by Di Morrissey
‘Oh hell. Well, that’s all right. Dancer is a great little horse but I’m not going to be responsible if anything happens to Ian. I know he’s a good rider but Shooter is a big horse. Do you think I should call it off?’
‘Up to you. If you want to prove a point, this is your chance.’
‘Fine by me.’ Sally lifted her chin and marched into the dining room.
The news of ‘The Governess Cup’ flashed around the station and the stockmen ambled in and hung around the yards. The runners and Gloria started jibing Snowy to ‘have a go’.
The red-faced, heavy-set musterer started boasting about past triumphs and ended by saying, ‘Ah, there isn’t a horse strong enough to race with me on board.’
Dougie spoke up. ‘’Course there is. That big bastard of a stallion that John keeps in the old yards. He’s been penned for a bit, so he’ll go like the clappers.’
‘Struth, it’s only a kids’ race,’ interjected Gloria.
‘That governess is no kid. Not with those knockers,’ said Harry.
‘Why doesn’t Rob go in it?’ asked Gloria.
Snowy nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. But it’s gotta be worth our while. What’s the prize?’
And so it went from a short sprint between Sally and Ian to an event that promised to be the highlight of the week. John Monroe put up a case of rum and planned the course.
Chilla, one of Snowy’s stockmen, decided to enter when he heard Snowy was racing. ‘I want ta beat that big mouth. Him full of bulldust,’ he said to one of his mates.
The black stockmen watched the activity the next morning with slight amusement and finally Rob threw up his hands in disgust, knowing no work was being done. He went to the schoolhouse and called Sally outside.
‘This damn thing has got bigger than Ben Hur’s chariot race. Snowy is pissed – he started on the rum after breakfast – and he’s insisting on riding that black stallion. Chilla’s gone in it to see Snowy come a cropper and now that John has put up a case of rum Dan is running too. Do you want me to ride in your place?’
‘What for? I’ll do my own riding, thanks.’
‘These blokes take risks and don’t play by the rules. There’s no hunt master out here.’
‘Dancer is smart. I’m more worried about Ian. I think you should talk him out it.’
Rob ran his hands through his curly hair. ‘He wouldn’t like that. Geez, how did this all happen? Let’s hope no one gets hurt. Lorna’s not here to patch them up.’
‘I don’t think we’d be doing this if Lorna was here,’ said Sally.
‘That’s true. Send Ian out and I’ll have a word with him.’
Ian refused to withdraw from the race and Rob saw this was one of those stepping stones towards manhood for Ian. He would lose face with his little brothers if he withdrew, and it was an opportunity to prove himself to his father.
‘Righto. Seeing as how everyone else seems to want to have a bit of a run, do you mind if I ride along?’
‘Go for your life,’ said Ian.
It was a 3 pm start over one mile. John had driven over the track and Fitzi had hammered in marker posts at the half and three-quarter points. The track wound across open country, around the western well, looped behind the small dam, back over the bottom creek, up the rise in the home paddock and down past the closest boundary fence, ending at the stables.
The horses and riders lined up for the start behind a rope held by two stockmen. There was much hilarity at Sally’s small saddle. Her legs were bent high, causing comments about lady jockeys.
Snowy flailed in his saddle, sticking his legs forward and flinging his reins about and yodelling. Dan sat dourly, straight-backed, ignoring Snowy’s mocking remarks. Chilla sat easily in the saddle, grinning from ear to ear. Rob was beside Ian, giving him a few last-minute instructions about safety and keeping out of trouble. Sally had drawn the outside and tried to relax, softly murmuring to Dancer.
John Monroe was the starter and he stood to one side, waiting until they all looked as ready as they’d ever be, facing the same direction in a vague shifting line. He motioned to the men to drop the rope, lifted his rifle, pointed it away from the riders, and fired.
The horses leapt forward from fright or instinct before the riders had registered what was happening. Immediately Sally felt the thrill of the chase that always came during a hunt. Ian broke free, wildly kicking his horse and Rob took off after him, swearing under his breath. Dan hung behind Sally, and Snowy, bringing up the rear, started to shout and curse, whipping his horse as he went after Chilla.
The watching mob scrambled to catch sight of the race as the horses galloped off.
