Racing the Moon

by Michelle Morgan

  ‘I heard ya talkin’ before ’bout throwin’ the race. Ya said ya’d make more money that way.’

  ‘Well ya heard wrong, mister. Sid Dunn won fair ’n’ square.’

  ‘Give me son ’is money back!’

  ‘Piss off !’ Harry replied, staring the man down.

  ‘Ya haven’t heard the last of this. Gordon, go get ya billycart, we’re goin’ home.’

  I may have lost the race and the respect of a few people, but Harry and I won thirty-six shillings. I also got much more than I bargained for. As I picked myself up from the gutter, my right arm went limp and started to throb. ‘Bugger it!’ I yelled at the peeling paint on the lamppost.

  ‘Ya bloody idiot! Ya didn’t hafta crash it. That’s four weeks’ work down the drain,’ Harry said, kicking the broken pieces of billycart off the road. ‘Here’s ya share o’ the winnin’s.’ He dropped eighteen shillings into my hand. ‘Don’t forget the cricket match tomorra. I’ll pick ya up at eight.’ He headed back up the hill whistling. Harry’s not the most sympathetic bloke, but he’s still my best mate.

  ‘You could’ve won the Derby easily if you wanted to,’ Kit said, picking up the four pram wheels from the gutter, inspecting each of them. Surprisingly, they looked as good as new.

  ‘Here’s a couple of bob for helping me out with the race,’ I said, trying to give Kit two shiny new shillings. ‘Ow!’ I screamed, clutching my sore arm.

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ he said, walking away. He went a few yards up the road and then stopped. ‘How’s your arm?’ he called out.

  ‘Bloody sore – I think I’ve broken it.’

  ‘I’m going to put the wheels back on Matilda’s pram before Mum notices they’re gone. Are you coming?’

  ‘You bet!’ I might have scored a broken arm but I had a pocketful of money and was feeling almost on top of the world. Kit wasn’t so happy – he didn’t say another word to me the rest of the way home.

  BROKEN ARM

  CHAPTER 4

  After sneaking through the back gate, Kit went into the shed to put the wheels back on Matilda’s pram, while I crept along the outside wall of the house. I looked in the window and saw Noni, my big sister, dancing around the kitchen, holding a dress in front of her. When I tapped on the glass, she screamed. I pointed upstairs to where I hoped Mum and Dad were still working. Noni waved for me to come in.

  ‘Where have you been? The washing is still on the clothesline and if you don’t split some wood for the stove, we won’t be able to boil the kettle, let alone cook dinner,’ she said, huffing and puffing like the little red engine.

  ‘I think I’ve broken my arm again. It’s the right one this time,’ I said, sounding sorry for myself. I was in a lot of pain and all I could think about was how I was going to explain my broken arm to Mum and Dad when I was supposed to be at home all afternoon doing chores.

  ‘Dad’ll kill you when he finds out, and it’ll serve you right!’ Noni said, staring at me like she was searching for the truth.

  She can stare as long as she likes, I thought, she’s wasting her time.

  ‘What lies are you going to tell this time?’ She was almost shouting. I was lucky that the wireless was blaring away upstairs with one of the races at Randwick or Dad would’ve heard everything. I’m not sure if it was the throbbing in my arm or the thought of another belting from Dad, but I felt very lightheaded.

  When I came to, I was sitting on a chair with Noni slapping my face. ‘Stop that!’ I said, trying to grab her hand. ‘Ow!’ I’d forgotten about my broken arm.

  ‘Sit up straight and stop whingeing. Let me think,’ she said, pacing up and down the kitchen. For a fifteen-year-old girl who’s five foot nothing, she can be very intimidating.

  ‘I’ll lie for you, if you lie for me. I’ll say that you were helping me hang the new curtains in the kitchen when you fell off the sink and broke your arm.’

  Hardly a challenge, I thought. ‘What’s my lie?’ I asked, almost keen. Lying was my forté.

  ‘You’ll owe me one.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I replied, quite impressed with Noni’s effort. Kit came into the kitchen, carrying an armful of wood and dumped it on the hearth in front of the fuel stove. ‘Thanks mate,’ I said. ‘How did you go with the wheels?’

