by Jim Haynes
‘Pop, you ought to be a race-caller,’ said the police officer, busily scribbling notes onto a pad. ‘You’ve got a great memory for colours.’
‘As a matter of fact, Chief Inspector, I’m Harry Trump, the legendary broadcaster who—’
‘Some other time,’ cut in the policeman. ‘What about the height, weight—distinguishing features—of these offenders?’
‘Pah! Statistics! Such things mean nothing to me. I’m a colours man.’
‘You should try to be more versatile, like Bill Collins. He sings and dances on the telly, as well as calls races and wrestling at the Olympics!’ said the policeman, who Harry now suspected of being a Melburnian.
At that point the other policemen returned to report they had lost the robbers. The first told them to call an ambulance for the injured customer, who was still lying unconscious on the floor.
The policeman barked out a few more orders to his colleagues. For some reason he then took Harry Trump into his confidence. ‘Of course, we’ll never get them now. Got away scot-free. Who knows where they’re heading?’
‘As a matter of fact, major, I might be able to help you there as well,’ said Harry.
‘Oh! And how is that?’
‘Look, one of those characters had a race-book sticking out of his sky-rocket.’
‘So what?’
‘It was for a provincial trot meeting run later this afternoon—a non-TAB meeting. Now, most blokes only carry a form guide if they’re planning to have a bet, see, and as this meeting’s non TAB—and as you and I both know, field marshal, there’s no such thing as SP betting—then I reckon maybe—’
‘Are you trying to tell me that if we go to this race meeting we’re going to find these fellows there betting on the trots?’
‘It might be a rough chance, brother,’ said Harry to the constable, ‘but these long shots get up some times—that I can vouch for better than any man alive.’
‘If these fellows operate on the trots it would explain why they’ve taken to robbing banks,’ put in one of the tellers. ‘Now I think of it, too, the leader sounded a bit like a revolutionary; he shouted something about the redistribution of wealth on his way out. That might account for the poor taste in clothes.’
‘Cripes, a trots man and a commie!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘Talk about drawing an outside barrier twice!’
‘All right, I’ll call the sarge and see what he thinks,’ said the constable. ‘Meanwhile, old timer, I’ll take some personal details from you, if you don’t mind.’
***
That night Harry received a call from the jubilant police constable to tell him that what had quickly become known as the ‘red-hots gang’ had been picked up during the afternoon at the trot meeting. After observing the activities of the threesome for some time, undercover police moved in and made an arrest. The credit was due entirely to Harry, said the policeman generously.
‘We’ve recovered the entire proceeds of the bank robbery, as well as the wallet of the gentleman who was assaulted during the raid,’ went on the constable. ‘We’ve also got a fair bit of cash above and beyond that.’
The policeman had taken a shine to Harry. Again he became matey and confidential. ‘Believe it or not, those crims had backed the first three winners straight at long odds before we caught up with them. Half the bookies had jumped in their Valiants and headed for the hills. Our undercover boys didn’t arrest the gang straight away—decided to see if their luck held. Fair dinkum, they got the next two up as well, both at ten-to-one. Our boys collected from the tote, went to the bar for a round of drinks, and then moved in. The bookies stood to a man and cheered when they saw those blokes being led off the course in handcuffs. By the way, the wallet has been returned to the victim of the assault, and he has been informed of the major part you played in its recovery.’
‘How is the old coot, anyway,’ asked Harry, though not in fact much interested.
‘Oh, he’s not doing so badly,’ said the police constable. ‘In fact, the hospital’s released him. He’s a big shot, you know. He’d like to meet you. Could you arrange to call in down here at the station tomorrow morning? I reckon he has some kind of a reward in mind.’
‘Beauty! What time do you open?’ asked Harry quickly.
‘Harry, we’re not like the pub—we don’t have licensed hours. But he asked if you could make it at about 10 o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there, you can take the odds to that,’ promised Harry.
