Bridge of Clay(90)

The horse was going to win.

Sometimes, she said, you just feel it.

McAndrew felt it, too.

He was quiet but witheringly forceful: “Take him straight to the front, and don’t stop till you hit Gloaming Road,” and Carey Novac nodded.

He smacked her on the back as she went.



* * *



—

In Silver, at the Amahnu, they heard the late inclusion, and when Clay stopped work on the molding, Michael Dunbar fully realized.

It’s her.

Carey Novac.

That’s the name.

For the race they sat and listened, and it was just as McAndrew had said; she took him to the front. The horse was never headed. He was big, deep brown—a bay. He was courageous and full of running. He won by four good lengths.



* * *



—

    From there, this is what happened:

Through September, at the river, whenever Michael returned from the mines, they shook hands, and worked like madmen.

They cut and measured and sawed.

They sliced off edges of stones; they worked in perfect rhythm.

When they finished up work on the pulley system, they tested the weight of a spandrel. There were half nods—then nods—of happiness; the ropes were as tough as the Trojans, the wheels were discounted steel.

“Sometimes the mines are good for us,” said Michael, and Clay could only agree.

There were moments when they noticed the light change; of sun being swallowed in the sky. Dark clouds would meet at the mountains, then seemingly trudge away. No business yet to be here, but their day was surely coming.

In time, they planned the deck—what to lay on top: “Wood?” said Michael Dunbar.

“No.”

“Concrete?”

Nothing but sandstone would do.



* * *



—

And from there, this is what happened: The owner loved the jockey.

His name was Harris Sinclair.

He said she was fearless, and lucky.

He liked her garrulous hair (you’d think it was hair that talked, he said), and she was skinny and country-real.

In the lead-up to spring carnival, Cootamundra won twice more, against better, more experienced fields. She told Clay she loved this kind of front-running horse, how they were the bravest ones. It was a howling Saturday night. The pair of them at The Surrounds. “He just gets out and runs,” she’d said, and the wind flung up the words.

Even when he ran second (the first time ever for Carey), the owner presented her with a gift: a fresh-bought consolation beer.

    “Really?” said old McAndrew. “Give that bloody thing here.”

“Oh, shit—sorry, kid.”

He was one of those hard-boiled businessmen, a lawyer—deep-voiced and commanding—and always like he’d just had lunch; and you could bet it had been a good one.



* * *



—

By October, the bridge was slowly forming, and the prestigious spring races started.

It was partly here at home, but mostly south at Flemington, and other fabled tracks down there; like Caulfield, Moonee Valley.

McAndrew was taking three horses.

One was Cootamundra.

There was discussion now with Sinclair. Where before he’d seen Carey’s promise—and self-glory through association—that second-placing had got him wondering. Till now they could often claim; that is, they could race him at lighter weight, because the jockey was only an apprentice. In the big ones that wasn’t the case. One afternoon, she heard them; it was in McAndrew’s office, of schedules and unwashed breakfast plates. Carey was outside, eavesdropping, her ear against the fly screen.

“Look, I’m just exploring the options, okay?” said the thick-voiced Harris Sinclair. “I know she’s good, Ennis, but this is Group One.”

“It’s a horse race.”

“It’s the Sunline-Northerly Stakes!”

“Yes, but—”

“Ennis, listen—”

“No, you listen.” The scarecrow voice cut through her. “This isn’t emotional, it’s because she’s the rider of the horse—that’s it. If she’s injured, suspended, or turns into a cake shop in the next three weeks, fair enough, we’ll change her, but as it is? The thing isn’t broken so I’m not gonna fix it. You have to trust me on this one, okay?”

There was a chasm of doubtful silence, before McAndrew spoke again.

“Who’s the bloody trainer, anyway?”

    “Okay…,” said Harris Sinclair—and the girl tripped back and ran.

She forgot all about her bike chained up at the fence line, and ran home to Ted and Catherine. Even in the night, the thrill of it was too much, she couldn’t sleep, so she escaped, she went out, she lay down on her own at The Surrounds.

Unfortunately, what she hadn’t heard were the words that were spoken next.

“But, Ennis,” said Harris Sinclair, “I’m the owner.”

She was close, so close, then replaced.





Here, at 18 Archer Street, there were five of us who remained.

We were the Dunbar boys, we lived on.