Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  But how did they know we were here? That’s what I want to know. No-one was on the wharf to meet us and we didn’t even know where we’d be staying, unless Mr de Mestre told them. Although he’s not telling anyone about the horses. So maybe Melbourne really does have spies.

  I asked Tom what he thought and he bloop-blooped for a bit, then said, ‘Perhaps Flattus is a spy.’ Sometimes Tom says such silly things.

  Monday 30th September

  This morning Mr de Mestre set off for the Victoria Turf Club and he came back looking really pleased. The bookies are laying odds of 10–1 on Archer. A breeder even offered to buy him for £800! Thank heavens Mr de Mestre said no. I don’t know what I’d have done. Then I remembered he can’t sell Archer, because Archy belongs to Mr Roberts of Exeter Farm, still.

  Tuesday 1st October

  This morning Mr de Mestre told Tom that it’s warm enough to start swimming. So we set off walking the horses to St Kilda beach, not far from the stables. I don’t dare tell Tom I can’t swim. Being seasick was bad enough. I let Mr de Mestre down and if he thinks I can’t swim he might start looking for another stablehand. I whisper as much to Barney, only he says, ‘Not us, you nincompoop—the horses! They do the swimming. All we have to do is sit on their backs and hang on.’

  One end of the beach is marshy and no good for horses, but the Port Phillip end at Sandridge is open sand and just right. The tracks down through the dunes and grass tussocks are easy going for them and there’s plenty of room. So Tom says to canter them along the sand first.

  It’s not soft sand like they’re used to in the pit, but firm where the tide’s been in. Still wet, but with a bit of give. It makes a change from the track.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Tom calls back over his shoulder and we let them go.

  Tom’s riding Inheritor; Barney’s on Exeter. Tom sets the pace. We race along the beach till he puts his hand up and signals to turn. Then back. We canter them four times till he says, ‘Right. Time for swimming.’

  Next thing he’s dismounted, lifted the saddle and dropped it, pulled off his boots and left them beside. We do the same, dropping boots and saddles and with only leads to their bridles, we walk them in.

  Every time they raise a leg to take a step, they push against water and it strengthens their leg muscles. But you can see they love it, tossing their heads and splashing about like little kids.

  Small waves rush to meet us, the horses snuffling and snorting with pleasure as they stride forward and plunge in. Then as soon as it’s deep enough, I climb onto Archer’s back and cling to his mane and bridle. The water’s lapping my feet one minute, up to my knees the next, and suddenly he’s swimming under me. I can feel his front legs going one after the other, like a dog pawing hard at a door. Back legs too: first one, then the other, till he gives an almighty kick that shoots us forward. It’s his hindquarters give him that extra push, the same big hindquarters that’ll carry him past the post in the Cup.

  I’m hanging onto him still, too scared to let go, afraid I’ll slip off, go under and be drowned. But he swims perfectly, steady as you please—not even rolling like he does on the track—ears straight up as he gives a snort to get the water out of his nose.

  I start to feel easier now and look across at Tom on Inheritor. He’s swimming steady, all four legs in time. And further out is Barney. But suddenly he slips off Exeter and disappears. I start shouting to Tom, only next thing Barney’s head bobs up and he’s swimming beside Exeter. Round in front of him he swims, holding onto his bridle, with his knees up against Exeter’s chest. Him and the horse swimming stuck together, half man, half horse. I could never do that.

  Wednesday 2nd October

  Bell’s Life in Sydney was friendlier to us. Mr de Mestre showed Tom a copy and it said, ‘The million friends of Archer will be glad to learn that, notwithstanding a rather rough passage, their favourite was landed safely, without any injury, in company with his companions Exeter and Inheritor, who are also engaged in the grand event.’ Tom seemed pleased, said it was good they were behind us, even if they got it wrong about Exeter running in the Cup. Still, it’d keep everyone guessing.

  Bell’s said they hoped to have the pleasure of congratulating Mr de Mestre for boldly upholding the old colony and its fine horses—meaning, of course, New South Wales.

