I Own the Racecourse!

by Patricia Wrightson

  ‘Got to pick up the others,’ said Andy happily. ‘I bet they want to come.’ He headed for Joe’s back gate, and Matt followed. Andy collected all his friends and took them down to the lower gate of Beecham Park to watch the men sweeping.

  ‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ he said proudly. ‘Not like last night.’

  This was the moment, Matt decided. He caught Terry’s glance and frowned importantly.

  ‘Look here, Andy,’ he began, ‘where’s your sense? You know you couldn’t really buy this place for three dollars, don’t you?’

  ‘I just did,’ said Andy, smiling warmly and nodding hard.

  ‘You wasted your money, that’s all. How do you think you’re going to keep it going? Eh?’

  Andy looked at him in a puzzled way and laughed uneasily.

  ‘Come on, snap out of it,’ urged Matt. ‘How do you think you can run the place? What about those men, sweeping up the rubbish? They’ll be wanting their money in a minute, won’t they? What are you going to pay them with? Bottle-tops? And what about the men that water the track? And the ticket-sellers? You don’t think they’re going to run around doing your work for you for nothing?’

  Andy thought deeply. A lot of people had bought tickets last night; and there were the men now, sweeping. ‘They are doing it,’ he pointed out. ‘Look, I just showed you. You can see ’em, can’t you, Mike? Can you see the men sweeping, Joe?’ He nodded earnestly at Matt. ‘They’re doing it, all right. See ’em?’

  ‘But what about the money?’ shouted Matt.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Joe. Andy’s face was beginning to look stormy. He struggled for words, and tried to explain to Matt.

  ‘I said about the money already. I told you three dollars, and a long time getting that last one.’

  Matt took a deep breath and tried coaxing. ‘Andy, old boy, three dollars is just crazy. Why, what about the new stand, the one they’ve just put up? That cost thousands of dollars, just by itself.’

  Andy laughed delightedly. ‘He said I got it cheap! It was a bargain, I know.’ He added kindly, ‘You don’t want to worry about it, Matt. I got no more money, so I can’t build no more stands. That one was there already.’

  Matt gripped a handful of his own dark hair and looked helplessly at the others. They had been listening in a careful, judging way; and now Mike and Joe nodded a little. It was no good badgering Andy like this. Joe felt an urge to take him away from Beecham Park, to keep him away as much as possible and wait a little.

  ‘Where’s the skateboard?’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘It’s time we had another go. There’s that bit of road that goes below the case factory. It’s pretty steep, and no one goes there at week-ends.’

  They went to fetch the skateboard. Andy went with them quite happily, and watched for the rest of the morning; but in the afternoon he wandered off alone.

  5

  Inside the Walls

  Once Matt had tried to talk sense to Andy and had failed, there seemed to be nothing else that could be done just yet. Matt fumed helplessly, Terry looked dark and scornful, but neither of them could think of anything to suggest. Mike waited grimly for a sign of any new mocking or teasing; for it seemed to him that the cruellest part of this whole cruel trick was that Andy should be made to look a fool—Andy, who couldn’t help himself and would never hurt anyone else. Joe’s idea, that they should try to keep Andy away from Beecham Park until he forgot his obsession, was the best that anyone could suggest; but it was not as easy to carry out as it seemed. There were so many things to do. It was easy to keep an eye on Andy when he was there, doggedly and loyally following them about. It was not so easy to find him when he was missing, as he often was these days. They always watched for him when they were passing the lower corner of Beecham Park, where the gate often stood open; and once or twice, when they thought of it, they went to the cliff especially to look for him. Yet they saw very little of Andy during the next week.

  Andy was not trying to avoid his friends. He would have been very glad to have them with him, but he was too much occupied just now to spend his time following them about. Early in the morning, after school and in the warm evenings, he wandered about Appington Hill finding places from which to catch a fresh glimpse of his racecourse. So far he was content to look and admire, to see everything that happened, to possess it in his mind. There was still a shyness in the way he approached it—not the shyness of uncertainty, but a shyness brought on by the size and importance of his new world. He drifted quietly from place to place, finding vantage points on both the cliffs, from the height of Wattle Road, through gaps in the fence. Chuckling with pride, he watched the track being watered or raked, seats being repaired in the stands, horses training in the early morning. And he discovered the greyhounds.

