‘I don’t know. I was just hoping you’d get up and help us organise one hell of a rip roaring party. We need something that will take us all far, far away from the mundane reality of our pathetic lives. Well yours anyway.’
‘Pathetic? Thanks a bloody lot!’
‘Or, I guess I could try and tickle you to death…’
‘Good enough for me,’ Claire shrieked, relinquishing the quilt and leaping out of bed.
‘Thank Christ for that. I didn’t want David catching a glimpse and thinking we were lesbian lovers.’
‘Bernadette, you do realise…?’
‘He’s gay – how could I not? You remind me every time I mention his name.’ She gave a little laugh but Claire could see through it – Bernadette did not for a second believe David Balducci was gay, and she was clearly besotted.
‘I just don’t want you getting hurt.’
‘I know.’
‘Come on then, better stop him putting umbrellas in our glasses.’
‘Actually, he’s probably reorganised the kitchen cupboards. He was tut-tutting at the chaos when I left him.’ Bernadette got off Claire’s bed.
‘I’ll just throw jeans on for now.’
‘I hope everyone else makes an effort to dress up.’
‘If they don’t we’re going to look pretty bloody silly.’
‘Oh well. At least there’ll be three of us in that boat.’
‘Thank goodness for small mercies.’
Claire emerged a few minutes later to find the open-plan dining-lounge room adorned in gold. There were massive bunches of balloons draped in curling ribbon in three of the six corners, and streamers zigzagging back and forth across the room.
David, dressed in jeans and a black lightweight knit top, turned slightly from the top of the step-ladder. ‘Ah, here she is, the lady of the house. Got to sleep in, eh? Lucky thing. Bernadette’s a slave driver,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Had me up at some ungodly hour. Anyway, there’s heaps to do if we’re to have the champagne cracked and look all relaxed when everyone arrives.’
Claire smiled. ‘What can I do?’
‘Would you mind taking over here? I’m getting a little light-headed and I have to check on the turkey terrine.’ Without waiting for Claire’s agreement, he had dismounted the steps and was draping her shoulders with pre-cut ribbons and streamers, and her hands with limp balloons. ‘Sorry, we don’t have a pump or reversible vacuum, hence the light-headedness.’
Claire stared after him. Was he for real? God only knew what he’d be like half-pissed. She chuckled to herself as she started climbing the steps.
Two hours later, having lined their stomachs with bacon and eggs, they were in their costumes and sipping their first glasses of champagne. A cooked breakfast had instantly endeared David Balducci to Jack McIntyre, a man not usually prone to giving ‘nancy boys’ the time of day. But while David was a little too feminine in his mannerisms and unusually well-turned-out, Jack found the fellow very likeable, as he was later overheard explaining to bewildered old friends and neighbours.
Personally, Claire would have liked just a few of their friends – without the butcher, baker and candlestick maker – but that was the country for you, she thought with resignation as she cast her eyes around the room. It was no corporate box, but she had to admit she was having fun. Claire slumped into a chair in the corner away from the main crowd. She’d really better slow down on the champagne if she was going to see the race out. David appeared at her shoulder as if he’d slid in on skis.
‘You okay, pet?’
‘Just a few too many bubbles, I think.’
‘I’ll get you some water.’
And before Claire could thank him or protest, he was off, his multi-coloured, sequined jockey silks shimmering and flickering in the gaps between people. Claire couldn’t help admiring his behind in the tights that looked painted on. She sniggered – he really was great fun. It was he who’d insisted they get dressed up – and not in finery and hats.
He’d wanted to come in drag until Bernadette had good-naturedly reminded him it was a sedate affair full of conservative country folk. As ridiculous as she felt dressed in a sack as a bag of chaff, at least all her curves were covered and she could wear sensible shoes. Though she was beginning to itch a little.
Bernie looked great as the finishing post, complete with a strip of mirrored plastic. She had to hand it to David: he certainly did have quite an imagination.