  ‘Good as new.’

  When Dad came downstairs, I told my lie convincingly about how I’d fallen off the sink and broken my arm. It went better than I’d thought it would.

  ‘Accidents happen,’ he said. ‘Noni, you’d better take Joe to the hospital while your mother and I listen to the last race and then do the books.’

  He was in an unusually good mood, particularly after the bad start we’d had that morning. I even detected a small skip in his step.

  ‘It’s been one of our best days ever. I hope the favourites keep up their losing streak on Monday. I’d better get back to it – the last race is about to start,’ he said, getting a bottle of beer out of the ice chest. He went back upstairs, whistling.

  Noni wasn’t at all happy about having to take me to the hospital. She poked me in the chest and said: ‘You owe me double!’ She glared at me as she put on her hat and then headed for the front door. ‘Are you coming to the hospital or not?’

  It was after eight o’clock when we got back. My arm was in plaster and I was really hungry – I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Mum was busy sewing and Dad was sitting in his armchair, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

  ‘Hey Betty, the hospital won’t need to keep so much plaster on hand anymore,’ he said, winking at Mum.

  I had no idea what he was talking about so I laughed just in case I should. It was more of a grimace really. I was in pain, and Dad was no comedian.

  ‘How did you manage to fall off the sink?’ Mum asked, looking up from her sewing.

  ‘It was wet from the washing up. I slipped and lost my balance,’ I replied, trying not to make eye contact.

  She took off her glasses and looked into my soul the way she always does. That’s who Noni gets it from. I almost blurted out the truth but then I saw the warning glimmer of Dad’s belt buckle and thought better of it; I was in no fit state for a belting.

  ‘Your dinner’s on the stove. Noni, would you mind serving it up while I finish this buttonhole?’ Mum asked, putting her glasses back on.

  ALTAR BOYS

  CHAPTER 5

  I tossed and turned all night, waking up to the sound of tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. I opened my eyes and looked across at the clock. ‘Shit!’ Jumping out of bed, I kicked off my pyjama pants and pulled my shirt over my head, ripping off all the buttons. I hopped about trying to get my shorts on, and then got the plaster on my arm stuck in the sleeve of my best shirt. I ran down the stairs, two at a time, my shirt flapping behind me.

  ‘Mum!’ I called out.

  She was at the stove cooking scrambled eggs. ‘It’s alright, Kit’s filling in for you.’

  ‘He can’t do that! He’s not even a proper altar boy; I’m still training him.’

  Mum helped me put my shirt on properly and then did up the buttons. ‘You can sit back for a change and enjoy Mass with the rest of us.’

  Dad says it’s one of life’s little mysteries that I’m an altar boy. With a name like Joseph Francis Riley, and an Irish Catholic mother, how could I not be? There’s no money in it – not much worth mentioning, anyway. I wouldn’t exactly call it stealing; they are donation boxes, after all. More like my cut for the show we put on every week. Besides, I don’t drink wine. Can’t stand the smell or taste of it. The wine is all Harry’s. I wish Father Dennis soaked the body of Christ in beer instead. I’m developing a taste for the amber fluid.

  Dad’s not too keen on Father Dennis. He refers to him as ‘that Mick priest’ and makes a point of getting his name wrong. He calls him David, Daniel, Peter, Luke, John – anything but Dennis. Dad says he’s working his way through the Bible. It drives Mum mad.

  I think Mum’s keen on Father De
nnis – she always looks forward to his visits every Tuesday for afternoon tea. He’s not too old (doesn’t use a walking stick) and is good looking (has all his teeth) in a priestly kind of way. Mum makes lamingtons every Tuesday. It’s his favourite and mine too. Dad prefers to go to the pub on Tuesday afternoons. He doesn’t like lamingtons.

  That morning, I not only had to watch Kit do my altar duty, I also had to sit down the front of the church with Mum and Noni. It didn’t take long until I dozed off. Latin does that to me.