Next morning Harry was shown into the sergeant’s office. Seated before the desk was a man whose small head was swathed in a large bandage. Harry guessed correctly that it was the man from the bank, whom he had not really looked at closely before. Now as he studied the gentleman, it occurred to him there was something vaguely familiar about the fellow—his small stature, bristling moustache, and beady eye.
Harry started slightly as he recognised the man as his erstwhile employer, Sir Reginald Barry. Barry himself had a sharp intake of breath, which indicated to Harry that recognition had been mutual.
‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked the police sergeant, noting the wealthy man’s reaction.
‘Er—no sergeant. It’s just that this man is a former employee of mine who lost his position as a consequence of—well, I needn’t go into that.’
Sir Reginald turned to Harry.
‘Mr Trump, I have been informed by the police that my billfold, which contained some very important personal effects, as well as a large sum of cash, was restored to me primarily because of a remarkable piece of observation on your part, as well as a very sharp piece of deductive reasoning.’
‘No worries,’ responded Harry magnanimously.
‘It had been my intention, sergeant, to make a substantial cash award to this person, in order to express my gratitude. I think, however, that in these extraordinary circumstances, I can do better than that. It is clear, Trump, that you have lost none of the skills of your calling, of, er, calling. It would be a great pity to continue to see them go to waste. I think it would be best for everyone if you came back to work for us.’
‘Mind you, Harry, there’s been a changing of the guard in your absence,’ said Sir Reginald later, when they were alone for a moment. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be the top dog anymore. Broderick Kent, who has come up from our sister station in Victoria, is now the number one race-caller.’
Harry was at the point of telling Sir Reginald that in his opinion Broderick Kent could not call a hungry hog to a feed, but he wisely decided that a policy of diplomacy and humility was better value, so he kept this assessment to himself. Which was as well, for Kent was Sir Reginald’s nephew.
Instead Harry responded, ‘Think nothing of it, your honour; I know I’m no longer the stable favourite, but I need regular racing. Being in the spelling paddock when the races are on is no good to me.’
‘You will, of course, have to be done with this debilitating dependency on alcohol—’
‘Haven’t touched a drop these six months, so help me!’ lied Harry easily, glad that his flask of Corio ‘Five Star’ Whisky was safely out of sight in his coat pocket.
‘Very well, then. Report for duty to Joseph Jones in the morning. He will be expecting you.’
‘Goodo, sport—er, boss, that is.’
‘Yes.’
And while it is not true that a bottle of black label whisky never again ascended from the old Gladstone bag on race days, Joe Jones gave Harry an assistant whose primary task, apart from placing Harry’s bets, was to ensure it stayed more or less out of play until after the last race. At the time of his retirement some years later, Harry had accumulated a ‘cunning kick’ sufficient to keep him in comfort the rest of his days.
INTRODUCTION—A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE CUP
That Cup Day and Anzac Day are the most iconic cultural events in our national calendar is self-evident. For better or for worse, these two days are the ones that Australians have taken to their hearts and singled out as special celebrations o
f our lifestyle, heritage and national character.
The Cup is surrounded every year by a media frenzy, which includes masses of trivia, history, statistics, tall tales and drama from the past, and a myriad of myths and legends.
Since the Cup was first run in 1861 the Australian public have clamoured to believe the most ridiculous and romantic tales of coincidence, supernatural premonition and divine intervention. Each year brings new examples of heroism and perseverance as horses and jockeys and trainers battle, overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds, to achieve victory.
The Cup was, in a sense, born out of rivalry between two racing clubs: the Victoria Turf Club and the Victoria Jockey Club. It was the brainchild of Captain Standish, Chief Commissioner of Police in Melbourne and VTC Chairman at the time.
Until 1854 Melbourne races were run annually in the autumn. Then the Victoria Turf Club decided to hold a spring meeting as well. The Cup was first run in November 1861 at Flemington, which had originally been called Melbourne Racecourse and was first used as a racecourse as far back as March 1840.
