Mr de Mestre says it takes five months to build up a horse’s strength for some special race and another hundred days to get him fit and perfect, ready to run. That’s the plan, but if race meetings come in between or horses get hurt or tired or need a spell, it doesn’t matter, so long as the horse has been building up slow and is fit. That must be why he checks for clover-leaf.
This afternoon I took Archer for an extra walk. Tom said I could and I was looking out over the paddocks with the light fading and the trees glowing reddy brown and I said, ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Archy?’ And he bent his head and started nibbling my hair like he thought so too.
Exeter’s knee’s getting better. The swelling’s gone down a bit and he’s not favouring that leg so much. Tom got more cabbage leaves from Cook tonight at supper and he’s putting them on now. But he’s almost finished, so I have to stop.
Saturday 9th March
It’s too cold for apples after track work and Cook’s hot damper smells so good I can never say no. We’re walking the horses in blankets every morning, as the chill hardly lifts much before midday. For dinner Cook gave us boiled mutton and potatoes and tonight we had cabbage and turnip soup and treacle pudding. I hate to think what I’ll weigh next time I get on the scales. Barney eats anything he likes and never puts on weight. Or gets any taller. I’m taller than he is already, even though I’m younger. It looks like he’ll end up the right height and weight, so maybe his pa really was a jockey.
Now that it’s getting cooler Tom says we need to keep an eye on some of the older horses. Inheritor’s six but there are others older that might have some rheumatism in the joints. Not just cabbage leaves, they need plenty of walking so they don’t stiffen up. At least with the stable doors and windows locked at night against bushrangers it’s warm inside. Exeter’s knee gets better every day. Tom says he’ll give him a light track workout tomorrow.
Monday 11th March
Frank the farrier’s back again and after we finished track work, while the others mucked out, he had Barney and me bring the horses to him one at a time. He may be big and fierce-looking, but he couldn’t be gentler. Even the black mare that’s on the flighty side knows it—she’ll stand out in the paddock, swishing her tail, tossing her mane and nipping at flies that aren’t there—but with him she’s a lamb.
Archy was first up today and Frank treated him like an old friend. ‘Well, and how would ye be, my fine fellow?’ he said. And Archy tossed his head and snorted a greeting.
Frank managed to get through about a third of the horses today and tonight he’ll sleep in a lean-to at the back of the homestead. That way he’ll get an early start in the morning.
Tom’s dropped off to sleep and is snoring loudly already!
Tuesday 12th March
Today Frank showed me how to hammer down clenches flush with the hoof. He says you have to watch them, because after a while they can come up again. If that happens they’ll leave a sharp rough edge and the horse could easily get a cut from it on one of his other legs when he runs. Frank says that’s why Tom checks their legs between visits, so if need be he can hammer down any clenches that are sticking up.
It’s something I’ll need to watch for with Archer, because of his rolling gait. I know so much more about horses now than when first I came here and it’s all written down in my diary so I won’t forget. I’m getting better at riding, too. I do track work almost every day. Not that it’s made any difference to my weight. I know, I check.
Wednesday 13th March
After breakfast Barney challenged me to a game of horseshoes and I nearly beat him again, only at the last minute Tom said it was a draw. But it’s all in fun. On the track he can beat me every time on whatever horse he’s riding. It doesn’t have to be Archer.
Thursday 14th March
At inspection Mr de Mestre handed me a letter from Ma. She says it’s safe to come home: they’re all over the chicken pox, although Pa teased them something dreadful when they had the spots. Kept saying they looked like spotted dick, which is that pudding she makes us sometimes.
And Ma’s started saving her egg money to put towards Pa’s deposit. She looks after the farm chickens and any eggs not used by the Hobbses or us Mr Hobbs lets her sell, when she goes to town on market days. It’s not much, but every little bit helps and she keeps the money safe in an old biscuit tin under her bed.