Dan overtook Snowy, then Chilla and Sally, and then went after Ian and Rob, who glanced back over his shoulder to check on Sally. Snowy caught up to her, and in a frenzy of shouting and thrashing, bolted past her, Ian and Rob, his big horse showed the whites of its eyes, ears flattened.
They swung around the small dam in a tight pack and Sally saw Snowy shove between Ian and Rob, cutting in front of Rob and almost causing his horse to fall. She gritted her teeth, muttering, ‘Stupid bastard’, and looked for the right moment to move up with Snowy and Dan, who were in the lead.
Dancer, though smaller than the other horses, was fast and sure footed, and with the light saddle and confident rider began to enjoy herself. Sally could tell she hadn’t reached her limit, there was still a reserve of energy in the horse, so she gave her a nudge to open up a bit more. Dancer responded and flew past Rob, then Ian, to tuck in behind Snowy and Dan.
The ground was open but those in the lead were following the faint track left by cattle and horses. Sally had been over this land a few times and suddenly recalled how she’d tried to take a shortcut back to the homestead but had been foiled by a fence that marked the boundary of the home paddock creek. The creek was dry, although she’d been told it became a small river in the Wet. Their instructions had been to head for the home stables after the dam. She grinned as she wheeled Dancer to the right.
Dan’s horse was tiring and dropped back behind Ian. Snowy was now in the lead and still yelling, cheering himself on, cursing the horse as he belted its hide. Rob glanced back and saw Sally take off across country. ‘No, not that way,’ he shouted, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He looked at Ian, who was gaining on Snowy, his young face showing grim determination.
They were now in sight of the yards and the onlookers were standing on top of vehicles, a shed, in a tree and perched on the rails. John Monroe watched through binoculars. Snowy was just ahead of Ian but when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy he yanked his horse directly in front of him to cut him off. The crowd hollered at the dirty trick but despite his horse swerving, losing momentum and some ground, Ian stuck in the saddle. Rob caught up with him and could have overtaken but paced him, calling out, ‘Move away from him, widen the gap.’
Ian understood and wheeled Shooter slightly, making a wide turn which momentarily confused Snowy and his horse. As they started to follow, Ian spurred his horse forward, cutting across Snowy and racing ahead. The mob cheered. Snowy’s horse was labouring but he let it have all, whipping it with the long greenhide reins, kicking in his spurs and flogging the tiring animal to continue. Meanwhile the crowd had spotted Sally cutting across to the home paddock.
‘Silly bitch is going to hit the deep creek bed.’
‘Outsmarted herself this time.’
‘Christ, she’d better pull up, she must see the damn thing,’ muttered John Monroe.
At that instant Snowy’s horse had had enough, and by will or physical exhaustion it staggered, baulked and stopped, sending Snowy flying over its head to hit the ground with a heavy thud. He rolled and lay there. Dan shot past and Snowy’s horse cantered away. Chilla rode straight past the weaving Snowy, his big grin still in place. Eventually Snowy sat up and rubbed his head. Seeing the smug expression on his stockman’s face he shook his fist, shouting, ‘You’ll be sorry, you yella fella!’
/> Sally saw the creek bed, which was several feet deep with logs at its edge. She leaned forward. ‘Come on, Dancer, we can do this, lift your bloody feet up.’ Without breaking stride Dancer understood and as they reached the creek there was a faint tremble in the horse’s body but Sally had her head down close to her neck, her hips raised out of the saddle and urged Dancer up. And across. The animal kicked her back legs high, stretched out, and they cleared the creek. No one knew that Sally had been training Dancer to jump over logs and obstacles around the home paddock.
There was a moment of silence from everyone watching, then a burst of cheering and disbelieving laughter as Sally raced up to the yards ahead of Ian and Rob, then Dan and Chilla.
John Monroe reached her first and gave her a slap on the back as she dismounted. ‘You bloody beauty. Fooled us all, more style than the jumping at the Royal Easter Show.’
‘Ian rode brilliantly. I thought Snowy was going to dislodge him. Very underhand,’ said Sally as Ian rode up.
‘Ah, Snowy is pissed. A few rums too many before he started. I’m amazed he didn’t fall off sooner.’ Monroe turned away, ‘Hey, send someone to pick up Snowy and get his horse.’
