Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  I don’t feel so bad then and I feel even better when I follow Barney over to the cookhouse. Getting up so early, I’m famished by mid-morning and mucking out stalls and lugging buckets of water is hard work.

  Saturday 5th January

  As soon as I’m dressed I climb down to see Archer. Now that I’ve ridden him, he’s my favourite too. I’m reaching up to hug him, when Tom comes in.

  ‘You can tell by looking at him that he’s special,’ he says. ‘By his wide forehead and big bold eyes. He’s alert, too. See how his ears are long and stick straight up?’

  I lead Archer out to walk him and he gives a couple of coughs and blows his nose, but Tom says it’s nothing to worry about. If it was a wet cough, we might worry; or if he had flaky skin round his nostrils. But this is normal. So I head for the track—only to find Barney’s been out already on Moss Rose and is heading back. But I have to wait for Tom.

  He tells me to go a bit slower. A horse takes twenty seconds to canter a furlong. The fastest, galloping flat out, can run a furlong every eleven seconds. That’s ideal, but a good gallop is still twelve or thirteen to the furlong. And somewhere in between is half-pace, that’s eighteen seconds, and three-quarter pace, maybe fifteen to the furlong. I head off, trying to remember all this so I can write it down later.

  This time I do exactly as Tom says and don’t even think of racing Archy too hard. When I come back Tom slips on the lead as I slide down and asks whether I noticed anything about the way he gallops.

  ‘Do you mean he rolls a bit?’ I ask.

  Tom says yes—he gallops as if he’s on board ship, trying to find his sea legs and race at the same time. Is there anything else?

  So I tell him I’ve noticed he hangs his tongue out like a dog panting, and Tom seems pleased with me. He says it’s good to know a horse’s peculiar little ways.

  It’s fully light by the time I get round to washing Archy. He loves water and stands there patiently, while I sponge him to get rid of the sweat marks. Then I clean out his nostrils, making sure not to wet his head. I’ll get a sharp nip if I do. He bends his neck for me to wipe his face and forehead—otherwise I can’t reach.

  Because it’s summer I can use cold water, but in winter Tom says he likes to add some hot to take the chill off it and spoil the horses a bit. He thinks of them as big babies that need a bit of pampering, so they know they’re special. Then he points to Archy’s hindquarters. They’re big. So big some of the strappers call him ‘The Bull’. But Tom says, ‘Don’t think that only lean horses win long races. The ideal racehorse should have the head of an angel and the farewell of a cook!’ Then he winks and waddles off to the cookhouse.

  Barney’s there already, spreading honey on his damper, when I walk in with Tom. ‘I’m so hungry,’ Tom says, ‘I could eat—’

  He cups his hand over his ear, while all the strappers groan, ‘A horse!’

  Tom loves cracking that joke, Barney says, so it’s now become a game.

  The smell of fresh-baked damper each morning is wonderful after heavy work. I have mine with cocky’s joy, but Tom asks Cook for marmalade. She’s a big woman, taller than Tom and plump with it. Everyone else is a bit scared of her. She glares at him and says he’ll have treacle or nothing.

  ‘Then treacle it is, my little dumpling.’ He goes to give her a big hug, but she says, ‘Get off with you!’ And that’s a game too, Barney says.

  We wash the damper down with two mugs of black tea from the kettle on the hearth, before heading back out again. Tom’s waddling off up ahead when Cook yells from the door. ‘You keep that up, my man, and you’ll not put foot in here again.’ And he grins sheepish-like and says, ‘Sorry, love.’

  We have time to ourselves then, so Barney challenges me to a game of horseshoes. There’s a peg fixed in the ground near the stables for the stablehands to pitch at. Barney wins, but that’s only because he’s used to playing, and from now on I’ll start practising so I can beat him.

  Later in the afternoon we groom the horses and treat them with hoof oil so they’re ready for evening inspection. Mr de Mestre always checks their hooves and legs first, then the rest of them: eyes and jaws, nostrils—even their teeth—till finally he pats each horse on the nose and hands it a carrot. He carries a bucket of carrots sliced longways so they don’t stick in their throats. You can see each horse wondering when he’s going to get his treat and the carrots go down awfully fast.

