by Rory Barnes
We all sat on the wooden fence and shouted encouragement. Staxa Fun went hurtling round the track. Easter leaned forward in the saddle, getting his bum up in the air.
‘Look like you’re doing something, Easter,’ yelled Alex.
‘He is doing something,’ Mrs Chandor said.
‘No, he’s not,’ said Alex. ‘He’s just going for a ride.’
‘That’s his job, dumbo. He’s a jockey.’
‘He’s meant to look like he’s in control. He’s meant to look like he’s telling the horse what to do. The stewards would go bananas if they saw someone riding like that in a race.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ I said.
‘Look at the reins,’ Alex said. ‘They’re hanging down like skipping ropes.’ He yelled at Easter: ‘Tug on the reins, man, control the horse.’
‘Jeez, I wouldn’t try controlling Luis,’ said Tanya. ‘He’s got a mind of his own.’
‘Well, he has, but no-one’s meant to know,’ said Alex. ‘Easter’s got to disguise the fact.’
Staxa went sailing over a jump and Easter tried to steer him around to the right, pulling gingerly on the right rein. Staxa shook his head and snorted. He kept going straight ahead.
‘Put a bit of effort into it, East,’ yelled Mrs Chandor, ‘Haul the old nag round.’
‘Mum,’ said Tanya, ‘I don’t think that’ll work.’
‘Course it’ll work,’ Mrs Chandor said. ‘If he hauls the head round to one side, the rest of the horse will follow. Stands to reason.’
But Staxa wasn’t going to follow his head. He kept galloping straight on. Easter pulled harder. Staxa jerked his head against the reins. Easter was wrenched forward. He almost lost his balance. He dropped the reins and flung both arms round the horse’s neck.
‘Go, Luis!’ yelled Tanya.
‘Whose side are you on?’ said her mother.
‘We’ve gotta be nice to Luis,’ said Tanya. ‘Show him he’s appreciated.’
The horse was rapidly disappearing towards the end of the paddock. Easter released its neck and managed to get himself sitting up in the saddle. Without any help from the jockey, Staxa turned in a wide arc and came thundering back down the field straight at the water jump.
‘Take him over the wall,’ shouted Alex.
Easter hauled on the left rein, trying to divert the thundering beast from its chosen path. But Staxa Fun wasn’t going to be diverted to the wall. Staxa was aiming for the water jump. The water jump was a scrubby brush fence in front of a wide ditch full of muddy water and green algae. With a really good leap the horse would be able to clear both fence and ditch.
‘The wall,’ yelled Alex. ‘Take him over the wall.’
Easter pulled harder on the left rein, but you could tell he wasn’t too keen to annoy Staxa; he wasn’t putting much effort in. Above the noise of the drumming hooves we could hear Easter yelling into Staxa’s ear.
‘Come on, Luis. Don’t be a pain,’ Easter shouted. ‘Just do what Alex says. He’s the trainer. Come on mate, let’s have a crack at the wall.’
Staxa began his final approach to the water jump. Easter gave up trying for the wall and crouched low over Staxa’s neck, ready for the flight over the ditch. But Staxa wasn’t going flying. Only Easter was going flying. At the last moment Staxa dug his heels in, put down his neck and flicked his huge hindquarters into the air. The horse stayed on one side of the brush fence. Easter took off for the other. He splashed down like a killer whale. There was mud and algae all over the place.
‘East!’ yelled Mrs Chandor. ‘Oh, my poor baby.’
‘Baby is about right,’ said Tanya.
But Mrs Chandor had set off across the paddock to the water jump, where Easter’s stunned form could be seen floating face up in the slime.
‘Oh gawd,’ said Tanya, ‘She’s going to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation.’
But before Mrs Chandor reached the stricken jockey, he pulled himself upright and staggered out of the ditch. He looked a treat. He looked like a melting chocolate frog. He didn’t look very cuddly. Mrs Chandor went straight up to Easter and gave him a cuddle.
‘Oh gawd,’ said Tanya again. ‘I think you’re right about the little fella being my next dad.’
‘Check Luis,’ said Gazza. ‘Victory dance.’
