Paycheque (52 page)

‘He's looking as good as any of the other horses I've seen,' Claire said, again peering through the binoculars. ‘We'd better get back and see what Maddie has to say about his run. Come on.'

‘Here, same deal as last time: as often as needed,' Bernadette said, handing over the folded piece of paper with all the solemnity of a doctor handing over a prescription.

Claire grinned, accepted the note and unfolded it. ‘Enjoy the ride. There's nothing to prove', was written over two lines in Bernadette's large flowing script.

‘Maybe it's the magic of my handwriting that does the trick,' Bernadette offered with a shrug.

‘Thanks. I hope you're right.' Claire folded the note and tucked it into her jeans pocket. She gave her friend a hug. ‘You're a lifesaver. I'm so glad you're here.'

‘Permission to slap you about the head every time you're looking stressed?'

‘Permission granted.' Claire laughed. ‘Come on, time for the wash-up.'

As they strode across the paddock, Claire patted the pocket where Bernadette's new note sat. She knew it was ridiculous, but as with the previous one, which had finally fallen apart only a few days before and had been left beside her bed, she felt certain she could actually feel its warmth. No matter how silly her mind told her it was, Claire really did feel Bernie's note held some kind of power. She shook her head at how nutty she'd be considered if she told a journalist
that
. But somehow it was like putting her worries into her pocket.

Claire was sweating, having practically ridden Howie herself for the last five hundred metres. She lurched, nearly losing her balance in the stands, as he made a final lunge to finish first by a nose. She stared – eyes wide, mouth open – at Bernadette jumping up and down beside her.

‘He won! He won!' Bernie cried, throwing her arms around her friend. Claire hugged her back, unable to speak because of a large lump lodged in her throat. Around her, Jack, David, Derek and a multitude of strangers hugged, slapped backs and offered congratulations.

But out of the corner of her eye she saw it, just as the race caller announced it. There was something wrong with Howie. Maddie had dismounted, was comforting him and checking him over.

Claire tried to keep them in sight as she pushed past the people in the stands and on the stairs. Sensing her urgency, they parted.

Will was already at the gate with his black bag, trying to convince security to let him through. Claire shoved him ahead, thrust her pass into the guard's face and then followed Will onto the track.

Apart from the comments from the race caller trying to be upbeat,
and keep the crowd from thinking too much about what was unfolding just beyond the finish line, the strained, collective silence was noticeable.

It felt like hours, but was only minutes later, when Jack, followed by Will, led a severely lame Howie from the track. The crowd seemed to collectively avert their eyes, as if embarrassed at being caught enjoying the spectacle.

Derek walked behind and tried to put his arm around Maddie. But she resisted and shrugged him off. She ran to catch up to the hobbling Howie.

‘Jack, I've got to get to weigh-in!' she cried.

‘There's no point, love,' Jack said, putting a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘The win's not worth having now.'

Maddie pushed his hand away. She undid the girth, dragged the saddle from Howie's back, and started walking back to the enclosure.

Back at the Fitzpatrick stables, Will diagnosed a badly strained near shoulder and called for volunteers to do stints of rigorous massage. The good news was that the injury was neither life-threatening nor career-ending.

For Claire, the relief was so immense she had to escape to the solitude of the caravan for a good weep. Curled up on the floral covered bed, she thought about the irony of Bernadette's note tucked away safely in her pocket: ‘Enjoy the Ride'.

That night, entwined in a comforting embrace, Derek and Claire dissected the rest of the day's events. Derek's Humble had been bullied to the line to win in the fifth, an important lead-up race to the Caulfield and Melbourne Cups. It was an exciting result overshadowed by Howie's injury. Claire felt a little guilty about it, but Derek didn't seem to mind.

‘Can you believe Maddie thought to take Howie's gear and front up for correct weight with all that was going on?' Claire said.

‘At first I couldn't understand what she was on about – she practically had to belt me to stop me dragging her off to the stalls.'

‘I didn't even give it a thought. We would have been disqualified.'

‘She's always been cool in a crisis. When she was nine her Pony Club Mount – Duke – cut his leg on a fence. He probably would have bled to death if it'd been left to me. She rang the vet and applied pressure while I sat on a bucket with my head between my knees feeling faint.'

‘Actually, I thought today you were looking a little green.'

‘Why do you think I took care of the jockey and stayed away from the horse? Just seeing them in pain is enough for me.'

‘Poor sensitive baby,' Claire crooned, hugging Derek tighter. ‘Thank God Will was here. He really is a miracle worker, isn't he?'

‘Without a doubt.'

‘What a day! I'm exhausted.'

‘Too exhausted to…?' he said, running a finger lightly across her breast.

‘Sorry. Too exhausted even for that.'