Sally waited for John to congratulate Ian. When he didn’t say anything she called out, ‘Fantastic ride, Ian. You were great, very good reactions when Snowy cut in on you.’
The boy looked sour. ‘I didn’t win but.’
‘No, a bloody sheila beat you. We’d better send you to one of those posh riding schools,’ called his father.
Rob overheard the comment and went to Ian and shook his hand. ‘You had me eating your dust, kid. Good on you. That was a hard race.’
Ian looked mollified and Sally smiled gratefully at Rob.
‘Dancer is a damned good horse. Told you so,’ said John Monroe.
‘She is. Depends who rides her, of course,’ said Sally, smiling.
‘Yeah, well you could have come a bad cropper,’ said Monroe. ‘And if Dancer had been hurt you wouldn’t be laughing.’
‘No. I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Any time you want to borrow my saddle, let me know.’
She went to Ian and dropped her arm around his taut shoulders. ‘You were winning, Ian. I’m sorry. I just decided to tackle the creek on the spur of the moment. I shouldn’t have.’
‘S’all right,’ he muttered and shrugged away from her.
‘Don’t be mad at me, friends, okay?’
‘I’m not mad at you.’ Ian glanced at his father who was talking to Dan, and leading his sweating horse, walked away.
For the next few days everything was out of kilter. Everyone found it hard to settle down after the impromptu race. Lorna would be back soon and John Monroe was making a last drinking stand. Harry, Dougie and Gloria were drinking in the single men’s quarters. Rob and his men were working at the yards, separating calves and cows, watched by the Monroe boys.
Sally took the opportunity to have a leisurely shower, shampoo her hair and rub the face cream her mother had sent her over her skin. She wondered what Lorna was doing, quite aware that the race wouldn’t have happened if she’d been home. For a few moments she felt isolated, realising how much she relied on Lorna’s company. They were the only women there who could relate to each other.
When she emerged in a fresh sundress and sandals there was no sign of Lizzie or any of the women preparing dinner. Sally went outside and found Fitzi carrying a pail of milk to the house.
‘Goat milk. Good one make ’um cheese an ’tings.’
‘Yogurt. Where’re Lizzie and Betsy? They haven’t started tea.’
He looked down. ‘Dey be cookin’ at de campfire. Boss doin’ plenny big cook up.’
‘You mean down by the men’s quarters? Sounds like a party.’
‘Dat Snowy and dem bore pellas drink longa time.’
‘Get one of those girls up here please, Fitzi. The boys have to eat properly.’ She didn’t ask whether Rob was with the mob at the campfire shindig.
She took the goats’ milk, poured it into a bowl and set it by the warm Aga stove that was always alight. Lorna had shown her how the girls set the milk on the back of the stove with a spoonful of yogurt culture in it. Idly she opened the fridge, wondering what was there for the boys’ tea.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of cooking,’ came Rob’s voice.
‘Someone has to, we’re a bit short staffed,’ said Sally with more heat than she meant. She didn’t seem to have Lorna’s firm control over the women. ‘John is rather out of it, drinking down at the single men’s quarters.’
‘I’ll go rustle up those lubras. They go to pieces with their men in camp.’
‘Thanks. Er, are you eating with us?’
‘Of course. But I doubt John will make it back up. Your rum is flowing pretty freely down there.’
‘My rum? Oh, the prize. Rescue a bottle for me, would you?’
‘I’ll do better than that. You don’t want to drink that rough cane juice. I’ll bring us something decent for dinner.’
Sally was glad Rob was around as he brought the reluctant boys back to the homestead to clean up for tea and chased Betsy back into the kitchen. To her surprise she discovered Rob throwing steaks on the open fire outside the kitchen and in the living room was Betsy’s salad, mashed potato and bread on the table set for five. A bottle of red wine was open and two good wine glasses stood beside it. Sally picked a spray of wisteria from the vine around the verandah and laid it in the centre of the table.
‘Hey, this is a neat turnaround. I like a man who can cook. And where’d the wine come from?’ she asked as Rob walked in with a plate of steaks.
