by Sarah Lark
The baby made a face. Robby smiled. He was clearly honored.
Lani shook her head. “I don’t think she likes it. Didn’t you see, Violet? It’s a girl.”
Roberta Lucille Fence was baptized two weeks later in Woolston. Robby, her godfather, insisted on appearing with her four-legged “godmother” at the baptism but declined to contest another race, even though the next race day was approaching as Eric importantly declared. He had, indeed, found a job. The recently founded Lower Heathcote Racing Club needed stable hands and did not look too deeply into qualifications. Eric had been working there for about a week and was boasting about it to Robby, already with insider information. At the very next harness race, he put the rest of his winnings on a chestnut stallion named Thunderbird. The horse made a valiant go of it, but just before the finish line, the jockey lost control. Thunderbird galloped across and was disqualified.
Violet was poor again.
Chapter 5
“Of course you have to participate. Write to Wellington and have the horse sent.”
Heather Coltrane was ardently pleading with Chloe now that she had finally found something for which her friend showed at least a spark of interest.
Claire Dunloe’s daughter had returned from the North Island two weeks before, and Heather had hardly recognized her best friend. Chloe, who had been an ebullient woman, looked broken, a mere shell of her former self. She seemed unable to comprehend the loss of her beloved husband about whom she still spoke in the present tense: what Terrence “likes” or “doesn’t,” what “interests” him. When she became conscious that she would never again laugh and talk with him, eat or ride with him, she sobbed and ran to her room to cry, or—worse—she sank for hours into a silent brooding. Try as she might to cheer her up or in any case distract her, Heather did not get any further than Claire and Jimmy Dunloe, who had retrieved Chloe from Wellington, where they had arranged the funeral and the reading of the will.
These tasks had been hopelessly overwhelming for Chloe even though she had been known for her organizational talents. She had taken joy in scheduling exhibitions and marketing Heather’s paintings and those of other artists. Before her marriage, the two young women had planned to open an art gallery, and after Terrence’s death, Heather had hoped that this dream might yet become reality. But now her petite, dark-haired friend who had always danced through life was tired, careworn, and desperate—an inconsolable creature who hardly ventured to leave the house and hid in public behind a widow’s veil.
That morning, Heather had finally convinced her friend to pay a visit to the Burtons. When Peter had mentioned the harness race, Chloe seemed to come to life.
“I had a hackney,” she said in a monotone voice. “Terrence gave her to me, a golden-chestnut type. She pulled the carriage, but she also would let you ride her. During the fall hunt—” Chloe suppressed a sob, then pushed to continue her story. Her voice grew livelier with every word about her horse, Dancing Jewel, and their adventures during the fox hunt.
Heather listened with amazement when this time Chloe was able to speak of Terrence and his black horse, Hunter, without breaking down in tears. She even laughed when she described how she and Terrence came up behind the hunting hounds, cornered the fox, and then how they succeeded with cunning to let him slip away.
“The fox was so darling. I would have preferred to take him home. I could not allow the hounds to tear him to pieces, and then Terrence . . .”
Chloe’s eyes shone as she recounted how Terrence saved the fox. With that, an idea occurred to Heather about how she could pull her friend from her grief: Dancing Jewel belonged to the estate of Terrence Boulder and was to be sold in Wellington. However, if the mare was still in the stables there, Chloe could have her brought to Dunedin and ride her in Caversham parish’s charity race. She would finally get out of the house, experience something new, and talk with other people about something other than her sorrow and loss. Heather just needed to convince her.
“And if she’s already gone?” Chloe asked despondently. “With my luck—”
Heather shook her head. “Such an unusual horse wouldn’t sell that quickly, especially since it’s so expensive. But you’ll only know if you write as quickly as possible to the executor. It’d be best if you sent a telegram. Let’s go. We’re off to the telegraph office. And on the way back, we’ll buy you a new riding dress—nothing black, something blue. Otherwise, even the horse will get depressed.”