‘Darling, you'll be needing an agent soon,' Derek said, arriving at the caravan with two takeaway coffees and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

With raised eyebrows, Claire relieved him of the paper and a coffee, and settled down to read: ‘Vet Works Miracle'.

When Hazardous Waste pulled up lame after winning the Underwood Stakes at Caulfield just over two weeks ago, it seemed this promising stayer's Cup campaign, possibly even his career, was over. But in what is becoming their trademark, the McIntyres have again chosen an unconventional approach
.

Shunning course vets, the McIntyres turned to holistic vet Will Douglas, already at the course, to examine the horse, leaving racing traditionalists
shaking their heads. Fellow racehorse owner, Derek Anderson, defended girlfriend Claire McIntyre's decision. ‘I would have said the same a year ago, but what he did for Paycheque can only be described as miraculous. The normal vet who showed up told them to put the horse down after he tore a tendon in a training accident – most vets would have. But Will reckoned he could help and, well as you've seen, the rest is history
.'

Claire confirmed the story, adding that Dr Douglas is a traditionally trained vet specialising in alternative therapies. ‘He's not a quack like people are making out. We would never put the welfare of our horses at risk, but they do deserve the best chance of recovery we can give them. Too often vets are just reaching for the gun without looking at alternatives. As I've said before, we consider our horses part of the family, not just a business, so of course we're going to try anything for a good outcome. If other people have a problem with it, then so be it
.'

When asked about Hazardous Waste's injury and prognosis, Claire said, ‘It's not as serious as first thought. Just a strain to his near shoulder – probably when he lunged right at the finish.' She said the horse had responded well to massage, acupuncture and herbal supplements
.

Asked about his name still being on the ballot for the Melbourne Cup, Claire said, ‘He'll start back with a gentle workout next week. We'll see then how he is, but at this stage we're not ruling him out
.'

With the McIntyre horses tucked away at Ian Fitzpatrick's stables, no one has seen Hazardous Waste in the flesh. But if he truly does recover for the Melbourne Cup in just over two weeks, then we really will have seen something of a miracle
.

‘I don't see why the concept of natural medicine is so hard to grasp,' Claire said with a sigh, closing the paper and pushing it aside.

‘Come on, Claire. Even you were questioning it not so long ago,' Derek said.

‘Well not anymore. I hate the way he suggests we would have ignored Howie's welfare if Will hadn't been there. And not saying up front that he's a fully qualified vet.'

‘You're reading too much into it. He's just doing his job – trying to sensationalise. And it's not like he's misrepresented the facts or what we said.'

‘No, you're right, I'm just being too sensitive. Hopefully the publicity will be good for Will.'

‘And no one died, which is what really matters.'

‘You're right – as usual,' she said, rolling her eyes.

‘Yes, and don't you forget it.' He laughed, and gave her a hug.

An image of Claire, clad in jeans, R.M. Williams boots, chambray shirt and navy sleeveless microfleece vest, came into view on the large plasma screen.

‘Oh my God,' she groaned, blushing and burying her head in her hands. ‘The camera adds ten pounds, not five.'

‘Shh, it's starting,' Bernadette scolded, slapping at her friend's leg.

They were assembled at Will's sister's house to watch Claire's interview, which had been filmed the week before. It was the only place where the whole of Team McIntyre – as they'd begun calling themselves – could comfortably be accommodated. David had insisted on working out how to record it, even though she'd told him the station was sending her a copy.

The opening was the quintessential racehorse training scene – fog of early morning, steamy breath issuing forth from nostrils and mouths and off the rumps of sweaty horses wandering past. Other than the fact she was all hips and arse, Claire thought it looked perfect. And so it should: it had taken almost half an hour to get right. They had just
finished filming when the fog lifted to reveal the dilapidated corrugated iron stables with piles of rolled fencing wire and other discarded farm refuse rusting behind them.

They'd wanted to start at five-thirty to capture the atmosphere of early morning and the rising sun. Claire got them to agree to do their opening shots without her so she could turn up with the horses nearer six-thirty.

Even still, poor Paycheque had his nose puckered into a sneer of distaste, and the crew were lucky they hadn't got too close. Otherwise it might have ended in tears. Howie showed his objection to the early hour with a few pigroots – he impressed the television people but merely caused the sure-seated Maddie to laugh.

They'd asked Claire to yell orders but she'd refused, opting instead for their second choice: studying the stopwatch, nodding, and muttering with approval before making notes in her pocket-sized spiralbound notebook. Part of her had wanted so badly to giggle, but thankfully her nerves had suppressed it.

Now Maddie giggled.

‘Oi, enough of that,' Claire said, trying to glare stonily but failing. ‘They
made
me, all right,' she whined.

‘Come on, you two,' Bernadette said.

The shot faded to reveal Claire seated on a canvas director's chair, mug in hand, backed by the wall of the caravan. The interviewer was out of sight.