The new race attracted top inter-colonial horses, including the winner, Archer, from New South Wales. This began a great Cup tradition of interstate rivalry, or inter-colonial rivalry as it was back then.
One of the main reasons for the Cup being established was to assert Melbourne’s superiority over Sydney both as a city and as a sporting capital. For many years, from the time of the gold rushes, Melbourne was the most populous and richest city in Australia. Victorians were keen to establish Melbourne as the sporting capital, as well as the financial capital, of all the colonies.
So the Victoria Turf Club announced the running of a great new race. It was to be an egalitarian affair with the best horses carrying extra weight to make the race more equal. The trophy was a gold watch and the prizemoney, of £710, was the most ever put up for a race in the colonies. The wonderful aura of myth, legend and history that surrounds the Cup developed right from the start.
The legend of Archer’s two wins, and the myths surrounding those events, the fictitious story of Peter St Albans riding the first female horse to win the Cup—these have become the stuff that dreams are made of. Later came Carbine’s famous win under a massive weight, after a brave second the year before with a damaged hoof, and the only undefeated Cup winner Grand Flaneur.
Other Cup folklore has William Evans weighing in unconscious after wasting more than 10 pounds (4.5 kg) in a week to ride the 1907 winner Apologue at 7 st 9 lb (48.5 kg). Evidently the totally exhausted jockey collapsed after the horse passed the post and was placed unconscious on the scales.
Let us hope that Dame Nellie Melba and famous English contralto Dame Clara Butt, whose combined presence on the lawn was the social highlight of Cup Day 1907, were not unduly distressed by witnessing the poor jockey’s plight!
The Cup was already well established as the high point of Melbourne’s social calendar when poor Evans passed out past the post. Indeed, once the race had recovered from the debacle of 1863 and the two rival race clubs of Melbourne combined to form the Victoria Racing Club (VRC) in 1864, the race quickly developed into far more than a mere rich handicap where horses from all colonies could compete.
The dream of the creators of the race, Captain Standish and the committeemen of the Victoria Turf Club, was to show the Victorian colony’s supremacy over New South Wales in all matters, especially sporting matters, by running the richest race on the continent. This was looking like becoming reality as crowd numbers for the event went to 25,000-plus in the first decade of the race’s history and had reached a regular 100,000 by the end of the second decade.
Although Melbourne gave way to Sydney as the financial capital of Australia and the most populous city in the 150 years after the Cup was created, it remains the true sporting capital of the nation, largely due to the iconic status of the Melbourne Cup.
Racing has always been a focus for literature, art and romance since the earliest times of the sport in Britain. There is something in the nature and history of the sport which brings to the surface the more imaginative and romantic aspects of our humanity. The nobility and beauty of the horse, the drama of the competition, mere men controlling large and powerful animals—all these things inspire awe and wonder.
The whole fickle and glorious nature of the human drama is intensified and crystallised in the sport of thoroughbred racing. What is it that draws us to the sport? The vicarious thrill of the risks involved? The possibility of making and losing fortunes? The snob appeal of the involvement of the nobility? The possibility that the sport may make a prince from a pauper, and vice versa?
Whatever it is, it is typified and made easy for Australians via the Melbourne Cup. Each year all Aussies can get a massive dose of ‘whatever it is’ in early November and then return to the humdrum of normality. Those of us afflicted by the ‘racing bug’ habitually raise our eyebrows at this seasonal invasion of the uneducated into ‘our world’ and instead enjoy the event as the culmination of the racing season which, for us, lasts twelve months in every year.
The general Australian population of some 23 million can, with the help of the media, enjoy the annual human and equine drama and suspense as the Cup approaches. They are told the usual stories of potential ‘rags to riches’ battlers, the horses that might compete become characters, and Cup history and mythology is retold to a point that a collective sigh of relief goes up when the gates spring open on that first Tuesday afternoon in November.
