Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  Tom says he’ll be telling Mr de Mestre how well we did down south and that any time he has to go to a race meeting he’ll be happy to take us with him. I felt really good after that. Wait till I tell them at home!

  Friday 8th February

  Frank’s from the north of England so he has this funny accent that’s sometimes hard to understand. He’s a big man and strong with it. Black hair and flashing eyes that make him look like a pirate. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘I’ve a need to be strong for holding a stallion’s hoof. And it helps that I’ve eyes in the back of me head. That’s if they decide to clear off after a mare in the next paddock!’

  Frank stays long enough to get the job done, then moves on to the next place. This morning he gets me to show him how I pick out Archy’s hooves and he says, ‘Not bad,’ when I’ve done. ‘But aye—could be better. They need a proper going over when he’s been running round a paddock.’ He says racehorses’ hooves should be picked out four times a day. So I watch carefully while he shows me.

  As I bring each horse to him he says there’s no two the same in their habits. Some you put straw down and, instead of sleeping on it, they eat it—they’ll stuff themselves if they get half a chance. For those horses it’s best to lay sawdust in the stall. But if they’ve got foot problems—‘Aye—then sawdust’s the worst thing you can use, since it packs in between the hooves.’

  After lunch he shows me how the outside of a horse’s foot is like our toenails—and those feet have to carry their weight over both dirt and grass, hard roads and rocky ground. Then inside the hoof are bones and softer stuff like our knees, that all have to be protected. He shows me Moss Rose’s foot with the outer layers made up of walls, sole, bars and frog and tells me to write down the names so I won’t forget.

  Once Moss Rose has been done I fetch Inheritor and Frank shows me how his feet have taken a pounding. They get worn down the same way we cut our nails. But a horse’s hoof grows an inch nearly every five months he says. So if it weren’t for the exercise they’d grow long and flop about till the horse couldn’t walk.

  All day Frank’s saying aye-this and aye-that and having me write down little things about racehorses. How they’re shod cold. How the shoe has to fit the foot, not the foot the shoe. There’s a lot of lameness caused by horses being pricked or fitted with shoes that are too tight or press on the frog. ‘Aye—and yearlings should be fitted with tips in front if they mostly exercise on grass. That way their young feet can grow, but there’s nothing worse than feet that are too long, so the trick is to judge how much to rasp or cut back each time.’

  I haven’t been able to do afternoon muck-outs while Frank’s been here, but he finished up this afternoon and tomorrow he moves on to the next stud and their horses. He must really love them. Maybe this is what our Sam will end up being—a blacksmith.

  Saturday 9th February

  During morning break today, Barney came up grinning and suggested a game of horseshoes—and this time I beat him! He didn’t know I’ve been practising and he was in a bit of a miff about it till Tom said it was up to him to beat me next time, and that sorted him out.

  Then later he had me arguing about Archer and Inheritor. He says Inheritor’s far and away a better horse than Archy, but I won’t hear of it and he knows it. Tom finally had to tell us to put a sock in it.

  Monday 11th February

  Some of the horses at Jembaicumbene were carrying a bit too much weight, but ours were both lean. They get more exercise than most, Tom says, but when Mr de Mestre first brought me here there were horses we saw on the way hardly more than skin and bone. He said it was because forage is still dear after the floods. The produce stores are asking sixteen shillings a bushel for oats and fifteen for a hundredweight for hay. Fifteen shillings is twice what I earn in a week! He’s got plenty of grass here for most of the horses, and is prepared to pay whatever he has to to make up the difference. So Archy and the others may look lean, but they’re never hungry.

  Wednesday 13th February

  At that horse sale in January when he sold five horses, Mr de Mestre also bought a yearling and after lunch Tom had Barney and me go with him to a small holding yard to watch how he handles him.

  First up he says to notice how he’s a straight walker, which is what you want, and that his thighs are strong. But he’s nervous and frightened. With training there’s a lot that’s just common sense. You wouldn’t scare a toddler—and it’s the same with horses.

  Tom has the yearling on a long lead and he makes us move slowly when we’re near him, but the colt’s eyes are wary and he keeps turning his head to watch us.

  Tom’s very patient and takes his time. He doesn’t stand directly in front of him or take any chances, and the horse seems to trust him already. Not surprising, when you think that Tom’s been here for years and knows so much about them. Then, when he finally leads him back to the stall, he says if we ever have to tie up a young horse, we’re only ever to use string. That way he can’t hurt himself.

  This took up most of the afternoon, till it was time to get Archy ready for evening inspection. I could see he was cross with me, because I hadn’t been near him while Tom was training us.

  Thursday 14th February

  Tom’s not only the stable foreman, but a strapper as well. Barney said that stablehands and strappers are the same, really. They both muck out stalls and groom horses, put on bridles and leads and generally care for the horses, but stablehands are younger and still have a lot to learn. Tom insists you never stop learning about horses, no matter how old you are.

  I’m a stablehand now, but once I’ve been here a while I’ll be called a strapper and maybe I’ll get paid more. Tom’s in charge of the stables and all the horses. He’s got to see that everything runs smoothly, so he must get a lot more than 7/6d a week.