  So they’re hoping the Cup will be won by a horse from our side of the border, and from our stable. We are too!

  Thursday 3rd October

  Mr de Mestre wants the horses swimming every day if it’s fine. So this morning I asked Barney to teach me how to swim and he said he would, as soon as I teach him to read and write. I’d forgotten that I promised him, and I haven’t had time. Now we’re both too busy. So we’ve said we’ll wait till we’re back at Terara. Then he can teach me to swim in the river, where he learnt, and I’ll teach him his letters. Next year I won’t need to keep a diary because everything I’ve learnt about horses is written down, so I’ll have more time.

  Then we spat on our hands and shook on it.

  The closer we got to the beach, the more you could see the horses looking about them, nostrils starting to flare and twitch as they smelt salt water. Tom figured there’d be plenty of horses out and about on the sand or in the water, so our three would hardly be noticed.

  Archer was first to plunge in. Inheritor took a minute or two and Barney had to coax him, but Exeter needed a good whack on the rump before Tom could get him moving. Maybe the water was still a bit cold at that time of morning.

  Friday 4th October

  A lot more people on the beach today. There were some watching fishermen mending their nets. Others wandered along arm in arm and a small crowd had gathered round an Aborigine, who was showing them how to throw a boomerang.

  Barney shrugged and said, ‘I can do that. Easy.’

  We swam the horses some distance, as far as we could towards the pier. A couple of girls had taken off their boots and left them on the sand and were paddling at the water’s edge. Every time the cold water wet their feet, they squealed and giggled and ran back. Barney and me felt real good up on the horses—taller than anyone else. So we waved as we went past, but the silly girls came over all blushes and wouldn’t wave back.

  Then when we came to the baths there was a red flag flying up above and Barney asked what it was for. Tom said to let people know that gentlemen and boys were allowed to bathe then, not ladies and girls. They would have to wait for a white flag.

  Barney burst out laughing. He was laughing so much I thought he was going to fall off Inheritor. ‘That don’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Us Aboriginal kids muck in anyhow and swim all at once.’

  But I don’t suppose it’ll ever do for white folks to go bathing together. It wouldn’t be proper.

  Afterwards when we walked the horses back up to the stables, Tom said to take a good look round. When Johnny Higgison won on Veno three years back, St Kilda was hardly a village. Now it’s grown so much they’ve declared it a town.

  Saturday 5th October

  This morning was wet—drizzle mostly, but miserable with it—so we didn’t go to the beach, just walked them instead. You see a lot more of a place walking and the more we see of Melbourne the grander it looks. It must be all the gold they found. There’s so many parks and gardens laid out and wide streets that go straight for miles. Tom says there’s a place for everything and everything in its place, because it’s all been planned. Not like Sydney, which grew like Topsy. This is more of a checkerboard—six blocks by four, and the streets all ninety-nine feet wide. Imagine a bird flying over. Melbourne’d look like a picnic rug, only with buildings.

  Melbourne has a Customs House and a Town Hall and Police Court and a really big jail. All bluestone. It’s fine for a Customs house, but it makes the jail look really gloomy. Maybe prisoners are meant to feel gloomy.

  Still, for all its grand airs and broad streets, Melbourne’s no cleaner than Sydney. The gutters are wider, but when it rains—and that’s often�
�they’re full of dirty water. Rubbish floats down and they smell bad. Ladies lift up their skirts and cross over little bridges so they won’t muddy their boots.

  But I wish Ma was here to see the fancy shops sprung up since the gold. You can buy anything you want almost, so people spend all the money they made on the diggings at the shops. I wonder if Mr de Mestre’s found that new book by Mr Dickens.

  Monday 7th October

  This morning we ride the horses across to St Kilda Park—for all the world like we’re just out for the day. We don’t lead them across. Word might spread that they’re racehorses. Tom says it’s best to keep quiet. That way they’ll fetch better odds from the bookies.

  The horses seem to know what we’re about. They flick tails and shake manes as if they’re stepping out for a bit of fresh air.