Staxa had gone troppo. The horse was frisking about all over the paddock. Leaping up on its front legs, leaping up on its back legs. Snorting like a looney. Easter turned away from his muddy embrace with Tanya’s mum and shook his fist at the horse. Staxa turned his bum towards the jockey, lifted his tail and farted.
‘Good one, Luis,’ yelled Rachel. ‘Remember, don’t bottle it all up inside, mate, let it all out.’
‘Stop stirring,’ said Alex. ‘Those two have got to cooperate or we’re stuffed.’
‘You’re the trainer, Alex,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s you who’ve got to weld man and horse into one invincible fighting unit. Look upon it as a challenge.’
Chapter Fifteen
The first time they took Staxa to a steeplechase, it was some little two bob, tinpot, country race meeting. It was mid-week and I was tied up at the shop, so I didn’t go. I didn’t go to the next couple of meetings either. But I read the papers: Staxa’s performances were abysmal.
Tanya saw it all firsthand. Alex had gone and offered her a job. She was now Staxa’s strapper — she had to brush him down and feed him oats and arrange his harness and lead him round the mounting yards at the race track. For all I know, she had to file his teeth. I’d said I thought Alex or Easter could do all these jobs, but Tanya said it wouldn’t look good — the trainer and the jockey had their own jobs, they couldn’t do the strapper’s job as well. Besides, being the strapper at a mid-week race meeting meant she got to wag school. Only she insisted it was work experience. Which I suppose it was.
Tanya called into the shop by herself the day after Staxa had romped home second last in the three-fifteen at Hamsville. The few punters foolish enough to bet on him had done their dough. But, of course, Staxa wasn’t meant to do well. The whole scam depended on him doing rather badly in all but the last race. So Easter and Alex and — I suppose — Luis were very pleased with the way things were going. Very pleased indeed.
‘What about the stewards?’ I said to Tanya. ‘Have they smelt a rat?’
‘Not according to Easter,’ Tanya said. ‘He reckons they smell nothing at all. It’s the other horses Easter is worried about.’
‘The other nags?’
‘Yeah. East reckons they don’t behave towards Staxa like they’re meant to. Staxa reckons the same. He’s always hammering away on the laptop, telling us to shoot the swikne.’
‘How are the other horses meant to behave?’
‘They’re not meant to kick poor Staxa and bite him and push him about.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Horses do that. It’s called horsing about.’
‘Yeah, well Easter thinks the other horses know Staxa isn’t a real horse. He reckons Staxa is sending out the wrong subliminal signals.’
‘Good job the other nags can’t use laptops like Staxa,’ I said. ‘They’d be writing letters to the Punters’ Weekly complaining.’
‘I reckon Staxa might start writing letters complaining. He’s been demanding a printer to plug into his laptop. Alex isn’t too keen.’
‘Stax would never get the letter in the envelope,’ I said.
‘Naw,’ said Tanya. ‘But I think he thinks someone might help him.’
‘You getting real fond of Staxa?’ I said. ‘Young girls do that, you know, get real stuck on their ponies. Cups and ribbons and —’
‘Drop dead, Scalp.’
At which point, on cue, in comes Poldarski.
‘Afternoon Senior Constable,’ says Tanya. ‘Did you hear about our old mate Staxa Fun? Bombed out in the three-fifteen at Hamsville. Second last.’
‘That horse should’ve been put down,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s a menace. It’
s an even bigger menace than the owner of that furniture van — that Luis Greystone lunatic. You don’t happen to know his whereabouts do you?’
‘He lives on a dear little farm,’ I said.
‘Yeah, he used to live on the farm. He’s disappeared. Every time I try to serve a summons on the bloke, he’s not there.’
‘I reckon he still lives on the farm,’ I said. ‘Maybe you just don’t recognize him when you go out there.’
‘I’d recognize the perpetrator. I’d recognize him anywhere. I’m a trained police officer. But no one’s seen him. His mates who still live on the farm, the neighbours, no one’s seen him for weeks. If we can’t serve the summons, we’re going to have to impound the van anyway, and we might just impound that mad horse while we’re at it.’
‘Look, officer,’ Tanya said in a hushed voice. ‘Speaking as Staxa Fun’s strapper, I’ll let you into a secret: that horse isn’t really a horse.’