It’s still two weeks before I go home, but I’m looking forward to it this time. I can’t wait to see Pa’s face when I hand over my pay! But now it’s ‘lanterns out’ and I can hear Archy snuffling down in his stall.
Saturday 16th March
Tom had us cleaning and buffing saddles this afternoon, checking leads and bridles and putting them all back on the right hooks. Archy was watching me over his stable door—maybe wondering what I was up to.
We didn’t finish till 4 o’clock, then it was time to muck out and Tom had us lay out clean straw and wanted it twisted at the door threshold, so it was neat and finished off.
I couldn’t see why and I was muttering to Barney about it when Tom heard me and said I could count myself lucky I wasn’t in the cavalry. When I asked why, he said they would’ve had me twisting raffia in regimental colours for my trouble. I told him I was glad I wasn’t in the cavalry. I would’ve been up half the night, trying to get them right.
Tom still didn’t say why he wanted it done. Maybe it was so the horses don’t trip or scratch their legs on a pile of stalk ends.
Then tonight when he played to the horses Barney had another surprise. He’d got hold of some clapping sticks from his old granny down the camp, and as soon as Tom started whistling Barney joined in with a regular clack-clack-clack on the sticks. He’s very clever. All the stablehands said it sounded terrific. Even Tom said Barney can play along any time he likes, as long as he keeps up.
Monday 18th March
This evening while Mr de Mestre was inspecting the horses, Tom was talking to Barney and me about their feed. We do as we’re told and feed them whatever Tom says: oats or hay, but he says we should know it’s not just a bit of this and a bit of that thrown in anyhow. It’s to get them fit so they stay that way, and run their best. He and Mr de Mestre and George talk it over and watch to see how the horses race in case they have to change the mix.
Oats are what they mainly get fed for energy. Chaff’s for roughage—it’s lucerne and wheat, mostly. Stalks. That’s to stop them bolting down their oats, since some of them are greedy and will if you let them.
Then he says it’s important for a racehorse to have big hindquarters. ‘They mean solid power,’ he says. ‘It’s the weight behind a horse that’ll get him over the finish line after a two- or three-mile race. And for that he needs his full share of oats and chaff.’ Then he adds, ‘Of course it helps if he has strong straight legs and a big stride as well.’
Mr de Mestre must have been listening because then he says, ‘Don’t forget their balance. A horse with a slight build in front can’t support big hindquarters. And if his back’s too long or too short he can injure himself. So the ideal horse should be in proportion. Balanced.’
Then he asked if I was writing down things as I learned them and I showed him my diary. ‘Good lad,’ he said and Barney reckons I was grinning like a fox.
Wednesday 20th March
Tom had us look at that yearling again and he’s coming along nicely, although he’s not up to galloping yet. Tom says not all horses gallop and he doesn’t expect a young horse even to canter straightaway.
Tom has him walking and trotting mostly and does that for four to six weeks before he’ll make him canter. Then he’ll have him canter for a month before galloping. It’s more important to get him fit and keep him that way than force him to gallop too soon. That’s the way Archer was trained, he says, and if it’s good enough for Archy, it’s good enough for this young fellow, Tom says.
Friday 22nd March
I was in the paddock today to practise drawing the horses and I was co
ncentrating so hard that I lost all sense of time. Archer kept moving on to new grass every time I almost had him right.
Then Tom came looking for me to say everyone was in the cookhouse already. I showed him my sketches and he said they weren’t bad, but to draw horses properly you have to know what they look like under their skin.
So he took the pencil and paper and quick as anything drew the skeleton of a horse, with knees bent and all like he was moving. He pointed out the femur and tibia, the fetlock in the back leg; the way the bones in the front leg sit. ‘Then once you know what the bones look like, you can see how they work together to make him move. So when you come to draw him it’s easy,’ he said.
He handed me the sketch and it was so clever, I thought I’d never be able to draw a horse as good as that. But he said it was only practice and that you had to watch them. Then he said, ‘But if you don’t come up to the cookhouse right now, Cook says she’ll be after you with her biggest rolling pin.’
