Oh no. I think I’ve made things worse. I’m terribly afraid he’s going to go and blow up Miss O’Brien again. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s going to apologise. To make it up to her. Please, please, God, let it be like that.
Later
Dad came back when I was in bed, not asleep but reading. I called out to him and he came in and said, ‘Why are you still awake, pet? It’s school tomorrow, you’ll be tired.’
‘Dad, I—I—Please tell me! What happened?’
He gave me a tired smile. ‘I’m a fool, Sal, that’s what happened. I’ve been such a fool. And now it’s too late. I’ve missed the boat. Literally. It went yesterday. She’s gone.’
My heart gave a big thump. ‘She’ll come back, Dad. I’m sure she will.’
‘I doubt it, pet,’ he said.
‘But if you write her a letter, Dad.’
‘Now, that’s quite enough, Sal. You’re to go to sleep. Right now,’ he said firmly, and left.
How can he give up just like that? I don’t understand grown-ups. I don’t suppose I ever will. Or maybe when I am grown-up myself, it will be children that I don’t understand. Maybe I will have forgotten what it is like being a child. No. I won’t forget. I’ll have diaries like this one to remind me.
September 12
Despite what he said last night, today Dad did go down to the shipping office at the quay, and he got Miss O’Brien’s forwarding address in San Francisco. He said he was going to write to her. But then he changed his mind again and said he couldn’t, there was no point, she’d just throw the letter out and fair enough too. I said I thought she wouldn’t and he got snappy and told me to stop being a little busybody, what did I know about such things?
Then he saw I looked upset and said, ‘I’m sorry, pet, I really am, I don’t know what gets into me these days. Your old dad is getting grumpier by the day, but you are the dearest girl there ever was, and the pluckiest and brightest, so you must pay no attention.’
Hmmm.
I ended up spending half of my winnings, and saving the rest. I got four books—Emil and the Detectives, What Katy Did Next (I’ve already read What Katy Did at School), a book of the Arabian Nights stories retold by Enid Blyton, and a Schoolgirls’ Annual which has lots of stories and poems. Mrs Walters says I have enough there to read for weeks! I don’t think so, I’m a very fast reader! I’m going to start on Emil and the Detectives first, because mystery stories are my favourite.
Only four days to go till the Hill Stakes! I CAN’T WAIT!
September 19
Hill Stakes Day, and the best day ever! I want to write down absolutely everything, to remember it all.
Laden with picnic baskets we took a bright and early train to Rosehill, along with about a million other people all crowding in to see Phar Lap in his first race in Sydney for a year. It was like a carnival at the raccourse, there were that many people, all dressed up and laughing and shouting and talking. There were stands selling fairy floss and pies and toffee apples and all that sort of thing, and lots of bookies in a row with their bags, shouting out odds, and people crowding around them, waving money and tickets in the air.
Mr Walters said we could have some toffee apples, and the twins and Tilly shouted with glee, but Lizzie and I didn’t care, we just wanted to go looking for Phar Lap and Mr Woodcock straight away. But the grown-ups said no, not now, we couldn’t barge into the area where the horses were being prepared, or the mounting yard, no-one would thank us for it before a big race. We’d have to wait till later. Perhaps. We’ll see.
Perhaps. We’ll see. Aren’t they just the most annoying words ever? Grown-ups just love them. And children just hate them!
They wouldn’t let us wander off even, but when the races started they did let us elbow our way right to the front of the stands where we stood and watched and cheered and shouted like everyone else. There were other races as well as the Hill Stakes, and we watched them all, but you could tell everyone was just waiting for that one. As the day wore on you could feel the excitement rising and rising, even though no-one could bet on the Hill Stakes (the bookies refused to take bets, not with Phar Lap in the Stakes and certain to win). In a way, Dad said, it’s much better like that, people just come for the fun of it, the sheer joy of seeing that phenomenon of a horse, that brilliant horsey genius.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Walters, ‘and no-one’s likely to try to take a pot shot at him either. He’s much safer when there are no bets on him, those who are in it just for the big gambling money don’t have anything to lose.’
