Race Girl (48 page)

She studied the historic pictures framed on the walls of the hallway down past the men's jockey room as she walked out towards the mounting yard. Black and white images of Cups past, of the historic grandstands of Flemington packed with revellers in the tens of thousands, of leggy, graceful thoroughbreds and proud jockeys crouched on their backs. Makybe Diva held a place of honour at the end of the hall – the first mare to win the Cup more than once – as did Michelle Payne, the first female jockey to claim the honour.

Tully ran her hand over the gorgeous pencil sketch of the mare, standing proud in the winner's circle. Then the black-framed picture of Michelle with brother, Stevie, both grinning huge, hoisting the Cup in the air.
We'll do you proud,
she whispered, pushing the glass door open and striding out into the blinding light and roar of the anxious crowd.

Go girl.

The field for the richest ‘two-mile' handicap in the world mounted up alongside the rose hedges encircling the mounting enclosure, bursting with brilliant, fragrant blooms.

Tully waved at callers of Dahlia's name – and hers – rippling through the hundred-thousand strong crowd, before gripping the reins and releasing Dahlia into a trot out across the turf to be loaded into their barrier. The storms and heavy rain the week previous had ensured the going wouldn't be too hard, and the track had dried up sufficiently to be rated by the racing authorities as an ideal ‘GOOD 3', or ‘track with good grass coverage and cushion'. Although Dahlia was one of those rare, adaptable horses who ran just as well on hard or squelchy ground, no ‘duffer in the wet'.

The mare had been given a surprisingly heavy handicap for a first-time cup runner, with extra weights loaded into her lead bag before Tully weighed out. Brandon was fuming, convinced his father and Richard had managed to sway the handicapper. Their gate wasn't great either, having drawn barrier twelve. Number eleven was considered the best, with horses from this gate having claimed a total of eight cup wins since the first Melbourne Cup in 1861. Barriers five, ten or fourteen were also historically good, with six wins each. Tully managed to calm Brandon down by reminding him their gate was far from the worst. Barrier eighteen was considered the ‘hoodoo barrier', as not a single horse had won the Cup from it since 1925.

Richard's horse Terminator was led into eighteen, and Tully couldn't help but feel that karma, as opposed to luck, had played a part in their draw.

The horses pranced against the pads of the metal barriers, grinding their bits with their teeth, the jockeys muttering to hype themselves up or calm themselves down.

The last barrier closed, the enormous crowd rustling into silence.

Final countdown – the seconds slowing in Tully's mind, the nerves of this momentous occasion creeping up her chest like freezing cold hands. Dahlia's powerful heart beat like the pounding of a drum beneath her, the power of her body and heat of her soul seeping into Tully's limbs. She focused on the green line of horizon beyond the gate, the thin line of white to her left that she'd be steering towards at the earliest possible opportunity.

Terminator squealed and thrashed up in eighteen, his jockey swearing and yanking hard on his mouth.

Dahlia's energy rose, her feet light, ready to take flight. She pulled hard, Tully struggling to secure the bridge in her reins with shaking fingers.

‘And the field is ready for dispatch . . .' the race caller boomed.

Tully crouched low, her arms already aching from the force of Dahlia. Eyes narrowed on the lights.

‘They're set . . .'

Dahlia hopped to the side as the English horse next to them crashed into the barrier. Searing pain ripped through Tully's shoulder. She stifled a cry, her eyes watering. The gates flung open.

‘
Racing,'
the caller said. ‘The cup field on its way!'

Terminator plunged forward, immediately cutting to the inside. Two chestnuts got the jump out of the barriers and surged to an early lead, the rest of the field cruising in a jostling pack. Dahlia revelled in the fight, yanking so hard for her head Tully feared there was no way she'd be able to last the epic 3200 metres. Dahlia pinned her ears, her nose up Terminator's huge bay rump, charging forward.

Tully gritted her teeth, steering her mare into a gap to Terminator's right, sneaking between Richard's hopeful and a rocket-ship grey shipped in from Japan. The pack settled, still lead by the chestnuts, the jockeys doing their jobs to hold the horses for a tactical burst of speed. Dahlia pulling to be released.

By 1400 metres Tully's thighs were hot and burning. By the 2000 they were on fire, her arms like jelly, tears slipping down her cheeks from the pain and the speed. The pace of this field, the force of the crowd and the atmosphere of this iconic day was driving horses and jockeys to new heights.

Into the incredible 1200-metre straight, the horses ready to make their final charge for the Cup.

One of the chestnuts tripped just in front of them, the jockey miraculously holding him up, but the falter was enough for Tully and Dahlia to slip past.

The moves got wild in the desperate bid for the winning post, the early runners tiring, whips coming out to meet their rumps. Tully let out a cry as she released Dahlia to go, her body limp and spent, every ounce of fuel in her tank just keeping her on the back of this heavy-weight mare.

Another chestnut passed, then the Japanese grey, Tully and Dahlia nose to nose with Terminator and the black English mare as they surged towards the line.

‘C'mon, Dahlia!' Tully screamed, flinging her arms as far up her mare's neck as she could reach, praying her numb feet were still in the stirrups and she wasn't about to be flung off.

A surge from Terminator and Dahlia responded immediately, hurtling forward, her eyes on the colt, her whole body coursing with sweat and adrenaline. Tully's heart sank just a few furlongs out, the roar of the crowd raising the turf from the earth, giving them all wings.

Dahlia flicked one ear back, then it was all go – the mare bringing her off-side forward for a final burst of speed.