  In a vague way, he had always known that greyhounds as well as trotters raced at Beecham Park. Like everyone else in Appington Hill, he had often seen them being taken for walks: lean, high-arched creatures walking delicately on long, springing legs and wearing muzzles on their pointed snouts. On the nights they raced, the crowds were much smaller than those at the trotting meetings. The big grandstand remained empty and unlit, and the high whining of the mechanical hare went on and on until it became unnoticeable. Andy was hardly aware of the greyhounds until he watched them racing from his place on the cliff.

  He liked the constant baying of the dogs, and the whining and bobbing of the hare. He liked the grass track that sprang up, vividly green under its own circle of floodlights, within the other track. He was amused and touched, chuckling to himself on the cliff, at the fierceness of the dogs straining to catch that little machine that could always put on just enough speed to stay in front; and at the solemn procession of men leading them out to race. Sometimes a fight would break out among the dogs being taken from the course after a race, but it never lasted for more than a moment or two. Andy would laugh hugely, mutter encouragement to the dogs, and admire the way their trainers handled them. On the whole he found greyhound meetings, or the training nights, more homely and interesting than trotting but not so brilliantly and splendidly exciting.

  Even in the streets he began to watch for the gallant creatures that used his racecourse. In the morning he might see one of the horses returning from its training, lively and gentle amid the zooming cars and thundering trucks, drawing its gig with grace and ease up the steep hills that the people climbed so heavily and slowly. In the afternoon he would meet a greyhound with cold, remote eyes, straining against the short leash that kept it in check. Andy watched them proudly, and sometimes waved to the drivers or the people leading dogs. Often they waved back; for Andy’s open, simple face was warmer and more interested than the faces of most boys. He was delighted when they waved. It seemed as though they knew he belonged.

  One night a great black storm came rolling up from the south. Green glares of lightning ripped across Andy’s window, flash after flash, tearing darkness and colour away. Thunder cracked and crashed, and then the rain thrashed at the roof. All through his sleep he heard crashing thunder, hurtling rain, and the wash and gurgle of gutters overflowing. In the morning the storm-water channel was running full, carrying timber and paper and soggy cardboard out to the harbour. When Andy looked through the gate into Beecham Park, he stood transfixed. The green circle inside the track had become a wide sheet of water, and a company of seagulls screamed over it or sat on the surface.

  That morning Joe was out early too, chasing the milkman for an extra pint of milk that his mother had forgotten to order. He came upon Andy staring through the wire mesh of the gate, silent and still. Joe stopped to look too. The strong white wings of the gulls flashed in the early sun.

  ‘See the birds,’ whispered Andy, finding a friend beside him. ‘Birds and dogs and horses…I wish the birds would stay.’

  ‘You didn’t have to pay three dollars to look at it,’ Joe reminded him. ‘You could have looked without.’

  ‘I could have looked without,’ repeated Andy, nodding. He add
ed, ‘Only now it’s mine.’

  Joe tried again. ‘Wouldn’t you like to have the money back and buy something else? You’d still have this just the same.’

  Andy’s eyes slid away, discarding these words. As far as he could see, they had nothing to do with anything.

  ‘Let’s help you get the money back,’ persisted Joe. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we? We’ll help, boy.’

  The warmth of Andy’s smile was like the sun coming through a window. ‘Gee, I know that, Joe. If I need any help I’ll let you know.’

  Joe turned away helplessly, clutching his bottle of milk. Andy’s voice called after him.

  ‘Hey, Joe! I’m real sorry you haven’t got a place like this, Joe. I mean a real place, not kidding like that game…You can have a share of this any time you like, Joe.’

  Joe muttered, ‘Thanks, boy,’ and went away.

  It was when he heard this story from Joe that Terry, that fierce young O’Day, turned coldly angry. In precise and considered words he stated that the old man who had sold Beecham Park Trotting Course to Andy Hoddel was a mean, miserable, cunning and rotten old urger. Then he closed his lips in a thin straight line and went away to look for Andy.