‘Lorna keeps a secret stash for me. She doesn’t mind a good glass of claret occasionally. John thinks it’s a wog drink.’
‘He would. Though he’s a bit of a contradiction in some ways. He spends so much money on his own toys, only the best will do. He’s damned fastidious about his laundry and Italian leather sandals. But he won’t spend money on other things like the house or the kids.’
Rob handed her a glass of wine. ‘Lorna makes up for that. The “Catalogue Queen”, Donny calls her. Come on, the steaks are getting cold.’ He gave a shrill whistle and the three boys raced in and shyly sat at the ‘big’ table, eyeing the candles, flowers and bottle of wine. Their cold Milo was poured into matching crystal wine glasses.
‘How well do you know Donny?’ asked Sally. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that the two men might share information about the household. She’d better be careful what she told each of them. She’d thought of Donny as someone with whom she could share her frustrations and feelings about life at Barra Creek, remembering their last conversation when she’d teased him about being a flying father confessor.
‘So what’s the big deal?’ asked Ian, as Rob served up the steaks.
‘Sally won the race!’ exclaimed Marty, and Ian cast his youngest brother a dirty look. Sally overlooked the use of her name. Lorna insisted on Miss, or Miss Mitchell.
Rob stepped in quickly. ‘It’s a celebration for all of us!’
‘You would have won, Ian, fair and square,’ said Sally, raising her glass to him. ‘I took a short cut and it was stupid of me.’
‘Is that cheating?’ asked Marty.
They all looked at Rob.
‘Well . . . it is if you meant to. The rules weren’t very clear, it was just a spontaneous move by Sally.’
‘What’s spontaneous mean?’ asked Marty.
‘Unplanned,’ said Sally. ‘Come on, let’s finish dinner then we can all have a game of Monopoly.’ She smiled at Rob, including him, but he narrowed his eyes.
‘I might have to check on things down at the camp. Make sure my men don’t get into any trouble.’
The boys looked disappointed. They were loving having Sally and Rob to themselves, being treated as grown-ups, almost.
Betsy hovered at the dining room door and Sally waved her in to clear the table. ‘Tell you what then, how about a quick ga
me? A couple of rounds of snap.’
They sat at the table where the boys normally ate and Sally dealt the cards as Rob poured the last of the red wine. Lizzie was talking to Betsy in the kitchen and there seemed to be some spat ensuing.
‘I’ll go and see what’s going on out there,’ said Rob.
Sally could hear their voices but couldn’t grasp what they were talking about as Rob was also speaking pidgin. The boys glanced at one another.
‘Tonight? They going out tonight?’ Tommy looked at Ian.
‘Sounds like it.’
‘Can we go?’
‘Go where?’ asked Sally. ‘What’s going on? Hey, Rob, what’s happening?’
He came into the dining room looking tight lipped. There was a short explosion in the kitchen as John Monroe lumbered in, shouting to the women to shake a bloody leg. He burst into the dining room and headed for the drinks.
‘Off to bed, you fellas. And stay there.’
‘You going out with them, Dad?’ asked Tommy.
‘Out where? It’s nearly nine o’clock,’ said Sally. ‘What the heck is happening?’
John lifted his glass of rum. ‘Here’s to the little lady jockey.’ He took a mouthful. ‘Fortification. Need it on the river.’
‘The river. Are you blokes going fishing?’
‘You might say that,’ he chortled. ‘With a bloody rope and a gun.’
‘They’re going croc shooting,’ explained Ian, his eyes bright. ‘Dad, can’t we come down and sit in the Land Rover?’
‘Not without me, and I’m not going,’ snapped Sally.
‘Now boys, you know the rules,’ said Rob. ‘Not tonight. I want your word on that. Okay?’ He looked at each of them in turn and they nodded slowly.
‘That’s the way. You are still little blokes. This is men’s business.’
‘Gloria’s going,’ said Ian. ‘Lizzie just said so.’
‘She’s a bloke,’ roared John Monroe, adding with a leer towards Rob, ‘Not that them runners give a shit.’
Sally stood up. ‘Right. Clear the cards and let’s go to bed. You can read for half an hour. And we’re up and out of here early. A ride before breakfast, okay?’ The boys loved to do this so she threw it in to ease their disappointment.
