by Brian Cain
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Kerry Snow had waited with baited breath to see the field for the Turnbull Stakes first week of October. Bingo, he won the bet with himself on the path of Flaxmead's runs to the cup, Flaxmead up on the radar for the event next weekend. Sixteen runners and some familiar names were listed. Sanda Warrior, Celtic Storm, Flushing Meadow. Brazen Heart. Kerry got excited just reading about it, plus Flaxmead's first run at the hallowed turf of Flemington racecourse in Victoria, records were up for grabs. Be there or be square, it was Kerry's weekend off.
With organised use of social clubs, bowling clubs, NRL clubs, cricket clubs, soccer clubs, wineries, the CFWMU, Greddy Piggy Creek Coal, the Fixed Hole Pty Ltd and business throughout the valley they formed the social alliance simply called Thunderbolt. There were many lobby groups, alliances, organisations and clubs in the hunter valley all pushing different agendas, the difference with this one was everybody was a member with a common belief, Flaxmead would bring home the Melbourne Cup. With the combined purchasing power, social group Thunderbolt, collard five thousand general admission tickets for individuals names to the Turnbull stakes. A combination of road, rail and air passage was coordinated for what was considered to be a dry run for the cup meet in November.
Flaxmead was a bit taken with his second stable mate but after a while he settled down. Ross had run Celtic Storm locally twice in group two events with the assistance of Graham taking easy wins in Scone and Newcastle. They waited to see what happened via the back doors of Flemington and were relieved when all three horses made the draw for the Turnbull. Wilson and Bartholomew raided Flemington twice as spectators prior to the Turnbull Stakes, they began to rally influence in the corridors of power. Nine horses running in the Spring Carnival the week of the Turnbull Stakes had something to do with the eccentric's and their names didn't appear next to one of them. Some powers to be racked their brains and sifted though stacks of rumour to find out what the eccentrics had been up to and if it could be stopped. A visit to the Flemington stable complex impressed the pair and they were able to view some of their horses without anyone but them knowing. They were shown the exact path Flaxmead would walk from the float parking area, to the starting gate. A quiet dinner in the members lounge with upper management invoked a serious search for the elusive Barking and Romford Toad, among the waterways of the race course, and adjacent banks of the Maribyrnong River the very next morning. The only real casualty in the fiasco was Wilson and Bartholomew's stomach muscles aching profusely from laughter all the way back to Shangri La. There always seemed to be a method in all they did and the rumour of the Barking and Romford Toad may just be another tool in the brief case.
The assassin had been too busy with Sanda Warrior and Carronade to worry about the next move to eliminate Celtic Storm or the thunderbolt clan. The Turnbull Stakes would be the first time Sanda Warrior would meet Flaxmead and he was just getting his head around it. The assassin had been keeping low profile repairing damage done at McMahons Point in Sydney. Celtic Storm had vanished but he noticed the race wins in the hunter area. If he had just listened to messages left on his stable complex phone in Sydney he would know exactly where Celtic Storm was. With little time to spare and often in foul moods he erased messages from Newcastle as soon as he heard a lesser person of standing in the industry had the audacity to ring him. One of these messages would have told of Celtic Storm appearing out of the back of Harpers float and being ridden by Lorraine Wills.
The strategy to induct Celtic Storm into the local community with runs at local meetings worked, the perceived rival, attending in the thunderbolts float gave the community an immediate sense of ownership of the Scottish stayer. The newspapers ran front page stories on the expansion of Harpers stable and the convincing wins. Celtic Storm was accepted as another rocket from the valley. Kerry Snow talked with Ross Hildebrand in Scone, the lower key meeting giving better access, he was amused by the man's broad Scot accent. This coupled with Ross's deep vibrating voice Kerry noticed you'd have to be a Buffalo to understand the details. "Do you think this Sanda Warrior will beat Flaxmead in the Turnbull Stakes like the Sydney and Melbourne papers are saying," asked Kerry.
"Average times over two thousand metres for this horse are three seconds short of Flaxmead. I wouldn't like to buy a car from the fella that worked those figures out," replied Ross.
"Theo Delores, the smiling assassin. Drumming up some hype for his stables, his mates in the media giving him a hand," added Kerry.
"Delores, I've heard allot about him but I've never met the man. When I do I'll take it from face value."
"I think Celtic Storm ran against Sanda Warrior in England from what I've read about her."
"I, Epsom, a group one race when she was three. She was boxed in by the establishment and it backfired on them. They were so busy holding Celtic Storm up the warrior got away on the outside flown in for the race from Japan. It wasn't to the last three hundred yards Celtic got loose but missed out by a nose."