Tully's heart stopped as she waited for the horse to falter, dreading the inevitable taste of green as they stumbled and fell. Dahlia had struggled with her changes, especially to her weaker side. Tully hadn't even asked her to change strides; it was all Dahlia – engine firing on every cylinder, heart bursting for the win.

Dahlia's ears flicked forward as they crossed the line. She lifted her nose, tall and proud, looking out over the erupting crowd. Terminator and the English mare behind by the length of a hand.

Tully yelled in incoherent joy, punching the air, tears streaming down her cheeks. Brandon, Fia, Tam and all their connections swamped her and the mare when they made it back to the mounting yard, the crowd rushing forward, calling their names.

‘We won.' Tully muttered, her eyes finding Brandon's. ‘We really won.' He reached up to grab her just as the world spun – every fibre of muscle exhausted, every fragment of emotion spent. She fell into Brandon's arms, her hands reaching out to pat her mare on the way. Cameras flashing, journos shouting.

Fia and Trinity took the mare's head, showering her with pats and kisses, tugging her along gently to keep her walking out. But she stopped dead, refusing to leave Tully's side, nuzzling her until Brandon could help Tully to her feet.

Pearce appeared beside them for photos, then vanished into the crowd.

‘You've done it, girl!' Brandon cried, locking his full, soft lips with hers. ‘You've won it, and your jockey's share will be enough to buy Dahlia back off Weston Park! I promise I'll never let him hurt us again.'

‘We won!' Tully cried, reaching up on the tips of her boots to kiss him, her fingers threading around the back of Brandon's neck, up into his soft wavy hair. Dahlia whinnied across at Tully, her heart swelling and bursting as they were jostled around by the crowd of media and connections and fans.

Dahlia would be called a ‘freak' by many from that day on, but Tully liked to think of her a unique gift from nature, from the racing gods. An angel of hope and spirit and strength.

Celebrations ran deep into the night, with Tully, Brandon, Fia, Trinity and all their teams choosing an impromptu party in the aisle of the Germaine Racing barn – out the front of Dahlia's new stall – over the flash parties in the Birdcage and marquees.

Love is the only thing we take with us when we die,
Tully found herself thinking as she fed Dahlia her last piece of apple. Brandon stole the winner's champagne bottle from Fia and turned it on Tully, spinning her away from her mare and popping the cork to drench her through her mother's silks, which she'd refused to change out of.

Yes, love . . . and the Melbourne Cup.

40

Jacaranda Drive

It took about three minutes after her first coffee the morning after the Cup for Tully to decide it was finally time to get out of the city, and head for home. She had a quiet word to Fia, then rang Mr. Pemberton, Calypso's owner, before making Brandon an instant latte in the barn kitchen and taking it back to the tack room to wake him up.

Brandon rolled over hazily, grabbing Tully in a bear hug and pulling her down into the warmth of the bed they'd made out of horse blankets in their celebratory stupor the night before. ‘Morning, beautiful,' he breathed, kissing her gently, before taking the mug from her outstretched hand. ‘Nice one, thank you.' He grinned and Tully was transported back to the morning on the road when she'd first encountered Brandon Weston. All grown up, a gorgeous young man, but still the boy from next door whom she'd always yearned to know. Theirs was a love that would last forever.

She breathed in the smell of horses and the faint hint of his cologne radiating from warm, inviting skin. Set her mug down on the concrete beside them, snuggled into his arms. ‘How'd you like to come home with me?' she said suddenly, resting back on an elbow to look him square in the eye.

‘Well,' Brandon smirked, ‘Thought you'd never ask.'

Tully grinned, her face heating with that nervous happiness only he could bring her. ‘Fia was more than happy to let me out of my contract here,' she said, taking a lingering sip of her coffee. ‘And we're still going to work together as much as we can. All that's left to organise is a new trainer for Dahlia, now that my hunky, clever boyfriend has negotiated a buy back . . .' She reached forward, running her hand across Brandon's cheek, a finger over his lips, her sensitive fingertip feeling the heat from the curve of his skin. His deep chocolate eyes melted into hers, his gaze intoxicating. ‘I've even spoken to Calypso's owner—' she bit her bottom lip, struggling to speak through the force of her smile— ‘and he's thrilled for the big boy to come up to Avalon, to be trained from there. Question is, who will be my trainer, Master Weston?'

‘Depends on the terms, Mrs. Big Time Owner and jockey,' he said, with that flare of cheekiness that lit his eyes.

‘How 'bout . . . partners?' She tilted her head to the side, matched his cocky smile, holding out a hand.

He watched her, his intense eyes sending lightening and fireworks and claps of thunder straight to her core.

Brandon's lips slipped into a warm, contented smile and he met her hand with a roughened, firm handshake. ‘Deal.'

Brandon flew up to Queensland and returned the following week after funds for Dahlia had exchanged and cleared, with a new two-horse trailer to pick up Tully and the horses. Bear bounded out of the passenger seat to greet Tully, followed by a panting, yapping Milo. Tully gathered them both in a hug and shared the front seat with them all the way up the east coast, insisting that Brandon stop much more frequently than was necessary to check on Dahlia and Calypso. And every time they did, they found the horses munching hay happily, ears pricked, enjoying the view out the front panel of the trailer. Tully kept her father's ashes in her duffel bag beside her, ready to spread from the top ridge of Avalon, down towards her mother's grave.

Tully rolled down her window as they turned into Beaudesert Lane. The dusty Queensland breeze, already hot with the encroaching summer, whipped in off the rolling paddocks, freeing strands from her long, loose braid.