I Own the Racecourse!

by Patricia Wrightson

  There was rough grass under his feet, and in front a wide darkness scattered with distant lights. Behind him was the row of little cottages with front doors to which no caller ever came and front gates opening on no street or pavement. Only a strip of rough, grassy ground, with outcrops of sandstone, lay in front of the houses; and beyond this the curving edge of a cliff. Andy could see, twenty or thirty feet below, the windy, lamp-hung tree-tops and green stretches of the park leading away to the docks and the far lights of the city. A wire mesh fence guarded the edge of the cliff at this end; but farther along, where the cliff curved back, there was no fence. He turned that way, stumbling over rough ground in the dark. There was noise and light and movement down there, where the grandstands of Beecham Park Trotting Course rose between this cliff and a matching one beyond them. Andy reached the edge of the cliff and looked down, into the circle of high walls and buildings, into the glowing, lively magic of Beecham Park on a race night.

  There were the great stands edged with strings of lights, and the white oval of the rails, with the brown oval of the track lying inside it. A restless crowd of people drifted before the stands and washed along the rails. There were huge boards where red lights flashed and numbers rose and fell. Over the track hung a ring of floodlights, spraying misty showers of light; and a band in dark uniforms marched on the track, playing music that made Andy laugh. Within the track was a pool of shadows rippling with the gleam of parked cars. Outside it, where the crowds were drifting, there was a crop of little red-topped stands where bookmakers were giving their short, sharp cries. Outside the circling walls of the course, rows of buses and crowds of parked cars spread away into streets and parkland.

  Behind Andy, on the row of little dark verandahs, there was sometimes a stir or a murmuring voice. Other people, who belonged here, were watching the lively magic of race night. To be away from them, Andy climbed over the edge of the cliff to a shelf of sandstone two or three feet down. He sat there, poised above the light and colour of Beecham Park.

  The band marched away, and the voice from the amplifiers began to intone. It no longer sounded like the voice of a giant speaking from the roof-tops. Here it was in proportion to all the rest, the right sort of voice to speak from the lighted stage of the racecourse. The crowd flowed into the stands or were washed into a line along the rails. The bookmakers’ cries stuttered loudly like firecrackers, then fell silent. Everything was silent except the voice singing its chant of names. There came a whispering along the track, and a soft beating like silken drums—the horses swept by in a dark, shining mass drawn out along the rails. The wheels of their gigs whirled and whispered; the drivers’ silks shone like jewels, scarlet, sapphire, gold and green; the horses lifted their proud, cockaded heads, their legs shone and flashed to the soft thudding of drums. Whips beat, and the whole mass vanished behind a stand. The voice sang on: Magic Circle…Falling Star…Southern Rose…Sunfire…Again the horses flashed and passed. A third time they came, and this time a great, roaring crowd-voice travelled round the course with them. The chanting rose to a frenzy, lights flashed, the mass of horses broke into scattered, flying units. The race was over.

  Andy leaned back against the wall of the cliff. He was too breathless to chuckle or mutter. The light from the racecourse threw a pale gleam over his face: his eyes staring, full of warmth and wonder, his mouth open, spikes of hair sticking up on the back of his head. Hardly knowing where he was, he sat on his high perch and watched for a long time.

  After a while he began to feel cold and stiff. His head was dazed with colour and movement, but the stone of the cliff was hard and cold. He climbed up stiffly, stumbled through the darkness until he found the narrow passage by which he had come, and went home. There was still a coming and going of cars in the streets, and the white coats of the attendants glimmered under the street-lights; but Andy passed them without seeing. His mother was still working in their front room, and she had the kitchen clock on the table where she could see it.

  ‘You’ve been a long time,’ she said, putting her work away while the lines smoothed out of her face. ‘What have you all been up to? Concocting some wonderful thing in O’Days’ toolshed, I suppose.’

  Full of secrets and splendour, Andy smiled at her dimly and went to bed.