"I watched a video of the race, Celtic Storm was clearly held up on the rail, the jockey was elbowed, and they even tried to take his whip off him. Why was there no protest?"
"Dah, race then concentrate on the next meeting. You can't win a race that's been run and lost man. If you watch the race a few times you'll notice they were the perpetrators of their own doom, busy carrying out instructions from their peers and given no authority to race. The clan that boxed Celtic in didn'y even run a place and were disqualified for interference. The establishment sacked the jockeys. I'm sure you can work it out."
"How do you get a horse to run like Flaxmead."
"You don't, they're born. Then you have to teach them to race. That horse was a born racer, he can pass his long legs with coordinated precision inside each other, looks like he's on a Sunday jaunt with no effort. He was born with both, a freak of nature, quiet as a mouse around children but show him a race field and starting gate and look out. Not only that he's very intelligent and has a mind of his own and the people around him let him use it, that's what really makes difference. He's part of a family and he knows it."
"Celtic Storm is the closest thing I've seen to beating Flaxmead."
"Celtic is a great horse no doubt about that, but she's not as smart as Flaxmead. She's a great racer but needs a good jockey like a jet fighter needs a good pilot. She gets lazy when the going is easy like here today she's way off her full pace with an easy win but the jockeys back her off once they know she's won. Flaxmead demoralises the field just for the sake of it, he can't be stooped, he likes to run on. I don't think a horse has surfaced yet that can run him down."
Kerry took the conversation back to the mob seeing the man as a realist, a no nonsense man who called a spade a spade.
The last trip to Victoria went smoothly and the team saw no need to change the plan. Flemington was on the north side of Melbourne and a little closer for the morning jaunt from Hidden Valley. The third and forth horse cubicles on the float were accessed from the left side of the truck via hydraulic ramps that formed the left wall of the truck when raised. Meadow and Flaxmead were used to their positions at the rear so Celtic Storm was housed in the forward compartment. The forward cubicles operated the same as the rear with a narrow walkway around the driver's side to allow the cubicles to be serviced but the horses stood across the truck head to the drives side. Celtic storm had to get used to different momentum and gravity shifts posed by the configuration. The interim trips locally helped reduce the stress of the longer trip but Celtic Storm had travelled head first for a long time and at times appeared agitated when braking or accelerating. Extra caution was used by Graham and Bob extending the travel time to Hidden Valley by an hour.
Ross had arranged to use jockey Brent Rosewood, he had ridden Celtic Storm in every race in Australia. Brent born in Geelong now twenty five was used to Flemington completing his apprentice time at the stable complex there with Prendergast. Ross had tried several jockeys in trials at Randwick and Celtic Storm took str
ait to Brent the first time he worked her. Brent's resume was far from impressive but he got results with Celtic Storm, for some reason the lad was ignored by the establishment and relished in the sudden limelight. Brent had other rides at the meet and would meet Ross in the saddling ring before the race. Graham had no luck finding a female jockey he trusted to back up Lorraine Wills, she would have to ride Flaxmead. He secured the services of hunter jockey Nathan Knight to pilot Flushing Meadow in the Turnbull Stakes. Nathan seldom left the valley to ride, he loved the place and its people, that's why he was on Meadow, and Graham trusted him. Nathan wanted to hear the valley crowd as they past the winning post at Flemington. He would attend the meet with his family at their request visiting relations in Melbourne's Yarra Valley and would meet Graham in the saddling yard.
The morning run in Hidden Valley at first light now had three horses thunder along the fence of the golf club. Little Lindy Cumberland had been offered a seat on the trip but declined, still convalescing and struggling with commitment to family. She also struggled with the burden of if and when to return. Ross was no slouch at the reins so he took Celtic Storm for a quick spin following Jessica and Lorraine on the same route used previously. Two familiar gents were having their usual nine hole game of golf before catching up with business ends left over from the week. One a local builder heard thunder as he attempted to concentrate on his shot, his mate could just see what was making the noise heading through the scrub along the fence line.
"There's three of them this time." his builder friend looked up abandoning his shot. They watched the trio thunder past the same spot they had seen them before only fifty metres away.
"Jesus that's Celtic Storm with them," said his entrepreneurial friend. "I recognise Ross Hildebrand his trainer, he's riding her. That thing annihilated one of my horses while back, I thought they'd be bitter rivals. Gotta be the Turnbull Stakes." He picked up his ball and slid his club in his bag. He made a b line for the clubhouse.
"Where ya goin?" asked his mate.
