Race Girl (28 page)

‘Birdsville, darling! The biggest bush meet in the country.'

‘Okay . . .' Tully said. ‘Have you ever been, Aunt Fia?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘But it's a travesty I aim to rectify. And you, my dear, are coming to ride for me.'

A few weeks later Fia tore through the front gates of Avalon, the Germaine Racing semi-truck horse transporter following closely behind. Tully hurried to grab her bags, calling out to her dad to say goodbye. She assumed he was at the stables when he didn't answer, so sprinted down to say bye to Bear, Greg and Frangi, Bucko, Grace and her father, who waved at her from the office but didn't come over.

Tully hopped into the passenger side of Fia's Range Rover, her eyes going wide as she took in the plush red and black leather interior of the luxury SUV. ‘Wow,' she said, kissing her aunt on both cheeks. ‘What a ride, Aunt Fia!'

Fia sounded the horn and waved at Gerald, who had appeared in the doorway of the office, arms crossed. ‘Thank you, darling,' Fia said, flicking her sunnies down over her eyes. She handed Tully a roadmap out of the centre console. ‘I'm old school, I'm afraid, and I'm not sure we'll get mobile reception out where we're going . . .' She pushed her sunnies back up onto her head, pointing across the map at a town out near the middle of Australia. ‘Straight west from here, onto the Birdsville Track . . .'

Tully pushed her bags onto the floor at her feet and quickly surveyed her clothes, praying they were clean. She felt like she should've been encased in cling wrap before being allowed in this vehicle. ‘Righto . . .' She spotted ‘Birdsville' out in the far corner of the state, nearly on the border with South Australia and a finger's width from Alice Springs. ‘The outback!' she said, glancing across at her aunt. ‘Hel-lo adventure! Like I said, though, Aunt Fia—I woulda been more than happy to jump in with the horses. I thought you would've wanted to fly, at least part of the way . . .'

Fia laughed, cosied down low in her seat. Her phone started ringing through the hands free, but she flicked it to silent. ‘I would normally, sure,' she said, one hand on the top of the wheel. ‘But this time I had my gorgeous niece to enjoy, and lots of country I've never seen to finally take in. Life's too short to miss these things, Tully. And it's
definitely
too short to miss a good girls' road trip!'

Tully grinned, her eyes finding the clear expanse of highway as they turned out of their lane.

‘What a way
this
is gonna be to see the outback,' Fia said, cranking up the stereo. Tully was surprised to find the frolicking classical tune a pleasure to her ears, and she relaxed a fraction in her seat. ‘It's all guts or no glory out there,' Fia continued, ‘You're going to love the mare I brought for you, just bought her from a guy on the Goldie. She's tough as, a real warhorse. I've also got Kirkston coming to ride a few young ones and this big brute of a colt we've just cut – needs a good hard run. He's a darling, though.'

Tully smiled, not sure if her aunt was fond of the horse, or the jockey. She decided it was probably both. ‘I can't wait, Fia,' she said, pushing her hands in between her thighs. ‘Thank you again, for the opportunity.'

‘Racing out here with these blokes'll really bring out those balls of yours!'

Could be just what I need . . .
Tully thought, stifling a grin.
More confidence. And better yet, it's thousands of kilometres away from any Westons . . .

The Athens girls smiled at each other as they cruised deep into the brilliant sunset, out of Beaudesert and into the dark, open road. They chatted all the way to Toowoomba, then on to the rich pastoral and wheat-growing town of Roma where they stopped at a stable owned by a friend of Fia's to rest the horses overnight.

The next day was a big one, over thirteen hours of driving through only a few towns and into the flat, red centre of Australia. Tully marvelled at the never-ending expanse of earth and sky, at the rich crimson sand dunes and bold spinifex grass, which she imagined was hiding plenty of bilby burrows. It was as if one could live in the sky, nourished by the abundant, unfaltering land, and just breathe and breathe forever.

It was a shock, therefore, and they were starting to panic, when the Rover managed to get two flats within ten kilometres of each other just after the sealed highway turned to dirt on the Birdsville Track. They could have been stranded hundreds of kilometres from mobile reception, a town, a servo, even a pub, if the truck driver hadn't brought along a spare jack and tyre puncture repair kit.

Tully stood on tiptoes to try and console the horses, who snorted and stamped at the delay in the trailer, while Fia grumbled that she definitely needed a Chardonnay. ‘They
do
serve white wine in the outback, don't they, Mick?'

Mick howled at her and slapped his dirty jeaned thigh, wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Fia promised to shout all his beers for changing the tyres and getting them rolling again.

It was just after nightfall when they pulled into the tiny town, leaving a cloud of dust over the horse transporter and the row of vehicles rolling in behind them. Birdsville was already bursting with horse trailers, utes, cars and four-wheel-drives, as well as buses carrying what Fia explained were: ‘locals, station owners and workers from all across the outback, spectators and revellers from all over Australia and even the world attracted by this long-standing meet!' The buzz of anticipation in this two-street town transformed by its prodigious annual event was loud enough to crash through the walls of the Rover. It was an adventurous energy that charged Tully up, tingling down the length of her spine, settling in her core. Such a strong, feverish excitement, and she didn't feel far from home in the least.

Fia pointed out the private jets and personal aircraft lined up in the dozens on the airstrip as they cruised past, naming a few of the owners. ‘I've heard the number of planes will grow into the hundreds by Friday – and helicopters, too.' Fia's face erupted with a gleaming smile. ‘Life feels
real
out here, Tully . . .'

Tully understood completely; that feeling of being connected to the country and the land. She found herself squealing and clapping when she spotted the white Birdsville Hotel with its heritage green trim. Statuesque, historic and gorgeous – the heart of the town, the outback even – set on the corner of the two main streets. Tully was stunned to see beer cans spread out onto the footpath, mounded up against the natural dirt kerb of the street.

