No dust tomorrow, anyway — even if the bush-flies would be worse and the marsh flies also along to lend them a hand annoying people. Also, a nice cool night for sleeping, drunk or sober, with a partner, or alone.
Cup day began as anticipated. The marsh flies emerged from their pupae in such numbers and so avid for blood that dung-fires had to be lit to protect the horses. Weather prophets were saying that when the pests swarmed like that with the first storm it meant there would be thunderstorms daily till the end of the year, after which the rain would cease completely for the season. Others declared that the blood-hunters were no more numerous than usual, but only appeared so because of the unusual concentration of victims, that, in fact, the only sure indication of excessive early storms and a curtailed Wet was if the frogs began spawning with the first of them — and, look-see, no spawn in the puddles! — but yes, there was, take a look here — but a different kind o’ frog — bet yo’!
Interest in the controversies between experts was taken lightly generally, until when in mid-morning a great cloud rose in the blue of the West and quickly took on the shape of a thunderhead. Then people began to bet not only on the races and their savvy of the species of frogs, but on whether or not a storm would break to cause cancellation of the Cup Race. The Committee rather spoil-sportingly intruded here by cancelling the last of the minor races, so as to advance the luncheon recess and the time of the running of the big race. Mean as it might be considered by some, it was a wise move. By the time the mob were guzzling Barbu’s curries and Ah Loy’s dim-sims with their beer, and the elite their tongue and salad and sparkling hock, the betting on rain within an hour was Odds-on.
The thunderhead was now fully formed and directly overhead, while the West was a black wall towards which, sure indication of a storm, spiteful little gusts of wind came blowing from the East to cause embarrassment to ladies by lifting their skirts and spoiling the enjoyment of gentlemen by snatching off their hats.
It was one thing to advance the time of the race to beat the elements, but quite another to get compliance in the matter from those who mattered most in the circumstances — the horses. The champions, already worked up by anticipation of what was required of them and irritated by marsh flies and smoke, now disturbed by the condition of the atmosphere, were all playing up badly. Worst of all was Red Rory, probably unconcerned about the weather, as Jeremy had predicted, but driven to such ill-temper by his old enemies the flies, that because of his attempts to deal with them once and for all, he had to be put in restraining harness to prevent him from tiring himself out, only to put him in worse temper. He wouldn’t let Rifkah near him in her brand-new silks, maroon and silver, very nicely made for her by Nanago. Rifkah was in tears. Things looked so bad when they got him to the saddling paddock that Fergus said he’d better borrow an outfit himself and ride him. However, Rifkah insisted on going herself to the weighing-in. Then, as if having the saddle put on him made all the difference, Rory became more tractable. He took a sniff at Rifkah, nuzzled her a bit, let her mount him without objection. In fact it could be said that he was the best behaved horse in the Grand Parade, although that wouldn’t be saying much for the others. As someone in the crowd on the rails yelled, ‘Like a mob o’ bloody brumbies yarded to be shot . . . why don’ you shoot ’em, Charlie?’ Poor Charlie Bishoff looked as if he were trying to round up a herd of scrub bulls.
Other people on the fence were yelling to Charlie to get them off before it rained. Odds were fluctuating like the sudden little spiteful gusts of wind that embarrassed the ladies with their dresses. Rory, who as Favourite had been at odds-on and had reached Tens with his performance in the paddock, now made a most interesting betting proposition. People were yelling at Rifkah to ‘Bring the bastard in if you got ’o kill ’im!’ They were calling her Bluey, from the copper curls popping out of her maroon cap. They were calling her the Jew-girl, too, amongst themselves, marvelling that a Jew could even mount a horse, let alone sit one as well as this female of the species.
‘Didn’t they use to ride asses, accordin’ to the Bible, Jews?
‘It’s the Scrub Bull’s taught her to ride.’
‘Thought it was her teachin’ him . . . eeeeeah!’
‘Easy . . . he’s just there with his mob!’
But Jeremy and his mob were too intent on what was happening out there in the Parade against the back-drop of blue-black, down the towering wall of which rivulets of lightning were running.
Charlie Bishoff gave up trying to get order for the start, gave the signal for it: ‘They’re off!’
