Bridge of Clay(109)

Shit, thought the girl in the lounge room, listening in.

She was halfway down the hall, making her escape, when the voice came calling through her.

“Oi, Kelly,” he said, “not so fast.”

But she could tell her dad was smiling.

That meant she had a chance.



* * *



—

    In the meantime, weeks became months and years.

She was a kid who knew what she wanted.

She was hopeful and perennial.

She ate work up at Gallery Road—a skinny-armed talented shit-shoveler—but she also looked good in the saddle.

“Good as any kid I’ve ever seen,” admitted Ted.

Catherine wasn’t overly impressed.

Neither was Ennis McAndrew.



* * *



—

Yes, Ennis.

Mr. McAndrew.

Ennis McAndrew had rules.

First, he made apprentices wait; you never rode your first year, ever, and that was if he took you in the first place. He naturally cared about riding ability, but he also read your school reports, and especially all the comments. If easily distracted was written just once, you could forget it. Even when he accepted your application, he’d have you come to the stables early morning, three out of six days a week. You could shovel, and lead rope. You could watch. But never, under any circumstance, could you talk. You could write your questions down, or remember them and ask on Sundays. On Saturdays you could come to race meetings. Again, no talking. He knew you were there if he wanted to know you were there. Very factually, it was stated you should stay with your family, go with your friends—because from second year on you’d hardly see them.

On the alternate days of the week, you could sleep in—that was, you could report to the Tri-Colors Boxing Gym at five-thirty, to run roadwork with all the boxers. If you missed one, the old man would know—he’d know.

But still.

He’d never been set upon like this.

At fourteen she started up the letters again, this time from Carey Novac. Kelly from the Country was gone. She apologized for the error of judgment, and hoped it hadn’t blighted thoughts on her character. She was aware of everything—his laws of an apprenticeship—and she would do whatever it took; she’d muck the stables out nonstop if she had to.

    Finally, a letter came back.

In Ennis McAndrew’s tight-scrawled hand was the inevitable, identical phrasing: Permission from your mother.

Permission from your father.

And that was her biggest problem.

Her parents were resolved as well:

The answer was still firmly no.

She would never become a jockey.



* * *



—

As far as Carey was concerned, it was a disgrace.

Sure, fine, it was perfectly acceptable for her miscreant brothers to be jockeys—and average, lazy ones at that—but not for her. Once she even pulled a framed photo of The Spaniard off the lounge room wall, and threw herself into her argument: “McAndrew’s even got a horse from the bloodline of this one.”

“What?”

“Don’t you read the paper?”

And then:

“How could you have had this yourself and not let me? Look at him!” Her freckles were blazing. Her hair, tangled. “Don’t you remember what it was like? Hitting the turn? Taking the straight?”

Rather than hang it on the wall again, she slammed it to the coffee table, and the impact cracked the glass.

“You can pay for that,” he said, and it was lucky the frame was a cheap one.

But never as lucky (or unlucky, as some would argue) as this— As they both kneeled down and cleaned up the glass, he spoke absently into the floorboards.

“Of course I read the paper—the horse’s name is Matador.”



* * *



—

    Eventually, Catherine slapped her.

It’s funny what a slap can do:

Her water-color eyes were that little bit brighter—unmanaged, alive with anger. Her hair was lifted, just a few strands, and Ted was alone in the doorway.

“You really shouldn’t have done that.”

He was talking and pointing at Carey.

But then the fact of something else.

Catherine only slapped you when you’d won.



* * *



—

This is what Carey had done:

One of the best old childhood chestnuts.

School holidays.

She’d left in the morning and was supposedly staying the night at Kelly Entwistle’s house, but caught a train to the city instead. Late afternoon, she stood for close to an hour, outside the McAndrew Stables; the small office in need of a paint job. When finally she could loiter no longer, she walked in and faced the desk. McAndrew’s wife was behind it. She was in the midst of a mathematical working-out, and chewing a ball of gum.

“Excuse me?” Carey asked, outrageously jittery and quiet. “I’m after Mr. Ennis?”

The woman looked at her; she was permed and Stimoroled, then curious. “I think you might mean McAndrew.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.” She half smiled. “I’m a bit nervous,” and now the woman noticed; she’d reached up and lowered her glasses. In one motion she’d gone from clueless to all summed up.