Race Girl Read online

  She took an empty seat against the window in the middle as usual, sinking low and pushing her knees into the seat in front. Kept her headphones streaming tunes and pulled out her tattered copy of Horsewyse. Tully’s mind drifted and danced around the exciting and confusing images from her morning; of being on Greg’s back, of the boy on the road, of the fear and the pain and the thrill. She hummed along to Taylor’s inspiring lyrics, reliving it all, trying to make sense of it in her mind. The twenty-five minute ride into school had flown by for the first time she could remember, and the driver had to yell at her to get off a minute after the other few kids from her rural area had disembarked.

  Tully walked in the front gates of the red-brick building alone, past groups of students chatting and laughing, past a few teachers trying to herd everyone inside. She waved and smiled at Chase, a farm boy in the year above, as he strode by on the footpath. Like Tully’s, his headphones were in, backpack slung over one shoulder. She was grateful that the hallways were mostly open air between classrooms, with rows of lockers exposed to the elements. If they weren’t, it’d really feel like prison.

  History first up, and the classroom was sweltering. The fans just pushed the hot air around the room and Tully had to hold her breath to keep from spewing as the pimply boy next to her had clearly skipped his deodorant that morning. Annalise Belgrave, with her dark glam curls and ‘I [heart] Dressage’ pencil case sat behind Tully and kept flicking her in the ear with a pen. Annalise’s minions laughed like Preppy Barbie clones and the cool guys behind them sniggered too.

  Tully moved forward in her seat, staring hard at her textbook and willing the clock to tick faster. She couldn’t wait for her favourite subject, English, in third period, especially as the room had just been fitted with air conditioning. Plus, she had an ally in there, her bestie since Kindy, Tamara Thompson.

  Tully’s brain was overheated and she felt sweaty and gross by the time she slid in next to Tam in the back row of the English room. Inhaling gulps of cool air, revelling in the way it soothed her sticky skin, she relaxed back in her chair, dropping her books on the desk. She redid her ponytail, smoothing out the frizzy bits, and smiled over at Tam, who was fluffing her long mahogany hair using her iPhone as a mirror. Tam had just started a part-time hairdressing apprenticeship and was determined to try every colour on offer. Today the mahogany had purple and green highlights twisted into a messy up-do. Tam had beautiful, smooth olive skin – her biological father was Aboriginal. She winked a wide hazel eye at Tully and flashed a big dimpled grin at her, before turning to the front of the room where Ms Kovack was yelling for the second time for everyone to, ‘Put those phones away, and zip it!’

  Tully’s foot wouldn’t stop tapping, she was dying to tell Tam about her morning . . . She nearly made it to the bell, before slinking close to Tam, and whispering, ‘I rode this morning . . . and, I saw a boy.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Tam said, shoving her books aside. Rows of silver bracelets jangled down her arms as she rested her chin in her hands, moving in close. Tam was a keen barrel racer and was always whinging about the ‘boring school uniforms’ and ‘lame no makeup rule’, but, thankfully, got away with her bracelets. ‘My God, Tulls—!’ Tam shrieked, her boobs bouncing in her tight school dress. ‘That’s totes . . . Spill!’

  ‘It’s not that exciting,’ Tully said, shushing Tam with a finger. ‘I choked, and he beat me – we were racing, kind of, but I still couldn’t get my mind off mum’s accident . . . I pulled Greg up.’

  Tam had signed off from listening, vibrating at the word ‘boy’. ‘So, was he cute?’

  Tully cringed and shrunk in her seat. Annalise and most of the other girls in the room had turned to stare.

  ‘Who did he look like?’ Tam dropped her voice a few decibels, moving cheek-to-cheek with Tully. ‘And he was out riding, how awesome! Is he western?’

  Tully sighed, shook her head. ‘Seriously, Tam—can you stop planning our wedding, please?’

