I Own the Racecourse!

by Patricia Wrightson

  Andy chuckled. ‘’Course I can. It’s mine. I bought it.’ His blue eyes looked kindly and directly at the man, not blaming him for his mistake. ‘I won’t bother you, mister. I just came to help.’

  ‘Oh…’ said the man. He looked at Andy in a troubled way, then turned and went back to the stall. Andy went on sweeping.

  Three more men came out from behind the stall. Two of them had large brooms, very different from Andy’s, and the third had a shovel and a large bin. Andy watched them begin to work. The brooms were broad, with short, hard bristles, rather like large scrubbing brushes on handles. The men pushed them along in a strong, competent way, clearing the ground section by section, building up mounds that the man with the shovel lifted into his bin. Andy went back to his own haphazard method, sweeping very hard and raising a cloud of dust.

  More men arrived with brooms or shovels. There were fleeting glances at Andy, thoughtful, inquisitive or amused. Whenever he happened to catch one of these glances he nodded and smiled. The glance turned into a friendly nod, a teasing grin or a sober stare. Most of the time Andy just kept on working, careful to keep out of the way. His heap of litter had grown so big that he looked at it helplessly, not sure what to do about it.

  The man who had arrived first, the only one who had spoken to him so far, saw this and shouted, ‘George!’ A man with a shovel looked up, then came over to Andy. He was small, brown and wrinkled, with bright, quick eyes. He grinned and began to shovel up the rubbish. Andy watched.

  ‘It’s the people who come to the races makes this mess, I know,’ he said.

  ‘Makes you wonder, don’t it?’ said the man.

  ‘There was a lot of ’em last night.’

  ‘Were you here? Saw Magic Moment get beaten, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Andy. He felt a need to explain this, so he added, ‘I might come tonight. I can come whenever I like. I don’t have to pay.’

  ‘So I hear,’ said the man. ‘They make me fork out every time, but I reckon you’re different.’ Seeing that one or two of the giant brooms were working nearer, he shouted, ‘Watch it, you blokes! You’ll have the owner tipped in with the garbage if you don’t mind out.’

  The men grinned. Andy chuckled and took his old broom to a safer place at one side of the sweepers. He worked on contentedly; and now the men spoke to him when they came near.

  ‘Bit of an honour, having the owner down.’

  ‘Thanks for the help, boss.’

  ‘See you at the gate tonight. They tell me you’re coming down to look the place over.’

  ‘Watch it, Fred, this is the owner we’ve got here.’

  ‘Yeah, Bert Hammond was saying.’

  They spoke kindly, welcoming him. Andy smiled and swept all the harder, always careful to keep out of the way; but inwardly he was swelling with delight and happiness. After a while he noticed that the sweepers were standing and resting on their brooms. The bins were being carted away. The work was finished.

  Andy followed the men who were drifting away behind the stall. There was a little room where they were stacking their brooms and shovels. Andy stacked his broom with the others and went out through an open door in the wall. The man who had arrived first stood by, waiting to lock the door when everyone had gone.

  ‘See you later, mate.’

  ‘I’ll look out for you tonight.’

  Andy waved and ran off. He reached the vacant ground where the cats lived, and paused to chuckle. ‘The owner. That’s who I am, they know.’

  8

  The Splendid Reality

  In the evening of that day, Andy set out for his favourite spot on the cliff. He was dreaming that perhaps he really would go to the races, as he had told the cleaners in the morning. Perhaps, tonight, he would come down from his dark perch on the cliff and plunge into all the brilliance and noise below. The thought of it made him breathe hard, as though he had been running. It was one thing to own the racecourse in a quiet way, watching it and talking to the men who worked there. It was quite another thing to go striding into the middle of it under all the lights, where crowds of people could stare at him. Andy was going to sit on the cliff and dream about it.

  Cars were flowing in rivers down Blunt Street and Wattle Road, spreading over the flat ground near the course, and banking up into all the streets and lanes above. All the white-coated men were at their busiest. ‘No, no!’ they shouted to flustered drivers. ‘You won’t do it! Forward again…now, back…back…now, round—keep going!’ Horse-floats went slowly down the hills. Buses, waddling among the lighter traffic like elephants, went down to join the herd in their own parking area. The sky was a mysterious glowing grey made up of violet, lilac and faded rose. Over the rim of Blunt Street, a neon sign that stood above the city made sharp green flashes against the glowing grey.