  Then on the far side of the park we start building them up, but slow. We hold back. Wait. Keep waiting. We’re not to let them go full pelt, even though we might be itching to give them the crop. Then soon as we come to the longest stretch, we let go. Archy, then Inheritor, Barney and me, neck-and-neck. This way they won’t forget what it’s like on a real course.

  When we come back there’s just time to wash them down and feed them, then head off for breakfast. We can’t be late here or we miss out—not like Terara, where Cook forgives me if I’m late. I’m missing her damper, but there’s plenty of fresh bread still warm from the oven and jam or marmalade.

  We’ll walk the horses again this afternoon.

  Tuesday 8th October

  We walked them to Flemington today. Mr de Mestre wants them to get used to the course. It’s a bit pear-shaped, with a grandstand that’s nothing fancy. Rough-hewn hardwood that seats two hundred, Tom says. We hope it’s full on Cup day. They moved the stand from down by the river to the hillside, so the toffs could get a better view.

  Tom showed us where the stewards stand. It’s their job to see everything’s proper and make sure races start on time, that jockeys weigh what they say and carry enough lead bars under their saddles.

  We took the horses round a couple of times, then walked them home.

  It’s three miles each way and, coming back, Tom told us how Melbourne had its first racecourse in 1838 on a flat bit of land next to a swamp. Then it got turned into a railway station, when they built Flemington.

  There was only a butcher’s shop there. Robert Fleming had set up beside the Saltwater River and people riding along the banks thought it’d make a good course. So they named it after him, put up a grandstand, tents and booths besides, held the first meeting two years later and, to make it special, the jockeys wore silks for the first time.

  Wednesday 9th October

  It’s less than a month to go. Twenty-eight days.

  I got to thinking this morning about silks. Mr de Mestre’s are all black, but he’s got two horses running. So will they both wear all black? What if they come over the line together and the judges can’t tell which comes first?

  Tom scratched his head when I asked him, and said he’d have to speak to Mr de Mestre. One jockey might have to wear a different cap, maybe.

  I wondered if that’d be bad luck. Tom says that’s rubbish. If he sat down and thought about every little thing that might be lucky or not, he’d never get to the races. Some trainers won’t let their jockeys wear green. It’s unlucky. But if a horse breaks loose at morning exercise—that’s lucky. So is passing a funeral on the way to the course, or, better still, a chimney sweep. There’s even some trainers, he says, who’ll drive a buggy under a railway bridge when the guard’s van’s passing.

  ‘How’s the horse supposed to know what’s lucky or not?’

  Tom’s right. If Archy gets it in his head to win, he will—whatever his jockey’s wearing. He doesn’t even know what a chimney sweep is.

  Thursday 10th October

  Mr de Mestre says he wants Archy and Inheritor to race in all black colours in the Cup. But if the stewards insist, he might have to change it. He does use other colours sometimes—mostly on country tracks. Black with white sleeves or black with red and black cap, but he’d rather have all black. The horses are used to it. Still, we’ll have to wait till the day.

  Friday 11th October

  All this time we could have been training the horses on St Kilda racecourse. It’s perfectly good, but there’s always the risk of a crowd watching.

  So Tom has us take them down back streets and laneways mostly. On hard paved city roads Archy’s hooves make a different sound. It’s a sharp clip click clip clock click clop click clip as his shoes strike. Sometimes it gets faster, when he gives a little run to catch up to Inheritor, or maybe when he’s been daydreaming and gets a bit behind. Then when we come to a big open space like a park with no-one about, we mount up for a good hard gallop.

  Friday 12th October

  The beach was empty today with a cold wind blowing. Too cold to take them in swimming, but we walked them on the sand still. We set a brisk pace and kept it up over an hour, but they were pleased when we got back to the stables, sponged and rubbed them down and gave them their oats.

  Cold mornings make me twice as hungry. I look forward to bread and jam and I stop worrying whether I’ll get too heavy to be a jockey.