  I love watching him work. Yesterday he told the yearling, ‘Walk on’, in a voice that was flat and steady. Then he made ‘Ter-ot!’ sound high pitched and sharp, like trotting itself, up and down. Then he drew out ‘Whoa’, almost singing it.

  I’ve written this down because I want to practise on Archy, but for now I’ve got to fill up the water troughs.

  Saturday 16th February

  After breakfast I headed off down the paddock for some quiet. I’m reading David Copperfield again, only I must have dozed off, because Tom had to come and fetch me for dinner. Just as well, too, for as soon as I saw the cold mutton and slabs of bread, I realised how hungry I was.

  Afterwards Barney wanted to play horseshoes again. Said he’d beat me for sure this time, but then he saw my book and he asked if I’d read to him instead. So I did. Next thing he wanted me to teach him to read and write, so I said I would when I had the time.

  Then after lunch Tom had us check all the tack to make sure none of it was damaged or broken and that none of the buckles was loose or the leather worn. When we’d finished, we went over it all with saddle soap to keep it soft, before Tom came and checked it himself. Barney says he’s been really careful ever since I had my fall.

  Before sunset Danny and Jim and the others walked Archy and the rest of the horses, while Barney and me did a partial muck-out. We removed only the top soiled layer before they were shut in for the night—or ‘tucked in’, as Tom calls it.

  Tuesday 19th February

  I asked Tom today if he’d heard about Mr Robertson’s land act and how it’s going to make all the difference to Pa having his own bit of land. But Tom had me worried. He said they passed an act like that in Victoria last year, but what happened was that the wealthy squatters sent dummy buyers to the land sales. They pretended to be poor when really they were buying up more land for the squatters. So the squatters ended up with extra land, but the poor farmers still had none.

  I felt terrible. What if I’ve built Pa’s hopes up for nothing? It’ll break his heart. I was miserable all through track work and could hardly concentrate. I told Archy how I was feeling and he shook his head in sympathy.

 
Then on the way back I happened to look up at the sky and it was that magic time of morning when it turns from black to midnight then grey and blue to rosy pink. And somehow looking at it made me hope that things will work out for Pa in the end.

  Thursday 21st February

  Today I was sitting in a paddock with my back to a tree, trying to draw the horses. They were nearby cropping grass, tugging the little clumps that wouldn’t come easy. They’re hard to draw. Every time I thought I had Archy’s head right, he’d turn and look at me and I had to start again. He hasn’t got a care in the world, and they’re all the same. They stop eating and stare off into the distance and I wonder what they’re thinking. Maybe horses daydream—about winning some really big race.

  I’ll bet those poor horses on Burke’s expedition only ever dream of a clean stall with soft straw, a good feed and a bucket of water.

  This afternoon George brought a letter from Ma down to the stables. She writes that Hetty and the rest have come down with chicken pox, which she says they picked up after playing with other children at church. Luckily she and Pa have both had it, but the rest are scratching like crazy. So she says not to come home this month, but to wait till next. That means I won’t see them till Easter, but by then I’ll have more money to give Pa.

  Friday 22nd February

  This afternoon Barney and me were riding Inheritor and Archy round the paddocks, when Barney asked if I could play anything. A penny whistle, maybe? I told him I could play a comb and paper, but not very well. So he said, ‘What about a gum leaf?’ I’ve never tried, but he said it was easy if the leaf was fresh. He rode over to the nearest gum and plucked one from a low branch. All I had to do, he said, was put it part-way over my lips and whistle a tune through it.

  I tried, but it sounded like a cat had got its tail caught in a rabbit-trap. So he showed me how and, when he did it, out came a tune.

  He said the old people used to get together to play gumleaves—like a band almost—and he wants to surprise Tom. So we practised the rest of the afternoon and tonight, soon as Tom started whistling, Barney and me we started on our gumleaves.

  Tom didn’t know what hit him. He looked round for the noise. And Archy and the other horses kept twitching their ears to find it. But Jim and Bill and the rest of them thought it was the biggest joke ever, seeing the look on Tom’s face.

  Saturday 23rd February

  This morning Tom was in an extra good mood. It must have been our gumleaf band. So I asked whether I could take Archer out in the paddock again and he said yes.

  Then coming back, I got to wondering why a horse gets measured from the ground up, not from the top down. It must be because none of them would stand still long enough to let you measure. They’d be moving their heads and flicking their ears every which way—even Archy. So they’re measured from the ground up to their withers, the part between the shoulder blades. That’s the highest part of a horse you can count on staying still.

  Then I started thinking how odd it is that horses get measured in hands, but other animals and humans get measured in feet and inches. So I asked Barney if he knew why, but he didn’t. Then we asked Tom.

  ‘As a general rule of thumb,’ he said and Barney and me groaned. ‘Back in the old days if they didn’t have a marked yardstick or a bit of knotted string to measure with, then they used their hands. Simple.’