  He woke up early, while Mrs Hoddel was still asleep. The secrets and splendour were still there. He wanted to go back to the cliff and look down by daylight; but he knew it was Sunday and he was supposed to go to church. He dressed, worrying about his mother and whether she would be late for church because of waiting for him. He decided to leave her a message. He found a pencil and paper, wrote ‘Gone’, and left this message on the kitchen table. Then he took a banana and a piece of cake and went out by the front door.

  The street was empty and very quiet. A small girl in pyjamas sat in one of the doorways and pushed her doll’s pram backwards and forwards across the pavement. An old woman, shapeless in a cotton gown and with a long braid of grey hair swinging over her shoulder, opened another door and took in a bottle of milk. Andy loped past with the long, bouncing stride he used when he wanted to get somewhere quickly. He made his way through the quiet streets till he reached the row of back gates that belonged to the cliff-top houses. He slipped through the little passage and came out on the jutting rocks and rank grass near the cliff.

  A man was sitting in the sun on the front steps of one of the cottages, reading a Sunday paper. Andy went quietly down to the farther end of the cliff and climbed over as he had last night.

  There was the racecourse, empty and still inside its high walls. The stands were gaunt and colourless in the morning sun. Newspapers and racing programmes littered the ground outside the rails and lay in drifts along the walls. Only the broad green oval inside the track had any life or colour. The rest looked bare, ugly and self-important.

  Andy was delighted with it. ‘You wouldn’t know,’ he chuckled. ‘If you didn’t see it you wouldn’t know.’ So cunningly, by daylight, did the racecourse hide the shifting, glowing magic that had filled it the night before. Beyond its walls the empty parklands stretched away to the docks, far more pleasant to look at. There were trees there, and the winding storm-water channel where a glint of water reflected the sky. There were the deep and shady arches on which the railway swept across in a wide curve. To look at it, anyone would think that the open park was a pleasanter, more interesting place than the racecourse. Andy laughed.

  As he brooded over it, he saw that there was in fact some movement inside the high walls of the course. A single horse was running on the track, drawing its gig easily and swiftly behind. It wore no cockade, and its driver had only drab overalls. Close to the high wall on the nearer side, Andy could sometimes glimpse a movement of men who seemed to be sweeping. He began to scramble down and along the rocks, sliding and bumping to the bottom of the cliff.

  He reached the bottom and stood in the lower part of Wattle Road, where buses had been standing in long rows last night. Across the road was the southern wall of Beecham Park, with a litter of paper strewn along it. Andy crossed the road and walked along under the wall. There seemed to be no way in. At the corner he turned into Blunt Street and went steeply downhill, following the eastern wall. All the gates, roller doors and ticket windows were closed. Not till he reached the lowest and farthest corner did he find a high gate of wire mesh that stood open.

  Andy stood shyly in the gateway and looked across the broad grounds.

  3

  The Man with the Bottles

  The men with brooms were now far away on the other side of the course. Andy was standing at one end of the big stand that he had seen filled with people last night. There was a beating of hoofs, a shirring of wheels, and the horse swept by behind the rails. He had a glimpse of its deep chest and powerful legs, and the concentrated frown of the driver. When it had passed he looked again at the grandstands, the clutter of smaller buildings, the grounds lying green and quiet in the sunlight, and up at the cliffs that
stood over it on two sides with little, remote houses clinging to their tops. He stood there, just inside the gateway, with his hair sticking up in spikes and his round blue eyes full of warmth and admiration for Beecham Park Trotting Course.

  He was just looking at the big stand when an old bent man came towards him from that direction, carrying a sack on his back and peering about as he came. For a moment Andy wondered if the old man would send him away; but the faded green trousers and baggy grey jacket that he wore looked homely and not frightening. Andy gave his warm and friendly smile. The old man peered at him with faded blue eyes and nodded. Then he lowered the sack, picked up an empty bottle from the ground and put it in the sack. There was a clanking of many bottles as he hefted the sack to his shoulder again and came on.

  ‘Do they let you in there?’ Andy asked admiringly.

  The old man wobbled a white moustache that was stained with yellow. His face had deep downward creases and a lot of grey stubble on the chin. ‘Like to see ’em keep me out,’ he boasted huskily. ‘They’ll set the dogs on you if they catch you inside.’