Bernadette plonked herself down on the chair next to Claire. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve bloody well been asked what I’m dressed as?’ She scowled. ‘Old Mr Ramsey said I looked like the Commonwealth Games torch. Oh, I ask you!’
Claire laughed. ‘You’re lucky David didn’t make you go as a portaloo, though you’d be very popular – second only to the boozer.’ They both cracked up.
‘Isn’t it fun to dress up and be really silly?’
‘Honestly Bern, I’m having a ball. I really didn’t think I would – so thanks for insisting.’
‘Well you can blame me for the hangover, but David will be to blame for the hay fever. What are friends for?’ she added, giving Claire a hug.’
‘Come on, you two,’ David said, arriving with two large glasses of water. ‘Can’t have the finish line getting the sack.’
The girls began giggling hysterically and he stared at them with mock consternation while they recovered enough to relieve him of the glasses. He sat down and they continued to erupt into fits of laughter.
‘Come on, it wasn’t even funny,’ he said.
‘We know – that’s what’s so hilarious,’ they said, erupting again.
‘Women,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘On a more serious note, who did you get for the sweep?’
‘Garden Gnome,’ Claire groaned, pulling the slip from inside her bra.
‘They don’t give him much hope with a name like that, do they?’ David said.
‘At two hundred to one, neither do the bookies.’
‘What did you get, Bern?’
‘Paperchase. Where do they get these names from? What about you David?’
‘Curtain Call.’
‘I really hope he does well,’ Claire said. ‘He was another one of Todd Newman’s rejects.’
‘I hope he wins, just to show that bastard. David, I told you about the others Claire and Jack are training now, didn’t I?’ said Bernie.
‘You did. How are they going, Claire?’
‘Bloody disaster – bunch of misfits,’ Claire said, and laughed.
‘I think it’s great they’re being given another chance – Bernadette told me all about Paycheque. Very sad.’ Bernadette sure had been spending a lot of time with David Balducci, Claire thought, a little miffed at apparently being the topic of conversation.
‘Yes, well. Dad’s always been one to bat for the underdog.’
‘So, what’s wrong with them? Are they difficult to handle, lazy, or what?’ David asked. They obviously hadn’t discussed it in too much depth.
‘Well, they’re all a bit nervous, which is quite reasonable given they’ve been moved about from pillar to post and most likely beaten. I’ve worked with Paycheque the most while the others settle in. He’s a cranky bugger. I thought it would wear off once he figured out how good he’s got it here, but he’s still crotchety. Nothing nasty, just a general air about him. I swear, if he was a filly I’d think it was hormones.’
Bernadette laughed.
‘Women and their bloody hormones,’ David laughed. ‘Is he a stallion?’
‘Technically speaking, now he’s over four. Probably should have been gelded after all.’
‘Poor bastard – now that would make you cranky.’ David winced.
The girls laughed and said, ‘Men and their bits,’ mimicking him.
‘Maybe he doesn’t sleep well. I’m cranky when I’m tired,’ David said absently.
‘Aren’t we all,’ Bernadette said. Claire wasn’t sure if her expression was drea
my or just plain weary.
‘Anyway, I’d better make sure our guests are happy,’ David said, and got up to mingle.
‘I don’t think I can stand up,’ Bernadette groaned.
‘No, me neither – “champagne fatigue”, I think they call it.’
Claire stared into nothingness, the movement of mingling guests fuzzy to her unfocussed gaze. There was a slight niggle behind the thick fog of champagne and finger food carbohydrates. Could there be something to what David said about Paycheque not getting enough sleep? No, he was just trying to draw comparisons with horses and people. And when it came to sleep, there were none. Horses slept standing up for a start.
Though, now she thought about it, Paycheque was often to be seen stretched out in his day paddock on his side, all four legs stuck out, not curled up like was usual. Claire cringed as she remembered the first time she’d noticed. She’d thought he was dead and had rushed out to check. The poor horse had got such a fright that in a split second he went from peaceful slumber to standing upright with legs spread and bugging eyes.