‘Funny though,’ said Mrs Walters, ‘that everyone thinks he’s going to win, for certain. I mean, how can you be certain, especially as they’re handicapping him more and more these days. One day he just might not win.’
Mr Walters laughed and said, ‘Strewth, woman, unless they put an extra jockey on his back, that terror of a horse will win. It’s just like the sun getting up in the morning, regular as clockwork!’
You should have heard the deafening cheer that went up when Phar Lap was led into the parade enclosure just before the race! He was paraded around with the other horses, first just led around and then with their mounted jockeys. People were pressing against the fences, cheering and shouting; photographers’ bulbs were flashing; and cine-cameras were tracking him. In the midst of all the noise, Phar Lap stepped as calm as you please, not in the least bit flustered, in fact thoroughly enjoying the attention, ‘like the showman he is’, Mr Walters says! I felt a bit sorry for the other horses and jockeys, hardly anyone was paying them any attention as the Hero to a Nation, as one of the papers had called him, stepped along, enjoying it all.
Then the big moment came when they went to go in the starting line. You should have heard the crowd! Or rather, you shouldn’t have heard it, because it went completely silent, dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop as the announcement came on that the race was about to start.
AND THEY’RE RACING! The crowd went wild, yelling, and we were every bit as loud, jumping up and down, screaming, urging Phar Lap on. It was nerve-wracking, because at first Phar Lap was hanging back at the back of the field. Jimmy Pike was taking it easy with him, and I felt sick, thinking, what if he doesn’t make it? What if he doesn’t? Around the track they came, and you could see things changing. Phar Lap’s stride was changing, lengthening. He was still going easy, but faster, faster. He was catching up, catching up effortlessly, flying past the others, flying past. A thunder of hooves, and it was all over! And Phar Lap had won! Won easily, like the amazing champion he is!
Like everyone else I was totally hoarse from shouting and yelling, and my heart was racing nearly as fast as Phar Lap! People cheered, applauded, threw their hats in the air. The crowd was heaving with excitement and joy!
Lizzie and I were allowed to wriggle through and run to where Phar Lap was being paraded after his win, and though the crowds were really thick around the fences, we managed to get quite close as a grinning Jimmy Pike paraded around on Phar Lap, waving his whip at the crowd in triumph. Bobby looked absolutely perfect—he had hardly even broken a sweat, and there was a glint in his eye that Lizzie said was definitely satisfaction. And I agree!
And then, suddenly, I saw him—Weasel Face—Jack Hardy! He was just a face in the crowd around the fences, but there was no doubt in my mind it was him, I’d never forget that face. My heart gave a lurch and I clutched Lizzie and said, ‘Look over there—it’s that man—the one from Melbourne—the one who threatened Dad.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘We’d better go and get your dad and mine, quick!’
‘You do that,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him make sure he doesn’t disappear.’ (He hadn’t seen me, thank goodness). So she ran off and I stayed close by Weasel Face without letting him see me. He moved away from the parade yard pretty quickly and was making his way through the crowds towards the beer stand, and still I kept an eye on him. He didn’t even look behind him, he didn’t seem uneasy at all. In fact h
e was pretty free and easy, and stopped to chat to some fellow and seemed in a pretty good mood all round.
Then suddenly he turned around and saw me! I don’t know who was more shocked, him or me. There was real fear in his eyes as he stared at me for an instant, then he left his beer and took off through the crowd. I tried to follow but soon lost him—he was slippery as an eel and going much too fast for me to keep up. Last I saw of him, he was heading for the exit. When a puffing Dad and Mr Walters found me a few minutes later, all I could say was ‘He’s gone already.’ They looked at each other and headed for the exit. Later they told us they’d split up and gone in opposite directions to try and get hold of him, but he’d vanished like smoke and they had no idea where he’d gone.