  ‘I’m not doing no harm,’ said Andy, who had no fear of dogs. The old man prodded at a pile of newspapers, looking for more bottles. ‘It’s good here,’ said Andy dreamily, looking at the sheltering walls. ‘It’s the best place I know.’

  I own the timber-yard!

  I own the Town Hall!

  I own the ferries!

  ‘I wish I owned this place,’ said Andy. ‘Don’t you wish you owned this place, mister?’

  The old man stared fixedly. The lines on his face set deeper, and some sort of spark lit in his faded eyes. ‘Nothing but a packet of trouble, this place. Sell it to you cheap if you like.’ He came closer, till he was stooping forward right into Andy’s face. His own was patterned with little red veins and patches of grey skin. ‘Three of these newfangled dollars, there’s a bargain for you. I been wanting to get rid of it, it’s too much for me, or I wouldn’t let it go so cheap. Come on now, what do you say? You won’t do better, I’m telling you. Three dollars, take it or leave it.’

  Andy stared at him, and laughed and laughed. The spark in the old man’s eyes twinkled back. ‘I never knew it was yours!’ cried Andy, laughing again. ‘You know what, mister? I never knew it was your place!’

  ‘Three dollars,’ repeated the old man, ‘and that’s my last word. Don’t waste my time if you haven’t got it.’

  ‘I don’t know if I got it or not,’ said Andy, chuckling excitedly. ‘I got some in my money-box, but I don’t know if it’s three dollars.’

  ‘I won’t be beaten down on my price,’ said the old man, grimly playful. ‘Three dollars, and a bargain at that.’ He shifted the sack on his shoulder and walked off, clanking.

  Andy ran after him a little way. ‘I bet I got three dollars, mister!’ he called. ‘You wait and see!’ But the old man disappeared into the back door of a hotel across the street. Andy started for home at once, to open his money-box.

  He knew he was not supposed to do this. His mother looked after his money-box for him, and put something in it whenever he delivered a parcel of sewing for her. Andy himself put in odd coins from time to time, whenever he had one to spare. He couldn’t remember that it had ever been opened, except once when he put some buttons in for a joke. His mother had needed the buttons. She had scolded him, and had taken out a screw that held the two halves of the box together. There had been some money in the box then, and he thought that was a long time ago. He remembered with pleasure that he had learnt to count money quite well.

  ‘It’s my money, anyhow,’ muttered Andy. His head felt as though a swarm of bees was buzzing about inside it. He had no thought to spare for the slow and stumbling way his feet were taking him through the criss-cross, up-and-down streets.

  A surly white terrier nosed at his heels. He clicked his fingers at it from habit, the terrier’s tail moved in salutes and it trotted after him. Another, older and even more evil-looking, joined the first. Then a bow-legged dachshund and a foolishly grinning pup tumbled out of a lane, sniffed him, and went running ahead. Andy climbed some steps to the vacant lot where he sometimes sat and looked at the city, and crossed to the corner where the lane led out towards his own street. The dogs paused and sniffed exploringly. The terriers growled. The dachshund gave a deep bark. The puppy set up a noisy yapping. Yellow eyes widened in the shadows, fur stiffened and lips snarled. Cats spat and hurtled over fences, dogs leapt and yelped. Andy stood still in the lane and laughed with shock.

  ‘I forgot!’ he shouted to the fleeing cats. Then he fled himself, down the lane. ‘Poor old cats,’ he muttered as he ran. ‘They got stirred up, all right.’

  Mrs Hoddel had gone to church, and the house was locked. Andy climbed in through the bathroom window and found his money-box on the mantelpiece. He loosened the screw with the blade of a knife and opened the box. A little heap of silver fell out on the table. Andy sorted the coins into separate heaps to make counting easier before he began, with great care, to put them together into dollars. There were two dollars, and a few coins left over. He screwed the money-box together again and then, because the odd coins seemed somehow to be a nuisance, dropped them back in through the slot. He found an empty pin-box on his mother’s worktable to hold the two dollars, tucked it under the mattress of his bed and climbed out of the window again.