He was better when she brought him in at the end of the day – still wary, but not the snappy beast with nostrils twisted into a scowl she was greeted with in the mornings. Claire felt ridiculous even thinking it, but began to wonder whether the major problem with Paycheque was that he just didn’t do mornings well.
She was having a chuckle to herself when David began tapping a glass with a fork and calling for everyone to crowd around the television. The race was starting in less than ten minutes.
‘Cool, we don’t even have to move,’ Bernadette said.
‘Mmm,’ Claire agreed, silently congratulating herself on her inadvertent furniture choreography.
Claire appraised the horses with a critical eye as each one made its way into the mounting yard. Garden Gnome was a plain, wiry, highly-strung chestnut. Nothing special – which wasn’t surprising, given his poor rating. Though you just never knew. It was widely understood that the favourite rarely won.
Claire only recognised Curtain Call by his number and the commentators announcing him. His coat shimmered like molten chocolate around an ample girth. There was no sign of the half-starved creature she’d seen at a country meet less than six months ago. His head was up, his ears twitching, taking in all the sounds. Absent were the distressed whites of his eyes and flared nostrils; instead he had the calm, determined look of a winner. Claire swelled with excitement and squeezed her hands to her heart.
All the parading horses looked capable of winning – finely tuned athletes in the prime of health. Claire tried to picture Paycheque parading with them and when she couldn’t, she returned her attention to the last of the horses streaming out onto the track for their warm-up run to the barrier. Her heart pounded heavily with the excitement.
She looked away and bit down on her lip when the camera panned around the huge crowd at Flemington, and then returned to watch as each horse was led into the barrier, noting the calm attentive lowered head of Curtain Call. Her belly was aflutter with all the emotion of The Race That Stops the Nation – dread, excitement, envy – as the stewards battled with the final few cantankerous beasts.
Claire crossed her fingers and held her breath through the shot of the spinning light signalling all was well, the crash of the gates, the thunder of hooves and the sorting out of horses across the track – a ritual she did very time she watched the great race.
As the seconds ticked by and the race progressed, her heart became a lump in her throat, her breathing shallow. She leant forward and, nodding back and forth, rode every stride. They came around the last turn all in one group spread right across the track.
She ducked and weaved as Curtain Call made his move out and around the pack at the one-fifty metre mark. Her movements in the chair became more urgent as she too tried to ride him to victory.
Claire had forgotten all about Garden Gnome until he came from nowhere to snatch victory by a nostril. Her heart eased as they thundered past the blinking mirror of the finish line, the commentators not holding back on their surprise at the upset, but adding – just like every other year – that upsets were what the Melbourne Cup was all about.
Claire wanted to sneak off for a weep – it was how she always felt in the moments just after the finish.
Bernadette was screeching wildly. ‘Wasn’t he yours?’
‘Yeah, he was.’
‘Well, don’t get too excited, will you.’
‘My head’s in a spin. That’s all.’
‘Can you believe he got out from the rail like that? I thought he was boxed in for sure.’
They paused to watch the replay of the final stages and winner’s connections going mad in the stands.
‘That’ll be you next year,’ Bernadette said.
‘Yeah, right.’ Claire laughed.
‘No reason why not. They do say it’s the most difficult race to predict.’
‘We’d need one hell of a miracle – or three or four.’
‘Miracles happen every day,’ Bernadette said sagely. ‘’Nother champers?’ she asked, getting up with a wobble.
‘Yes, thanks.’
Claire remained sitting, eyes glued to the screen. Why couldn’t that be them up there talking about what a special horse it was? Exactly, there was no reason. Claire McIntyre decided then and there that she had exactly one year to make a miracle happen. She looked around the room and across at Jack, wanting to escape and begin her newfound quest.