Heather hardly had dared to hope, but her idea paid off. Chloe had loved horses her whole life. Her mother, Claire, had taught her to ride as soon as she could walk. When Claire and Kathleen finally had turned a profit through their shop, Chloe received a pony, for which Heather had burned with jealousy. It had been important to Chloe that Terrence shared her passion. Surely it had only been shock and her deep sorrow that had allowed her to leave her Jewel on the North Island when her parents brought her home. And just as surely, the executor had known that. He had not sold the mare; instead, he had researched how to ship a horse at the best price.
He responded to Chloe and Heather’s telegram immediately with a message that the chestnut mare would be sent the same day. Chloe’s reaction exceeded Heather’s greatest hopes: she immediately made plans to meet Jewel when she arrived. The two friends took the train to Christchurch, where Chloe let herself be talked into a shopping trip and a visit to the plains’ racetrack until Jewel’s arrival.
The track was located in Woolston, two miles from Christchurch. Woolston was a tiny village consisting solely of a general store and a few wool-processing businesses when races were not happening at Brown’s Paddock. A stable owner had the idea to lay a racetrack, and it sparked the attention of well-off investors and brought in additional income on the weekend. A racing club, which offered a few trainers and racehorses a home, was across the street.
Heather and Chloe arrived on a race day and were hoping to watch a harness race. Those, however, were infrequent, and the Thoroughbred breeders did not take them seriously.
“The harness races draw crowds,” said Lord Barrington, a sheep baron and one of the first racehorse breeders in New Zealand. “People come with their workhorses, milk-wagon horses, and who knows what else. Sometimes the fellows drive them more than fifty miles here, just to make them trot three more miles, so the horses are tired. In England, the sport’s supposed to have its supporters, and here, well, the common man wants his fun too.”
Barrington looked at the farmers, riverboat men, and craftsmen crowding around the racetrack, eager to gamble on the day’s main race. Behind them, a women’s group was demonstrating. They waved banners pointing to the dangers of gambling and alcohol, but the crowd either ignored them or mocked them, to which the women didn’t pay attention.
The better-society members of Christchurch filled the stands, wearing elegant dresses and extravagant hats as if they were at Royal Ascot. Heather and Chloe learned that for harness races, the racetrack was in the hands of the lower classes and brought in a different crowd mainly made up of the factory workers living around Woolston. Apparently, things got loud and anything but polite when they cheered on their favorites and now and again got in fistfights with the bookmakers. The bet was generally a tenner.
When it came to the main race, Barrington wouldn’t take no for an answer about placing a bet with his own money for the women. To be diplomatic, the two women decided on Thoroughbreds from Barrington’s stables and were not disappointed: Heather’s horse won, Chloe’s was second, and they pocketed the winnings. The business paid doubly for Heather: Barrington engaged her at once to paint the victor’s portrait, and she passed the time waiting for Jewel’s arrival with making sketches and first drafts.
“On the next race day, we should arrange an exhibition of your pictures in Woolston,” Chloe said.
Heather sighed with relief. Chloe was slowly finding her way back to her former self. And now, she followed Heather’s lead by donating her winnings to the women for their
fight against gambling and alcohol.
“I’ve heard they’re fanatics,” said Lord Barrington. “They even want to ban Communion wine in the church.”
Heather laughed. “My stepfather’s trying to talk them out of that, but they’re correct about their cause. For you, my lord, ten shillings is pocket money. For a worker, a tenner is half a week’s pay. If he drinks it up and gambles it away, his children starve.”
When Chloe’s horse arrived, the first thing she did was purchase a two-wheeled gig; she had gotten the idea from harness racing where the horse trotted, pulling sulkies. In Dunedin, they rode the horses—as in most of the races at Brown’s Paddock—but the idea of driving in a harness race seemed more interesting to Chloe. Trotting proved an uncomfortable gait, and sitting through a harness race taxed the rider. In a sidesaddle it would be hell, but Chloe did not want to go too far by presenting herself before the parish of Dunedin in a gentleman’s saddle. In contrast, the idea of driving during the race appealed to her, and on the well-paved road from Christchurch in the direction of Otago, she astounded Heather with Jewel’s incredible speed while trotting. Jewel was a born carriage horse, and she rarely slipped into a gallop. Chloe wouldn’t have trouble keeping her mare at the predetermined gait.