Holy dooly, Tanya, I thought, don’t tell him that. We’ll all be up the creek.
Luckily the cop didn’t take Tanya too seriously. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Well, tell me Tanya, if it’s not a horse, what is it?’
‘It’s a common household item,’ said Tanya.
‘Come again?’
‘It’s a stick of furniture. More like a clothes-horse than a racehorse.’
‘That’s not the impression I gained on the night of the offence — the night of the multiple offences. Damage to a vehicle, endangering life, committing a public nuisance, causing livestock to stray on a public highway, parking a heavy goods vehicle in a prohibited area —’
‘Naw, listen, you don’t understand,’ Tanya said. ‘It’s a matter of insurance. Me mum’s friend, Easter — you know, the little jockey guy that lives out at the farm — well, he’s been telling me all about it. See, the furniture van is insured, but Staxa isn’t. So the only way that poor girl with the squashed car is gunna get any money is by proving that her old man’s Kingswood was flattened by a common household item falling off the back of a truck. Then it’s the truck’s fault, not the common household item’s fault. So for legal purposes, the old Stax is a bit of furniture. Get it?’
‘I don’t think that argument will stand up in court,’ said Poldarski.
‘It’s watertight,’ said Tanya.
‘It could be argued that the “piece of furniture” was not properly secured. As I had occasion to remark at the time, it was rather lively.’
‘It could be argued,’ said Tanya, ‘that the piece of furniture was real secure until a certain off-duty policeman went and insisted that it be unsecured. Against the advice of the van’s owner. Wilfully unsecuring a hazardous load might just be a bit of an offence under the Hazardous Loads Act. What I reckon is — if you go and knock off the van and the horse, Easter and Alex might just have to file counter charges. Loss of livelihood due to malicious busybodying. Or something. They might just serve a summons themselves. Wadda you think about that?’
The policeman appeared lost in thought, then he said, ‘I might have to talk to my union. Powerful body the Police Association — looks after its members.’
‘Yeah, well don’t lose any sleep over it.’ Tanya said. ‘Easter and Alex are reasonable guys. They only do unto others what’s done unto them. Get it? Anyway, I’ll give you a hot tip: back nervous horses in stampedes. Go for Staxa in the Elmbank Steeplechase.’
‘Not on his present form,’ said Poldarski.
‘Naw, you don’t understand,’ said Tanya. ‘His present form is a result of purposeful herd movement. But the Elmbank Cup is going to be a stampede. See, we done this topic, right? “Our Furry Brothers and Sisters”. Part of the Say No to Animal Exploitation Curriculum Package. And see, Ms Boston — she’s the Say No Curriculum Coordinator — well, she gave us this fact sheet about horses. They’re real sociable beasts and when they’re just wandering about in a mob the dominant ones go up the front. They’re the leaders. And the other ones are real polite and just wander along behind. But when it’s a stampede, things get reversed. Right? In a stampede it’s the nervous nellies who get to be the leaders. The real paranoid fruitcake horses, they’re the ones that go to the front. They just panic. So the thing is, Senior Constable, that if you want to clean up big at the track, you’ve got to work out in advance if a race is going to be purposeful herd movement or if it’s going to be a total rampage, a stampede. See? And the thing you’ve gotta understand about Staxa is that basically he’s a nervous, polite, shy sort of beast. Unless he panics. Then he’s a mad bastard. Well, all the races he’s been in so far have just been little half-arsed country mid-week numbers. All the horses going round the track, hopping over the jumps, are just doing a bit of purposeful herd movement. Staxa is too polite to win a race like that. But the Elmbank Cup — that’s the big time: hundreds of horses, huge crowds, lots of noise, television, helicopters, the works. It’ll be panic-attack city for poor old Staxy — he’ll want out! And out he’ll go. Out in front. See?’
‘Gee, you talk a lot, Tanya,’ said the cop.