This was what her father had described: passion. The feeling right to the depths of your soul that you would give up everything in order to do this one thing, that no matter how many battles you lost along the way you’d win the war because you’d stayed true to yourself. She hadn’t felt so fired up in years. Claire wanted to spring to her feet and tell the room all about it. But her bum was glued to the chair and her head was starting to spin. She realised she was a more than a little tipsy.
She’d have to wait until tomorrow. She just hoped it wouldn’t all seem impossible when she went out in the morning to do the feeds and face the grim reality of what lay ahead. In the meantime, she’d start with something more achievable: the dishes.
A few minutes later, David caught her staring out the kitchen window, rubber-gloved hand stuffed in a mug, biting on her lip in concentration.
‘The nation is moving again, you know?’ he said with a grin, waving a tea towel in front of her face.
Claire blinked, apologised and returned to her task.
‘A few too many bubbles has this one had,’ he said theatrically.
‘Haven’t we all?’ Bernadette said, flicking the tea towel at him while keeping one eye on Claire.
She too had noticed the vacant look in her best friend’s eyes, and instantly recognised it for what it was. Claire had turned another corner today.
That night, Claire McIntyre watched every news bulletin, feeling more and more determined. Curtain Call’s trainer dropped a poignant comment about the horse’s second chance. It went right over the heads of the commentators but sent a knowing ripple through racing’s inner circles. Claire felt a surge of respect for the new owners of the horse, and wished Todd Newman would hurry up and get what was coming to him.
When she caught a glimpse of him on camera – shrugging and saying the almost-win by a horse he’d discarded was merely luck of the draw – she wanted to punch his lights out. It was no secret that the Newman stables had been inspected by the RSPCA on a number of occasions, but no charges had ever been laid. The mystery was how he kept getting away with it. But then there was always a stable hand to use as a scapegoat.
Claire lay in bed exhausted but unable to sleep. Whirling around in her head were abstract images of the highs and lows of her year ahead. On the one hand she felt exhilarated – imagine actually being there on television as the trainer of the next Cup winner. On the other she felt terrified – what if it didn’t work? What if Todd Newman was right and the horses really were useless and untra
inable? Claire felt like she was on a seesaw that had just crashed to ground.
She’d keep her plans to herself, that’s what she’d do. Carry on with Jack’s meandering and try and pretend there was no urgency. It would be difficult, but not as difficult as failing and being seen as just another wannabe trainer trying to score in the big league when others had spent decades on a fruitless quest.
But why shouldn’t I give it a go, damn it? I’m stuck here for the year anyway. The seesaw went up. Because I don’t believe in my team, she thought guiltily, and the seesaw crashed back down to the ground with an even heavier thud. It really ate at Claire to have less than total respect for her father, but he just seemed to wander through life dealing with things as they arose. There was no great show of determination – no grand plan beyond having enough money to keep himself and the horses fed.
And speaking of horses – they were the other glitch in her grand plan. None of them bore any resemblance to the sleek elite athletes filmed at Flemington that day.
But they could, a little voice somewhere behind the seesawing thoughts and champagne haze piped up. Yes, she’d give it a shot – she had nothing to lose. And if it didn’t work, at least she’d have tried. And with that last thought, Claire set her morning alarm for five o’clock and rolled over.
Chapter Twenty
Claire was just getting back from working three of the horses – riding Paycheque and leading another two – when Jack arrived at the stables.
‘How did they go?’
‘Okay. I didn’t exactly put them through their paces – just trotted them out to the old tank and back. Howie and Bell are happy enough, but God, Paycheque is a real grump. Aren’t you?’ She laughed, and scratched the horse behind the ears.
Jack took the two lead-ropes and moved the other horses away so Claire had room to dismount. She unsaddled Paycheque and put the gear on the railing.
‘What about Larry?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to take him out?’
‘No, I’ll do him from the ute.’
‘You sure you’ll be okay?’
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