  Andy went quietly through his little alley and down to the rocks of the cliff. He sat there, looking at the lighted stage below and the crowds that were already drifting there; and he dreamed of himself drifting among them. He didn’t hear anyone coming until someone arrived beside him on the rocks.

  ‘Shove over,’ said Joe, pushing on to the ledge.

  Andy’s voice was full of pleasure. ‘Hey, it’s you, Joe! Plenty of room here, Joe. Did you come to watch?’ The toy figures of the bandsmen marched on the track, and the music came up to them. ‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Andy with simple pride.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Joe cautiously. He had waited for Andy and followed him here, away from stray dogs and silently scornful Irishmen, slipping off while the O’Day boys were finding customers for their backyard parking space. He had a difficult job to do, and he was going to watch every word with the greatest care. He sat beside Andy, quietly watching while the silent, shabby racecourse put on its hidden truth of colour and life.

  ‘I bet they’re making a mess,’ said Andy happily. ‘She was cleaned up good this morning, I know. I helped.’ He looked sideways at Joe in the gathering dusk, to see if he were impressed. Joe shifted uneasily on the rock. ‘They got two lots to clean up this time,’ Andy went on, ‘so I gave ’em a hand.’

  The voice from the amplifier spoke, heralding the first race. The crowd began to wash along the rails or drain away into the stands. The band disappeared. Andy gave a cry of delight.

  ‘The horses! See the horses!’

  The horses and silk-clad drivers went by and Andy’s heart went with them, snatched away under the golden lights, whirling round the track. Joe watched with him, while the great voice sang and the signals flashed; until the race broke and fell apart into flying units, and Andy’s heart returned to his body.

  ‘Dogs are all right,’ said Andy, breathing deeply. ‘Only horses are better.’

  ‘Do you like the horses best?’ asked Joe. ‘Best of the whole show, I mean?’

  Andy thought about it. ‘I might do,’ he said at last.

  ‘But they’re not yours, are they? You don’t own the horses?’

  Andy shook his head solemnly. ‘They’re none of ’em mine, I know most of ’em, though.’

  ‘But you don’t own them. They’re not part of your show. What do you like next best? The dogs?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Andy, sounding a little confused. ‘I reckon the dogs are pretty good.’

  ‘Do you own them?’

  ‘’Course not,’ said Andy, beginning to grow impatient. ‘You know I got no dogs.’

  ‘So you like the horses and dogs best, but you don’t own them. What else do you like, then? What’s the next best?’

  ‘See the numbers going up,’ said Andy, sliding away from these pointless and bothering questions. ‘It’s a big night, I know. All those people, that’s why it’s a big night. Hey, Joe, did you ever see such a big night? I reckon there’s thousands, don’t you? Thousands of people.’

  ‘Is that what you like next best?’ said Joe relentlessly. ‘The people? I suppose you don’t reckon you own them?’

  Andy laughed. ‘You must be crazy, Joe! Nobody owns
people.’ He laughed again.

  ‘All right,’ said Joe tensely. ‘So we’ve got that far, then. You don’t own the horses, or the dogs, or the people. You don’t own the cars and buses, either, do you? You don’t own the money, or the men that do the sweeping…’ He stopped to take a breath, and to force himself to calm down. ‘I don’t see how you own much at all, do you? Nothing very good, anyway. All the best parts, you don’t own them at all. I mean, you said so yourself.’

  ‘I never said I did!’ cried Andy stormily. ‘I never said any of that—the horses—the dogs…’ He struggled with the words that came crowding into his mouth. ‘I told you—all I said—I said I bought Beecham Park!’

  ‘Steady on, boy,’ said Joe. ‘I’m trying to work it out for you, see? I mean, if you don’t own any of the best bits, it doesn’t matter much, does it? What’s the good of Beecham Park without the horses and dogs and people? What do you want with it, without that?’

  ‘But they’re there!’ cried Andy. He thrust fiercely with his hand at the scene below. ‘Can’t you see ’em? There they are.’

