Who Sings for Lu? (4 page)

Lu’s mum would go wandering, be brought back in a cop car or by someone who knew her, found in the city gibbering like an outback Abo, as people would say, gone of her pride and dignity same as them
poor blacks who lived in a fog of permanent drunkenness when their genes were evolved to be out in the free air and the blazing heat, sober.

And that friggin’ uncle, waiting like a black crow ready to pounce on a precious food treat except she was the treat, her business down there. Her mouth to receive him when she had her period. He said her monthly blood was disgusting. And that despite his best efforts her looks hadn’t improved much. Added to her guilt. Had her clinging to the word ‘much’ as if a tiny improvement was better than none.

With their mum like she was, the kids had to fend for themselves. Oldest sister Monica took Mum’s place and how hard was she? Could be a real bitch. And she was smoking hooch and talked drugs more and more and of how she
hates men
. So the younger ones used to say their big sister was growing up to be a lezzo. No mention of becoming a junkie as the siblings thought that was okay.

Least when your mother was a bit mad and your old man a drunk you got to know Sydney well and your hood real well. Lu used to roam the old wharf building that jutted right out into the bay — till they put up KEEP OUT signs and started converting it to apartments and who should move into the biggest one down the end but Russell Crowe himself. Imagine running into him here in the place you grew up in. ‘Gidday, Russ. How’s it goin’? Mate, you are something else.’ While not half a kilometre towards the city, she and hers lived in a dingy Housing Commission flat with other deadbeats around them.

In her better moments, Mum was like any good mother, made you feel warm all over, said things that got a trickle going like golden syrup spread over your insides, you went all gooey, felt like doing baby talk back to her, like you were starting again, the past was wiped, like the never-ending gambling losses had never happened. She talked normal instead of going on about unbelievable runs of bad luck and fixed pokies and useless bingo callers who made you miss a number, of life being a bummer, your father a dead loss, the whole world against her,
against us
.

Just occasionally she didn’t talk that shit, just said things like
How is school going, who are your mates, you got clean undies on
? A girl would like to answer that last question with the truth, that her mum’s
own brother soiled her underpants, his leavings leaked out of her, it felt everyone in the world knew her shame and whispered among themselves how she stank of semen, which kids called spunk or cum.

If only her mum could rid her face of the scowl, send her bitterness packing, bring end to the vile talk against every neighbour, as surely the entire neighbourhood couldn’t all be wrong and bad and nasty, be thieves and liars and cons and rip-offs and cheap slum scammers and rorters. Wiped clean like the class blackboard.
Now, class, let’s start again. That’s you, Mum. Irene O’Brien’s slate is being wiped clean
. If only. Yeah, whatever.

Dad down the street every night drinking with mirrors of himself, broken down men — supposed men — who’d never made an effort, not at anything except bending the drinking elbow. At home, if it was anything, packets of noodles for dinner, breakfast if you were lucky, no lunch unless some bread money could be rustled up from somewhere, a slice spread thinly with Marmite or peanut butter, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday the same lean times. Though that wasn’t what made the kids miserable, not just being hungry.

It was living in an unhappy house. It was wanting, if only occasionally, items like Nike sneakers, a cool teeshirt, jeans other kids got to wear, a cool pair of shades. A bit of love, maybe more than a bit. Some words of encouragement and kindness, some parental facial expressions not twisted by anger and poison in the soul.

Walking on tiptoes afraid to make a mistake; even a noise bringing attention to your existence could be enough to set off one or both. You hated them then. Because of the unfairness, mostly. Why did they hate you — their own kids — so much? The hole they widened in your hearts: you felt by the time you O’Brien kids reached a certain age they could drive a Bondi bus right through you all, the O’Brien kids all lined up with the bus driving up the incline of your age differences, the tunnel going through your sibling hearts. Yet you weren’t close to each other, not at all. Only had hurting in common. A loyalty to each other, naturally. But not out of love, more survival.

And Lu dreamed of a life far away from her siblings, in case they recontaminated her. Hoping she could clean herself up one day. Some hope.

One of those things about horse sales: the electric atmosphere never let up, just the pulse rate slowed a little in getting through the lesser lots, shot to danger level when the glamour lots entered the sale ring.

Each with skin in the game according to his or her circumstances. Many of them, big skin. In the millions. Tens of millions and all packed into a large building with tiered seating looking down on that sawdust centre stage.

The game was about the players, the chicken before the egg, man taming the wild equine beast to do his bidding: to run fast. It was pride, ego, a love of excellence on the hoof, the sport of kings at its source. A game self-proclaimed winners got drawn to, a contest at which Riley Chadwick had excelled, with his Hunter Valley broodmare and stud operation. One hour on a helicopter to Sydney. A three-hour flight to here, Auckland, the New Zealand Bloodstock sales. First class of course. Not that he ever forgot his struggling days.