  ‘Yours?’ Tam grunted. ‘I was more thinkin’ mine!’ She grinned, punched Tully on the shoulder. Tully’s face broke into a smile and she started to laugh, that kind of rolling wonderful laugh that catches you off guard and takes over your whole body and melts your worries and stresses away. The girls were still giggling as they packed up their books and headed for the hallway.

  ‘Well . . .’ Tully said finally, threading an arm around Tam’s waist as they wove through the sweaty, smelly student crowd to their lockers. ‘I can tell you, he was smokin’ hot.’

  Tam clapped her hands in excitement. ‘But, you didn’t recognise him?’

  Tully chewed her bottom lip, shaking her head.

  ‘Good thing school’s out at the end of the week.’ Tam grinned. ‘It’ll give us heaps of time to suss out who he is!’

  Tully smiled, and found herself nodding. Maybe things are finally on the up, she thought. After all, it was the summer of her sweet sixteen. And she was definitely ready for her life to begin.

  2

  Rivals

  Tully waited in the dark out the front of Macca’s for her lift home. Her father’s head strapper and track work rider, Kyle ‘Bucko’ Buckley, had been dating a cowgirl named Grace on-again off-again for the last few years and Grace usually picked Tully up from work on her way home from her day job at the servo.

  Tully’s night manager, Mo’Nique’ (aka Moe), and a few other ‘lackeys’ were at the table opposite, joking about whether Moe would be hitting the pub tonight for a flutter on the pokies, or staying in with her beloved Xbox.

  Tully waved goodbye as Grace’s black ute screeched into the car park. She hopped into the passenger side of the dinged and dusty V8 Commodore, rested her backpack in her lap and reached for her seatbelt. She had to bite her lip to keep from squealing out in pain when her hand brushed the metal bit, singeing hot from the ute being parked in the sun all day. ‘Ah—’ she said, giving her hand a quick shake. Bloody thing gets me every time.

  Grace handed her a plastic shopping bag before shifting the ute into first, peeling out of the car park and turning right onto the main road through town. Tully peered into the bag, eagerly breathing in the smell of the fresh food – a huge improvement from chips and cheeseburgers. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she said. Grace had bought Tully and her father a fresh loaf of wholemeal bread, milk, Vegemite, even some green apples.

  Grace shook her head. ‘On me, matey.’

  ‘Thanks heaps, Grace,’ Tully said gratefully, picking an apple out of the bag and zipping the rest up in her backpack. ‘And for the lift . . .’ she practically had to yell it to be heard over ‘Back in Black’ by Grace’s favourite band, AC/DC, which she’d just cranked up, rolling the windows down to let some of the heat out of the ute.

  Tully leant an arm out the window, biting into the juicy apple. Delicious. The air was still warm, but fresh against her face, the bright streetlights and multi-coloured shop fronts of the main street whizzing by. Tully peeked a look at Grace, smiling just in case she looked her way. Grace was a bit too tall and voluptuous to be a jockey, but she’d been around horses her whole life and helped as a strapper and exercise rider in the early mornings in exchange for board in the cottage. At forty five she was nearly ten years older than Bucko, with a mane of dark curly hair, a thin serious mouth, and wrinkles across her forehead and out from her kind green eyes that told of years out in the harsh Australian sun.

  Tully looked back at the road as they pulled up at the main traffic lights, in the right-hand turn lane ready to head out into the pitch black of the country. She really appreciated the ride, but Tully couldn’t help but be excited to finally turn sixteen, so she could learn to drive. Hopefully she could buy her own ute. She’d been saving every cent that didn’t go into her horses, the household and the farm.

  When her mother was alive, they’d had ten going horses, a thriving breeding program and two full-time strappers, two track work riders and her mum as top jockey. Tully feared Bucko would be the next to go – she was
shocked he’d hung in with them so long, especially now the stable had been whittled down to only three going horses. Her father had been selling off the fillies and colts they’d bred themselves, leaving them with just one three-year-old, Phoenix Rosie, and two top horses that they trained for an owner: a fiery chestnut sprinter named Gallipoli, and their best horse, Diamond Someday.