So they retraced their steps and went to talk to the barman at the stand. He said that Hardy used to be a regular but he hadn’t seen him in a while. ‘Jim Murphy’, he called him, and I remembered that was one of the aliases Hardy used. Murphy had had what the barman called ‘a skinful’ already. He’d told the barman that he’d been working hard today and deserved it, he’d been betting on one of the races today for someone and had won.
‘Was it Mr Bryant he was betting for?’ Dad asked.
The barman looked surprised and said he hadn’t heard that name round here for a while. It was Mr Sharp, a regular punter round here.
‘Tell you anything else?’ asked Dad.
The barman shrugged and said, ‘No, mate, that’s it.’
Dad was pretty annoyed that he’d missed Hardy. It’s not that he thinks Hardy is up to his old tricks trying to nobble Phar Lap—after all, no-one’s tried anything in months. It’s just that he would have liked to shake what he could out of him—and, I think, also give him a good punch on the nose for what happened in Melbourne. Mr Walters says maybe he should go to the police, but Dad just shrugged and said there was no point. ‘I may know now that Hardy’s still around, but I have zero evidence that he had anything to do with my bashing and the theft of my things. And I only have circumstantial evidence about his involvement in the attempts on Phar Lap. Cunning so-and-sos covered their tracks well, you know. Besides, it was Bryant behind it all, not Hardy, and he’s untouchable now. None of it would stand up in court, not if Hardy won’t talk.’ And so there it’s been left.
It makes me sick to think that Weasel Face will just get away with what he’s done. But Dad says to remember the scared look in his eyes as he caught sight of me and to think that maybe he won’t get away with it. Maybe he’ll always be looking over his shoulder, wondering when we’ll catch up with him. And maybe that’ll have to do as a punishment for the moment. Anyway, like Dad said, at least he didn’t even try to go anywhere near Phar Lap—and that’s the main thing.
September 23
I had written to Billy the day after the races to give him a blow-by-blow account (as Dad calls it) of Phar Lap’s latest win, and I got a letter from him today saying how much he enjoyed the letter and how it had made him feel as though he was there. He said that he had heard some interesting news from one of the other stable lads: Mr Davis and Mr Telford are planning to take Phar Lap to America, to race him there! There is some big race which is actually held in Mexico but is run by an American racing club, it’s the richest race in the world, and everyone thinks Phar Lap could easily win it! I bet he certainly can. Our Big Red won’t just be the wonder of Australia, but of the whole world!
September 25
There was a report in the paper today in which Mr Davis flatly denied the story of an American trip for Phar Lap. Actually, he says there are no such plans at present. But Dad and Mr and Mrs Walters were discussing it last night (we were over at their place for a hearty Irish-stew dinner) and Mr Walters said, ‘You mark my words, when they say things like that, it’s already done and dusted. Big Red will be on his way over to the Yanks before you can say “bookie”.’
‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘Davis has been collecting a lot of money from Phar Lap’s races, but not any gambling stakes. No-one will take bets on him in Australia, or they give such short odds it’s not worth it.’
Mr Walters said that in America Phar Lap would be an outsider, so it would be a whole different game. Mrs Walters said, ‘Surely not, his reputation goes before him. Everyone’s heard of our wonder horse. The bookies there won’t want to know him either.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Mr Walters. ‘The Yanks haven’t seen our horse perform in the flesh, so they might not believe he’s as good as we say. And Phar Lap might in fact not do as well over there as he does here. They have very different track conditions there—dirt instead of grass, quite often. And then there’s the long trip—he could get unsettled, get unfit, refuse to perform. Horses are flighty creatures and you just can’t be sure, even with a force of nature like our friend. That’s what they’ll all be hoping, anyway.’
October 1
Today I got a postcard from San Francisco! It was from Miss O’Brien, of course. On the front was a picture of San Francisco’s Chinatown, with restaurants and strange curved roofs like pagodas. On the back was a short message. This is what it says (so I remember, as I’ll stick the card down now):
Dear Sally
Chop suey and chow mein are different to spaghetti and linguini, but quite as nice in their own way. My cousin took me here for a meal the day after I arrived. I thought you might like this for your scrapbook.