The pair from Galahrity Estate a contrast — one dressed in Boss casual, the other clearly a totally committed horse man, never heard of the Boss label, couldn’t care less. More like one of the locals, underdressed, unselfconscious. Not that Riley Chadwick strutted and spoke loudly like his compatriots. But the quality clothes suited his tall and lean build, gave an elegance to a man a bob short of handsome. Though
women found him attractive, if for the attention he gave whoever he fancied. Married status aside.

Riley Chadwick was driven to succeed, sure. But men in his business found him somewhat distant, though honourable to a fault in all his dealings. He’d got here the hard way, not through being a member of an old boys’ network. A bit of Irish luck helped.

‘She’s up next,’ Riley said unnecessarily, as Straw had looked so long and hard at her in the yards the last two days he was more convinced than his boss she was a dead-set winner.

‘She’s so feisty our Raimona will only be able to service her on one day.’ Straw, thinking ahead about bang for buck, the filly meeting her match — Galahrity’s eighty-grand-a-shot prime stallion.

Riley flicked a grin at Straw. ‘We wouldn’t allow that, even with this girlfriend.’

A kind of secretive man, except talking business with Straw, his right-hand man, Riley was
always
under-estimated at auctions and in everyday dealings. And that was fine by him. He didn’t want to impress his peers. Or so he made out.

Only he knew his recurrent dreams of being the king of the castle, a swashbuckling pirate, warlord riding roughshod over all these
larger-than
-life characters; he didn’t even tell his wife of these thoughts coming out in his dreams. Didn’t tell her a lot of things.

There were men here in his roving vision who, in historic times, would have ruled nations, led large tribes, capable of ordering the slaughter of thousands and making love while the carnage took place. All gathered here in an unlikely shared pursuit: chasing excellence. From billionaires to more than a few darker, some would say shady, characters, attracted because they were all forceful personalities. Riley knew hardly anyone even spoke his name, or not with reverence, let alone respect. He could live with that. So he said.

When the filly came out, even though little hype had preceded her, all those present became mere mortals in awe of a superior beast: something about the public display of rippling muscularity sent them into near a swoon. Appearance could make a difference of a million dollars or more, and every man thought he possessed an eye for that x-factor. Suddenly everything changed with the sight of such a pure,
primal animal presence. Riley’s heart palpitated, along with a few hundred others.

Straw nudged a knee against Riley and exhaled slowly to release some tension. Lot 337 paraded defiant and haughty, resisting steel and leather restraints and a cool-headed handler.

And looked, to a few knowledgeable eyes, like God’s light shone down on her.

You could pick out the vendors without referring to the sales brochure, by the nervousness they failed to hide. The legendary Mary-Anne Sutch had bred this horse for a couple who owned several supermarkets around Australia.

Riley said, ‘Let’s enjoy this, Straw. It’s got my Anna’s name on it.’ Meaning his oldest daughter, light of his parental life.

‘To what stopping point, Boss?’ Straw always called him that when at an auction, since Riley was paying. Though they were more like close friends.

‘Till we get her,’ Riley answered. A million miles from Struggle Street.

‘I reckon she knows someone’s hot for her,’ Straw remarked of the animal straining against its mouthpiece.

‘So are a lot of others, all of a sudden.’ Riley looking around at the stirring the horse had generated. ‘The vendors being the Gleesons.’

‘Who’ll want a fortune, even for a no-name.’

‘If we didn’t know better.’

‘Just doing our job, mate.’

‘Those shopkeepers will have a plant.’

‘So let’s see what he’s made of.’ Straw’s tone of contempt: the sales brought that out in him, otherwise a very mild guy.

The pair looked at the withers and shoulder area, for width to say big heart, for straighter front legs being the better, for the right carriage. Did it have a good rein — right length of neck in proportion to its body. Each going through the checklist in his mind for conformation.

The Kiwi merchant banker they called Man of Steel, Stan Felt, sat quietly in a middle row of the tiered seats. Riley had studied Felt’s list, the banker letting it be known he was here to sell first and foremost but could be a buyer too. A formidable man to take on in a bidding contest,
he would not be budged from a pre-set selling price even if he had to return with the lot unsold, and always put up almighty battle for a horse he wanted.

Riley waved to Felt and got one back. It was kind of flattering. Like a big brother acknowledging him. Ridiculous considering Riley’s greater success at this game. Though the banker had a three-
million-dollar
Group One annual race event bearing his company and family name: likely he was richer than Riley.

His heart fell, somewhat, when he saw Felt pretending little interest in the horse yet talking out the side of his mouth as most intending bidders did. It felt as if it fooled others. Perhaps some did it deliberately.

Amid the crème-de-la-crème of capitalist society an experienced eye could pick out the human fillies making themselves available. Sly or overtly sexual male eyes weighing them like equine purchases, except with a much smaller price tag. Most the mere cost of a good night on the town. Infinitesimal for what the male got back.

How come women didn’t know what they’d got? Riley never stopped wondering why women didn’t know what they gifted men in their sexuality. Then went back to the filly centre stage. Beautiful.

Like telepathy, Riley’s Blackberry flashed and he saw it was a message from Anna. No time to read it, enough to know he must acquire this horse and have it bear her name.

Now let the contest begin.