Half the field were facing the other way, Red Rory among them. But, electrifying as that cry is to a race-crowd, the effect on such is nothing compared with that on horses trained to the limit of sinue, heart, and nerve to hear it. The glowering mouth of hell could not have stopped the champions from swinging straight into stride. There they were racing — not in the colourful bunch of the usual start — but racing — strung out — manes and tails streaming and glossy hides agleam — and the billowing silks. Soon they were lost in the dust pounded out of last night’s mud by other races. But this time there was no riding in the sky as they came into view on the other side. The back-drop showed them as a bright meteor trailing a red tail. So, round to complete the first mile, to go lung-roaring by into the telling second, bunched now, with no thought, no feeling, no purpose, but to get up there in front — in the lead, the lead!
Again the dust-cloud — the meteor — then the leaders on the home-run, coming up and up. Who was it out in front, in front? ‘Red Rory, Red Rory — the Favourite wins! Good-on-you, Jew-girl! Whacko-the-diddle-o — I won a ’undred fids!’
All while a giant black head hung above as if watching.
When it was all over, and the quiet of reaction set in, it was realised that the world was still — menacingly still. Eyes cocked to the sky. Everyone had an eye on the sky as the sweat-soaked Cup winner with his lovely drooping-weary owner-rider was led by Private Pat Hannaford to receive the President’s congratulations.
The President had barely said his little piece, was still holding the slender hand, when — ZIP! — a fiery spear ripped through the heavy air, and — CRACK! — like the Crack of Doom. A stunned moment. Then all the Bells of Hell pealed in echo.
People turned to look across the river to see what had been struck, since obviously it was something near the township. There was a babble of guessing. Finnucane’s little power-house? God forbid, when it meant flat beer. The Hall? Then no Ball tonight. The Police Station was out of line of vision. The Cop Shop gone? Hooray! But there was little time for gawping or yawping. The black wall of the West had tumbled with the crash, releasing a silver wave now sweeping, roaring in across the course. Scramble for shelter, any shelter, even the sacrosanctity of the grandstand and its exclusive dunnies, even the tiny space of Barbu’s booth.
One there was quite unconcerned about dodging the elements, standing out in Hindu finery as the rain came swamping down, grey eyes fixed on a point across the river located either by his exquisite hearing or some other still subtler sense. Prindy had been watching what was going on at the grandstand, standing on top of Barbu’s van. Now he was on the flooding ground. He snatched off turban and silken slippers, tossed them into the van, then went racing away into the silvery chaos, following his nose towards that point.
He passed invisible stables where frightened horses were stomping and shrilling, entered the ghostly company of the river timber, went slithering down the bank. The river was boiling in the rain. He slipped into it, swam the few strokes to cross its little width, climbed out amongst the camps of the kuttabah, where their chained dogs raised angry voices above the roar of rain — There goes a nigger! Up the other bank — to that spot where yesterday the policemen had performed their secret ritual on their feet and this morning early the Cahoon Sisters on their knees.
The monument to Daddy-o? Nothing but a scatter of splintered stones and a hole in the ground from which steam w
as rising.
He approached the hole warily. It wasn’t deep. Only a depression about some shapeless black thing. No — it was not shapeless. There to be glimpsed as the steam thinned, was a hand — extended — not shackled, but nailed — only a small hand, but so bespeaking in its gesture: Oh, Sonny Boy! So short a glimpse it might have been illusion — to vanish in a slide of mud.
The rain stopped deap. Ghost trees came back to vivid life with leaves gleaming silver in the sudden sunlight. Frogs were hopping, piping. Prindy looked round. All sorts of things behind trees, beginning to take shape as steam rose from the earth. He looked into the hole again. It had stopped steaming. The black lump was drowned under muddy water.
Over on the Racecourse motors began to roar. Prindy turned from the hole, began to race back down the bank. As he crossed the river again, he saw Finnucane’s utility slithering down to the crossing, the Map-of-Ireland face twisted in agony, as if he were pissing himself over thoughts of a shattered power-house and hogs-heads of ruined beer.
He climbed again, went to the Lily Lagoons stable, where there was everybody, as well as Fergus and Pat Hannaford ranged alongside the slim red-haired figure in maroon and silver. All stared at him in surprise, as anyone would, seeing so bright a costume so bedraggled. Rifkah met the grey eyes, made the Aboriginal sign: Where you been? Prindy answered with twisting of the lips.
