Race Girl (4 page)

A cane toad belched outside her window and for a terrifying moment, Tully imagined it was a gunshot. She sat bolt upright, fear spiking through her veins, her eyes like saucers as she stared out her window, down the valley and over Avalon Downs. Her room was small, showing the age of the 100-year-old Queenslander, the floors uneven from the rotting stumps beneath the house, the walls cracking and separating from the age and neglect of the paint-stripped tongue and groove vertical joint (VJ) boards. There was no door, just a black sheet nailed across the doorframe after white ants had eaten out the bottom. The floorboards were worn and grubby, the daisy-flower mat from when she was a child now tatty and stained from Bear's accidents when he was a pup. Her posters on the walls always brought her some comfort, from the
Horsewyse
poster books with images of towering Clydesdales, striking Friesians and cute mares with foals, along with the front cover of the
Courier-Mail
the day after Makybe Diva won her third Melbourne Cup. A tattered black and white photograph of her grandmother also held a place of honour on Tully's wall. One of the country's first female jockeys, she sat atop a stunning grey thoroughbred, a winner's sash around the horse's neck, a trophy in her hands, and a triumphant grin on her face. Her nana wearing the Athens colours; her grandfather standing a safe distance from the grey's head. For good reason. Her mother had told Tully the stories of this colt, of how he'd only ever warmed to her nana and one other female strapper, and would bite and kick at any bloke who got near him.

Next to this image were more black and white photographs of Tully's mother's heroes. There was New Zealander Maree Lyndon – the first woman to race in the country's biggest race, the Melbourne Cup, the race Tully's mother had always wanted to ride – and next to her, a photo of Queenslander Wilhemina Smith. Her mum used to put Tully to sleep at night with stories of Lyndon's triumphs, but even more memorable was the brazen Wilhemina, who hid her hair and female figure to ride up in north Queensland as ‘Bill Smith', back in the mid 20th century when women were still banned from professional competition. These days, with more women becoming jockeys, competition for rides was fiercer. Tully knew she would have to work twice as hard if she wanted to make it to the top, as her personal hero, the incredible female Melbourne Cup winner, Michelle Payne, had.

Tully had printed out and stuck a few pics of Payne up, alongside a few selfies with her own horses, on her walls and on the cracked mirror atop her white dresser in the corner. Pics she'd posted on her @thoroughbred_gurl_01 Instagram account. Some were images of Greg and Frangi, some of Tam and her Quarter Horses, others with Diamond Someday (aka Diva, as she was known around the barn), and Rosie and Gally (Gallipoli). The picture, though, which held prime place, sticky-taped up in the middle of her wall, was of Tully with her mother in the original Athens Racing white and purple-star colours and her matching silks. There Tully stood, two tears old, with a huge smile, proudly holding the trophy after Dahlia had won her first big race. Gerald had demanded the colours be switched to red and white after Dahlia's death.

Tully still used the same curtain rod her mother had as a girl in this very room, with a sheet hanging from it above her single bed, with its horse doona pushed up against the window. The only other furniture in the room was a plastic table used as a desk with a haphazard pile of textbooks, notebooks, magazines and papers spilling off it. Texters, pencils and biros were stuck in a cut-off soft drink can, with a plastic deck chair spun around the wrong way and pushed up against it.

The moon hung low and full outside Tully's window, beaming its light across the width of the valley, highlighting the ridges and troughs of the bush-covered mountains all around, spilling down to the sparkling dam and the stables below. A warm breeze drifted up from the barn through the open window, with the smells of horse and hay and manure. A horse fly buzzed in, and Bear snapped – even at ten and a half he was still quick enough to catch it. Ducks splashed down in the dam and a flock of rainbow lorikeets fed noisily on a towering spotted gum just up the hill, adjacent to the rows of century-old mango trees that had contracted a disease and stopped producing edible fruit sometime in the last decade.

It might have been old and falling apart, but it was Tully's home and she loved it. It was as though she could
feel
her mother and grandmother here, even her grandfather. She saw them sometimes, laughing in the kitchen doing the washing up, or walking through the backyard picking juicy mangoes off the trees. She often saw her mum smiling at her from the stables, grooming a horse or taking off around the track. Leaving Avalon would feel like death.

‘Bloody hell,' Tully muttered to herself, as the images of Mr. Weston's SUV idling in the driveway; of the boy on horseback that morning, all cocky and cheeky and gorgeous; of the same boy that night, smirking at her from the backseat of his dad's flash car; of the utterly defeated, uncaring look on her father's face . . . All of it hit her as hard as a fall at full gallop.

The boy on the horse was Brandon Weston, and he could be taking her family's farm from them. Tully remembered the stories her mother had told her, like a fairytale, with two families at odds in the valley: one who raced for love of the horses, and one who raced for love of money. Her family and the Westons. There'd always been speculation about what the Westons were up to – they rarely seemed to follow the rules, always pushing their horses to make the most coin. ‘We
love
the horses,' her mother would say. ‘And racing is the most exciting sport in the world. But there is a dark underside to it, my little Race Girl, one we steer clear of . . .'

Does Brandon realise who I am?
Tully found herself wondering.
Does he know about my mum?
He's a real wanker if he does,
she decided,
egging me on to race like that . . .

The sobs returned, hot and fast. Tully put her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving, the hollowness in her heart, a legacy from the death of her mother six and a half months ago, compounded by a new lesion from the realisation that she could be losing her home.