  ‘Put a sock in it, Andy—listen, can’t you? Of course I can see them. I can see them just as good as you, and I never reckoned I owned Beecham Park. So what’s the difference if you don’t own it either? You can see it, just the same as me. What’s the difference if you own it or not?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s any difference,’ said Andy. He sounded hopeless and sullen. ‘I just own it, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, boy. I don’t own it, and I’m looking at it too. You don’t own it either, not really. That old chap was just kidding, to get your money out of you.’

  ‘You don’t know nothing—you wasn’t even there! It wasn’t kidding—not like that game you play with the gasworks and the Manly ferry and all of that. You never owned that stuff; I know. You never bought it at all, not like me. You don’t want me owning Beecham Park, that’s all it is.’

  ‘Andy—Andy, boy. If it was mine, I’d give it to you. But it’s not real, boy. You’ll find out you’ve got no Beecham Park and no money either, just nothing. You’ve got to know what’s real, or they’ll take it all from you. Look, will you ask your mum? Will you listen to her? She’ll tell you the same.’

  ‘What does she know? She wasn’t there, no more than you.’ Andy tried for more words, choked, and tried again. ‘I got gardens down there, with flowers and that onion-weed. They’re mine. I grew that onion-weed…’

  ‘Three dollars is a lot to pay for a bit of onion-weed. Is that all you’ve got?’

  Andy struggled to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ll show you.’ He started off, scrambling and tumbling down the cliff with an agonized, clumsy speed. Joe hesitated for only a second, then went climbing and sliding after him. He mustn’t lose Andy, now that they had come so painfully far in this fierce, wrestling argument. He hoped that it might be finished, once and for all, tonight.

  They reached the pavement of Wattle Road, behind a line of parked cars. Across the road there were lights, parked buses and groups of people. Andy loped along on the darker side, with Joe following, until he reached the corner of Blunt Street. They both paused there, waiting for a chance to cross; and that was when Mike O’Day saw them from the other side of Blunt Street.

  Mike was wandering aimlessly, alone and out of sorts. Terry and Matt had gone off to the workshop together as soon as the yard was full of cars, and without inviting Mike to join them. Mike knew they were baffled by the disagreement between himself and Joe. He didn’t blame them, for he was baffled too—but it hurt, all the same. He missed Terry; and he missed Joe. When he saw Andy and Joe across the street, he almost turned back. Then he saw their faces. He frowned, and walked across the street towards them.

  ‘Hi, there,’ said Mike. ‘Going somewhere, Andy boy?’

  Andy scowled at him. ‘You coming too? Come on, then. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Good show,’ said Mike, shooting a hard look at Joe and receiving one in return. They both followed Andy across Wattle Road to the turnstiles of Beecham Park, where he hovered for a moment.

  Groups of people were clustering about the turnstiles or drifting through them, giving up their tickets as they went. Andy wandered along the row, looking at the faces of the men on the turnstiles and drawing back when anyone else came near. At last he made a dart at one of the turnstiles and spoke to the man in charge.

  ‘You know me, mister?’

  The man gave him a friendly nod. ‘Hello, it’s the owner. Coming in to have a look, boss?’

  Andy nodded. Then he jerked his head at Mike and Joe who stood close behind, uncomfortable but determined. ‘These others are coming in too. They’re my friends.’

  The man hesitated. ‘Friends, are they? Well, I don’t know. It’s different with you—and we don’t sell tickets to kids, of course—but I don’t know if I can let half the kids of Appington Hill come through, without they come with their parents. Can I, now? That’s not reasonable, boss.’

  Andy considered. ‘I never said that,’ he pointed out. ‘These two, that’s all I said. I gotta show ’em. Half the kids of Appington Hill, I reckon that’s not reasonable. I only said these two.’

  ‘Well…’ said the man. He took his hand from the turnstile. ‘I’m not having any trouble with your dads, that’s all. I never saw you.’

  They pushed between the wire barriers. Joe muttered ‘Thanks, mister,’ as he passed.

  ‘Don’t try it on next week,’ the man warned him. ‘Tonight you’re with the owner, that’s the difference.’

