by JH Fletcher
The house had been built from stone slabs and timber. It looked as though it had been thrown together anyhow, but must have been sturdy enough to withstand the gales, of which there were certain to be many in such a location.
Before Charlie could knock, the door opened and he found himself looking at a little man of about thirty-five with a sharp nose and the build and leathery features of a jockey.
‘Looking for someone?’ Perhaps he was as friendly as Doug had said, but for the moment there was no sign of it.
‘Doug told me to call on you.’ It sounded feeble, but it was all he could think of to say.
‘Doug?’ He scowled ferociously around the pointed prow of his nose, the scowl much too big for the face that went with it. ‘Doug who?’
‘I don’t know his other name.’
‘Describe him,’ commanded the little man.
‘Tall. Grey hair. Lined face. Wearing a peaked cap —’
‘That’ll do,’ the man interrupted. ‘Where did you meet him?’
‘On the rattler, coming over from Perth.’
And the frown flew as the little man threw back his sharp nose and laughed uproariously. ‘The old devil. What’s he doing over there, I wonder? He’ll tell me one of these days, I suppose. Got him with you, have you?’ And looked searchingly at Charlie, as though he might have Doug hidden in his swag.
‘We got separated. A cop dragged me off the train —’
‘Did he, though? I’ll lay odds he never grabbed hold of old Doug!’
‘Doug managed to slip away somehow.’
‘Too right! That old Doug! A cop would have to get up early in the morning to outsmart him. Very early in the morning, let me tell you. Well,’ he said briskly, ‘don’ stand jawin’ on the doorstep. Come in, come in, an’ you can tell me all about it.’ And led the way into the cliff house. ‘Old Doug!’ he chortled over his shoulder, dancing gleefully on little feet. ‘Can’t beat him, can you?’
2
Hoss Widdecombe was his name, or so he said. The way he behaved, it might have been anything, might even change from one minute to the next, like the rest of him.
Certainly, his expression changed all the time, frowns and laughter chasing each other across his features so rapidly that it was difficult to know whether he was about to kiss you or knock you down. His body and limbs were in a similar state of twitch: jigging, finger-tapping, leaping up, flinging himself down again, while all the time the words cascaded in broken phrases from his nimble lips, about old Doug, and the adventures they’d had together, how they’d cheeked the law and got away with it, the times they’d cleaned up at one track or another.
‘That’s why they call me Hoss,’ he confided. ‘As far as horses are concerned, I’m the king.’
Anyone less like a king would have been difficult to imagine, although Charlie was hard put to it to decide what the extraordinary little man was really like, either. In body, mind and even character he seemed unable to sit still for a moment. Everything about him was always on the go. You thought you’d got hold of him then — whoops! — he was off again, leaving you grasping at shadows.
His stories of the track were like that; maybe they were true, maybe they weren’t.
‘Into the gee-gees, are you?’ he asked. Then, before Charlie had the chance to open his mouth, he was off again, flying the kites of his tall tales across the brilliant skies of his imagination.
Tales of triumph, of cheek and glory, how he’d sassed this bloke or that, outsmarted bookies who’d tried to diddle him, seen off two-timing jockeys; all told in a gallop of words, like the horses that seemed, in this house perched between sky and water that looked as though it might give up the struggle and avalanche into the sea at any moment, to be the one solid factor in his life.
Because the house was a mess. Whatever the truth of his tales of racetrack triumphs, Hoss had clearly spent none of his winnings on the house he lived in.
There were cracks in the ceiling and the walls, some of them big enough to stick your fist in. Everywhere water stains showed where the rain had come in. Salt damp glistened. To sit on the furniture was to take your life in your hands. Hoss’s domestic arrangements seemed equally chaotic, clothes and boots chucked down in corners and across the backs of the only two chairs he possessed. There was a raft of dirty dishes slung in the sink. The stove, black and horrible, as though something dangerous might be lurking inside it, looked fit only for the dump. It was hard to relate this wreckage to the glory yarns of triumph and success but, bemused, Charlie didn’t try. Grief and Wendy were still with him, although he hoped he might be mending. What he was looking for was a place to put up for a week, two at the most; time to get his breath back before continuing his long pilgrimage into the north.