  ‘That’s all I got, only two dollars,’ he muttered. ‘I got to get another one yet.’ He wandered out to the street, thinking about it in a hopeful and determined way. ‘A dollar…a dollar, now. He said three of ’em, and there’s only two. I gotta get another one somewhere.’

  Farther down the street he saw Matt and Joe, strolling towards O’Days’ place. He shouted, and broke into his loping run to catch them up.

  ‘Here’s old Andy,’ said Matt over his shoulder. ‘Going to have a go on the board today, boy?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Andy, swaggering. ‘Got no time for that. I gotta find a dollar somewhere. Just thought I’d tell you.’

  Matt whistled, pretending to be impressed. ‘A dollar, eh? That’s a lot of dough. What do you want it for?’

  Andy screwed his round face into a look of great cunning and secrecy. ‘You’ll see. Just wait, and then you’ll see. I got two already, but there’ll be another one yet.’

  Joe was looking at him thoughtfully. ‘Come on, Andy, you can tell us. What do you need three dollars for?’

  Andy smiled his warm smile. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said kindly. ‘I’ll get hold of him somewhere, you’ll see. I just thought I’d tell you.’ He nodded, waved and strolled off, leaving the others to stare after him. Joe was frowning a little, but Matt’s lively face was alight with curiosity.

  Andy didn’t notice, for he was already thinking deeply about his problem. He thought about it all the morning, and while he ate his lunch. His mother spoke kindly but seriously about his missing church and her disappointment at having to go alone. He listened for a little, and it made him feel very uncomfortable and sorry; so he let his face go on looking sad while his mind went back to thinking about the dollar. In the afternoon he went looking for empty bottles, exploring the park and storm-water channel as well as a number of garbage cans; but there were not many bottles of the right sort, and he raised only ten cents. After that he did some more thinking.

  It took him five afternoons to raise the dollar. He tried knocking at the doors of people he knew and offering to run messages or mow lawns; but most of those who accepted his offer did so in a spirit of gratitude that made him too uncomfortable to ask for money.

  ‘You’re a real kind boy, Andy,’ said Ma Eaton, giving him a sweet smile and a spotty banana from the window of the shop. ‘I’ll be sure and tell your mother what a help you’ve been. She ought to be real proud.’

  Andy gave up this scheme after two days, having raised only another twenty cents. He was wandering homeward down a lane, depressed and lonely, when he was startled by voices as shrill as the cry of a pee-we
e.

  ‘Look out, Andy Hoddel!’ ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’

  Andy looked. One of his feet was planted on a square of green taffeta and the other poised above a circle of white velvet. These and other scraps of gay materials were laid out on a sheet of paper outside an open gate, where Irene Willis and Noela Black sat with scissors and reels of cotton. Two small dolls of very grown-up shape, with hard, shiny smiles and astonishing masses of silky hair, lay on their backs and stared glassily.

  Andy stood still while he took all this in, then backed slowly and awkwardly. ‘I never meant it,’ he said, feeling very bad. ‘I never saw. Is it all right?’

  Irene was shaking and blowing the green taffeta. Both girls bent over it and muttered together. Neither of them answered him, but Andy was lost in thought. After a while he called to them. ‘Hey!’

  They looked up in a hostile way.

  ‘Do you want a lot more of that stuff?’ said Andy, looking at the scraps of material. ‘I’ll get you a whole lot more if you want it. Only twenty cents. All different colours.’

  They conferred. ‘I haven’t got twenty cents,’ said Irene.

  ‘What have you got, then?’

  ‘Only ten cents.’

  ‘I’ll get you some for ten cents if you want it. You could have had a whole lot for twenty cents; but I reckon you’ll get a good bit for ten cents, if that’s all you’ve got.’

  The two girls looked at each other. ‘His mother’s a dressmaker,’ they said, nodding wisely.

  ‘I’ve got ten cents too,’ said Noela.

  ‘I’ll get two lots,’ said Andy. ‘You can go and find the money.’ He went loping home to find the bag into which his mother stuffed the small, useless pieces of stuff that tumbled on the floor when she was cutting out. He dumped handfuls of gay scraps on two sheets of newspaper, and when he took the fat parcels back, each of the girls produced a shilling.