Regards, your friend, L. O’B.
I’m going to write back to her even if Dad is too much of a cowardy-custard to do so!
October 3
We went up to Newcastle on the train today to see Nan and Pop, for Nan’s birthday. I didn’t really want to go because today Phar Lap was racing at Randwick and I would much rather have gone to spend the day there. He’s racing on Wednesday too, but I can’t go because of school, of course. But Dad has promised to take me next time Big Red runs—he has become almost as keen on the horse as me! Anyway, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, even though Nan as usual didn’t thank us very much for the birthday gift we’d given her (a nice scarf). Dad says she has no idea how to be gracious about receiving gifts. But he says she must have liked it, because she did try it on, and then at lunch-time she gave me two slices of her birthday cake (banana, with vanilla frosting) which is very unusual indeed. They had a bit of a chat about things with Dad. They seemed pleased to hear that he had what they called ‘regular employment’.
I didn’t say much—they believe children should only speak when spoken to, and as they only asked me boring questions about school, all I said was yes and no and things like that. Dad told them I’d won that prize and they seemed quite happy about that. They didn’t even say that writing about a horse was a silly or bad thing to do (they don’t approve of racing) like they would have done once. In fact they were really quite nice the whole day, though Pop did get a bit testy at one stage when Dad mentioned the new Sydney Harbour Bridge which is going to be opened next year. (Pop thinks it’s a big waste of money and Dad thinks it’s great.) But Dad didn’t take the bait and there wasn’t an argument. It was still quite boring, but bearable.
When we left Nan said, ‘Do come again soon, won’t you?’ She seemed to really mean it. To my surprise Dad said we would. (He’s always disliked going there.) And to my surprise I didn’t mind! Maybe Nan and Pop are just old and you have to make allowances for them, and if you do, then they’re not as bad as all that. Or maybe it is as Dad said, that they’re mellowing and they’re realising they’re going to miss out on their granddaughter altogether if they keep behaving like a sour old pair of grampuses!
October 10
Another great day! We went to see Phar Lap racing in the Spring Stakes at Randwick Racecourse. But it was just me, Lizzie, Tilly and our dads who went. Mrs Walters and the twins didn’t go because it was Joe and Jim’s birthday and they were having their rowdy little friends over for a birthday lunch. She said it was best if we were all out from under her feet, as she’d have a right old time trying to keep
all those small boys in order anyway. That included Tilly, of course, who was very happy indeed riding high on her dad’s shoulders in the big colourful crowd at Randwick, which was just as big as the one at Rosehill a couple of weeks ago.
This time we were allowed to go and have a look at the horses getting ready in the mounting yard, and though there was a big press of people there, Lizzie and I saw Phar Lap quite close, with his jockey, in red and green silks, and Mr Woodcock. Mr Davis and his wife were there too (I recognised them because I’ve seen their photos in the paper). The humans were too busy to notice us, but I am sure Phar Lap did see me, and flicked his ears at me! Lizzie said he could have been flicking his ears at just about anything, even a fly, but I think she’s wrong!
Anyway, we went back to the stands and again the crowd went quiet as the race was about to start and went wild as they began to race! It was just like last time: Phar Lap loped along at the back for a bit, then powered through like an arrow from a bow, to easy and wonderful victory in the Spring Stakes! Everyone clapped and cheered, and on her dad’s shoulders Tilly tried to jump up and down!
You really do feel sorry for the other horses and jockeys, they have no chance when Phar Lap’s in the race. Mr Walters says that sometimes the other trainers must feel like just staying home and not bothering to compete. That’s why, he says, in handicap races Phar Lap is being given bigger and bigger lead weights in his saddlebags, because otherwise everyone else would stay home and there would be no race!
Then we went down to the parade yard and there was Mrs Davis being handed the prize, with Mr Davis grinning by her side, while Phar Lap was getting a sugar from Mr Woodcock and looking very happy with himself.
The Phar Lap Mystery Page 9