‘You’re staying here with me, o’ course,’ Hoss said, jigging about so wildly that Charlie was afraid he might bring the house down about their ears. ‘That suit you? Of course it does.’
‘Maybe for a few days,’ said Charlie. ‘Give me a chance to get my breath back, you know?’
‘Just the ticket! We’ll find somewhere for you to kip down. Easy’s the policy in this house,’ he explained unnecessarily, and laughed. ‘Sleep where you drop, eh? Stick your bag down somewhere, we’ll have a bite o’ grub — catch it out the living-room window, here — and then this arvo I got a real treat for us both. I’m taking you to the races!’
3
‘An old friend,’ said Hoss. ‘Joe Klein. The biggest crook in Sydney!’ He spoke the insult like an accolade.
Charlie looked at the bookie perched on his stand, like an orator, which in some ways he was, bellowing incomprehensibly in a voice of brass. He broke off his patter long enough to exchange a few words with the old mate, or at least customer, who was bouncing and jigging about on the turf in front of him.
‘Thought it was too good a day to last. Who’s your mate?’
‘This is Charlie.’ Who might have been royalty, the way Hoss flourished the name.
‘Charlie what?’
‘You know better than that! No last names, not with Hoss. A good mate of old Doug’s,’ he confided.
Joe seemed less than impressed. ‘You gunna place a bet? Or are you just makin’ the place untidy?’
‘I think I’ll have ten bob on Ascot,’ Hoss said.
Joe Klein inspected him with a red and suspicious eye. ‘Not without money you won’t.’
‘My credit’s good.’
‘Not for ten.’
‘But why? What’s ten bob? Name like Ascot, the nag’s bound to win. Right?’
‘Not for ten.’
Hoss danced, throwing up his hands. ‘Make it five then. Five suit you?’
Joe scowled. ‘I gotta be mad.’ But wrote the bet in his book. He stared at Charlie. ‘You goin’ for anythin’?’
Charlie hadn’t given it a thought. The idea of losing five bob … Then something — excitement, bravado — gripped him. Before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth.
‘Make it the same for me.’ He dug in his pocket and held out a note. ‘Make it ten.’
Horrified, thinking: What am I doing?
Too late now.
‘Cash,’ Joe Klein said, his fat fingers nipping it dexterously from Charlie’s fingers before he could change his mind. He grinned at Hoss, showing his teeth. ‘Not like the usual run of your mates, is he? This one’s a gentleman.’
And was at once bellowing again, loud enough to raise the dust.
Hoss burrowed his way between the beefy backs of punters, found a place for them at the rail.
‘This feels more like it,’ he exulted, and celebrated with a tiny jig. He flung a spiky glance in Charlie’s direction. ‘Ain’t that right?’
Charlie did not answer. What he was feeling was sick. Ten bob! How could he have done it? Last week it had taken him ten hours’ wheat walloping to earn as much. Shilling an hour, take it or leave it, and bugger the award. And now this, showing off in front of a bloke he didn’t e
ven know. Fool! Fool!
‘Eight starters,’ Hoss said, standing on tiptoe as he squinted across at the stands.
How he knew, Charlie had no idea; at this range, he couldn’t make out anything. He wanted to ask what would happen if, by some miracle, their horse won. How would they get their money? But did not, afraid that, if he even spoke of the possibility of winning, it might bring bad luck.
The loudspeakers quacked; at once a stir and murmur ran around the course.
‘They’re off,’ squeaked Hoss, snapping his fingers and leaping this way and that, lithe as any ballet dancer. ‘Here they come!’
The murmurs grew louder, sweeping with the riders around the course, and the ground shook with the hollow thunder of hooves. A blur of red and blue and white silks, a cavalry charge of horseflesh in a blaze of chestnut and black and grey, all the colours painted across Charlie’s eyes as he watched, hands clenched, mind clenched: on the terror of loss, the remote, shining star of victory.
Come on, come on!
The thunder of hooves faded; the sour taste of fear remained.