  Now they’re bedded down, we are too, and Tom’s playing to them. So I’ll stop now.

  Sunday 6th January

  Since it’s Sunday, Mr de Mestre and the family have gone to church with George. If we don’t see much of him during the week, it’s because he’s up at the house, keeping stud books and race records and paying the wages.

  There’s no track work on Sundays, but we still exercise the horses with longer walks, morning and afternoon. Then late morning Tom has me take a message up to Mr de Mestre and Barney says he’ll come, too. He’s off to the blacks’ camp to see his family. There’s a lot of them working round the place. They mow and pick corn and help Mr de Mestre’s brother Andre in the dairy.

  On the way Barney tells me that old Mr de Mestre died back in 1844 and that for years afterwards his widow held church services in her house. Then she gave the land and almost £700 to build a proper brick church. St John’s was finished six years ago and now the family thinks of it as their chapel, especially since her husband Prosper is buried in the grounds.

  Mrs de Mestre never comes down to the stables, but sometimes on our way back from the cookhouse we see her sitting on the homestead verandah in the sun. She’s always in black, and from a distance looks small and frail.

  Then Barney tells me Mr de Mestre’s missus is Aboriginal. ‘Sarah Lamb, her name is. She’s Dharawal, like me.’

  I ask how come we never see her, but he says she had a baby last year—Helen—and mostly she’s minding her. Then he says, ‘It’s because of Sarah that our mob gets to camp on the place. Sometimes they’re up round the homestead and other times they’re working further out.’

  He says some of the other stablehands are Aboriginal, too.

  If Barney’s ma’s Dharawal, his pa wasn’t. ‘Fact is, I don’t know who he was. He cleared out soon as I was born. But Ma says he was a riding man, so maybe that means he was a jockey.’

  He’s sure to have been, I tell him. I’ve seen the way Barney rides. He’s really good.

  Barney thanks me, and says when Mr de Mestre takes horses to the races in Sydney, he often takes Aboriginal strappers. ‘They call us the Terara invasion.’ He laughs. ‘Because he books out all the rooms and stables at Halfway House Hotel on the Parramatta road.’ Barney’s been to Sydney, too, and says that when Tom thinks I’m ready, he or Mr de Mestre will take me along as well. I hope so. I’ve never been to Sydney. I’ve only heard about it from Ma. It’s where she and Pa met.

  Terara is green and beautiful now with lush pasture and long silky grass, but this time last year almost the whole district was under water when the Shoalhaven flooded. Out our way, people were forced to take to boats and some of the farmers are still recovering. Crops were destroyed and cattle drowned. Bridges and roads got swept away. Down south, the river cut the town of Braidwood off from the gold-diggings.

  When the floodwaters went down all this silt was dumped either side of the river, so now there’s good pasture for the horses and cows. Sunday is grass day, Barney says. We’ll take them out in the paddocks this afternoon.

  When we reach the homestead I can see the camp in the distance. Humpies built close to the river. Barney says the old people tell stories of when the white fellers first came. The Aborigines were scared of the horses. The men riding them had guns and the people thought the firing was coming from the horses. That these newcomers were some kind of monster. But once the people got used to them and could catch horses, they taught themselves to ride with sheets of bark for saddles.

  Barney’s about to head off to camp when
suddenly he stops, and scrapes his boot on the ground and says, ‘You won’t tell anyone I’m Aboriginal—will you, Robby?’ he says. ‘Outside Terara. It’s not that I’m not proud to be, but there’s plenty of owners won’t let an Aboriginal jockey on their horses.’

  That’s stupid, I tell him. If a jockey’s good, what difference does it make? But Barney says not all trainers are like Mr de Mestre and he makes me promise not to tell. I promise, of course, but tell him he’s a better rider than I am and he’s shorter and lighter with it. He just grins and says, ‘Too right,’ and slaps me on the back.

  The homestead has upstairs windows that look out towards the hills. I step up onto the verandah and deliver the message that Tom will be over this afternoon to discuss next week’s training. Then Mr de Mestre asks how I’m settling in. I tell him I love it here. And what do I think of the horses? Beautiful—the best I’ve ever seen.

