Race Girl Page 32

  ‘There’s no way a woman will ever ride for me!’ Pearce bellowed, finally seeming to lose his composure – his face going puce, veins popping from his forehead and neck. At that, the crowd surged forward, feeling that they’d finally been invited in. A reporter from the back fired a question at Pearce, then another, recorders thrust forward at him.

  ‘Oh, she will,’ Brandon whispered, moving his face just inches from his father’s and clamping a mitt of a hand on his shoulder. ‘Tully will ride her horse, or specific details of just how well horses are treated by the great Pearce Weston will become very, very public—’ His voice dropped to a growl—‘A doping scandal, larger than this country has ever seen. Not to mention proof of abuse and misconduct . . . I know it all, Dad. Do what’s right now, and clean up your business, or I’ll send you and your mates down with you.’

  Pearce’s eyes flared, his face falling and turning grey. He stepped back. ‘You ungrateful little bastard.’

  ‘No, you’re the bastard—’ Brandon moved towards him, unrelenting— ‘for ruining Kyle’s life; for what you did to both of us. We grew up with no one, and we could have had a brother. You were never there for me, never had a minute for me, but he got it worse. You never even acknowledged him as your own! You were too stingy to even hire a nanny – you’d leave me with some dodgy au pair that was smoking hot, but could hardly speak English, or you’d have one of your workers drop me off places. I was so alone, scared and angry all the time . . .’

  Tully’s heart literally broke for Brandon at that moment, as she imagined how lonely he must have been as such a young child without the love of his mother or father or any relative to comfort him. A memory from the past surged forward in her mind, of a small boy, walking along the road with a strange girl or running in the front paddocks with the foals, and he’d always waved at her. Friendly and hopeful, even when he must have been feeling so lonely. Tully had wanted to reach out to him so badly, wished now more than ever that she’d been able to offer him friendship back then when he’d so desperately needed it.

  Tully reached her arms around him, pulled him close, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude for the love they’d finally found in each other, for the love she could finally give to him.

  ‘And I put up with it all, all of it—’ Brandon threaded his fingers through hers— ‘Because I hoped someday you would come around. That you’d accept me and have time for me, if I did well in the business, just like you. But I see it now – I see all of it. I see how selfish and cold-hearted you are, just like all your high-powered mates. You had so much money, you didn’t need to worry yourselves with your children, or anything else. Children are so inconvenient, you see. I can just imagine how happy you were when my mother took me to the city, when you let her take me away from my home. You didn’t have to deal with me anymore . . .

  ‘Well now, guess what—Mighty Mister Weston?! I don’t want to deal with you anymore.’ Brandon glanced down at Tully. ‘Tully will ride her horse,’ he said, squeezing her hand, before turning his eyes on his father. ‘In her family’s colours, in her mother’s silks, and after that, I want nothing more to do with you, or Weston Racing.’

  39

  The Melbourne Cup

  Tully and Brandon were inseparable during the final count down to the Cup, with Pearce and Richard barely showing their faces around the complex and Brandon and Fia taking over the training of Dahlia in her last-minute preparations for the iconic meet.

  Tully’s first ride back on her mare was as joyous as a brilliant sunrise after a dark night wracked with terrible dreams. She slipped straight back into the mare’s rhythm, the pair beating their fastest time around the track in only their second session. Rumours whirled around Flemington like a tornado and the media were punishing in their pursuit of the story behind the last minute jockey change and the apparent falling out between the two Weston men. But Tully and Brandon were all smiles, and eventually answered a few questions for the journos who’d been camped outside Barn One – where Dahlia remained, as Pearce was still her official owner – for the last three days.

  ‘The whole team is excited for the Cup, including my father,’ Brandon said with his easy grin. ‘We’ll see you all at post time.’

  Tully’s nerves grew to an anxious excitement as the ‘race that stops a nation’ was rung in with celebrations across the country, from fundraising events in local school gymnasiums, to betting sessions in the TAB areas of every pub, picnics in public spaces and private parties in penthouse suites. And the grandest of all these parties were held in the vast array of corporate, VIP and themed marquees set along the sprawling track of Flemington. Tully had always marvelled at how Melbourne Cup Day was one event that touched pretty much everyone in the country – regardless of location, wealth, age or status. Uniting a nation with the spirit and the thrill and the hope. And now, she and her mare would be playing an integral part in it. In making history. Tully was overwhelmed with joy and pride – she would be racing for her mother, her father, her grandmother, and every little girl who’d ever dreamed of calling a pony her own.

  She made brief appearances at a few of the VIP parties on the morning of the Cup, along with Fia and Trinity, Brandon and Pearce – who kept their stance at opposite ends of the group. They were escorted through the exclusive ‘Birdcage’ and a lavish themed marquee with its giddy glam crowd by FiFi – one of the bubbly, efficient event PR girls. Tully had been decked out in a bright yellow top and pencil skirt by some top designer Fia had organised and an angled, chic fascinator to match. She found herself enjoying getting dressed up and even splashed on some eyeshadow and mascara and left her hair long and wavy for the occasion. She smiled for the cameras, kissed cheeks with important racing identities and celebrities she was introduced to – ‘played the game’ as Fia would say. Wasn’t too bad, Tully supposed – scoring some yummy free finger food and looking forward to getting back to her horse.

  In the sheer excitement of this new glamour, Tully had almost forgotten she was about to ride one of the toughest races on the planet, and it wasn’t until she’d slipped out of her dress, helped to settle Dahlia and was ushered to a last minute pre-race TV interview by FiFi, that she disappeared into the Female Jockey Room to get geared up and weigh out.

  She was thrilled to find Tam and Judy waiting for her, Tam with their ‘doof doof’ song ready to pump her up. They stayed with Tully until it was just minutes to go time. On her way out the door, Tully found herself standing in front of the long mirror between the lockers in this silent room, the only woman about to race a field of twenty three of the best men in the sport.

  Tully ran her hands down the front of her jersey, in the Athens’ white and purple star colours. Took in the Athens name running down the leg of her mother’s silks. She’d forgotten her lucky socks back at Fia’s, but had scored a new set out of the packet from Judy. Tully decided she didn’t need her lucky socks – didn’t need anything except the Athens blood running through her veins, the strength of her mare beneath her and her man waiting at the finish line. That, and the note from her mother tucked safely in the waistband of her silks, the note that read:

  For the day of your first ride, if it’s racing that you choose to do,

  My Little Race Girl,

  Your strength and courage has always given me wings.

  I love you, forever and always

  Mum xx

  A smile spread across Tully’s face and she put her hands on her hips, a fierce bold lily – strong and alive and free. Ready to take on the boys, to win.

  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 Michell
e 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?’