‘You only say that because I’m a girl. See, we did this topic: “Speak your Mind”. It’s in the Say No to Put Downs Action Plan for Schools. Well I done this research, and science proves that ninety-two percent of the time that boys are rabbiting on in class they are not actually saying anything remotely interesting. But on the other hand, most girls don’t say anything interesting either on account of they don’t actually say anything at all. It’s just like purposeful herd movement — they’re too shy and polite to interrupt the rabbiting boys. But me — this is the point you’ve gotta understand, Senior Constable — me, I’m a girl. And I speak my mind. So what I say is interesting one hundred percent of the time. Which is why you wanna take my advice and stop this nonsense about persecuting Staxa and go to the Elmbank Cup and bet everything you own, including your shirt, on the beast in question. And that’s a hot tip — straight from the strapper’s mouth. Got it?’
But the cop was already out the door.
And then Tanya was falling about and putting her arms round me and we were both laughing. So we each got a coke out of the machine and I sat on the saddle of a twenty-four speed Fairway Flyer and Tanya parked her bum on a Bunny Hopper and we just sat there in my shop and gossiped the afternoon away. And jeez I felt happy. I just felt totally, ridiculously happy.
As she was leaving Tanya said, ‘Look, I worry about that horse. It’s no fun — being picked on by all the other horses. Especially if you’re not actually a horse at all.’
‘That’s the first time all afternoon you’ve mentioned that,’ I said. ‘Most of the time you just think about him as a horse.’
‘Funny about that,’ Tanya said. ‘I’ve no trouble thinking about you as being a juvenile delinquent.’
‘Watch it,’ I said.
‘Anyway,’ Tanya said. ‘I’ll ask Ms Boston. She’s sure to have some Say No to Bullying material. Staxa could get some ideas.’
Chapter Sixteen
For five days it rained. On the sixth day we piled into Rachel’s car, picked up Tanya’s mum from her place, and drove through the countryside to the Elmbank Racetrack. The weather had become changeable: rain one minute, bright sunshine the next.
‘The going will be heavy,’ said Gazza, who knew nothing about racing.
‘Staxa performs well on a heavy track,’ said Mrs Chandor, who knew quite a lot.
The car park was certainly a heavy scene: it was awash. It was awash with dorks and buffoons. There were guys in dinner suits. There were guys in tight pink shorts and rabbits’ ears on their heads. There were women in hats like car tyres and women in hats like a greengrocer’s nightmare. People were hauling great hampers of tucker and booze out of the boots of their cars. There were all these barbecues set up with sausages and bits of dismembered chooks spluttering and farting on the hotplates. Guys in silly aprons were squashing the bits of chook with forks and pouring champagne down their own throats at the same time. And everyone
was chattering and squealing with laughter and pretending not to notice the roving television cameras.
‘Mug punters,’ said Rachel. ‘Come on, let’s get a good possie. I actually want to see this farce.’
We found a place to sit and watched a few races. They were only flat races. The jumps had yet to be wheeled out for the grand event: the Elmbank Steeplechase. The main result of the flat races was the production of a lot of churned up mud on the track. ‘Turf’ wasn’t quite the word anymore. But the place was still very pleasant. It was surrounded by hills and a rainbow hung in the sky for at least twenty minutes. There was a huge bed of flowers in the middle of the grounds. There was a big old wooden grandstand and off to one side were some low brick buildings, the stables. From where we were sitting we could see the stable car park. And in it — looking like a huge cat among the pigeons — was the furniture van surrounded by proper horse floats and trucks. Tanya, Alex, Easter and Staxa must have been on site since early morning.
The fateful hour approached. I decided to go and check the scene in the mounting yard. I grabbed a disposable plastic camera and made my way through the crowds to where the horses were being paraded around in a circle. I leant on the railing and watched the strappers haul these great hunks of supercharged meat along behind them like poodles dragging their owners to the park. Staxa Fun’s hide had been brushed till it glistened, his tack was polished to a dull gleam, a smart, green saddle cloth carried the white number, 12. Even Tanya looked well groomed in her strapper’s outfit. She’d gone and polished her boots.
Easter and the other jockeys were waiting in a bunch, ready to pile onto their horses. And Easter looked a snappy little dude. He was wearing a pink and green silk shirt with a blue cravat at his throat, held in place with a diamond pin. His stack hat was covered with more green and pink silk.