  ‘There are twenty-three brothels in Glebe and most of them in houses rented from the Church of England,’ Father Dennis bellowed during his sermon. Everyone in the church sat bolt upright including me. When I told Dad about it afterwards, he reckoned it was because everyone was waiting for the addresses of the twenty-three brothels. He loves having a go at Catholics – it’s his favourite pastime after gambling. Dad and Father Dennis are alike in one way: they both use any opportunity to have a go at the opposition. Problem is – they are the opposition. Dad says that having a go at the Church of England is Father Dennis’s favourite pastime after bingo. Peas in a pod.

  I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon learning how to throw darts with my left hand. The mouth-watering smell of Sunday roast sizzling away in the oven was making me hungry. I could have eaten a horse and chased the jockey, but it was only five o’clock. By the time dinner was ready, I was hitting bullseyes.

  Our bread and dripping days are over now that Mum and Dad are making more money from their dressmaking and bookmaking businesses. With a belly full of food, I almost forgot about my broken arm. I didn’t even feel like arguing with Noni, even though she can be a real pain in the neck. With the dishes done, Kit and I set up a game of Poker on the lounge-room floor – for matchsticks not money. We’re in training for the big league – Dad’s Friday card nights with his mates, where fortunes can be made and lost.

  It was getting late, so we counted our matchsticks – thirty-seven to fifty-four – I won again. Just as I’d finished cheering, there was a loud banging on the door. Who knocks on your front door at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? I wondered. Kit and I looked at each other but didn’t bother getting up. Mum and Dad were upstairs finishing off the books and tallying up their winnings from the Anniversary Day races. Finally Noni got up and threw her sewing on the lounge.

  ‘You boys just lie there and play with matchsticks, why don’t you? I’ve got to have this wedding dress finished by the end of the week. So I’ll just stop sewing and answer the front door, shall I?’ She stormed off up the hall.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Kit asked.

  ‘Buggered if I know!’ We quietly packed up the cards and matchsticks, and listened.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, young lady. I’m Sergeant Bailey from Glebe Police Station. Are your parents home? I’d like a word with them.’ I wasn’t too alarmed. I had nothing to worry about – I had an alibi.

  ‘Mum, Dad! The police want to talk to you,’ Noni shouted up the stairs. I tried to stay cool, calm and collected. I moved along the carpet to hide my plaster cast behind the lounge. A precautionary move.

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Mum asked, breathlessly. ‘Please come and sit down.’ She led the way into the lounge room.

  ‘This won’t take long. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.’

  Dad entered, nodded at the sergeant, and then stood in front of the fireplace with his arm resting casually on the mantelpiece.

  ‘There were some illegal goings-on in the neighbourhood yesterday. Anyone like to comment?’ Sergeant Bailey looked around at us, one by one.

  ‘I was taking care of the wife. She was laid up in bed all day with the flu. Had a few friends and family pop in to check on things. Nothing serious.’

  Mum pulled out a hanky and blew her nose.

  ‘Where were you boys?’ Sergeant Bailey looked at me then at Kit, and then back to me. I knew better than to answer him.

  ‘Joe was doing chores all day.’ Dad was very convincing. He thought he was telling the truth.

  ‘What about you, young man?’

  Kit went bright red and started picking his nose. ‘I went to the park …’

  ‘Were you at the billycart race?’

  Kit looked to me for help but I was too busy building a tower out of the cards.

  ‘I … um, I was there for a little while. I couldn’t see anything, so I left.’ Kit actually told a lie. I couldn’t believe it!

  Sergeant Bailey looked serious, like he was thinking hard about something. ‘What did you do to your arm?’

  I acted surprised at seeing my right arm in plaster. ‘Oh, that. I fell off the sink. I was helping my sister put up some new curtains in the kitchen.’ I felt positively angelic.

  Sergeant Bailey looked at Noni to confirm my alibi. She nodded but didn’t say anything. He scribbled something in his notebook and flicked back a couple of pages. I shot a quick glance at Dad. He was stony-faced, not giving anything away.

  ‘Either of you boys know Harry Carter?’

  Dad hit me across the ear. ‘Answer the sergeant.’

  ‘He’s my best mate.’

  ‘It appears Harry was at the billycart race.’ Sergeant Bailey flipped over another page in his notebook. ‘Two other witnesses reported some illegal gambling taking place. They say they placed bets on the race with a couple of young bookmakers. They’re also claiming the race was rigged.’ He flicked his notebook closed. ‘You can have your billycart races, but no gambling and no taking bets. It’s illegal. Do you understand?’

