The Big Book of Australian Racing Stories

by Jim Haynes

  Tip-slingers, urgers and whisperers slunk like jackals through the crowd, and grave and massive policemen placed their furtive bets. I shrunk from the ordeal, but how can man die better than by facing fearful odds? The rest of the gang came up and, with a parting glance at Daisy, I plunged into the riot.

  Pausing at a stand, I addressed the open mouth of a bawling bookmaker.

  ‘What price King Rabbit?’

  ‘Oo? King Rabbit? Never ’eard of it. King Rabbit? Ar, yer, four to one, King Rabbit.’

  I turned away.

  ‘Well, eight to one,’ he bawled. ‘Tens!’

  I continued on my way.

  ‘Fifteens!’ he yelled. ‘Twenties! Well, go to blazes!’

  I emerged at long last with my head throbbing under Temple’s hat and the dust of conflict clinging to my boots. Daisy was waiting for me, with Maureen. I handed her a ticket.

  ‘Sixty-eight pounds!’ she shrieked. ‘He must have been thirty-three to one!’

  ‘You went to a good school,’ I said.

  ‘Gimme half if it wins,’ pleaded Maureen.

  Daisy impaled her with a glance.

  ‘This is my ticket,’ she said coldly. ‘Stanley will get yours.’

  ‘But he’s only putting ten shillings on for me,’ wailed Maureen.

  ‘Faulty work,’ said Daisy succinctly. ‘Come and we’ll watch the race, honey,’ she added, taking my arm.

  Never, never shall I forget that race. When I am old and peevish, sans teeth, sans hair, and shod with elastic-sided boots, I shall be content merely with the memory of that race. When St Peter asks me my greatest display of charity and fortitude on earth, my answer will be that I refrained from choking Daisy when King Rabbit won the Grantham Stakes.

  When the barrier went up, the jockey seemed quite oblivious to the fact that I had four pounds on his mount. He appeared to go to sleep on the horse’s neck. They wallowed round the bend behind everything else that had legs. The jockey seemed to be about as useful as a wart on the hip and I groaned aloud.

  To this day, I believe the horse heard me. He laid his ears back, opened his mouth and accelerated. He threw his legs about in wild abandon. His hoofs touched the turf merely here and there. He flung himself along like a thing gone mad. His tail stood out. Like a chestnut bullet he sped past the field, past the favourite, past the winning-post, and twice around the course before he could be pulled up. Doped, of course.

  The great, beautiful, brave beast, may he live for a hundred years and die in a lucerne paddock surrounded by his progeny.

  Hoarse with shouting, my hands sore from beating the railing, I assisted the almost unconscious Daisy out of the crowd. The stricken punters were very, very quiet and the happy laughter of the bookmakers plunged the iron into their souls.

  Thirty-three to one! Even now my hand trembles as I write.

  One hundred and thirty-six pounds I collected, and sixty-eight for Daisy. If horses have halos when they die, King Rabbit should look like a zebra. We were joined by the rest of the party. I wanted to go home. I was padded with notes. Daisy was crying on my shoulder; Maureen was in the charge of the matron in the ladies’ waiting-room; Stanley and the drunken Simpson were dancing like bears in the midst of an interested crowd.

  Woggo Slatter stood aloof and not a pore of his skin opened or shut. Not a smile disturbed his granite face. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and when I sighted him he was buying a packet of chewing gum. Chewing gum! Fancy him being able to chew.

  I parked Daisy in the grandstand and went to him.

  ‘Thanks for the tip, old man,’ I said, grasping him by the hand. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘’Sall right,’ he drawled. ‘We has our lucky days. I might want ter put the fangs inter you for twenty or so one er these days. What are you goin’ to do now?’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  He shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth.

  ‘Don’t go yet,’ he said. ‘Got another one. Be a short price, but it’s good.’

  He tipped his hat over one eye and walked away.

  Stanley touched my arm.

  ‘Hello!’ I said. ‘Corroboree finished?’

