Bridge of Clay(100)

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On Easter Monday she was on the back page of the paper: the auburn-haired girl, the broomstick trainer, and the horse, deep brown, between them.

The headline said MASTER’S APPRENTICE.

On the radio, they played an interview with McAndrew, from earlier in the week, in which they queried the choice of jockey. Any professional in the country would have ridden that horse, given the chance, to which McAndrew said simply and stiffly, “I’m sticking with my apprentice.”

“Yes, she’s a prospect, but—”

“I’m not in the business of answering that kind of question.” The voice, pure dryness. “We swapped her last spring in the Sunline-Northerly, and look what happened there. She knows the horse and that’s it.”



* * *



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Monday afternoon.

The race was at four-fifty and we got there for three, and I paid the admission. When we pooled our money near the bookies, Henry took the roll out. He gave Clay a certain wink. “Don’t worry, boys, I’ve got this.”

When it was done, we made our way over, and up, past the members, to the muck. Both stands were close to packed. We found seats in the very top row.

    By four the sun was dropping, but still white.

By four-thirty, with Carey stock-still in the mounting yard, it was starting to yellow, behind us.

In the color and noise and movement, McAndrew was in his suit. He said not a single word to her, just a hand down onto her shoulder. Petey Simms, his best groom, was there, too, but McAndrew lifted her upwards, to the breadth of Cootamundra.

She trotted him lightly away.



* * *



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At the jump, the crowd all stood.

Clay’s heart was out of its gate.

The deep-brown horse, and rider on top, went straight out to the front. The colors, red-green-white. “As expected,” the course caller informed them, “but this is no ordinary field, let’s see what Cootamundra’s got for us….Let’s see what the young apprentice has—Red Centre three lengths second.”

In the grandstand shade we watched.

The horses ran in the light.

“Jesus,” said the man standing next to me. “Five lengths bloody ahead.”

“Come on, Coota, you big brown bastard!”

That, I think, was Rory.

At the turn, they all closed in.

In the straight, she asked him for more.

Two horses—Red Centre and Diamond Game—climbed forward, and the crowd called all of them home. Even me. Even Tommy. The shouts of Henry and Rory. We roared for Cootamundra.

And Clay.

Clay was in the middle of us, he was standing on his seat.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t make a sound.

Hands-and-heels and she brought him home.

    Two lengths and girl and sea glass.

Carey Novac in the eighth.



* * *



—

It had been a long time since he’d sat on the roof, but he did that Monday night; he was camouflaged amongst the tiles.

But Carey Novac saw him.

When she’d pulled up with Catherine and Trackwork Ted, she’d stood on the porch, alone. She held her hand up, fleetingly.

We won, we won.

Then, in.


Dear Carey,

If you’ve done the right thing (and I know you have), you’re reading this when you get home, and Cootamundra has won. You took it away from them in the first furlong. I know you like that style of racing. You always liked the great front-runners. You said they were the bravest ones.

See? I remember everything.

I remember what you said when you first saw me: There’s a boy up there on that roof.

I eat toast sometimes just to write your name in the crumbs.

I remember everything you’ve told me, about the town you grew up in, and your mum and dad, your brothers—everything. I remember how you said, “And? You don’t want to know my name?” It was the first time we spoke on Archer Street.

There are so many times I wish Penny Dunbar was still around, just so you could talk to her, and she’d have told you a few of her stories. You’d have been in our kitchen for hours….She’d have tried to teach you the piano.

Anyway—I want you to keep the lighter.

I never really had many friends.

I have my brothers and you and that’s all.

But okay, I’ll stop talking now, except to say that if Cootamundra didn’t win by some chance, I know there’ll be other days. My brothers and I, we’ll have put some money on, but we didn’t bet on the horse.

Love,

Clay





And sometimes, you know, I imagine it.

I like to think she hugged her parents for the last time that night, and that Catherine Novac was happy, and that her father couldn’t have been prouder. I see her in her room; her flannel shirt, jeans, and forearms. I see her holding the lighter, and reading the letter, and thinking Clay was something else.

How many times did she read it? I wonder.

I don’t know.

We’ll never know.

No, all I know is that she left the house that night and the Saturday rule was broken: Saturday night at The Surrounds.