Paycheque (25 page)

‘No worries,' Madeline said. ‘Could I have a ride? I know he's not going to race today, but…'

‘Well he hasn't actually been scratched,' Jack cut in. ‘Why don't you hop on? There's an hour until his race. If you feel comfortable we'll give him a run – no pressure, mind. What do you think, Claire?'

‘Don't see why not. I'd just be happy to get him into the barriers and then onto the track without disaster. But I've got to warn you, Madeline, he can put on a real turn.'

‘She knows,' Derek said. ‘She saw him last time.'

‘I'll take him steady, see how we go.' She shrugged.

‘Thanks, Madeline, that'd be great,' Claire said, feeling relief flow through her. If this worked her grand plan might just look doable.

‘I'll just go and get my helmet,' she said, starting to walk away. She'd only gone a few steps when she stopped, turned back and said, ‘Oh, and my friends call me Maddie.'

‘I know she's my daughter and I'm totally biased, but she really does have a way with horses,' Derek said as they watched her leave.

‘Wow, isn't this exciting,' Bernadette said, clapping her hands. ‘I'm going to go for a wander – does anyone need anything? More coffee?'

‘No thanks,' Claire and Derek said.

‘Jack?'

‘No thanks. I'll be too busy getting Howie ready.'

‘Okay, I'm going to get myself one. See you later.'

‘Sorry about before, Derek.'

Derek kicked at a piece of straw. ‘It's okay. You had a right to be suspicious – you worked with me for long enough.'

Claire laughed.

‘But I'm changing. I've come to realise a few things these past couple of months.'

They both looked at the ground. Claire fidgeted with her zipper.

‘Haven't we all?' Claire laughed, trying to break up the awkwardness.

‘So, truce?' Derek said, putting out his hand.

‘Truce,' Claire said, shaking it. ‘But don't think that means we're going to go easy on you on the track.'

‘Ah yes, but if Maddie's the jockey, it'll still be a win for me.'

Claire laughed. ‘All right, you got me there.'

Derek checked his watch. ‘I'd better get cracking. Places to go, people to see. I'll catch you later.'

Before Claire had a chance to object, Derek had put his hands on her shoulders, pecked her on the cheek and was striding down the laneway between the rows of stables. She stared after him frowning, her heart beating slightly faster.

Jack led Howie out of his stall. ‘Righto Claire, can you lead him around, stretch his legs while I go and try to find his jockey?'

Claire snapped back to reality as the reins were thrust into her hands.

‘Oh, I couldn't find him before.'

‘That's okay, I know exactly where he'll be. You head straight out to the floats.'

‘Come on, then,' Claire called to the large chestnut beside her, and began walking.

Claire had only met the jockey once before and wasn't at all impressed, but had to agree with her father that with no other options presenting, they couldn't afford to be picky.

She thought about Howie's gentle nature and hoped they weren't letting a cowboy loose on him. But then, how many times had she heard you had to be tough to succeed in this game?

She walked the horse up to the mounting area where Jack stood with the jockey kitted out in the McIntyre colours. The faded state of their red and gold silks was a little embarrassing, but forking out for a new set was a luxury they really couldn't afford right now. Anyway, Jack probably wouldn't hear of it: Grace had made these not long before her death.

Claire took a new dislike to the jockey when he began aggressively slapping his whip against the palm of his hand.

She had never used whips in training – didn't see the point in belting a horse when it was doing its best. All it served to do was distract the animal and unbalance the rider and, in turn, the horse. She couldn't believe the racing industry's occupational health and safety people hadn't seen the potential danger in jockeys only holding onto the reins with one hand. Not to mention leaning wildly to one side to provide a better angle for connecting the whip with the horse's flesh.

What annoyed her most was that no one seemed to see that if whips were banned no one would be advantaged or disadvantaged. All whips or no whips, what was the bloody difference? She shook her head.

‘Yep, got you, you're the boss,' the jockey said, nodding his head. But the look of disdain on his face told her he wasn't listening to a word this old codger said.

Claire put the reins over Howie's head with deep feelings of misgiving. His ears went up and his nostrils flared as if he too felt the mood change.

‘Righto, let's see what you've got,' the jockey said, gathering the reins and putting his foot out for a leg-up.

‘Just take him easy, it's his first time out for a while,' Claire said.

‘Yeah, yeah. I heard your old man. Just leave him to me. You go and settle yourself comfortably in the stands,' he said, waving his whip in the air.

Claire scowled at being patronised. She flinched as Howie got a slap with the whip and instantly became a different horse: up on his toes, darting about, looking fearful and bewildered. She shot Jack a concerned glance.

‘They'll be right,' Jack said, but looked as concerned as she. ‘It's out of our hands now,' he added. ‘He's a sensible horse, he'll be okay.'

Claire glanced back at the horse dancing about and felt sick to her stomach. She wished she hadn't had coffee. Part of her also wished she'd kept her involvement to swanning about in the corporate boxes at Flemington and only occasionally helping out her father.

She chose a spot at the rail halfway down the straight, and stood there reminding herself to breathe. Howie went past in his warm-up, head down fighting against the bit, already beginning to sweat.

‘Jesus, let go of his mouth,' Claire growled, wanting to climb under the rail and rescue the horse from the pint-sized brute. But as hard as it was, it was business, she told herself. Howie was half a tonne of horseflesh – the punk didn't stand a chance if it came down to it.