  ‘The police stopped it,’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you whispering for? Are they after you?’

  ‘No,’ he said in an almost inaudible voice, ‘it’s my throat. I couldn’t talk at all a while ago. I don’t care if I’m never able to yell again. Wasn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘Oh, fair performance, I suppose. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going home if I can get away from Maureen,’ he whispered.

  I studied the nail on my little finger for a moment. ‘Don’t go yet,’ I said. ‘Got another one. Short price, but good,’ and tilting my hat over my forehead I strolled away and left him gaping.

  Returning to the stand, I found Maureen and Daisy sitting with their heads close together. Their talk ceased suddenly as I came up to them. I know women. I buttoned my coat and sat down warily.

  ‘Oh, gee!’ sighed Maureen. ‘Wasn’t it just too lovely! Whatever are you going to buy me with all that money?’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Maureen,’ said Daisy in a chilly voice, ‘Jack is my friend. Go and find Stanley.’

  ‘I like Stan,’ murmured Maureen, ‘but I don’t value his friendship half as much as Jack’s. Besides, he’s only a boy, really, isn’t he?’

  I felt that I was being haggled over. Stanley had evidently been weighed in the balance and found to be under the limit.

  ‘What about Woggo?’ I suggested.

  ‘Woggo!’ they echoed. ‘Ha! Ha!’

  That let Woggo out. He was either a member of the syndicate or an abandoned mine.

  ‘Do you know what this next winner is going to be?’ I asked, to change the subject.

  ‘Dunno,’ answered Daisy. ‘Woggo will tell you when the time comes. Here he is now.’

  Woggo strolled into view and halted before us. Fixing his gaze on the horizon, he slowly stroked his left ear with three fingers, spat aimlessly in the general direction of the betting-ring and moved on. Maureen and Daisy hurriedly turned the pages of their racebooks.

  ‘Number three, Useless Annie!’ they gasped in unison.

  ‘What about her?’ I queried, looking around.

  ‘That’s it,’ gabbled Maureen. ‘That’s the pea. Where’s Stanley?’

  She jumped to her feet and scurried away.

  ‘What do I do now?’ I asked, turning to Daisy.

  ‘All you’ve got to do now is to empty the roll out on Useless Annie—and make it snappy. Off you go! I’ll wait here.’

  ‘The whole lot!’ I gasped.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, giving me a push. ‘Put a pony on for me.’

  I hurried away and burrowed into the betting-ring. A striving elbow bored into my ear as I squirmed through the crowd. It was Stanley. I might have known that with practically the whole population of Sydney collected in one place, Stanley would single me out for injury.

  I stamped heavily on his foot.

  ‘Sorry, Stan,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder, ‘it’s the crowd you know. What’s a pony?’

  ‘Thassall right, Dad,’ he replied, ‘that wasn’t my foot. A pony is a little horse.’

  He was swept away on a wave of punters before I could land him one. Useless Annie, as Woggo foretold, was a short price. One Hennessy, on the outer edge of the ring, who may possibly have been one of the lost tribe, offered to lay me fifty pounds to forty and I passed up the money. He made a quivering stab with his pencil at the betting-ticket and passed the result down to me.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, staring at the Morse code on the ticket.

  ‘Useless,’ he snapped, glaring at me. ‘A pony, fifty pounds to forty. That’s vat you vant, ain’t it?’

  ‘Useless Annie?’ I inquired meekly.

  ‘Ah, Gor!’ he moaned. ‘Can’t you read?’

  ‘All right, all r
ight,’ I muttered, and wandered away to the bar.

  A flying barman, handling glasses like a nervous octopus, extracted the order from between my teeth before I could utter it, and sped away.

  ‘Snappy, eh?’ commented Stanley. He was at my elbow. Ubiquitous.

  ‘Stanley,’ I said, producing the ticket, ‘what do you make of this?’

  ‘Useless Annie,’ he said, glancing at it. ‘Who put you onto that zoo fodder?’

  ‘Slatter.’