“What’s more, she’s beautiful,” Heather said enthusiastically. “She really is like a sculpture of pure gold. You’ll stand out as the loveliest couple in this race.”
Chloe laughed—perhaps for the first time since Terrence died. “It’s not about beauty, Heather. It’s about pace. And I am focused on the win.”
Chapter 6
Colin Coltrane left his post in railroad construction two weeks before the First Caversham Welfare Race, and he had fallen out with Julian Redcliff before that. Colin was intelligent and easily comprehended the fundamentals of explosives and bridge construction. Redcliff had finally and against his will promoted Colin, who came to lead a construction team of six people, two of them Maori. On the dangerous construction sites in Arthur’s Pass, Colin’s attempts to speed up the work by circumventing Redcliff’s instructions repeatedly brought his men into precarious situations.
When one of his Maori workers had fallen after Colin had neglected to secure him during the construction of a bridge, there was trouble. Fortunately, the man survived, but he had been seriously injured, and his rescue from an inaccessible ravine had put more workers in danger and delayed work along the construction site. Redcliff mercilessly chewed out Colin in front of his men and revoked his promotion, at which point Colin tried to attack him, but Redcliff knocked him to the ground.
Colin left the construction site crestfallen, but his mood improved when he rode down into the plains. The railroad chapter of his life was behind him, as was the Armed Constabulary chapter. Attacking one’s superior was a serious violation in the military. To avoid being discharged or demoted, Colin resigned at the rank of sergeant and decided to introduce himself to the racing enthusiasts and horse breeders of the South Island as Sergeant Coltrane. The title sounded trustworthy and authoritative—no one would doubt his qualifications.
Colin was in luck in Woolston and was able to watch a harness race. He reached Brown’s Paddock the week before the next race day and immediately got along quite well with the resourceful stable owner.
“If you open a stud farm, build a racetrack first thing,” advised Brown, a square-built, red-faced horse trader from Manchester. “But not here, young man. I’d ask you that. Show your favor to the area ’round Dunedin or up in Otago. It should work there, too, what with all the gold miners. Harness racing isn’t a sport for the money bags. The working people like to bet a little of their earnings. And they like to get drunk. Next thing, I’m opening a pub too.”
The Thoroughbreds were usually delivered Friday for the main races on Sunday, but the competitors for the Saturday afternoon harness races arrived just before noon. There were no professional jockeys, and the field was a wild mix of horses of all races and sizes.
Most of the horses came from the surrounding sheep farms, and they were ridden by shepherds or by their owners. Petty traders and drivers from Christchurch and the surrounding towns sometimes appeared with their horses in Woolston. Some of the farm horses had also never been driven before, and some of the carriage horses had never been ridden. The chaos on the racetrack took shape accordingly.
It was not always obvious if one of the horses took a few paces at a gallop. This often led to fighting among the event hosts, participants, bookmakers, and the crowd. The trotting races were not orderly, but Colin saw the potential in the new sport. The stands were packed, the small bets amassed to a small fortune, and the victors received respectable purses. Colin Coltrane saw his loftiest hopes confirmed: his and Matariki’s future lay in the breeding and marketing of harness-racing horses.
The First Caversham Welfare Race hardly offered any surprises with regard to the participants and the horse selection. Everyone who had a riding horse participated, even though there weren’t any money prizes. There was only a trophy cup, which the pottery group of the housewives’ organization had crafted.
“Where are we going to put that if Heather wins?” Kathleen Burton asked in feigned exasperation.
Heather was walking her handsome, black Thoroughbred gelding to the starting line. Next to his sister and Matariki, Colin noted another female participant, a dark-haired young woman who was the only one driving her horse instead of riding it. She seemed familiar to Colin, but Matariki took up so much of his attention that he did not ask his mother about her. Matariki was in a dazzling mood and bursting with pride.
“Don’t you worry about the trophy, Kathleen. Grainie and I are going to win.”