  ‘Out ya hop,’ Grace said, pulling up at the bus shelter for Tully to retrieve her pushbike.

  ‘Righto, sorry,’ Tully said, shaking her mind back into the present. She grabbed her bike out of the lantana bush, stepping carefully in case there was a big brown snake or something else nasty lurking in the darkness, and chucked it in the back of the ute.

  She woke with a start when they pulled into her gravel driveway. Rubbed her tired, gritty eyes, opening them wide in surprise as she focused up ahead – there was a car idling, its bright white headlights brilliantly illuminating the front of her once glorious house. Grace approached slowly, stopped just behind the sleek black SUV. Tully kept her hand on the door handle, her heart gaining pace as she read ‘WESTON’ on the number plate of the Range Rover.

  ‘What’s he doin’ here?’ Grace said, leaning forward on the steering wheel.

  ‘He never ventures onto our side of the road.’

  ‘Ya right to go in?’

  ‘I’ll be right,’ Tully said, but her voice came out shaky. A tingle ran down her spine and her stomach twisted and dropped – something wasn’t right. ‘Thanks again for the lift,’ she said, forcing a smile. She took a quick breath then opened the door, stepping out into the heavy, humid night.

  The Range Rover purred expensively, its red taillights almost blinding as she shuffled past, her eyes on her front door. Tully whipped her hat off when she realised she was still in her uniform, crumpled it in her hands, then smoothed a hand down her ponytail.

  She couldn’t resist a glance back as she walked between her mother’s frangipani trees, up the stairs of her sagging front verandah.

  There was a man she recognised as Mr. Weston’s head strapper sitting in the passenger seat, and in the back . . . Tully’s body froze as she recognised the boy, smirking at her from the back seat of Pearce Weston’s Range Rover. His tangle of golden hair glinted under the interior lights of the car, his dark eyes glowed, danced, teasing her.

  Oh—CRAP!

  The boy from this morning was Brandon Weston.

  His grin was vaguely familiar, now she thought about it . . . Tully hadn’t seen Brandon since his mum had left the farm across the road from Avalon and taken him to live in the city when he was just five. Tully remembered her mother telling her how both ‘babies of the valley’ had been born just a year and a month apart: Tully on New Year’s Day, and Brandon on the first of November, two years earlier . . .

  Tully was jolted from her thoughts as she tripped on the top step, coming down hard on one knee. She pushed herself up with her hands, limping through the shooting pain across the verandah to the door. She wiped frantically to clear the beads of sweat from her forehead, her face burning from embarrassment, heart speeding.

  ‘I can’t prove you did it,’ her father was saying as she crept in through the creaky screen door, ‘But I know you did.’

  Tully paused behind Mr. Weston, looking down at her father in his worn chair, the light of the TV casting shadows across his creased, withdrawn face. He wore his stained Avalon cap and grubby work clothes, which were hanging off him these days. A glass shook in his hands and Tully noted the two empty bottles on the overflowing coffee table beside him. ‘Lucky we caught the horses before they made it to the main road,’ her father said without averting his eyes from the racing channel on their tiny box-back TV. Gerald Athens brought the glass to his lips, downing the rest of his drink in a single gulp. He re-filled his glass to the brim before continuing, ‘It was a dog move, opening the gates like that in the middle of the night. I’ll have your hide for it, Weston.’

  Tully shifted on her feet, wringing her hat in her hands. Her heart pounded deafeningly, her palms freezing cold, hot sweat trickling down her ribs. Pain suddenly pulsed at her temples and she blinked rapidly to see the men in the dim light. Since her mother’s death, she often found her father sitting in complete darkness. It terrified Tully that one day she wouldn’t be able to wake him up. Then she’d really be alone.