  Joe had told his story on the way home from school. By then the storm-lake had drained away from Beecham Park, the seagulls were gone and the sun had almost dried the grounds. Terry came upon Andy observing these changes from the vacant ground above Wattle Road, sitting on his favourite stone and surrounded by stray cats. Terry stood before him, coldly determined.

  ‘Who’s this old geezer that sold you Beecham Park?’

  ‘Him?’ said Andy. ‘I don’t know him. He’s the bloke that used to own it.’

  ‘You come and find him and show us. He can give you back that money.’

  ‘I don’t want it back,’ said Andy, astonished. ‘I’d rather have the racecourse. That’s why I bought it.’

  ‘You listen to me,’ said Terry sternly. ‘He never owned Beecham Park, so he couldn’t sell it to you. He’s a yellow dingo, taking money off you like that. He’s rooked you, that’s all.’

  Andy began to look lost and lonely. Terry’s relentless voice went on.

  ‘Can’t you understand plain English? You had a dirty trick played on you. You’ve been robbed. You got a right to have that money back again, and you’re getting it back. We’ll make him give it up.’

  ‘You stop it!’ shouted Andy, stumbling to his feet. ‘I don’t want that money back when I already spent it, do I?’ Stray cats hissed, spat and vanished over fences. ‘I had enough trouble buying the place,’ shouted Andy, ‘without you messing it up!’ He turned and loped quickly away into the lane.

  For a day or so Terry kept on searching, determined to make the victim realize his misfortune; but now Andy really was avoiding his friends, darting round corners and into back lanes whenever he saw them coming. He was nervous of Terry.

  Both Mike and Joe were annoyed when they heard of this episode. ‘You went off half cocked,’ said Mike, accusing Terry. ‘You ought to have known it wouldn’t work. It’s useless trying to bounce Andy, he just gets pigheaded.’

  ‘You’ve upset him, too,’ added Joe. ‘If you don’t watch out, he won’t talk to us about it at all. How can we get him out of this mess if we don’t know what’s going on?’

  ‘I know you were doing your best,’ said Mike, cutting the argument short now that Joe had entered it. ‘Anyhow, it can’t be helped.’

  Only Matt sympathized with Terry. ‘I know just how you feel—you wish you could get behind Andy and push him. At least you and I have tried, and that’s more than some people I know.’

  Joe and Mike ignored this reproach. Each of them still had that feeling of waiting for the real problem to emerge. There was something more at stake than the loss of three dollars, something they didn’t yet understand. Meanwhile they could only go on as they were doing, looking out for Andy whenever they thought of it and not seeing him very often.

  Andy continued to avoid them. By now he had gazed at his racecourse from every possible point, and his shyness was beginning to wear off. Sitting on the side of the cliff and looking into the grounds, he began to wonder if the men had swept them properly.

  ‘A packet of trouble,’ he would mutter, solemnly shaking his head. ‘That’s what he said. A packet of trouble.’

  It had been no trouble at all to Andy. He could have wished it to be a little more trouble, for it hardly seemed to know he was there.

  One night when the whine of the mechanical hare went on and on, he ventured down to the open gate instead of going up to the cliff to watch. There was a man standing just inside the gate, a tall man with a strong, long-jawed face and a square mouth. Andy was surprised to see him and halted rather suddenly. Then he gave the man his warm smile, said, ‘Hullo, mister,’ and leaned against the gatepost. The man looked at him in a serious way that Andy liked, and nodded politely.

  The hare came whirring by, and the greyhounds bounded after it in long, elastic strides. To stand so near them was something new. Andy chuckled with excitement, looking up at the man in a companionable way, and went on watching. A short-legged ginger pup with a curling tail recognized Andy and came to sit in the gateway. It grinned a happy, silly grin, but Andy was too absorbed to notice.

  There were no people in the grandstands and no lights on except the floodlights over the track. There were only the men who were busy with the dogs, and they were not wearing their long white coats. They were away on the other side of the course, near the barrier with its little doors that opened to let the dogs out at the beginning of a race. The hare went whining endlessly round the track, going quite slowly some of the time but never stopping. Sometimes, as it passed the barrier, the doors would fly open and four or five greyhounds would leap after it. Then the hare would put on speed and give them a race. There was a constant yelping and baying.