Everything had been so wonderful and exciting when Dahlia was alive, Tully thought. They'd never had much, but her family was so full of love and happiness and hope. Just this morning, when Tully had finally summoned the courage to get out on Greg after so many months' struggle, she'd felt a sliver of her broken heart mend. She felt closest to her mother when she was in the saddle, striving towards the extraordinary dream they'd shared. But now, her hope had been shattered, and Tully was more terrified than ever before. The bank was already after them for being behind on repayments, after her parents had remortgaged the property to get through the last few years of drought and pay their mounting bills. Racehorses are expensive to feed at the best of times, but with no grass, the feed bills had become crippling. There was also the rising cost of fuel, pushing up expenses to get the horses to and from races. Electricity needed to run the farm, rates, insurances –
everything
was costing more.

The thought of losing Avalon was horrible enough. Worse still were Tully's fears of what would happen to their retired horses like Greg, and cheeky old Frangi –where she might be forced to take them, or who would take them from her – these fears were the stuff of nightmares. Avalon was their home, the horses were safe here – had been for three generations. Tully needed to
make sure
it stayed that way. But, in a world ruled by adults, what could she do?

Maybe Mr. Weston
had
had a hand in the gate incident. Maybe he'd wanted to put the final nail in their coffin, push them past the point of being able to save their farm so he could finally buy it up and expand his empire.

It was an idea that fuelled the tornado of pain and anger and fear within Tully, but she was distracted by Brandon – the hottest boy she'd ever seen – and the bubble of feverish excitement trying to rise within her, one she had never felt before . . .

She really just needed to talk to her mum.

Bear nuzzled his cold wet nose into Tully's hand, looking up at her. His caramel eyes glistened in the moonlight, his ears laid back out of sympathy, sadness and concern – he always seemed to be able to sense her mood. Tully's stomach rumbled with raw emptiness – the six-nugget meal she'd had for dinner after her shift hadn't filled her up. She knew she should get up to find something more to eat and have a shower, but the allure of cold bore water just wasn't doing it for her. They were out of gas and tank water. Again.

Tully pulled off her shirt, wiped the dried blood off her palm and tied it around her hand as a bandage. Then she pulled the doona over her and snuggled in with Bear – more for comfort than for warmth as her room was still as hot as an oven – curled into a ball and hugged him tightly, praying she wouldn't be woken by nightmares.

3

Stolen Diamonds

Early the next morning, a trailer arrived to take Diamond Someday and Gallipoli over to the Westons. Tully watched with Grace from the office as her father and Bucko made one last plea with Mr. Hooper, the horses' owner, for them to stay. It had taken all of them to get Diva loaded and she'd still managed to rear up, then spin and cow kick – nearly catching Mr. Hooper in the backside. Diva hated being loaded at the best of times, but was especially agitated this morning. Horses have a sixth sense when it comes to human emotions, Tully knew, and Diva must have picked up on the tension and sadness when everyone said their goodbyes.

Bucko threw his hands in the air with defeat, stalking back to the office. He shook his head, standing next to Grace, his jaw set, sunnies on. Bucko had worked wonders with both horses, transforming Diva from a ‘crazy biatch', who was unlikely even to make the track, into a going powerhouse of a mare. Their last real money earner. And now they'd lost her.

Tully rested a hand on Bucko's solid shoulder. He nodded, smiling tightly with appreciation he couldn't put into words, before walking back to her father's side. It really shook Tully to see this rock of a man so devastated. Kyle Buckley was wiry, tough and medium in height, with dark clean-cut hair and close-set flint-coloured eyes. Seeing Bucko so close to crumbling made Tully realise she needed to stay strong – yelling and carrying on hadn't gotten her anywhere last night. She needed to try and grow up for the sake of her father and their farm, and she needed to do it fast.

Mr. Hooper's red face went even more puce under his greying hair and Hooper Racing cap as he shuffled around his sparkling Land Cruiser and two-horse trailer, to check the tailgate had been fastened securely. Diva kicked out with a
crash
, rocking the tiny trailer.

‘Oy!' Hooper said, banging on the trailer, before turning to her father. ‘I just can't float it anymore, Gerald.' He stepped towards Gerald and Bucko, taking his hat in his hands and casting his eyes down to his tatty Velcro shoes. ‘Weston's on a streak and he's made some big promises for both of them. The missus just ran off with that little bastard Nevins, and
she
reckons she's not coming back unless I get a win and some serious cash coming in. I'm sorry, Gerald.' The stout man rested a pudgy hand on Gerald's shoulder in mute apology.

Gerald leant against the side of the trailer, his hat in his hands. Tully was afraid he was going to break down crying. She crossed the yard to stand beside him.

‘I'm sorry, love,' Mr. Hooper said, ruffling her hair, then slapping his hat back on his head. ‘She'll be right, though, kiddo. The Athens' always pull through.'

Tully and her father stood side by side watching the gleaming bay and chestnut rumps bump off down the driveway in the trailer of their last client. She couldn't watch Mr. Hooper turn right at the bottom of their driveway, couldn't make herself witness them travel the few minutes down the road and pull into the gates of Weston Park.

He could have led them over quietly,
Tully thought, turning back to their stable.
Could have spared us the pain of seeing them loaded and driven away.
Her heart ached for the great mare and colt already. ‘It's okay, Dad,' Tully said, doing her best to infuse positivity into her voice. ‘We've still got Rosie, and . . . Greg.'