll do what they gotta do. You looking for Matt, Andy? He’s out.’

  ‘He’s round at O’Days’,’ added Mrs Pasan.

  Andy stood on the pavement for a moment, admiring Mr Pasan’s socks and his air of large relaxation. Then he went loping away in the pink and golden light.

  The street where the O’Day boys lived was lined with cars like all the others, and another white-coated man watched over them. Andy went beyond the street to the lane behind. Being unusually narrow and dark, with high back fences looming above it, there were only a few cars in it yet. Far down in the darkness Andy could see the light of a torch, as he had expected. He knew what the O’Day boys would be doing just now. Sure enough, their double gate was open, and Terry and Matt stood by it with the torch. There were six cars parked in the paved yard, and space for only one more. The back door was also open, and the long, lean form of Mr O’Day lounged in the doorway against the light. Mike and Joe were inside the gate, waiting for a seventh car to fill the yard.

  ‘Lot of Sunday drivers,’ Mr O’Day was grumbling. ‘There’s room for nine or ten, if they knew how to park a car. Who’s that?’

  ‘Andy Hoddel.’

  ‘You get out of the way behind that utility, Andy.’

  Andy slipped into the safe corner that Mike showed him, and waited. The enticing of cars into the O’Days’ back yard on race nights was to him a business venture as important and exciting as anything that went on in the city. Headlights crept into the lane, and Terry began to beckon with the torch. The car approached, turned in, and was directed by Mike to its place under the rotary clothesline. As the driver dimmed his lights, and as Mr O’Day came down towards him, Mike muttered, ‘That’s the lot. Let’s go.’ Terry pushed the torch into his father’s hand. They went out to the lane.

  The apricot light had faded into dusk. Pavements had become narrow alleys between front fences and lines of parked cars. In Blunt Street, where the skateboard had gone dipping and singing in the quiet afternoon, the gates and ticket windows of Beecham Park were open and people came and went in little groups. Bus after bus turned into Wattle Road. A horse-float came slowly down the hill. The tops of the grandstands, where they showed above the wall, were edged with golden drops of light from strings of electric bulbs. The wordless hum of many voices was drowned by the voice from the amplifiers. Beginning with calm authority it passed into a chant, mounted to a frenzy, and was drowned in the roaring of a crowd.

  ‘Looks like a big night,’ said Joe knowledgeably. They wandered to two or three points from which they might see into the course, but as usual every place was filled by silent groups of men. Most of the groups had large paper bags filled with bottles.

  ‘The kids that sell programmes make a bit of cash,’ said Matt with envy. ‘I’d have a go, but my old man goes mad about it.’

  ‘What do you want cash for?’ said Mike. ‘You’ve got enough for a bag of chips.’

  They turned away from Beecham Park and went up the hill towards Ma Eaton’s dim little corner shop.

  Set in a row of dark cottages, the windows of the little shop glowed softly. Even inside, it was only dimly lit. Ma Eaton, short and stout, leaned on the counter and watched the street with sharp interest. She gave the boys her smile that was too wide and too sweet, and supplied five packets of potato crisps. The boys carried them round the corner to the little room behind the shop. Here Ma Eaton had installed a juke-box and three pin-ball machines. She said it was to give the young people somewhere to go, and to keep them off the streets.

  ‘You can’t expect them to sit home with us old fogies,’ she would say, smiling too widely. ‘And what else is there but mischief? They’re all right in my little room. There’s nothing nasty like poker machines of course—no prizes or any of that. Just real games of skill.’ And her cash register clanged busily as she changed their pocket money into coins to use in the machines.

  The older girls and boys did make a sort of club-room of Ma Eaton’s tiny back room. Those of Joe’s and Mike’s age could rarely fit inside it, but they stood about on the pavement outside to listen to the juke-box and observe their elders. Charlie and Greg Willis were there now, lingering watchfully outside the narrow door. Inside, an unshaded globe threw a yellow light over the room. Rhondah Blessing and Lexie Harris were bending over the ‘Whirlwind’ machine where little lights were flashing on and off—red, yellow, blue and green. Rob Regent was hopefully feeding a leather belt into the ‘Jungle’
machine while the two older Perkins boys looked on. The group on the pavement watched with interest, but the belt didn’t seem to be having any effect.

  Andy hung back in the shadows. Charlie and Greg Willis were not friends of his. They had a bouncing, confident way that he distrusted.

  ‘Saw you riding down Blunt Street,’ Greg was saying to Mike. ‘You want a board that is a board. Let you have a go on one of ours tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Mike stiffly. ‘Ours’ll do us.’

  ‘Not bad for a home-made board, I’ll give you that. Just a bit long in the back. She’ll tip up backwards one of these days.’

  Terry curled his lip like a dog. ‘You wouldn’t know, Willis. The only board you’ll ever have is one out of a shop.’

  Matt chuckled. Joe grinned slowly. Andy wandered off into the dark. The giant voice from Beecham Park began to intone another race. Andy thought he would go to the next corner and look at the white-coated man in the street beyond.

  He reached the corner and saw the gleam of cars under dim street-lights. The white coat of the attendant was a ghostly shape far down the street. There was a lot of cheerful noise from one of the houses where a party was going on, and Andy went down to listen. He stood outside the house for some time, laughing in the darkness at the gaiety inside.

  Suddenly a voice shouted at him. ‘You! What are you hanging round for?’ The white-coated man was coming back, calling to him. Andy was startled. He slipped across the street and into a dark little passage between two rows of houses.

  He stumbled over stones and rubbish, feeling along the wall of one house. He had been here once or twice by daylight, but never at night. It was quite black in the passage, but he felt his way towards a greyness at the other end until he came out in a place he scarcely remembered.