Bridge of Clay(110)

“You wouldn’t be old Trackwork Ted’s daughter, would you?”

Shit!

“Yes, Miss.”

“Your mum and dad know you’re here?”

Carey’s hair was in a braid, wired tautly down her head. “No, Miss.”

    There was almost remorse, almost regret. “Good lord, girl, did you get here on your own?”

“Yes, I got the train. And the bus.” She almost started babbling. “Well, I got the wrong bus the first time.” She controlled it. “Mrs. McAndrew, I’m looking for a job.”

And there, right there, she had her.

She’d stuck a pen in the curls of her hair.

“How old are you again?”

“Fourteen.”

The woman laughed and sniffed.



* * *



—

Sometimes she heard them talking at night, in the confines of the kitchen.

Ted and Catherine.

Catherine the Great and Belligerent.

“Look,” said Ted. “If she’s going to do it, Ennis is the best. He’ll look after her. He doesn’t even let ’em live in the stables—they have to have proper homes.”

“What a guy.”

“Hey—be careful.”

“Okay,” but she was hardly softening. “You know it’s not him, it’s the game.”

Carey stood in the hallway.

Pajamas of shorts and singlet.

Warm and sticky feet.

Her toes in the streak of light.

“Oh, you and the bloody game,” said Ted. He got up and walked to the sink. “The game gave me everything.”

“Yeah.” Sincere damnation. “Ulcers, collapsing. How many broken bones?”

“Don’t forget the athlete’s foot.”

He was trying to lighten the mood.

It didn’t work.

She went on, the damnation went on, it darkened the girl in the hall. “That’s our daughter in there, and I want her to live—not go through the hell that you did, or what the boys will….”

    Sometimes they rumble through me, those words, and they’re hot, like the hooves of Thoroughbreds: I want her to live.

I want her to live.

Carey had told Clay that once; she’d told him one night at The Surrounds.

And Catherine the Great was right.

She was right about all of everything.





We found him upstream where the river gums start.

What could we possibly say?

Michael mostly stood with him; he put his hand on him very gently, till we quietly made our way down.



* * *



—

I stayed the night, I had to.

Clay made me sleep in his bed, while he sat propped against the wall. Six times I woke in the night, and Clay had remained quite upright.

By the seventh he’d finally fallen.

He was sideways, asleep on the floor.



* * *



—

Next morning, he took only the contents of his pocket: The feel of a fading peg.

On the drive home, he sat beside me very straightly. He kept looking into the rearview, expecting to almost see her.

At one point he said, “Pull over.”

He thought he might throw up, but he was just cold, so cold, and he thought she might catch up, but he sat by the roadside alone.

“Clay?”

I said it close to a dozen times.

We walked back to the car and drove on.



* * *



—

    The newspapers talked about one of the best young jockey prospects in decades. They talked of old Mr. McAndrew, who, in the pictures, was a broken broomstick. They talked about a family of jockeys, and how her mother had wanted to stop her—to forbid her from joining the game. Her brothers would come from the country, to make it in time for the funeral.

They spoke of ninety percent:

Ninety percent of jockeys are injured every year.

They talked about a tough business, predominantly flimsy pay, and one of the most dangerous jobs in the world.



* * *



—

But what about what they didn’t say in the papers?

The papers didn’t talk about the sun when first they’d spoken—so near, and huge, beside her. Or its glowing of light on her forearms. They didn’t mention the sound of her footsteps, when she came to The Surrounds, and the way she rustled closer. They didn’t mention The Quarryman, and how she would read and always return it. Or how she’d loved his broken nose. What good were newspapers anyway?

On top of everything else, they didn’t mention if there was an autopsy, or if the previous night was upon her; they were certain it was instant. Taken, like that, so quickly.

McAndrew was retiring.

They claimed it wasn’t his fault, and they were right; it was the game and these things happened, and his care for his jockeys was exemplary.

They all said it, but he needed a rest.

Much like Catherine Novac, way back from the start, the horse protectionists called it tragic, but so was the death of horses—overrun and overbred. The game was killing all of them, they said.

But Clay knew the answer was him.