  Then he tells me there’s an old legend. ‘God took a handful of southerly wind, blew His breath over it and created a horse.’ He says he often thinks of that when he watches them run and I’ve written it in my diary to remember.

  Come afternoon, I help Barney take the horses out to the paddocks to graze. Archer’s tossing his mane as he smells fresh grass and starts to tread it under hoof. Each paddock has a trough of rainwater that helps make their coats glossy, but the troughs are getting low again now. There’s not been much rain lately.

  Terara’s all river flats with foothills and mountains away in the distance covered in forests of gums that seem green at first, till you peer closer and see they’re all different. Dark green to greeny grey. There’s different grasses too in the paddocks. Long and lush in some places; springy and matted in others. But Tom says having to walk over the taller and denser bits helps build up their muscles.

  We let the horses wander for a while, then we’re meant to race them and watch each other ride. That way we can see how each of them’s going and report back to Tom.

  This time Barney mounts Archer and I’m riding Inheritor. Barney takes off like he’s being chased by a mob of brumbies right to the far end of the paddock. He pulls up well inside the furthest post and rail, then turns and waves his hat. That’s the signal for me to let Inheritor go. With the wind in my face, it’s all I can do to hang onto my hat and race after him. As I pull up, Barney lets out a sudden wild yell and both horses take off again, with me barely clinging on, then pulling up sharp. The horses are gleaming with sweat and ready for more, so we race them back and forth a few times, then slow them down as we bring them back to the gate. We walk them to the stables, so they won’t look done in when Tom sees them.

  Over supper he asks how they went. Barney tells him Inheritor handled all right, he showed no strain at all and pulled up cleanly.

  Then he asks what I thought and I tell him straight. Archer ran magnificent. The muscles fairly rippled over his shoulder and flowed down his thigh. His mane flew out as a ribbon behind him and his tail streamed like a flag in the wind. There was a fire in him as if he smelt danger on the wind, and raced for it.

  Then I realise Barney is giggling fit to burst and Tom’s scratching his head and giving me funny looks. ‘If I’d wanted poetry,’ he says gruffly, ‘I’d have asked for it.’ Only he’s not really cross and now he’s busy whistling to the horses, so he must have forgotten.

  Monday 7th January

  I can hardly believe I’ve been here a week already! Today Tom said to give Archy a steady canter, or more if he wants it, and tomorrow a steady one followed by a sharp. Each day’s different on the track, but it’s all part of a routine they’re used to.

  I’ve hardly had time to think about the family much since I’ve been here. I’m so done in at night and ready for my hammock, but sometimes I wonder if they’re missing me at all.

  Friday 11th January

  Last night Tom said we’d walk them to Greenwell Point today, where the steamers leave for Sydney, only the road’s bad, he says. The flood almost washed it away and now it’s dried out hard and uneven.

  We set off, with Tom leading the string of horses down through the paddocks to the far gate. He’s got Inheritor and I’m close behind him with Archy, since I mostly try and ride him. Barney’s behind again on Moss Rose. He doesn’t mind who he rides. Those three are fine, but Mick and Jim and some of the other stablehands at the back are having trouble restraining their horses. Exeter’s not behaving too badly for Danny, but the other two-year-olds are jumping about and kicking out like toddlers. They don’t want to be out walking. They’d much rather stop and chew grass.

  Talking as he goes, Tom walks them at a steady pace. He tells me how Mr de Mestre used to be a jockey and he won a race on the first horse he ever trained: a filly named Sweetheart. That was at Bathurst, when he was only fifteen. Now he mostly breeds and trains horses, although sometimes he still rides at country meetings. I suppose that makes him an amateur jockey, since he doesn’t do it for a living.

  I ask Tom how the horses are trained and he says just by doing what we do with them each day—walking and more walking, then track work, lots of it, and swimming if it’s safe (which it’s not, round here). Walking on different surfaces helps, too. Sand, dirt roads and grass. Then once Mr de Mestre sees what a horse can do he puts him with others at about the same level and trains them together. After that, it’s a matter of finding the right race for each horse, since horses—like humans—have different strengths. Some like short gallops and can sprint home; but others prefer longer starts so they can take their time.