  Wednesday 16th October

  There’s rumours going round that Burke’s expedition has been a disaster. I hate to think what happened to those poor horses.

  Monday 21st October

  Mr de Mestre came round specially this morning to tell me that Mr Robertson’s land act was passed by parliament last Friday. It’s called the Free Selection Act and, from next year, Pa’s only got to raise a quarter of the full price for his deposit. Then he can have 320 acres!

  I was so pleased I asked if I could borrow paper and a pen to write to Ma, and he gave me some later. I leant on an upturned barrel in the stables and wrote. Won’t she be surprised with a letter that’s got a Victorian stamp!

  Then Barney came in and I told him about Pa getting all this land, and he said, ‘What land?’ So I told him how Mr Robertson and the government’s giving hundreds of acres to poor farmers like my pa, and he said, ‘But what land?’ and ‘Where’d it come from? Who owns it?’

  He had me puzzled then. It must be the government’s land—why would they be giving it away unless it’s theirs to give?

  Wednesday 23rd October

  Something awful’s happened. Today when we were bringing the horses back up the dunes, suddenly—I don’t know how—Archy tripped. Stumbled and lost balance for an instant. Went down with his leg all bent under him.

  I let out a yell and dropped down beside him, hugging his neck. I was sure he’d broken his leg. But Tom stayed calm. He was worried white, but went down on his knees too, to check him. Gently lifted his leg, felt it, probed with his fingers, but not enough to hurt. Then he said it wasn’t broken. That was a blessing! No cuts or punctured foot, no sign of a sharp stone or thorn anywhere, but he’s hurt still.

  I asked if it was maybe shin soreness, but Tom said it was only young horses got that—two-year-olds, and Archy’s five. Then he said we had to get Archy back to the Botanical and show Mr de Mestre.

  It was hard for Archy to make it back up Fitzroy Street. We stuck to the left, which was hotter because it was away from the trees. The carts rattle down the shady side and he would’ve had to get out of their way.

  Then as soon as Mr de Mestre saw Archy, he told Tom to take him to Paddy Egan, who’s a farrier in La Trobe Street. So Tom and me set out with Archy—only slowly, because he was limping bad by then.

  Paddy’s an Irishman with a brogue thick as pea soup. He took one look at Archy and said we’d come to the ‘roight’ man and asked what we’d been doin’ to this poor wee thing. Sure we must have worked him off his dainty feet.

  Archer’s feet aren’t too dainty and he towered over Paddy. I was all for telling him we only took Archy on walks and swimming, but Tom signalled not to say more. And I nodded in case Paddy was another Melb
ourne spy. Then Archy gave this little whinny like he wanted more fuss and he pawed the ground to show Paddy which foot.

  ‘It’s a sprain I’m thinking, but never you mind, Archy lad. I’ve a liniment here will fix you in no toim at all,’ Paddy said. ‘With maybe a little bandage to help it along. What do you say to that now?’ And blow me if Archy didn’t toss his head up and down like he agreed.

  Next thing Paddy was rubbing liniment on Archy’s foot and massaging it in. Then he wrapped on a clean bandage.

  I wrinkled my nose at the smell and asked what was in it.

  ‘Sure and it’s a secret recipe of me own,’ he said. ‘There’s some puts soap or oil on a horse and rubs it in. As if that’d work! No use at all. I start off with Black Mustard and Shepherd’s Purse picked in full bloom at mid-morning—no other toim will do—chopped up foine and left soakin’ in a solution of pure alcohol till I’m ready. Then there’s the sieving and straining, till out it comes black as peat and pure as a winter’s snowdrift.’

  Tom winked behind Paddy’s back, but took the jar he handed him.

  ‘You make sure and rub that in twice a day now, mornin’ and night, and he’ll run that Cup three times over before you can say Black Mustard and Shepherd’s Purse.’

  We walked Archy slowly back to stable and had him rest in his stall the remainder of the day. No walking this afternoon. Tom and Barney took the other two out, but I stayed with Archy to keep an eye on him. Sat next to him, stroking his head and neck all the while.