‘I have an opening bid of one-fifty,’ said the auctioneer. From whom? At that starting level it wasn’t going to set the world on fire.

An extrovert Filipino beer baron raised it by fifty thousand, setting the incremental bidding level out of proportion to the opening bid. Straw feigned uninterest.

Beer baron and unknown bidder went head to head. Lot 337 kept up her magnificent performance, from rearing to snorting to pawing to imperial posture.

The duo from Galahrity Estate stayed out until the lot was being counted down. It was now obvious, Felt at nine hundred thousand, already way beyond everyone’s expectations.

‘For the third time to —’

Then the Gleeson plant stepped in at an even million.

The crowd gasped and some heads shook knowingly. Riley had no need to give Straw instruction. Felt stayed silent, playing the plant. Seemed the Filipino was out. The vendors seemed near explosion point as the auctioneer began another countdown. Felt looked away. Seemed he was out.

At the last second Straw’s head inclined, perceptible only to a spotter. ‘I have one point one!’ The grocers couldn’t hide their beaming greed, relief too.

Riley said, ‘They’re worth a hundred mill if they’re worth a dollar and just look at them.’ He sighed. ‘Pull their plant in again. Let’s make them sweat.’

The jousting went on to the $1.65 million mark. Felt had stayed out. The plant owned last bid. The Gleeson couple looked worried again. Riley added to it by shaking his head. Every eye turned to Felt, who had his head down at the sales brochure.

An Aussie ad man jumped in at $1.7 million. ‘Ego bidder,’ Straw spat tacks. The vendors’ relief was palpable.

‘She got away on us,’ Riley said.

‘Only in being a bargain,’ Straw confident in responding.

‘I hate satisfying the greedy grocers,’ Riley said, looking directly at the plump couple, her agleam with brash jewellery.

‘Now we can see she’s a runner with typical Kiwi heart,’ Riley said. ‘We can wait two years to race her.’ Anna-Kiwi, he thought: the perfect name.

Straw’s eyes just shone. His employer touched his shoe with his own expensive kid-leather Italian job.

‘One point eight,’ Straw drawled. A huge collective gasp, most of it scepticism with this filly’s ordinary bloodlines, good as she looked. The ad man gestured he was out.

Felt’s head inclined to say two million and lift the incremental to the two hundred thousand mark.

Riley moved not one muscle of his relaxed countenance in lifting two fingers.

‘I have two point two! Any more bids?’ The auctioneer as excited
as the bidders, except he was allowed to show it.

His adrenalin pumping, Riley looked directly at the banker. Not that Felt was showing anything.

Yet another countdown. Riley trying to convey to Felt it wasn’t a blink-first contest. He just wanted the horse. Please. Felt’s penetrating stare almost made Riley blink, telling Riley he’d better not be trying to make him look weaker.

Satisfied, Felt shrugged. ‘Congratulations, Chadwick.’ Called everyone by their surname, including Mary-Anne Sutch. ‘I hope she’s a good horse.’ His comment genuine. Everyone wished each other well at the finish; it was that kind of business.

The room echoed with applause. It touched Riley somehow, and yet he felt that familiar disconnect. Would rather connect by reading his daughter’s text:
Dnt spnd al my inhertnce daddy. Only jokin. Hope u njoyn Nu Zeel. Xx.
He smiled.

The next lot was brought in. But Riley saw only a specific human filly, a good fifteen years his junior, one of those bold blondes — he had a theory that blondes had stronger survival instincts, hence their proliferation as spouses and girlfriends of international sport stars and rich men — who stared at him even more openly now he was officially announced as the successful bidder on Lot 337.

Another round of applause broke out. Didn’t do it for him. The good-looking blonde did.

That evening, with Straw happy in his hotel suite watching the
horse-racing
channel with a few beers and Chinese takeaway dinner, Riley took in the view of Auckland harbour from his penthouse suite, after a room-service dinner accompanied by a bottle of Cristal champagne. He nuzzled the woman’s neck and murmured how she stood out like the finest filly. Hoped she didn’t mind the equine reference.

‘But you wouldn’t pay two point two million for me,’ she said, with just the slightest pause before adding, ‘Would you?’

‘You never know.’ Hoping the falseness of his cheerful tone didn’t show. Weighing up her tone. Couldn’t stand gold-digger types, the ones who ooh-ed and aah-ed at how ritzy the hotel room was, the odd one who even asked how much he was worth.

‘I felt an intuitive connection as soon as I set eyes on you,’ she said.

‘Sorry, I get totally focused at a sale, as you’ll appreciate. But’, he threw her a smile, ‘once I spotted you I wasn’t looking at anyone else.’ Thinking her intuition had dollar signs on it, two million of them. And did he tell her now he valued discretion? Dreading she might ask about the state of his marriage, or say what a pity he had a wife.

She stepped up and kissed him with fully engaging open mouth and had him surrendering like the male fool to any good-looking siren. Thinking his refrain of the last three or four years:
I deserve this.
Twenty-plus
years to arrive at this point. And it’s just started
.