  I expect that’s why he has Archer and Inheritor training together. Barney says Inheritor’s the better horse but I think Archer is. Tom’s starting to think Archy’s more of a stayer, which means he could tackle longer races.

  We come to the river and walk on past the wharf. The horses at the end of the line have settled now, so we lead them down onto a long, narrow strip of sand. The horses start to sniff at the air. They know we’re not far from where the river meets the sea. Pelicans out on the water are dipping bills and stretching necks as they swallow their catch. Suddenly Archy gives a loud Hrrrmph! and the pelicans take off from the water, only to glide down, further out, skimming over the water to land well away from the horses.

  On the way back we take the road out towards Comerong Island. The whole line’s now moving steadily and I’m thinking with all this walking not only will the horses be fit but I will too. At least, I won’t be any heavier.

  Then, as we head for home, it starts to rain. Archy isn’t worried, but some of the others get a bit frisky and scatty. Some horses hate rain, even if they’re covered. As soon as they feel the first drops they go mad. Ours aren’t too bad, but as we get nearer home you can see them thinking of warm stalls and a good feed and Tom tells us to mount up and trot them the rest of the way. It’s partly to warm them up so they’re not cold and miserable when we arrive but it doesn’t stop us getting wet.

  Back in the stalls we make sure to dry them carefully—especially round the ears and their loins so they don’t catch chill standing wet in the stalls. Then we fill up their feed bins with oats, pat them and head for the cookhouse.

  Late in the afternoon we groom and brush them again—curry-combing out loose hair and burrs. Tom says thoroughbreds need extra grooming so as to look their best. They’re not like farm horses. They don’t mind much how they look. Tom insists on doing their manes and tails himself with a strong brush to get out the tangles and knots. And it’s worth it to see the shine on their coats and see them nodding their heads as if to say thank you.

  The rain kept up most of the day, but now the horses are warm and bedded down for the night and I’m now up to date with my diary.

  Another early start tomorrow.

  Saturday 12th January

  It rained again during the night. You could hear it drumming on the stable roof and up in the loft it sounded twice as loud, so it was hard to sleep. It was even louder than Tom’s snoring at times, but he says, ‘Any rain’
s good if it’s steady and soaking.’ Barney said he saw Mr de Mestre looking at the clouds the other day hoping for rain since we need more good grass. Let’s just hope there’s not another flood.

  The rain eased off a bit before dawn, enough for us to take the horses out and give them a light workout on the track. Luckily the sand pit’s inside a slab hut that’s up on bricks, so it stays dry. Archer has his own little sand routine. He steps into the pit and waits for the sand to start to sink under his hooves. Then he starts pawing it to check for pebbles. Goes down on his front knees first, then his back till he flops over on his side like a toy horse. He rolls and rolls from side to side—all four legs in the air—snorting madly, as sand gets up his nose. When he stands up he shakes himself, it’s as if he’s suddenly been caught playing like a little kid. Then I lead him out, and make him stand while I brush off the last of the sand before sponging him down.

  The rain meant that Barney and I couldn’t play horseshoes—more’s the pity, since I’ve been practising. But Tom took advantage of the weather to sit us in a corner and talk bones. He said those in the legs are strong and fragile too, but the ones you need to watch are the longer bones—the ones with most leverage that are more likely to break. He lifted Exeter’s leg up to show us the canon bone in the lower part above the fetlock. He says the tibia can break easily, too. They’re in the back leg. Then in the front leg there’s the radius and ulna. And all these bones have to take the weight of the horse and his rider. I had to try really hard to remember their names so I could write them down later.

  The weather cleared up enough this afternoon for us to take the horses out in the paddock and let them loose. When we went to fetch them, Archer was over by the fence with Inheritor. They were nodding their heads a treat and Tom said, ‘Will you look at those two. Like a couple of old codgers outside the pub having a chinwag.’ The horses stopped and stared at him as if they thought he was being rude and Barney and me couldn’t help but laugh.