  Kit and I nodded. We understood perfectly well that running books and taking bets is illegal – our father did it for a living. You could’ve heard a pin drop. We knew that we had a better chance of not getting caught if we kept our mouths shut.

  ‘I’m going to let you boys off with a caution this time. If there’s a next time, you won’t be so lucky. Understood?’

  ‘Leave it to me, Sergeant. There’ll be no more shenanigans.’ Dad glared at me like an eagle ready to swoop on its prey.

  ‘I’ll find my own way out. Good night and thank you for your time. Hope you’re feeling better soon, Mrs Riley.’ He nodded to Mum, turned to leave, and then stopped. ‘If you hear anything about an illegal bookmaking business operating out of a house in the area, let me know. We’ve had an anonymous tip-off at the police station.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Dad, putting both hands in his pockets. The sound of the front door shutting echoed through the house. Dad ripped off his belt. ‘Get out the back, now! That was way too close for comfort.’

  IT JUST ISN’T CRICKET

  CHAPTER 6

  I’d had enough of Dad’s beltings, and not just because of the welts on my backside and legs; it was the humiliation. I could stop him hitting Mum easy enough, but when he’d give me a belting, I’d just stand there like a stunned mullet, copping it.

  I’m not putting up with it anymore, I decided. I’m too old for this – I’m starting high school next week.

  The day after Sergeant Bailey’s visit and my latest belting, it was like nothing had happened: no threats, no belting, nothing. At supper, Dad looked almost happy.

  ‘Your mother and I have been saving some of our hard-earned money and putting it into an education fund for you boys. Joe, you’re the eldest, so you get first bite of the cherry. You’re going to St Bartholomew’s – to boarding school – congratulations, son!’

  Dad shook my hand and then Mum hugged me. I didn’t know what to say, I couldn’t talk. I felt like the ground was cracking and I was falling into a deep crevice. I grabbed onto the table to steady myself and in a desperate attempt to avoid screaming, I shoved a whole piece of toast in my mouth.

  Then, wham! Dad hit me across the head. ‘Spit it out!’ he shouted. I spat it right in his face. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to my feet.

  ‘Stop it!’ shouted Mum. This was my moment. The time had come. I lifted my right knee up, ramming it into his groin. He fell to his
knees and rolled onto the floor, holding himself with both hands. I felt like kicking him again, but it just isn’t cricket to kick someone when they’re down, particularly your own father.

  ‘Un … ungrate … ungrateful … little … bastard!’

  ‘Apologise to your father.’

  ‘Why should I? He almost pulled my hair out. I’m sick of him and I’m sick of his beltings.’

  ‘He’s your father!’

  ‘You always stick up for him. Why do you do that? He hits you too.’

  ‘We’re wasting our money on that little bastard. He can go to the public school for all I care.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ I said.

  ‘St Bart’s will straighten him out, keep him out of trouble. He’ll meet a better class of friend,’ Mum said, adding insult to injury.

  ‘I’m not going, and I don’t need any other friends.’

  ‘You’ll do as your mother says. You’ll go, alright!’ It sounded more like a threat than an educational opportunity.

  ‘I hate you, I hate both of you!’ I ran upstairs to the bedroom that I shared with Kit, and locked the door. Throwing myself on the bed, I started punching my pillow and kept punching it until the feathers leaked out. I felt betrayed. I expected it from that bastard, but not from Mum. I kept asking myself: Why does she want me to go? Who’s going to break up their arguments when I’m not around? Billy’s getting too old; Kit’s too young, too much of a wimp like I used to be.

  ‘Joe, let me in!’ It was Kit knocking on the door. My mind was racing – some kind of desperate madness was overtaking me: I can run away to Uncle George’s farm, live in one of his sheds, look after the chooks. No-one would ever find me there.

  ‘Mum wants to talk to you,’ Kit called out. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer – I cried into my pillow so no-one could hear me.

  ‘Joe?’ It was Mum. ‘Your father and I only want what’s best for you. We’ve worked hard so that you boys can have a better start in life than we did. Please give it a go. Will you do that for me?’