  ‘The urger with the ironstone complexion?’

  I nodded uneasily.

  ‘One born every day,’ he muttered, shaking his head at his glass. ‘One a minute.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ I demanded.

  He leaned towards me. ‘Useless Annie’s in the bag,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve backed Bonser Baby. Get on while you’ve got time.’

  ‘But . . .’ I faltered, waving my ticket.

  ‘Well, of course, if you don’t want to—don’t,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Do you think I ought to?’

  He glanced at me pityingly. ‘Anyone picked your pocket yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm, funny,’ he said. Then fiercely he added, ‘Go and get your money on. Leave your drink; I’ll look after that.’

  I gulped my drink and hurried away with my mind in a whirl.

  The bookmakers were howling that they were prepared to lay five to one against Bonser Baby and I took a hundred and fifty to thirty pounds in three bets. I stood to win one hundred and fifty, or flay my thirty pounds’ worth out of Stanley. Something seemed to tell me that I would win. I felt confident. I decided to avoid Daisy for the nonce, and took up a position near the track to watch the race.

  It wasn’t a race. Some dissatisfied gentleman close to me remarked that it was ‘a mere sanguinary, lightning-struck, blasted, confounded and unmentionable procession.’ Useless Annie might have been sired by a rocking-horse, and as regards its dam, it was damned by all present. The jockey made a ferocious display with his whip and then realistically fell off and left his horse to browse the track.

  Bonser Baby was in front, with another horse gaining on it rapidly and for a moment it looked as if the jockey of that horse would have to fall off too. Fortunately Bonser Baby, with the fear of the bone-yard in him, speeded up his lollipop and staggered past the post amid a chorus of congratulatory groans. The race had not the thrill of the previous one, and although I was pleased to collect my winnings, I was not excited. My presentiments were returning.

  I sought Daisy and handed her the ticket for Useless Annie. ‘I put fifty on for you,’ I said with a wry smile, ‘the remainder I put on for myself.’

  I sat down heavily beside her.

  ‘Oh, what a pity!’ cried Daisy. ‘You poor thing! Are you absolutely broke?’

  ‘Penniless,’ I muttered.

  ‘And you put fifty on for me! That was sporty of you, Jack. Here, you’d better take this fiver.’

  I waved it aside.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ she said, pressing it into my hand. I took it and thanked her.

  ‘Hard luck,’ I groaned.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  The stand was half full, but she put her arm round my neck, and drawing my head close to her mouth kissed me on the chin. ‘There’s possibilities in you, honey,’ she whispered.

  ‘’Ullo! Wot’s this?’ grated a harsh voice.

  I looked up and quickly declutched. Slatter was glaring at me and chewing his lip. He looked, to put it mildly, discontented. I felt an empty feeling in my stomach as I rose to my feet. It looked like an even chance of my becoming a co-respondent or a corpse.

  ‘It’s all right,’ cried Daisy, rising.

  Keeping my eyes on Slatter, I edged, crabwise, away from him.

  ‘Well, so long,’ I called, waving my arm.

  ‘’Ere!’ growled Woggo.

  I hurried on.

  ‘Come ’ere. I want yer!’ he bawled savagely.

  I broke into a trot.

  ‘’Ell!’ he bellowed, and started after me.

  It was then that the benefits of living a more or less clean life came to my aid. There, on that day, without thought of honour or reward, I put up a performance that would have given any Olympic Games aspirant a lesson. I flashed past Stanley, who was strolling towards the gates with Maureen clinging to his arm like some parasitic growth.

  ‘Father!’ he yelled.

  ‘Pace me, boy,’ I gasped.

  ‘Hey!’ called a policeman, dashing towards me.

  I slowed down as Stanley came beside me.

  ‘Whatever you’ve pinched,’ he panted, ‘hand it over to me. They’re bound to search you.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ boomed the constable.

  ‘It—it’s his wife,’ gasped Stanley. ‘She’s dying. We must get a taxi.’