  Again Mike looked hard at Joe and Joe frowned back.

  They came through a narrow passage from the turnstile, and they all stood still. Even Andy had never seen Beecham Park like this before. At first they hardly saw the drifting crowds, the boys selling programmes, the rows of little windows where people were placing bets. In front the ground sloped down to the blazing oval of the track with a pool of darkness inside it. From here the darkness looked much blacker than it did from above; there was only a glimmer here and there from the cars parked inside it. Beyond this circle of darkness and brilliantly lit track rose the big grandstand on the other side of the course. Its shape outlined with strings of lights, it seemed to float in a magical way above the course, the long rows of seats mounting tier above tier. The boys stared at it for a long moment, floating there against the rose-grey sky. When Andy turned to his friends, the driven look had gone from his face. It glowed again with the enchantment of the racecourse.

  ‘I said I’d show you,’ he said simply. ‘There’s more than onion-weed.’

  He wanted to show them the onion-weed too, and the bookmakers’ stands, and the room where his broom was locked away with the others; but wherever they turned there was the excitement of race-night snatching Andy away. Joe and Mike followed him from place to place, half dazed with listening and looking.

  ‘There’s my gardens—can’t get round, they’ve locked the gate. I never knew about that gate. See, Joe? That cuts her in half, that does. See where they get their money, Mike? See, Joe? The bookmakers…’

  They listened to the bookmakers and watched the crowd placing bets. There were men in sports jackets, women in floating frocks and sparkling brooches; there were men in crumpled shirts and shorts, and women who might have stepped straight out of their kitchens. There were babies in prams, and small children wandering among the crowds. A man with a bruised face was led off by a policeman.

  ‘The band—see them, Mike?’

  They watched the band marching and playing on the other side of the track. There were two very small bandsmen, two who looked very old and feeble, several with red stripes on their dark blue trousers, and several others with gold braid on their sleeves. They were a mixed lot. No one seemed to listen to them. There were young couples who stared at everything, people who walked primly in order to be stared at, men and women staring vacantly at nothing, and bored children who wanted to go home.

&
nbsp; ‘I’ll show you where I did the sweeping…’

  They walked along the white rails towards the shabby old stand on this side of the track. There were glasses of beer standing on posts, and white light beating down on the gritty surface of the track. They reached the place where the ground rose above the levelled track, and stood against the rails looking down.

  ‘They’ll come real close,’ said Andy solemnly. ‘We’ll see them all right.’

  A car came slowly round the track and stopped below the spot where the boys hung over the rails. A man got out. He was an expensive-looking man in a sleek suit and a wonderful bowler hat. He disappeared below the rails, and the car drove on without him.

  ‘A car always comes,’ said Andy, puzzled. He leaned out as far as he dared, craning to see. Then he burst into loud, surprised laughter and drew back. ‘You know what, Joe? Hey, Mike, you know what? He’s got a little seat that he sits in, all by himself! I never knew that!’

  ‘Shush!’ said Joe; but Mike was leaning out to look. Sure enough, there was a small seat built into the bank. The expensive-looking gentleman sat primly perched below the rails and above the track.

  ‘He’s there to see that nobody cheats,’ Mike guessed. Andy laughed heartily.

  Horses and gigs began to appear on the track and the voice came from the amplifiers. A crowd came pressing around the boys, pinning them to the rails, waiting silently. Mike, Joe and Andy looked along the track, waiting for the horses to come.

  ‘Mysterious Stranger,’ chanted the amplifiers. ‘Black Velvet—My Conscience—Lucky Jim…’

  ‘I know him!’ cried Andy. ‘I know a lot of ’em.’

  The crowd stirred. With a rustling and drumming the horses sprang into view spread wide across the track. Powerful, beating forelegs, deep, straining chests and rolling eyes, they hurtled along the track straight at the boys. The three of them hung silent and breathless on the rails with the crowd packed round them. The voice from the amplifiers chanted on. A man waved a glass and called, ‘Come on, fellers, come on,’ as if he were tired of arguing with the drivers. Cockaded heads high, the fierce horses passed. The drivers in their shining satin were perched above whirling wheels. The horses swung towards the inner rail and flowed in a dark stream round the curve.