  ‘It’s not proper racing, I know,’ said Andy wisely to the tall man. ‘Just practising, that’s all it is.’

  ‘Training,’ said the man, nodding.

  Then something happened that filled Andy with astonishment and joy. The hare came slowly by, with no greyhounds following. The ginger pup at Andy’s feet went running into the ring, yapping in a happy, breathless way—and suddenly, on the emerald-green track under the brilliant lights, the puppy was chasing the hare. Neck stretched out, ears flying, short legs bounding, the puppy was catching up when, just in time, the hare speeded up and escaped. The puppy went after it, yapping eagerly.

  Andy roared with laughter. He hit the gate with his hand and roared again. ‘Look at him go! He nearly got it! He thinks he’s a greyhound.’ He laughed and laughed, looking up at the tall man and pointing at the ridiculous ginger pup.

  On the other side of the track, indignant greyhound-trainers were waving and shouting. The pup, uncurling its tail a little and beginning to look hunted, swerved away under the rails and disappeared. The tall man’s square mouth stretched into a wide smile.

  ‘A nice set-out,’ he said, giving Andy a sympathetic nod. Then he strolled off towards the stands.

  Andy came a little farther inside the gate and sat on the ground. He was glad to have made friends with the tall man. He sat by himself in the dusk, full of the pride of ownership.

  On the next afternoon, finding the gate open again, he slipped quietly inside and looked about. There was nobody in sight on all the broad circle of the racecourse. Andy wandered about, noticing details he had never seen before in spite of all his watching: mysterious locked doors under the big grandstand, wooden benches inside the ring where the band sat when it wasn’t playing, a long building with a row of little windows like the ticket windows; until he found himself in an open space right under the high walls. It was very quiet and deserted. He felt safe and private inside the walls of the racecourse.

  It was not as clean and neat as it seemed from a distance. He collected some old programmes, cigarette packets and wrappings from chocolate bars and p
ut them in an empty rubbish-bin. ‘Ought to keep it tidy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A packet of trouble, that’s what it is.’

  There was a long garden bed against the wall, with roses and hydrangeas standing tall at the back and a tangle of phlox and dianthus in front. Andy was surprised and pleased to find it there, and looked at it for a long time. There were some withered flowers on the plants, and weeds growing here and there between them. Andy shook his head again.

  ‘I shoulda come before,’ he said with some pleasure.

  He crouched on the paving in front of the bed and began to pull out weeds and pick off a few dead flowers. After a while he felt that someone was near him. He looked up. It was the tall, sober man with the long jaw and square mouth. He carried a coiled hose over his arm, and he was looking at Andy in the same serious but friendly way as before.

  ‘Just going to give them a drop of water,’ he said, laying down the hose. He uncoiled one end and took it to a tap farther along the wall. He screwed in the hose, turned on the tap and came back. Andy sat back on his heels and watched the hose writhe and jump as it took the pressure of water. The man picked up the nozzle and threw a jet of water among the plants.

  ‘You work here, mister?’ asked Andy, pulling at another weed.

  ‘Part of the time,’ said the man. He glanced at the little heap of weeds and dead flowers on the paving and added, ‘Seems you’ve been working too.’

  ‘There’s a lot wants doing,’ said Andy, frowning and nodding. ‘I shoulda started sooner. I picked up a whole heap of papers already. It’s a packet of trouble.’

  ‘Takes some keeping up, all right,’ the man agreed.

  ‘I don’t know who you are,’ Andy stated, obviously thinking about it. He liked this quiet, friendly man.

  ‘Name’s Bert Hammond. Yours?’

  ‘What—me? I’m Andy Hoddel, that’s who I am.’ He tried the man’s name over. ‘Bert Hammond—that’s Mr Hammond, that is.’ Shyness was making him grab at the weeds and yank them hard. He wanted to tell the man more than just his name. He wanted to say what else he was, besides being Andy Hoddel; but the words seemed to be too big. He went back a little way in the conversation, so that he could have another try.