Anyway, they had been lucky to get a jockey at all. The best jockeys usually went hand-in-hand with the best stables – two-bit operations like theirs got the dregs.

Claire gritted her teeth. What they needed was a good name for themselves. Not that what she was seeing would go any way towards that. Howie was now rearing up and refusing to go into the barriers.

‘Stop reefing at his mouth!' she pleaded under her breath. ‘And Howie, for God's sake, stop giving him something to pull against.' Claire wasn't sure what she feared more: the humiliation of their horse leaving the track unraced, the commentator's announcement of their withdrawal, or the jockey's fury. She closed her eyes and put her head on her arms folded across the rail.
Howie, just let him have his way and I promise you'll never have him on you again
.

The crash of the barrier gates and thunder of hooves brought Claire's head up. She looked around, expecting to see Howie being led away in disgrace, but he was nowhere to be seen. She looked back to the mass of horses flying towards her. Her heart surged. There he was, dead last by a long shot, but there nonetheless. But she could see the defeated, exhausted hang of his head.

Jesus, was that blood at his mouth?
Claire thought with a start, but the horse was already too far away.

The race was over before it had begun. Howie struggled all the way around, coming past the post a distant last.

‘Oh well, better luck next time,' Jack said, appearing at her side and putting a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at him, eyes blazing. ‘That was nothing to do with luck and you know it.'

Jack squeezed her shoulder a little too hard. ‘Not here, Claire,' he warned.

She wanted to scream.
Why not bloody here?
The poor horse wasn't given a fair run because of some reject, upstart jockey. But looking around she realised Jack was right – this was not the time and this was definitely not the place for raised voices.

At that moment Todd Newman sauntered past, tipping his Akubra towards them. A grin was spread across his face. Jack offered a tight smile back and tipped his own hat. Claire tightened her grip on the cold railing.

‘Come on, he's not worth it,' Jack said, pulling her by the shoulder.

He was right, but it didn't stop her wanting to thrust her steel cap into his groin.

‘Where did you get to, anyway?' she asked as they walked over to wait for the horses to emerge from the track.

‘I was behind the barrier – thought I might have to retrieve Howie.'

‘That bloody jockey should be banned,' Claire growled through gritted teeth.

‘He might be yet.'

‘Something you're not telling me?'

‘Well I was asking around and apparently he's had trouble interstate.'

‘I'm not surprised, but I just wish it wasn't us who gave him a ride.'

‘Anyway, I've officially reported him. Let's just hope Howie isn't too worse for wear for the ordeal.'

They fell silent as an exhausted Howie and red-faced jockey came towards them.

The jockey leapt off and threw the reins aside. ‘Here, take your
bloody nag,' he growled, ripping his helmet off and then its silk covering.

Claire caught the small piece of fabric he threw at her. She waited in silence as he struggled out of the silks. She stayed silent, willing them to be still intact when he'd finished. She stumbled backwards slightly at the force with which he shoved them into her chest.

He stomped off and Claire watched as two men in suits carrying notebooks approached him.

Howie stood beside her, heaving and dripping in sweat. Pink-tinged foam clung to his lips. She inspected his mouth and found a tiny patch rubbed raw by the bit in each corner. Thankfully it wasn't too bad, probably only take a couple of days to heal. But the psychological trauma would take much longer.

Claire was pleased to be distracted by Bernadette bounding up and screeching about how it was just like being at the Cup.

‘You've never even been to the Melbourne Cup, Bernie. And you've been to heaps of race meetings before.'

‘I know, but it's just so exciting – you know what I mean.' She took in the troubled look on Claire's face. ‘Sorry he didn't win.'

‘Where were you anyway? I thought you were here for moral support.'

‘Out the back with Maddie and Paycheque. I wanted to keep an eye on them while you were busy with the race.'

‘Are they all right?' Maddie had suggested she lead the horse around for a while so they could bond before she got on him. Claire had been instantly impressed – finally, someone else who understood the complex little horse.

‘So far so good. She's on and warming him up. Derek's out there with her as well. He said she rode dressage for years – it certainly shows. Beautiful rider, lovely soft hands – Paycheque seems to be putty in them, anyway,' Bernadette laughed.

‘Hopefully we're onto a winner there,' Jack said.

Claire felt a twinge of jealousy, but reminded herself the results were what mattered, not who got them. As she wasn't a qualified jockey she had to have outside involvement.

‘How about I deal with this great lump and you two go over and take a look for yourselves,' Bernadette offered.

‘Sure you don't mind?'

‘No, I'll hose him down, dry him off and put his stable rugs on. Oh, and is there something to put on his mouth? Ouch, that looks sore. Poor thing,' she said, patting the horse.

‘There's some antiseptic cream in a tube in the box under the pile of rugs. You're a star, thanks. His feed is in the bucket just outside his stable – it's got his name on the lid. Once he's cool and his heart rate settles, mix it with a bit of water and give it to him.'

‘Okay, got all that. Leave him to me,' Bernadette said, accepting Howie's reins from Claire.

‘Thanks Bernie – you can come with us any time you like,' Jack said, and sauntered off.

Claire noticed Howie's sideward glance, but shook off her misgivings – this wasn't like handing him over to that jockey. Given half a chance, Bernie would pamper him until he forgot he was a horse.