Jeremy, feeding Dextrose to Red Rory, had read the signs. When the grey eyes met his, he asked, ‘What’d the lightning hit?
For a moment grey eyes looked into grey. Then Prindy answered shortly, ‘Coon-Coon.’
Dark eyes widened. Audible intake of breath.
Jeremy pressed the question: ‘The Crucifix, eh?
Prindy nodded. Now the lighter eyes widened. Pat Hannaford’s green eyes then squinted with cynical amusement, and he said, ‘That’ll kill the old girls.’
Jeremy said, ‘Wouldn’t mind betting it kills the rest of the shivoo.’
‘Why should it?’ Pat demanded. ‘It’s nothin’ ’o do with the mob.’
‘Mob’s not running this. If I know the Committee, they’ll have a meeting and solemnly declare that as a gesture of sympathy to the old girls, there’ll be a purely formal gathering for presenting the prizes — no Ball. Old Shame-onus’ll probably cancel his Winning Owners’ Dinner, too . . . so you two chaps can stop arguing about who’s taking Rifkah.’
‘Bloody lunacy,’ growled Pat. ‘On account of a silly effigy.’
Jeremy said dryly, ‘You ought to know there’s been an awful lot of bloody lunacy . . . literally bloody . . . on account of that same effigy. This one’s only a bit more loony, because the old girls’ve probably got Christ mixed up with Dinny by now.’
Jeremy was probably right about the Committee, but, as it turned out, quite wrong about old Shame-on-us. When Finnucane heard the news, at the same time hearing that it had not yet reached the Big House, he wasted no time in taking charge of the situation. He telephoned Lady Rhoda, and in the process of telling her of the dreadful event and predicting the effect of it on the Sisters, dropped the hint that, as tonight’s proceedings were very special in the way of being mostly concerned with Our Boys, it would be no crime to keep the Poor Unfortunates in the dark about it till tomorrow. Her Ladyship agreed. She said she’d heard enough of their grieving already. Even over in the quarters Clancy had given up to them they could be heard crying themselves to sleep every night. However, she insisted that Shamus himself break the news to them, and do it early in the morning so as to beat them to going to pray there again as they had this morning. Poor dears would not be coming to the Ball, of course.
Thus was Cup Night saved for Our Boys as a memento of what happy things they would be fighting for. The other memento, kept secret right up to the moment of Lady Rhoda’s opening the box, was a gold wrist watch for each, inscribed with the Race Club’s arms. Fortunately she had ordered a couple more than there were Boys already enlisted. Thus Pat Hannaford got one, too, along with an aristocratic peck on the cheek that so obviously embarrassed him that the crowd laughed.
Other interesting interludes were, to begin with, presentation of the Cup to the Jew-girl, who looked so lovely in fluorescent green taffeta with the copper mane, that the louts outside expressed appreciation in a popular new form of doing so called Wolf Whistlin’. General Esk, as Patron, kissed her with rather more warmth than seemed patronly. The President looked as if he might have done the same, but for the hard watchful blue eyes of his mother beside him. Pat Hannaford and Fergus Ferris came near to a tussle to do just that when, with that smile of hers, she came away from the dais with the Trophy and the Cheque.
Lady Rhoda’s eyes were just as watchful when Martin presented his Bastard with the Trophy for the Novice Stakes, perhaps because that one in his golden beauty looked even eatable by anyone who had any feeling for him. Certainly Prindy was chewed up a bit by others, females, that is, including Kitty Wyndeyer, before his little wife, resplendant in Indian costume, shoved in and snatched him away.
Then there was Knobby Knowles’s drawing the prize in the Lucky Horseshoe sweep, a handsome little filly. It wasn’t simply that Knobby had made his reputation as the Unluckiest Poor Bugger in the World, through having declared it so often, that made a special interlude of it, but that his exuberance caused what was really the only unseemly event of the evening, at least in public. Knobby’s new sister-in-law, Philly, had been Horseshoe Seller this season, and hence the caller of the winner’s name at the drawing. When Knobby, who was rather drunk, heard his own name, he whooped for joy, came bumbling in, and burbling, ‘You lil beaut,’ grabbed her and kissed her. She smacked his face. Later on, outside, Mum Knowles, also under the influence, smacked Philly’s face and called her a Stuck-up Bitch. Nugget took Philly away weeping.