Laughing, Matariki patted Grainie’s throat. Colin noticed that she had not put a sidesaddle on the mare that day, and that irritated him. On their journey from Parihaka to Wellington, it had not bothered him. After all, there were no sidesaddles to be had. Yet, here, in front of the whole church parish, Colin found it rather unsuitable for his fiancée to be sitting on a horse with her legs splayed and her ankles exposed.
Matariki only laughed when he pointed that out to her. “Everyone knows I have legs, so why should I hide them? I’m about to ride three miles at a brisk trot, Colin. If I did that in a sidesaddle, I’d die of back pain. And you don’t want me to be stiff tonight, do you?”
Matariki let go of her horse briefly and snuggled like a kitten against Colin. It wasn’t a particularly appropriate gesture in public, but Colin and Matariki’s mother saw past that. Michael was not among the crowd—he, too, had a horse and wanted to ride.
“So, I’m running a double risk of having to put such an ugly pot on my mantel.” Lizzie Drury smiled with a glance at the prize. “There, look, Peter’s taking the stage. I think you need to get to the starting line, Riki.”
Peter Burton welcomed his parish to the race and to the picnic and charity bazaar that would follow. “As always, we’re hoping for generous donations for the needy in our parish and for the immigrants. You all know that the influx of gold miners to Otago hasn’t abated, and they’re not all scoundrels. Rather, many of them see no more hope in their homeland. Many of you also followed the promise of gold before you found opportunities more pleasing to the Lord to earn your living. Who are we, then, to judge the dreamers who now come to our city, worn, poor, and often sick? I would like to thank you for your help tending the soup kitchens, advising the new arrivals on their tools and equipment for the winter in the goldfields, giving work to those disheartened and desperate returning from the goldfields, and taking in the children who are sometimes orphaned during their ship’s passage. You all do God’s work, but food, medical care, blankets, and warm clothing cost money. For that reason, we had a new idea: the First Caversham Welfare Race. Anyone in the Dunedin region with a quick-trotting horse can race, and the audience can place small donations on the riders. A passion for gambling is a vice that throws many families into poverty every year, but just as the enjoy
ment of a glass of good wine does not make someone a drunk, neither will a small bet on a harmless game lead directly to the loss of your mind and money. The bets are limited to a shilling. Two-thirds of the proceeds go to the parish; the other third to the ‘women against alcohol’ initiative, whose president, Mrs. Harriet Morison, will now say a few words.”
A short, round woman ascended the podium and began to speak.
“Peter must have a silver tongue to have convinced that woman of the godliness of this event,” Lizzie said to Kathleen.
Kathleen nodded. “Though she’s right in principle, with regard to gambling and alcohol. We appreciate Mrs. Morison and her women, even if she sometimes overdoes it. These women are bitter. Their men drink away their pay. The children starve, and the families can’t pay their rent. It’s a tragedy. No wonder she’s developed a hatred of whiskey. Personally, I don’t believe these men would be better spouses if they closed down the pubs. It’s always possible to get whiskey.”
She cast a meaningful glance at Michael, who came from a dynasty of bootleggers, after all. Lizzie smiled.
“Women just need more opportunities to take action.” A deep, friendly voice joined in the conversation. “They need better access to the family wealth, support when it comes to divorce, and a right to the upkeep of their children. Did I miss anything, Mother? I couldn’t get out of the office any earlier.”
Sean Coltrane was again wearing his gray waistcoat and suit instead of lighter casual clothing like most of the men at the event. His shirt, however, looked wrinkled, as if he had slept in it. Kathleen believed that was possible. Her eldest son was still wearing himself down in his law office, in which he had risen to partner. He no longer needed to work day and night, but besides the lucrative cases with which his firm was primarily concerned, Sean represented indigent clients. He advised charity groups, fought cases for abandoned women and children, and was counted among the few advocates who would represent women in divorce proceedings. Sean had been eleven years old when Kathleen left her first husband. He could still recall her situation and wanted to spare other women from the same experience. He was somewhat taken aback when he spied Colin next to his mother.