After the race comes a week of reflection on the winners and losers. Recent examples of Cup ‘drama’ being used to create more Cup folklore and provide millions of words in ‘human interest’ journalism are the amazing stories of Tommy Woodcock and Reckless in 1977, and the spine-tingling win of Damien Oliver and Media Puzzle in 2001, a week after the racetrack death of Damien’s brother, Jason. Plus of course, Makybe Diva’s three wins and Bart’s twelve.
Perhaps the true magic of the Cup is that everyone throughout the country has a way of being involved in racing once a year, in some way or another. Every Aussie gets something from the Cup, has a feeling or opinion about it, and has a way of looking at it.
After all the media attention and the build-up, when the human and equine drama and romance has been played out to the minute, the nation waits for what is the most universally anticipated instant in horseracing each year.
Everyone is carried away by the magic of the Cup, none more than racing people and writers from overseas. Nat Gould was a Cup fanatic during his time in Australia and wrote glowingly about the magic of the Cup and the superior nature of Australian racing when compared to British racing. The most famous and popular writer in the world, Samuel Clemens, or ‘Mark Twain’, was ‘blown away’ by the Melbourne Cup.
It is lucky for us that Clemens fell upon hard times and lost his fortune, and his wife’s inheritance, by investing everything in his own publishing business and a mechanical typesetting machine that was cutting edge technology at the time but was prone to breakdowns. Before it could be perfected, the system was made obsolete by the linotype machine and the publishing house failed. Clemens was forced to go on the lecture circuit and write travel books, thus he came to Australia and wrote about the Melbourne Cup! He thought that Cup Day was the supreme day of celebration anywhere in the world.
As the horses are loaded into the starting stalls for the Cup, the entire nation stops. All of us—racing fanatics, totally uneducated once-a-year-mug-punters, the party generation swaying drunk in their stilettos and cheap suits, and prudish aunties with two-dollar sweep tickets—wait for the barrier gates to open.
The nation breathes as one.
Then, with a roar from the course that echoes from every television and radio in the land, and a universal gasp from the rest of us, the gates spring open, our hearts stop and . . . They’re off!
CUP COUPLETS
C.J. DENNIS
Out of great wisdom, long stored up,
I would write me a rhy
me of the Melbourne Cup.
With words of wisdom then let us begin;
For many shall wager, but few shall win.
And first a warning: Go slow this trip,
For there’s many a slip ’twixt the Cup and the tip.
And the sport of Kings, tho’ it capture the town,
Is never for one with but half-a-crown.
And this oft is the rule when the lucky man sups:
He is in on the Cup and he’s on in his cups.
So this is the motto to hold and to hug:
There is but one Cup; but there’s many a mug.
So, out or in, if you still can grin,
Here’s a glorious day to you, lose or win!
THE LEGEND OF ARCHER
JIM HAYNES
The story of Archer’s two victories in the first two Cups is the stuff of legend. This all began with the unlikely tall tale of Archer’s long walk to Melbourne to win the Cup, two years in a row. This ‘walk’ never happened the first time around, let alone twice.
To suggest that Australia’s most successful trainer, Etienne de Mestre, would have sent his valuable horse on such an arduous marathon walk is laughable. Yet, many believe it, despite accounts from the time that Archer, like all other normal human beings and horses, made his way to Melbourne by sea.
Newspaper accounts of the day show that Archer left Sydney on 18 September 1861 on the steamer City of Sydney, together with two stablemates, Exeter and Inheritor, and arrived at Port Melbourne three days later.
Also on board were Etienne de Mestre, and jockey Johnny ‘Cutts’, who was, in fact, John ‘Cutts’ Dillon, one of the most respected jockeys in New South Wales. Despite stories to the contrary, Cutts was not from the Nowra district and never lived there, although his brother-in-law Walter Bradbury worked for de Mestre, and lived at Terara, on de Mestre’s property.
This pretty much puts a hole in the theory, or ‘legend’, that Johnny Cutts was born and raised in the area around Nowra, supposedly one of many Aboriginal stockmen who replaced the stockmen of European descent when they left to join the gold rushes.