So I raced up to the cookhouse, just in time to find my dinner dished out and getting cold. Cook grumbled a bit, but forgave me.
It’s night now and I’ve put Tom’s skeleton picture safe in my diary to show them all at home. Pa will like it, but so will Sam and Joe—they like collecting creatures and seeing how they work. And this is their only chance to see a proper picture of a horse skeleton.
Only six more days till Easter.
Monday 25th March
I’m hoping Easter turns out better than last Christmas. We still made presents for each other, but Pa was so worried we’d be turned off the farm and he’d have to find somewhere else for us to live, that you could see it in his face.
Even Christmas dinner was bad. Pa went out hunting rabbits, but didn’t find any and Mr Hobbs ended up giving us a piece of mutton that was a bit on the scrawny side. Ma did her best with it, adding boiled potatoes and cabbage, though it was rather sad.
But worse still, there was no pudding. Ma said Queen Victoria always had a plum pudding at the palace at Christmas; her husband Prince Albert insisted. And we had none. Not even a plain sponge and no treacle.
So let’s hope Easter is better.
Tuesday 26th March
Cook’s made some marmalade and says would I like to take a jar home to Ma and I say I’m sure she’d love it. So it’s rolled up in my spare shirt to take home Thursday. I’ve told Archer I’ll be away for three days this time and Danny’s promised to keep an eye on him for me while I’m gone. Barney will have time off, too, over Easter to spend with his family in the camp.
Thursday 28th March
George drove me into town today. He had business to attend to before Easter and had arranged with Mr Hobbs to collect me in his cart and drive me from there.
Mr Hobbs seemed cheerful—not like he was when I left home. He thinks his luck may have changed. It’s taken him a long time to get over the flood damage, what with farm sheds washed away and him having to start over again. But Pa’s helped him build a new milking shed and he doesn’t know what he would have done without him. The cows are producing more in this shed, so they must be happy. There’s enough milk for the farm’s use and some for the butter and cheese they’re starting to make. If all goes well he hopes to send his butter and cheese to Sydney before too long.
And he’s set up a piggery. The pigs get to eat the skimmed-off milk. So there’s plenty of work now for Pa, so long as he wants it, and he won’t have to walk off.
When we come to the farm gate I hop down and open it and would have walked home from there, but Mr Hobbs insists on showing me the new shed. It’s simple, made of slab walls and a bark roof. There’s a brick floor for washing down and a cobblestone yard outside where the cows wait.
‘All our handiwork,’ he says, ‘your pa’s and mine.’
We’ve barely come outside when Sam comes racing up and throws himself at me, wanting to tell me all about the chicken pox and how he couldn’t stop scratching and Ma kept telling him to stop, or he’d end up with holes in his face. Then they’re all running across the yard, while Mr Hobbs waves and drives off again.
By then it’s late afternoon and nearing supper. Then when Pa comes in from the paddocks I give him a whole £4/17/6 towards his deposit. He’s beside himself. Gives me a big bear of a hug and says I’m his godsend. What with Ma’s egg money and my pay, he’ll have his deposit in no time.
I’m ready for bed now and about to blow out my candle. I wonder how Archer is.
Friday 29th March
It being Good Friday, the whole family went to church with Mr and Mrs Hobbs. They’re older than Pa and Ma and don’t have children of their own. That’s probably why they don’t mind having our lot running round and making all their noise.
Saturday 30th March
Mr Hobbs gave Pa the day off, apart from late milking. Cows are like horses and don’t take holidays, so it always has to be done. The herd’s not big, but they wander slowly up from the paddocks, udders swinging, and wait till Pa’s ready for them.
But this morning Ma packed scones, cheese, apples, the marmalade Cook sent her and a billy for tea, and we went down the creek for a picnic and stayed there almost till milking time. Lovely, it was. Not seeing them last month, I realise how much I’ve missed them. There’s all the little things I want to tell them each day about Archer—not just what I write down—but they’re not there for me to tell.