His friend turned back still walking briskly. "Flemington! I gotta see this mate."
"What about the little jobs we were gonna finish!"
He got further away. "They'll have to wait!"
"Can I come?!"
"Not if ya stand there talking, get a move on!" the three champions cantered back along the fence line as the pair of golfing enthusiasts hurried to their cars. Fifteen minutes later the float was gone.
It was surreal, Graham Harper pulled off of Smithfield Road, into the hallowed ground of Flemington Racecourse. He gingerly brought the mobile stable complex to a halt level with the gate official. "The float park!" shouted Graham.
The ground official stood back smiled at Graham "Welcome Mr Harper." He thrust his arm out in line with the road to his right with an open palm. "Straight down there to the right, just follow the road." The float lumbered off along the roadway.
Lorraine spoke up from the rear seats, she was closely monitoring the horses on the surveillance system, the unique smell of Flemington aroused their spirits and they became restless. "Oh I forgot you and Bob and never been here before Graham. Straight up this road you'll see the Quest hotel complex on your right through the light scrub and the stabling facilities on the left, just keep driving." They drove on passed the landmarks, some long faces with frowns peered out from the stable complex, one was Theo Delores. Winding round the end of the start run off called the chute an extension of the main course allowing a straight run from the staring gares, butted up against Epsom road they turned left following the lush grassy track on the left, and the dam paddock on the right.
Ross studied the track condition as the hallowed turf passed by. "A bit of rain did this the world of good last night, the goings good, just about perfect," he commented from his seat on the far passenger side. Some four hundred metres on and Lorraine directed them into the float park up area to the right. An official guided them to a set of orange witch's hats weaving around other parked floats to access the area. Winston had been in communication with Flemington management and officials for weeks arranging for a spot close to the parade ring, having all his i's dotted and t's crossed. The sun was up but the track had been a hive of activity for hours, they eased to a stop and the teams riding boots struck the sacred ground of Flemington and the team went to work. Winston drew media elements to one side and the loading ramps were lowered, photographers ran their camera shutters on auto to catch the exact moment Flaxmead's hoof stuck the ground at Flemington. Then pandemonium broke out as Celtic Storm was backed down the left side loading ramp. Already on the scene Lee Hayford infatuated with the story of Flaxmead the children's pet, mainly because it had record newspaper sales, was stunned to see the adversary Celtic Storm emerge from the thunderbolts float. She was denied access to the team as they went to work and threw questions at Winston instead.
Graham Harper had been greeted by chief steward Jarrod Carpenter as he climbed from the driver's seat and they shook hands. They had no idea how much a day in November would change their lives. "You took your time, did you really have to wait this long?" said Jarrod.
Graham had a muffled laugh. "Cant rush into these things, had to make sure we didn't come for nothing."
"Nothing. Hardly. On behalf of the management and staff at Flemington, welcome. Were expecting a bumper day here Graham and not hard to work out the draw card. I must talk to Winston Blake, his assistance from the wine industry has been outstanding. We have a few complaints about perceived preferential treatment but fine for those with stabling facilities, security is not such an issue for them. We need to have you in a position for effective crowd and media control, it's early and already bedlam here. Any problems at all just give me a call or see one of the stewards, here's my mobile number." Jarrod handed Graham a card. Jarrod looked around the passenger side of the float to see why there was vocal uproar amongst the gathered crowd, he saw Celtic Storm being unloaded. "Celtic Storm, she's with you?"
Graham looked around for a quiet spot and beckoned Jarrod with a toss of his head away from the float, they stopped when out of ear shot. "Look, I suppose you're aware of the business recently in Queensland that prevented Celtic from running at Doomben."
Jarrod nodded. "Yes, nasty, everyone was disgusted. Hope it was no one from our neck of the woods."
"We are fairly shore that not long after an attempt was made to nobble or kill Celtic in the Blue Mountains."
"What, do you know who it is?"
"We have some information but we're horse racers not detectives or mercenaries. It was ironic that Ross, Celtics trainer, accepted a place with us the very day before the attempt was made and missed it by only hours."
"How sure are you?"
"Eye witnesses, we have some information but are getting on with things. Should anything else happen we have a lead. That's why we choose to operate like we do, together doing hit and run we have control all the time."
"Any thing like that happens on our turf and you'll everything at our disposal getting to the bottom of it."
"Look, thanks, I must give the team a hand, with me here their a man down. Thanks very much for going out of your way to make us welcome that's really made a difference. Wilson is over there keeping the media at bay if you would like to talk to him."