The only unseemly event, with so much grog flowing that the music of Finnucane’s till never ceased till 2 a.m. Clever old dog, people said about Finnucane, when his saving of the night for their enjoyment was discussed. He himself, despite that music, remained lugubrious, declaring that he didn’t look forward to the payment he would have to make for it all tomorrow morning. But that also only made people laugh. Was ever there one who could break bad news as tactfully as old Shame-on-us? The tale of him and the Rigger’s Widder was resurrected. Billy Brew told it best: ‘When they was buildin’ the railway bridge. This rigger . . . terrible booze artist . . . falls off and gets himself killed. They left it to old Shamus to tell his wife, ’cause, after all, he was the one most benefited by the bloke’s bein’ in these parts. He puts on his best dark Southern clothes. When the widder seen him and how solemn he looked, she thought he was there ’cause the money her old man owed him. Old Shame-on-us grabs his chance, talks about what a hard life she’s had with a man like that, and really how much better off she’d be without him, ’specially as they was havin’ a whip round to give her a benefit. When she woke up to it, she was so well prepared, she only blinked . . . and then thanked him for his trouble. He used to brag about that for years. You were always on a free drink askin’ him about it.’
Shamus duly did his duty early on Saturday morning. However, according to subsequent reports of the performance the Cahoon Sisters put on and the fact that the master-of-tact had to get Monsignor Maryzic to help him out, it wasn’t anything like as easy as the Rigger’s Widder’s case. Nevertheless, thanks to old Shame-on-us, the festival was saved completely for the festivity it of all others demanded. Soon after the news was broken to them, the Sisters, along with Monsignor Maryzic and Miss Kitty, were whisked away to Town aboard Fergus’s plane. Thus did Saturday go off normally, with its Blackboys’ Races, hilarious Boozy Sports, and the rest of it, and the free-for-all dance to wind up.
There were several fights at the dance, most interesting being that between the Knowles Brothers, over Philly and the Filly. When Nugget heard that Knobby was going to give the little mare to Selina Ah Loy, he asked for it for his wife, only to be told something so unpleasant that
they were soon at it. However, as usual they finished up in each other’s arms, weeping, but this time with more than boozy tears, because Knobby said he had a Feelin’ he’d Never be Comin’ ’Ome. Then there was a bit of a scrap between the two ladies in question over who in fact now owned the filly. Mum Knowles settled it by snatching off her old man’s belt and putting Selina to flight for what she called a Chinee-whore. Clancy, the only representative of the Big House there, went off after Selina to comfort her. Prindy, a member of the Coloured Boys’ Band, also made a hit with his solo playing of old favourites: Waltzin’ Matilda, The Road to Gundagai.
Next morning the mob for Town were poured back onto the train in time-honoured style. The only difference was that the departure was also honoured by distinguished company to see Our Boys off. All the Big House big wigs were there. Lady Rhoda embraced her own soldier-boy, blinking while his face wobbled, and Selina Ah Loy wept frankly behind a pile of sleepers. Pat Hannaford embraced and kissed Rifkah and told her he’d be back to marry her: ‘So don’ go doin’ it with any other bloke!’ Then he climbed aboard the engine with Jack Tinball. Jack had to get her away, since it was always a delicate business with passengers likely to fall off with the slightest jerk, and Pat was only sober enough to blow the whistle. But how he blew that whistle! He had his old mate, Porky Jones, bent on the shovel giving him steam for it right out of sight and hearing.
The Lily Lagoons people had just got back to camp, when General Esk, who had been with the Big House party, came down and drew Jeremy aside, saying, ‘Haven’t seen much of you, dear boy . . . thought you’d prefer it. Something important, however. Hope you won’t mind . . . but, assuming that you’ll be wanting to use Lily Lagoons as something of a base, I’m having a powerful radio set brought back by Fergus . . . There’ll be a Signals man along to install it. Any objections?’ Jeremy only shrugged. Esk went on: ‘I’m sure you’ll be glad of it eventually. It’ll put you directly in communication with people that matter. Another thing . . . as I’ll have to be installing myself rather more permanently at GHQ, I’d like to have you accompany me over the ground I’ve covered in working out the defence strategy. Quite likely you might have your own ideas. As it’s your job, essentially, you’re at liberty to reorganise as you please. Still, I’d like to have it on paper. We could do the trip, with Fergus, while the set’s being installed.’
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