I tell them about the races at Jembaicumbene, though, and how I won on Archer and how I want to be a jockey more than anything, only I mustn’t put on any more weight or I might get too heavy to be one. Then Ma says there’s only one scone left and would I like it and I don’t know what comes over me, but I say yes.
Sunday 31st March
Easter Sunday today and after he’s been to church with the de Mestres, George drives on to fetch me in the buggy. We get to talking on the way back and he says he’s getting more interested in the breeding side. He can train horses, too, but it’s seeing what colts and fillies you might get from a special sire or dam—sometimes imported, if you can afford it. No matter how good the sire is, he says, you still need a good mare and anyone buying a horse must look at her line as well.
George says he likes watching younger horses especially. Two-year-olds. You’d think they’d all be the same at that age, but they have their different temperaments like we do, you can never be sure how they’ll turn out and that’s what interests him.
I tell him when Tom led that string of horses to Greenwell Point, it was the young ones that were scatty at the start, but by the time we got back they were good as you’d want, stuck to the string and gave no trouble.
George says it’s the same with any young animal. A young horse has to learn. That’s why Mr de Mestre doesn’t work them too hard on the track. Three or four furlongs at a time is enough, he says, plus walking. He doesn’t want them running too hard a race till they’re past three. That way they don’t burn out too quickly. Build them up slow and get them strong, then keep them going like that for as long as you can. They’ll run longer races as they grow older.
It’s good to be back at Terara. My diary’s up to date now, but I’m glad it was only a few days away. Tom and Barney and the other strappers are my family now and so are the horses. Before I sleep I lean over the side of the loft and listen to them down in their stalls. There’s enough room to lie down if they want and I can hear them snuffling and snorting in the dark as they clear their nostrils. But they don’t make half the noise Tom does with his snoring. I even missed that while I was away. Almost.
Monday 1st April
Today was not only Easter Monday, but April Fool’s Day as well. So this morning I told Barney we should play a trick on Tom. We could tell him one of the horses is sick maybe, lying down in its stall and won’t get up.
Barney starts to giggle and thinks it’s a great idea. But we have to do it before noon, because after that we’d be the April Fools. So we go looking for Tom and find him down in the paddock, repairi
ng a water trough that’s sprung a leak. When we tell him he leaps up white-faced and takes off running flat out, before we can stop him. ‘Where? Which one? Not Archer?’ he’s shouting. ‘What is it? Gut ache? Colic? Diarrhoea? Get me some flour and water. Quick! I’ll give him a dose of that.’
Barney and I are running after him, trying not to laugh. Then as we reach the stables we shout, ‘April Fool!’
Tom turns and he’s not white-faced any more, but red in the face and furious with us. He says it’s not funny at all and he’s got a good mind to knock our heads together. I’ve never seen him so wild. We back away, thinking he’s going to come after us.
Then Barney’s face starts to crumple. He’s in a terrible state, pleading with Tom not to send him back to the camp. He’s really sorry and now my knees are shaking and I tell Tom that he’s not to blame Barney, that it’s all been my idea. And he says it was senseless and stupid and I should be ashamed of myself. By now Barney and me are scared stiff he’ll go straight to Mr de Mestre and tell him and we’ll lose our jobs.
Then Tom stops right where he is and gives us a long hard look. He says they can’t afford to lose any more stablehands, what with those gone off to the diggings. But we can spend all afternoon mucking out. He wants the stalls so clean he could eat his dinner off the floor. And for good measure I can twist the straw on every one of them.
Barney groans, but says nothing, and I don’t dare. We go and get the pitchforks and make a start. Barney says what a stupid thing to do and he wishes he hadn’t listened to me and I’m saying I’m sorry, I never thought. Then suddenly Tom starts roaring with laughter and calls out, ‘April Fool!’
Archer's Melbourne Cup Page 6