"Ah, excellent." Jarrod walked off to introduce himself to Winston and Graham.
A stable hand present in the float car park when Celtic Storm came out of Harpers float found the assassin in his stable complex, revving the media up about Sanda Warrior showing him off to the photographers. Sanda Warrior was a magnificent horse and nearly as big as Flaxmead. The stable hand waited until the meeting broke up and whispered the information into Delores ear. He became agitated, he had two people at the ground hunting down Celtic Storm one of them Renoir, his hopes were dashed; he knew Celtic Storm was now untouchable. He planned that Flaxmead would draw the attention away while Celtic Storm met with an unfortunate illness. With Celtic Storm nestled in th
e middle of the action, the plan was shelved. He threw things around and ranted after he'd called off the assault on his antagonist. Hidden in an empty stable stall, he took a long line of cocaine in an attempt to regain euphoria, it worked.
By midday there were over a hundred thousand people at Flemington racecourse, the spring day attendance record for the Turnbull Stakes had already fallen. Lee Hayford pencilled in the record to Flaxmead but the assassin pushed Sanda Warrior as the drawcard at his home ground using his media mates. He had stabled the stayer at his Flemington operation for preparation to run the cup.
The valley mob had learnt to roster early gate sitters to reserve the wining post rail and surrounding area. The winning post at Flemington was directly in front of the grandstand, and by midday from the winners square east of the winning post to the western end of the grandstand, plus the first three rows of the grandstand was populated with blow ins from the hunter valley. The Come fly With Me lodge officials seasoned by years of organising picket lines and protest rallies, found their talents were welcome and appreciated by a Thunderbolt members across the board. Kerry Snow and the GPCC mob designed and organised a badge to identify members of the valley social group. A silhouette of Flaxmead in black with a yellow bolt of lighting running through the middle north south finished in enamel about the size of a ten cent piece. The badge was part of the membership package when joining Thunderbolt and was destined to become an instant laxative for hard nosed horse racing fans from the rest of Australia.
The time had come for the Turnbull Stakes, Flaxmead with set weight and penalty conditions on the two thousand metre event copped it sweet, top weight. Nathan Knight was so happy and excited as he mounted Flushing Meadow in the paddock, the ends of his mouth had become permanently attached to his ears. Brent Rosewood slapped palms with Nathan Knight as he walked Meadow past him then mounted Celtic Storm with the assistance of Ross Hildebrand. Horses began to lead out of the parade ring onto the track and Lorraine put her helmet on and Flaxmead became unsettled, Jessica struggled to help Lorraine mount the prancing monster and withdrew as soon as Lorraine took the reins.
The assassin watched carefully from the sidelines, he was reminded Flaxmead would let no man touch him. It was always the girls, Graham Harper and Bob Fields kept men away from the horse should they venture to close. Renoir mad a mental note of faces associated with the team. Celtic and Meadow trotted along the track beside each other toward the tight turn on the western side of the course warming up, Knight and Rosewood talked to their mounts patting the horse's neck occasionally as they went. The starting gate for two thousand is at the start of the south western straight directly after the exit of the tight western corner. Flaxmead put on a hell of a show, the more the crowd roared the more he carried on, the starting barrier was not quite out of earshot and stewards kept their distance behind the stalls as Flaxmead pranced around his stable mates like he owned the place. Celtic Storm had drawn barrier two, Meadow barrier six and Flaxmead barrier sixteen. Flemington has one of the longest straights in Australia, four hundred and fifty metres. A spacious track all kinds of horses can come home at Flemington with plenty of room to move, runners that like to lead, race on the pace or come home late from behind all have chance at Flemington.
As the horses loaded into the gates Graham Harper received a call from Jarrod Carpenter. "Graham, we have received a complaint from and official about dangerous behaviour by your horse Flaxmead."
"Oh, I've watched him all the way he's carrying on like he usually does. Looks intimidating but he's never hurt anyone. I admit a quick change of the jocks by the odd official behind the starting gate may be required, I have the problem myself sometimes."
Jarrod chuckled. "I'll see the report when it comes in but just thought I'd call, due process, you know."
"I'm a trainer and Flaxmead's a racehorse. We came to win a race, I wonder how many records he'd have and races he'd have won, if he attended with the sole purpose of winning friends and influencing people. I'll withdraw him should you have any problems."
"You must be joking, between me and you I've noticed nothing that went over the line. I just want to get this piece of paper out the way so I can watch the race."
"Oh, no worries. Let us know if you want him pulled up and I'll get on it."
"Right oh, I was hoping to have a horse race not a riot."
