Race Girl Read online

  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.’

  Her father shook his head, then cast his eyes down towards the dirt, wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief from his back pocket.

  ‘Maybe head up to the house, Tull,’ Bucko said from behind them. ‘It’s been a big few days.’

  Tully gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t contain the anger and the pain erupting inside her. ‘It’s because of them, isn’t it, Bucko?’ she cried, pointing towards the farm across the valley. ‘They’ve done this to us, haven’t they?’

  Bucko’s jaw hardened and he turned away, patting her father on the back and walking him back to the stable.

  ‘Gah—far out!’ Tully said, turning for the house. Steam could have been rising from her shoulders, she was raging so hard inside. Why does life have to play so unfair? she thought, facing the mountains and raising her eyes to the far-reaching blue sky. Why do the goddamn Westons have to be our neighbours and have it in for us? We’re trying the best we can!

  Why did Mum have to be stolen from us?! Why can’t Dad seem to face anything? Why does Pearce Weston have to be so mean and – worst of all - why does the only guy I’ve ever been interested in have to be the only boy that’s off limits?!

  GAHHHHH!!!!

  Bucko left her father in the office with Grace, before crossing back across the yard. ‘What can I do, Bucko?’ Tully asked, tears of desperation prickling at her eyes, feeling as if the ground shifting beneath her feet.

  Bucko steadied her by the arm. ‘You’re already doing too much for someone your age, Tull,’ he said. ‘But, uh. . . nah, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘What?’ Tully said. ‘Let me help, please!’

  Bucko sighed, pulled his cap down low on his head. ‘Mr. Geortzen keeps ringing up,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘Apparently, the cows are still getting out, and eating his garden and terrorising his bloody llamas—’

  ‘So the back fence could use a check—’ perfect distraction— ‘Done.’ Tully forced a quick smile, before turning for the paddocks. ‘Thank you, Bucko.’

  She yelled goodbye to her father and Grace, then checked the time on her phone, realising she’d be cutting it fine to make the bus. She jogged over to Greg and Frangi’s paddock to say goodbye for the day and remind them to behave themselves. The intense heat and the flies had been driving them a bit mental recently and she’d noticed them playing a lot in their water trough, even finding sticks to fight over like yearlings. After a quick cuddle and a quiet word, Tully hurried up to the house to get ready for school. She took the steps of the front verandah two at a time and let the screen door bang shut, her mind already freewheeling towards tomorrow morning’s activity, roosting up the mountain on her dirt bike.

  4

  Roost

  Tully breathed the dawn in like heaven. It rose crisp and clean over the mountains, stretching out into the vast blue sky. Soft hues of dusty pink and apricot creeping over the tree line, dancing with the streaky white clouds. She paused to listen to the deafening buzz of cicadas, shaking the thirsty, brittle eucalypts in the grey morning’s light.

  The morning feed started well before sunrise. Tully finished helping out, then stopped to drop some apple pieces into Greg and Frangipani’s buckets and spread some grain out for the chooks and rooster, who were pecking around the stables as usual hoping for their morning meal. She gave her horses a pat, kisses on their noses and a scratch behind their ears, then ducked into Greg’s stall to check his legs, worried that their sneaky ride earlier in the week might have strained him. Thankfully he seemed okay, with just the few old lumps and scars from his short-lived career on the track – no new heat or swelling. The battle-scarred bay was thrilled to see her as always, nuzzling her gently, gazing at her lovingly with his smart, handsome brown eyes, tossing his chiselled head impatiently.

  ‘You want to go out again, do ya, mate?’ Tully chuckled, ruffling his forelock before smoothing it out again. ‘Maybe soon,’ she whispered, then reached up to kiss him on his small white star, grinning when he kissed her back with a sloppy lick to the cheek. She wrapped her arms around his neck for a quick final cuddle – Tully didn’t want her dad or Bucko spotting her in Greg’s stall and getting suspicious. Still, she stayed to listen to the horses eating. That rhythmic sound of their teeth grinding oats brought Tully so much comfort, a feeling that everything was going to be all right.

  She checked their feed buckets to make sure they’d finished their chaff and special supplements – which never really was a problem for either of these two, as they ate like piggies. She slipped Frangi’s halter on first, the cheeky little boy nipping at her back pocket, then grinning up at her from under his big fluffy grey forelock. Greg was next, then she led the boys down the row of rotting and drooping turnout paddocks and put them out for the day in one of the better ones, at some distance from Rosie, who was on heat. Greg squealed and bucked, tearing off for a trot and a roll. Frangi strutted on his stumpy legs along the fence, lifting his head high to get his nose over the top rail and whinnying to Rosie, who flicked her tail and didn’t raise her head from nuzzling around in the dirt.

  Tully checked the horses’ water suppliers were working, then took the halters and lead ropes back to the stables and hung them up outside the feed room, rounding out her morning chores by heading back to the stalls to pick the few droppings of manure out of the shavings, loading them into a wheelbarrow. Once she’d finished mucking out her own horses’ stalls and any of the ones Grace had run out of time to do, Tully wheeled the now-full barrow down to the cut off barrels at the end of the stable that would be loaded onto the ute a
nd spread out in the back paddock. She paused at Diva and Gally’s empty stalls before finishing up, quietly cursing the Westons for stealing them away.

  Tully brushed the shavings and dirt off her arms as she loped across to the machinery shed, calling Bear over to his 44 gallon drum, where he had a long drink from his water bowl before laying down obediently, all the while watching her with his glistening eyes. ‘Atta boy,’ Tully said, smiling back at him as she headed into the shed to dig out her motorbike helmet and fire up the TTR-125. She checked that the tank was full of fuel, pulled the choke out. The sturdy little bike started on the button and she threaded her helmet strap through the loops, pulling it tight. Her usual Blundstone boots were fine for riding and she’d brought her track riding goggles to protect her eyes and her gloves to cover the cut on her palm, which twinged with pain beneath its Band-Aid.

  She stomped on the gear lever to put the bike into first gear, released the clutch slowly and gave it a bit of throttle to get going up the hill, the bike effortlessly revving high enough to shift up into second.

  Tully beamed in her helmet, her heart speeding with adrenaline and a sense of freedom as she rode up the internal road, past the turnout paddocks and the stables, then the mare and foal paddock that her grandfather and mother had used for their breeding program. It was empty now and growing weeds after Gerald had shut their program down when they lost their best mare to colic, just after they’d lost her mum.

  Tully clicked up into third, past the paddocks used for their few retired racehorses, who trotted over to say hello. The land was so dry it was past being brown, bled down to the grey shade of the earth, dotted with rust-coloured burnt patches where the sun had scorched the remains of the dead grass. Even the lantana was dying from lack of moisture. Their few remaining head of cattle were having to go further up into the bush to find food. Soon they’d have to get a round bale in to feed them or start selling off, which in the cattle’s current condition would almost certainly cost Avalon money. Tully had heard stories of farmers from even drier parts of the state shooting their stock, before turning their guns on themselves. The thought made her shiver, thinking of her own father . . . surely it’s gotta rain soon!