Fool!
Everyone was pressing forward as the frontrunners neared the finish. Charlie felt himself squeezed against the rail, the hot press of bodies at his back, but barely gave it a thought. All his attention was focused on what was happening on the far side of the track. In vain; he could still make nothing out, did not even know the colours of the horse that was carrying his precious ten bob.
It was over. Drained, he stared at Hoss, not daring to ask or even hope. Hoss’s shoulders slumped.
‘Close,’ he said.
Oh God.
Then, before despair had a chance to take hold, the loudspeaker quacked again, and Hoss gave a jiggle and shake, his body once again wire-tight. Head tilted to one side as he listened, his sharp nose seemed to sniff out the announcer’s words, even before he’d said them.
‘Objection!’ Hoss said, and gripped Charlie’s arm with a nutcracker hand. ‘Objection against the winner!’
‘What does that mean?’
Hoss gave him a look, needle-sharp. ‘It means hold your breath.’
He had to hold it for a long time before, once again, the loudspeaker came to life. Again Hoss’s long nose quested the air.
‘Objection … sustained!’
The little man shrieked, his voice as high as a woman’s, and flung his arms about and capered.
Charlie’s heart went thump. ‘You mean …?’
‘We won! Of course! Did you ever doubt it?’
Charlie had doubted it very much but that didn’t matter any more.
‘Come on …’
Hoss was fighting through the mob, eeling between waistcoats towards Joe Klein’s stand, with Charlie right behind him.
‘Makes a change,’ the bookie said. But offered Hoss no money.
‘Where is it?’ Hoss demanded, doing a little dance to delight a non-existent audience. ‘Don’ keep the customers waiting!’
‘I’m settin’ it off agin what you owe me.’
Hoss’s features mimed tragedy, despair, death. ‘You couldn’t be so cruel!’
‘Watch me.’
‘Gimme half, Joe? Please? Eh? As a friend? Just a half?’
‘God,’ said Joe Klein. ‘Anythin’ for a bit o’ peace.’ And took some notes from his bag and shoved them at him. ‘’Ere … Get outa my sight.’
‘You are a gentleman, Joe,’ Hoss said. ‘A brick. I’ll tell the world what a great bloke you are. Promise. And now,’ arms and legs working a frenzy, ‘my mate would like his too.’
‘Ten bob to win,’ Joe said. ‘Too right. Anyone who bets cash is more than welcome, I’m sure.’
Charlie counted his winnings with a trembling hand.
‘Over ten pounds!’ He turned eagerly to Hoss. ‘Give me a horse for the next race.’
‘Pick your own,’ said Hoss. ‘I can see you got the knack.’
Maybe Hoss was right. Charlie picked a name and it won. Then a name in the following race, and it won. It was as though, at last, a lid had been screwed down upon the world of doubt and pain that was all he had known for so long. With every win the sun shone brighter, the blood coursed faster through his veins, and he won every race. Halfway through the afternoon, the punters around him were beginning to touch him for luck. Even Hoss was taken aback by it, and Joe Klein’s smile was no longer jolly when Charlie went to collect his winnings.
The last race was run: another winner. Charlie counted the fat wad of notes crammed into his pocket. And stared. It couldn’t be.
Hoss’s sharp nose hovered at his shoulder. ‘How much?’
‘A hundred and twenty-seven pounds, fourteen shillings.’
From ten bob. It was true; saying it had made it real.
Hoss was also ahead. He’d paid twenty quid off what he owed the bookie and had the same in his pocket.
‘Party!’ he cried.
He had a mate; blokes like Hoss always did. From him he got a flagon of wine and an unlabelled bottle of what the mate swore was whisky. When they opened it, it tasted more like medicinal alcohol, but who cared? It had a punch like James Braddock, they’d had a great time and between them had scored a hundred and fifty quid. Why should they care what kind of whisky it was?
Next morning they cared. Oh boy. A gut brimming with what felt like death, a head … Don’t even talk of heads. Charlie clutched himself and moaned, retching, and might have wished he were truly dead, had not the thought of his winnings, his glorious, wonderful, unbelievable winnings, sustained him.