  ‘I didn’t need to see your face to know it was you, Weston,’ her father said darkly. Tully remembered that night, just over a week ago, when they were woken by the sound of hoof beats outside the house, the horrifying sound of a horse galloping off down the driveway. It’d taken Tully, her father, Bucko and Grace over an hour to catch all of the horses, and Diamond Someday had nearly been hit by a semi on the road. Thankfully, the truck driver, a mate of her father’s, had agreed not to call the cops or tell anyone else about the incident. If word had got around that Avalon’s horses had been running all over the road, they’d have lost their last remaining horses for sure – they’d be finished. They were lucky, but they knew it was deliberate – no one from Avalon would ever make such a monumental mistake. Since that day, they’d kept the stalls padlocked at night and the gates of the turnout paddocks chained shut during the day.

  Mr. Weston, a large, fit man with cool blue eyes and the same sandy hair as his son, took a step forward. His towering shadow fell over her father, sending him even deeper into darkness. Mr. Weston shook his head, pushing his mitt-like hands into the pockets of his dark RM Williams jeans.

  ‘Just go, Pearce,’ Gerald said. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Well, you know where to find me.’ Mr. Weston chuckled sarcastically, his mocking tone chilling Tully to the core. ‘I’ll give you till New Year’s, Athens. Then I go to the bank.’

  Tully stepped to the side to let Mr. Weston past. He smiled smugly at her and tipped his cap as he strode out of their lounge room, the screen door banging shut behind him.

  Tully’s legs shook from the exhaustion of the day, the room suddenly spinning. She dropped her backpack on the floor and hurried to her father’s side, lowering to her knees and slipping his drink from his hands. She listened to the Range Rover reversing, its tyres crunching over the dirt and sparse gravel of their yard before revving up and rolling off down the driveway. She imagined the vehicle turning right at the main road, traveling up and over the rise, then taking the left into the paved driveway, through the grand gated entrance of Weston Park Stud.

  The TV was muted, but Tully’s heart beat loudly, filling her ears. ‘What was Mr. Weston doing here, Dad?’ she asked gently.

  ‘He’s made an offer for Avalon.’

  ‘What?’ Tully said, her eyes going wide. ‘No!’

  ‘We probably won’t have any choice but to sell to him.’

  Tully crumpled to the floor, forgetting about her father’s drink in her hand. The crystal glass from her grandmother’s cherished set crashed to the floor, smashing on impact with the worn pine floorboards. The liquid ran cool and dark over her fingers and down her legs, the strong smell of alcohol instantly stinging at her eyes and burning her nostrils. Her stomach churned quickly, bile rising up into her mouth. ‘We can’t sell, Dad,’ she shook her head violently, trying to swallow the sick taste down, ‘We can’t just give up! What would Mum say? What would grandma and grandpa—’

  ‘They’re all dead, Tulls!’ His hands flung into the air, then slammed down on the arms of his chair. ‘Get your head out of the clouds, girl! It’s on us now, and we’re done.’

  ‘No, we’re not!’ Tully said, pushing the glass off her lap and wiping it frantically off her hands – a shard slicing a quick cut in her palm, the blood welling up instantly. Disregarding the pain for a moment, she jumped to her feet, started pacing the room, jamming her hand into her stomach to try to stop the bleeding. Her other hand took up the fight, waving despairingly in the air as she pleaded, ‘we can’t let them get away with this, Dad! Don’t you even care anymore?’

  Gerald Athens sat motionless, his once sky-blue
eyes locked dully on the TV screen.

  ‘Dad,’ Tully said, bringing her face down to his. ‘Come on, Dad! Seriously?’

  Her father didn’t even blink, and the anger that rose within Tully was strong enough to send a fist straight into a wall. He’s given up, she realised, her heart plummeting. He’s all I’ve got, and he doesn’t even care anymore . . . Deep, frantic sobs took over her body and she rushed from the room, stumbling under the ornate archway crafted by her grandfather’s hands, down the hallway to her bedroom. Bear was waiting for her, cowering on her bed, his black pointy ears laid back and his brown kelpie eyebrows raised in concern. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Tully sobbed, laying down next to him and stroking his smooth coat.

  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.