  I caught a glimpse of Woggo temporarily off the scent in the crowd.

  ‘Dying?’ queried the constable.

  ‘Yes,’ I gulped.

  ‘While the Spring Meeting’s on!’ he gasped incredulously.

  I nodded vigorously. Woggo had sighted us.

  ‘My gore!’ said the policeman. ‘You can’t beat women.’

  ‘Come on, Stanley!’ I cried, and bounded towards the gate.

  ‘’Ere!’ shouted Woggo.

  ‘Stop!’ bawled another policeman.

  ‘Taxi, sir,’ queried an angel in uniform, as we dashed out the gate.

  I hurled Stanley in and threw myself on top of him.

  ‘Woollahra!’ I yelled. ‘Drive like hell!’

  Stanley sat down and straightened his tie as the car bounded away. ‘Referring to the car in front,’ he said, ‘do we shoot to kill, in the event of its stopping?’

  ‘If you’re trying to be funny, Stanley,’ I said, scrambling to my knees, ‘you have selected an inopportune time and run a grave risk of disfigurement for life.’

  ‘Well, what’s it all about?’

  ‘Woggo was going to assault me,’ I hissed, seating myself.

  ‘Was he? And yet when I first saw him I didn’t like him. Funny how you can be mistaken about a feller.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘And I helped you to get away,’ he muttered.

  FATHER RILEY’S HORSE

  A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON

  ’Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog

  By the troopers of the Upper Murray side,

  They had searched in every gully—they had looked in every log,

  But never sight or track of him they spied,

  Till the priest at Kiley’s Crossing heard a knocking very late

  And a whisper, ‘Father Riley—come across!’

  So his Reverence, in pyjamas, trotted softly to the gate

  And admitted Andy Regan—and a horse!

  ‘Now, it’s listen, Father Riley, to the words I’ve got to say,

  For it’s close upon my death I am tonight;

  With the troopers hard behind me I’ve been hiding all the day

  In the gullies, keeping close and out of sight.

  But they’re watching all the ranges till there’s not a bird could fly,

  And I’m fairly worn to pieces with the strife;

  So I’m taking no more trouble, but I’m going home to die,

  ’Tis the only way I see to save my life!

  ‘Yes, I’m making home to mother’s, and I’ll die a Tuesday next

  And be buried on the Thursday—and, of course,

  I’m prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I’m perplexed

  And it’s—Father, it’s this jewel of a horse!

  He was never bought nor paid for, and there’s not a man can swear

  To his owner or his breeder, but I know,

  That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare

  And his dam was close related to The Roe.

  ‘And there’s nothing in the district that can race him for a step;

&n
bsp; He could canter while they’re going at their top:

  He’s the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep,

  A five-foot fence—he’d clear it in a hop!

  So I’ll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again;

  ’Tis yourself that knows a good ’un; and, of course,

  You can say he’s got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy’s plain

  If you’re ever asked the breeding of the horse!

  ‘But it’s getting on to daylight and it’s time to say goodbye,

  For the stars above the east are growing pale.

  And I’m making home to mother; and it’s hard for me to die!

  But it’s harder still, is keeping out of gaol!

  You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip

  Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.

  Sure he’ll jump them fences easy; you must never raise the whip

  Or he’ll rush ’em! now, goodbye!’ and he had fled.

  So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,

  In the graveyard at the back of Kiley’s Hill;

  There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights

  Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.

  There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,

  And their riders flogged each other all the while.

  And the lashin’s of the liquor! And the lavin’s of the grub!

  Oh! poor Andy went to rest in proper style.

  Then the races came to Kiley’s—with a steeplechase and all,

  For the folk were mostly Irish round about,

  And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall;

  They were training morning in and morning out.

  But they never worked their horses till the sun was on the course

  For a superstitious story kept ’em back,

  That the ghost of Andy Regan, on a slashing chestnut horse,

  Had been training by the starlight on the track.

  And they read the nominations for the races with surprise

  And amusement at the Father’s little joke,

  For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,