The phone call was cut short as the gates opened and the place was made for Flaxmead, he loved it, he could hear the crowd roar. The starting gates being so close to the grandstand for two thousand metre events at the hallowed turf, and the size of the crowd on a brilliant warm spring day yielded the perfect scenario. To many it was a source of stress and mayhem, to Flaxmead it was home. He shot to the lead and by the first turn had eight lengths on the pack, the assassins face strained as he watched Meadow and Celtic Storm break wide from mid pack at the thousand and kick going after their stable mate. Brazen Heart tagged on behind Sanda Warrior whom had lead the pack from the gate, the Warrior's jockey left the kick to late from the four hundred and Brazen Heart rounded up the Warrior in the last few metres by a head. Flaxmead had fifteen lengths on the field as he thundered over the line, Lorraine Wills tucked in behind his ears shaking her head and laughing. Meadow just edged Celtic Storm out in the last fifty by a nose, jockey Brent Rosewood felt the mare pace back along side Meadow in the last fifty and she rejected encouragement, not looking worth it he sat with her. All that could be seen of Nathan Knight's face, was his white teeth glistening in the sun through the spattered grass and turf sticking to his skin, he could hardly see through his glasses but he didn't care. The two bay mares looked like twins coming in behind their black stable mate, now an official legend, with a shattered two thousand metre record on the holy turf at Flemington. The three stable mates stood in front of the screaming crowd on their way to the winners square, Flaxmead tossed his head around and shook his main as if to acknowledge the crowd, they loved it. A mounted steward tried to take Flaxmead's bridle, to lead him in but he objected, casually turning away, he trotted there himself, mounted steward in tow. The hunter valley had come to Flemington and set the stage for November, and some people didn't like what they saw.
Jack Prendergast watched from the members lounge, his runner edged out by two horses bought for a hundred dollars, and one from a far away land. He knew their stories and respected what they achieved, he'd keep working on Brazen Heart, and he learnt something new everyday, even at his age.
The assassin however thought he needed to teach people something. He believed a lesson given from which no one would recover would open the door in November. Creighton, his runners in disarray mid field needed money, his wife had filed for divorce and he couldn't pay her out.
A builder from Hidden Valley and his mate stumbled across Delores near the winner's podium as Graham Harper was making a short speech. He recognised Delores and mumbled softly next to him.
"When's my horse gonna win a race," asked the builder.
Delores looked at him puzzled. "I beg your pardon, I don't believe we've met."
"You train and run my horse for me, Hidden Spirit."
The assassin turned on his auto smile, he had no recollection of the horse. "Ah, Hidden Spirit," he whispered. "We've done a lot of work on that horse of late and we expect a win in the next month."
The builder drew his attention to Flaxmead. "How'd you like a horse like that, I felt they were going to win when I saw them running this morning. Mate when that Flaxmead crossed the line I was with him, you know. I thought the trip down would be worth it, I felt it when they ran past us on the golf course this morning."
The assassin looked puzzled and interested. "Golf course, what are you talking about, golf course?"
"Twice now, the golf course in Hidden Valley, I play there with me mate here every Saturday morning. This lot thunder by on their way here from New South. A sight to behold I can tell you."
"Hidden Valley near Wallan?"
"Yeah, they'
ve been there twice now. Must bed down near the course and run the horses out of the way there along the boundary of the golf course."
"Where exactly do they bed down mr, err."
The builder shook Delores hand. "Kelly, Norm Kelly, in a cul-de-sac at the far northern side of the course of Valley Drive."
"Call me Theo Norm. I'll get on to your horses form right away, well have one in the bag soon. Look I have to go, busy day race day."
"No worries, I deal with a fella over the stables there, I'll let him know I've had a word with you."
"Great idea, I'll pass it down the line as well. I must go, pardon me." The assassin peered at Creighton next to him, they both wore smirks and vanished in the crowd.
Norm turned to his friend. "Worth the trip mate, good bloke that Theo. This could be the contact that makes a difference for me. Not many blokes on first names with him."
His mate stood sternly with his arms crossed. "There's something not quite right, he had an air of conceit about him. His mate was all ears to and never said a word."
"That's Neville Creighton big time entrepreneur friend of Theo's. They won't forget me now, I'm going to go over and see my horse at his stables. I don't want what was said here to be forgotten."
"For some reason I don't think they'll forget anything that was said here, the way they dress, their smell. They aren't ordinary blokes, those guys are dodgy."
"Dah you're paranoid. Hang round here a bit more and you'll get used to them."
"I might be a truckie Norm, but I know a rat when I smell one."