When he could hold up his head again, he badgered Hoss with questions: the dates of meetings, how to learn about horses and jockeys, and the acquisition of the fortune that suddenly smiled so warmly upon him.
Hoss looked worried. ‘You can’ expect every day to be like that.’ Then once again caution was blown away as he laughed and snapped his fingers. ‘But who knows? Maybe things’ll be different for you. God knows, I would never have expected to see what I saw yesterday.’
While before Charlie’s dazzled eyes danced images: of a hundred pounds becoming five hundred, a thousand, ten thousand …
He couldn’t wait to get back to the track. He placed his first bet, and won. Then the next, and lost. And again. And again. At the end of the afternoon, he was down forty quid.
‘But still well ahead,’ he said, and promised himself that next time would be different.
It was. He didn’t have a winner all day. Instead, he won something else: a sense of excitement at going through the gates of the racecourse, of fingers clutching his guts as the first race was called. The horses were beautiful. The jockeys flying past in their bright rags, balancing miraculously on the spines of their straining mounts, were beautiful. The punters and bookies, even the touts, eyes wary in their hard-bitten faces, were all part of it. It was life, dramatic and wonderful. Winning was still important, and he won often enough to keep himself afloat, but it had ceased to be the main point of the exercise, or even any point at all. The game itself was the king. He had become hooked.
4
Charlie stayed a week, a month, two months. He thought back on all the things that had happened to him over the last few years: his mother marrying, his flight from France, the catastrophe of Broome, the cyclone and Wendy’s death, the aching void that remained, even now, the police on his back all across Australia. None of it his fault. No wonder, as he had told himself when he had first arrived at the cliff house, he needed a break to get his breath back.
Prompted by his memories, he brought himself at last to write to his mother. He told her he was alive and well and hoped that she was, too. He would like to hear from her. Not much, after all that had happened in his life, but he felt better for having done it.
One day, old Doug turned up. He slapped Charlie on the back. ‘You made it then.’
He stayed a couple of days, then took off again.
‘He never hangs around long,’ Hoss said. ‘Always on the go.’
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As Hoss himself was, although without getting anywhere. For the present, his mind on racehorses, Charles was prepared to stay too, if Hoss would have him. That, it seemed, presented no problem.
‘Stay as long as you like,’ said Hoss. ‘Stay forever. I like having you here. It’s good to have a mate.’
So Charlie did. He never regained that wonderful sense of invincibility at the track, but it no longer mattered. What was far more important was the sense of wonder and excitement — of life — that grew stronger with every visit.
The Depression was easing, and there were odd jobs to be found if you looked hard enough. Nothing special, to be sure, but enough to put bread on the table, and there were plenty of fish for the catching. As Hoss had said, you didn’t even need to leave the house to get them. In no time Charlie no longer saw what a mess the house was in; washing became an optional extra; sometimes he didn’t have a bath for days. Well, he wasn’t going to get an invite to the Governor’s mansion, so why bother?
Three months after he’d written to his mother he had a reply, not from her but from Jeannine.
His mother, she informed him, was well. She had asked Jeannine to write on her behalf. She thanked him for writing. He would always have her love, but correspondence was difficult. It would be best if he did not write again.
Charlie was down for a day or two — that bastard husband of hers! — but the feeling passed. His mother, France, even Wendy, had become part of an earlier life. It was time to move on.
As for the Cloud Forest … It was still there; it would always be there, when he felt like heading north. It wasn’t as though he’d turned his back on it; when he was ready, he would go.
But not yet.
NINETEEN
1
Months passed, barely noticed. The seasons played their part: otherwise every day was like the rest, merging into a twilight where nothing changed and, if they got older, it was by such slow steps that they barely noticed.
Overseas, the drumbeat of war grew louder; a black American boxer beat the hell out of some German; in England, Don Bradman made a thousand runs in May; nearer home, a freak wave wreaked havoc at Bondi. None of these things affected the even flow of their days; the echoes of the world came only faintly to the house on the cliffs. Here, all that mattered was the gee-gees and the fishing.