  I decided it couldn’t be simple as that and I asked Mr de Mestre at inspection. But he turned out to be in a hurry, so it’ll have to wait.

  ‘Lanterns out’ now.

  Sunday 24th February

  This morning Tom went to church and came back with a black and white cat. ‘Meet Cattus,’ he said. ‘He’s come to catch rattus.’

  I said the horses might tread on him, but Tom said, ‘Not our horses. Dainty as you please. They’ll step over him.’ And he was right. As I was giving Archy a rub-down this evening, Cattus dashed out from under a pile of straw and, cool as you please, Archy stepped over him.

  Tuesday 26th February

  I’ve been thinking. The reason can’t be that people measure in real hands, because hands all come in different sizes, big and small, so nobody would know which measurement was right.

  So this evening when Mr de Mestre came for inspection, I asked him and it seems Tom’s right and I’m right too—the answer isn’t simple. A hand, for argument’s sake, is four inches wide. But then a hundred years ago people were smaller so they had smaller hands and it used to be three inches to measure a horse. And that means that Archy, instead of measuring 16.2 hands, would have measured most likely 22 hands back then. Imagine!

  But Mr de Mestre said it doesn’t matter how many hands a horse is. It’s how strong his heart is that’s important—and his lungs. It’s his lungs that help him gallop and his heart that makes him hang on for that bit longer.

  Then, before he left the stables, he told me a rhyme they used for measuring a horse. It’s over three hundred years old.

  Foure graines of barley make a finger;

  foure fingers a hande;

  four hands a foote.

  I’ve written it down in my diary and next time I’m home I’ll ask Pa if he knows it, too.

  Later

  I told Tom about their heart and lungs, and he says there’s something else important as well. Their personality. If a horse wants to please you, he’ll try to win and, when I think about it, that’s true. Archy loves winning. You can see it in his face. He almost grins, he knows he’s doing it for us.

  Thursday 28th February

  This morning Tom had me walking Inheritor, since Barney didn’t feel too good and he said I might as well deliver a message to Mr de Mestre. So I headed up to the homestead and Sarah was on the verandah with little Helen. She was toddling along, falling over, picking herself up and setting off again. As soon as she saw me she hid behind her mother’s skirts and peeped out. It made me laugh, because little kids are all the same and Daisy used to hide like that, too, when she was Helen’s age.

  On the way back to the stables I found myself wondering how they are at home. Ma must have her hands full looking after the others. Maybe she has to tie socks on their hands to stop them scratching in their sleep, like she did me. Then I realised that not seeing them till Easter will be the longest I’ve ever been away from them, and it made me sad—only here I’ve got Archy and he cheers me up.

  Friday 1st March

  Bad news. Today I stood next to my mark near the stable door and I’ve grown! I don’t know how, my clothes don’t seem smaller and it’s not much, but it’s still not good. Tom says we grow in our sleep a bit at a time, so that we barely notice till we measure ourselves. But I can’t afford to get any taller if I want to be a jockey. I’m heavier, too, since I’ve been here. So much for walking with the horses. Tom tried to tell me muscle weighs more than fat, but I think it’s all that damper I’m eating for breakfast – as well as the cocky’s joy. I’ll ask Cook if some mornings I can have apples instead. There’s a tree near the cookhouse door. I’m sure she can spare a few.

  I told Archy that it’s not fair. It doesn’t matter how tall a horse gets and Barney hasn’t grown at all since I got here.

  I’ll ask if I can do track work every day—that might help—and now that Mr de Mestre’s lost two more stablehands to the gold-diggings at Lambing Flat, he might let me. If I can’t be a jockey what can I be? I’m not trained for anything.

  Monday 4th March

  It was cooler this morning. There’s a definite nip in the air, now that we’re into autumn. Archer feels it, too. He was keen to get on the track so he could gallop and warm up. Then once we were out there, he couldn’t wait to get back to his stall and out of the wind.

  Some of the trees that have been planted on the property to give shade in summer are changing colour. Everywhere we look there are patches of red and brown—orange, too, as the afternoon sun catches and it looks like a fire’s racing through them.

  Tom’s putting blankets on the horses
for evening exercise and he makes sure we rub them down well afterwards. He says we’re to warm them before he tucks them into bed!

  Wednesday 6th March

  This evening Tom was checking their legs, as he does every night before inspection. Each little bump or thickening he looks at to make sure the leg’s sound. And tonight he found that Exeter’s got a swollen knee. The joint’s sore and tender to touch. So he sends me up to the cookhouse to ask for cabbage leaves. Cook can be crabby at times if we bother her with little things and I was sure she was going to be cross, but she handed them over straightaway. Even asked which horse it was and said to tell Tom she took his advice and tried cabbage leaves for her rheumatics and they worked wonderful.

  Then Tom wrapped three large leaves round Exeter’s knee and bound them in place and says they’re to stay on for twenty-four hours to see if they help. Exeter won’t be doing any track work for a while.

  Thursday 7th March

  Mist on the track this morning—long thin wisps of it, swirling white—the big dark shapes of horses coming in and out of it as they walked. But mist doesn’t stop training.