‘Adds a bit of character, don't you think?' Fia said. ‘They'll be gone by morning, apparently.'

‘Ready for another day!' Tully said.

‘You've got it, girl.'

The buzz of the race only seemed to intensify when word spread about such a high profile, east-coast trainer venturing so far west to try her hand at the Birdsville Cup. Fia had dressed the part, in an Akubra and scuffed boots and while she had plenty of fans rushing up to get a pic with her, she also copped an esky full of disapproving glances and raises of brows from some of the dedicated bush trainers and locals.

Fia's charm started to wear them down by the end of their first day in Birdsville, however, when Tully, Fia, Mick and the strappers made their way over to Fred Brophy's boxing tent to witness his world-exclusive show. The girls shared a few drinks with the locals to the sound of the beating drum and ringing bell, even had a good yarn after the boxers downed their gloves. By the following night, Fia was really in her element, organising rounds as the ‘hostess with the mostess' of the pre-race cocktail party, which was lit up with pink and purple lights, complete with a swinging country band.

Tully sipped at a lemonade, listening from their table as Fia regaled the joint with the tale of her Melbourne Cup win two years earlier. ‘We were neck and neck, the bastard—I mean, the ex and I!' Fia sang, sending riotous laughter ripping through the snazzed-up patrons at the bar. ‘And I got him! It was the best moment of my life, seriously, the best! Should've seen the look on the smug slug's face. Absolutely priceless . . . He was always tellin' me: ‘Fia, if you're not cheatin', you're not competin'', but I
hated
him sedating the horses and would never let him use cobalt or anything else! And didn't I show him?! You
can
be a big city trainer and win without it; all you need is the right horse.

‘I'm hoping to replicate the win this year, actually. I just got a new owner – the husband of a girlfriend of mine – and he's just bought a cracker of a colt, named Gold Rushing, that I've got coming up. I reckon we've got a real shot at getting the Cup back this year . . .'

Tully looked up when a tall, broad young man in a tuxedo and a stockman's hat dropped down next to Fia, who beamed across at him, knocking back her Cosmo. ‘I'm getting this little ripper of a jockey over from France to ride him this year,' Fia went on, her hand sweeping out across the crowd.

Tully's eyes went wide and the butterflies stirred in her stomach when the stockman slipped his arm through her aunt's, leading her out onto the dance floor.

‘M'Lady?'

Tully jumped with surprise when Mick's greasy hand appeared in front of her. She smiled up at him, let him swing her out onto the floor.

She cried with laughter as they danced daggily alongside her aunt and her handsome new jackaroo friend, tugging at the hem of the short black dress Fia had brought for her and tripping frequently in the too big kitten heels, feeling totally out of place and uncomfortable, but partying anyway into the wee hours of the morning.

Dawn rose quick and heavy on Friday and Tully had to shake Fia out of her swag to get her going before the first race was called. It was a two-day meet, with a thirteen race program and more than $170,000 on offer – a huge few days, and they'd certainly kicked it off in style. A foggy headache was causing Tully to regret her first ever wine as she stumbled around in the blinding sun, trying to organise her gear and find her way to the jockeys' room out the back of the main tin building.

The track would be the first claypan Tully had ever ridden and was situated three kilometres to the southeast of the town, alongside stunning, rolling sand dunes. It would also be the first time Tully would race anti-clockwise, which would take a few laps to get used to; tipping in to the left, instead of the right.

Tully hurried in the entrance of the Birdsville Race Club, stopping by the office to grab a program. She studied the track rating and distance out to the rail. Noted that there was a fair bit of speed in the race, but from what she'd learned about Xena Queen – the mare she'd be riding for Fia – Tully guessed they'd be in for a fair chance in their 1000 metre class B handicap. As an apprentice jockey with less than five wins in country meets, Tully had been enjoying a four-kilo weight advantage over the rest of the field, which would also be a great help for her and Xena. Tully went to weigh out, dressed in her full gear, holding her jockey pad on the scale.

The mare was already breathing fire by the time Tully headed to the small round yard to mount up. The dust was something like she'd never experienced before, the tan clouds replacing churned up turf and adding a dangerous, exciting element to the racing.

Fia had warned that Xena wasn't a huge fan of the barriers. They were starting out in a chute, unlike the longer races which started on the course proper, and it took two attendants to pull Xena in, then push her powerful chestnut hindquarters into the heritage green gate. Tully didn't have time for nerves out here – the other jockeys, many who were Birdsville veterans, called out to her and chatted like bar patrons as they waited for the lights to turn and the gates to open.

Tully stifled a cry as Xena jumped backwards, then slammed her into the right side with a sharp clang of metal. Xena reared, then dropped her head, bringing all four legs up into a cow hop.
Jesus,
Tully thought, yanking the mare up, doing her best to keep her feet shielded from any further assaults.
Aunt Fia, what have you gotten me into!

Xena reared again at the sound of a foghorn in the roiling, several-thousand strong crowd – a rowdier, more colourful bunch than Tully, and Xena, apparently, was used to. Xena pulled for her head and arched her back like she was going to buck, sending Tully's heart up through the top of the barrier—‘
Holy—
'

The gate flung open and Tully was sure she heard a jockey holler: ‘Welcome to Birdsville, darlin'!' before the horses tore off across the dry clay surface, vying for the rail.

She had to blink her eyes like the wings of a hummingbird to see in the dust and was glad she'd used clear lenses in her goggles. The huge chestnut had a positively mammoth stride, tearing at the track and fighting up the back of the horse in front. Tully couldn't see past the few rumps in front of them, haloed by the mist of brown. She crouched low, loving the solidity and power of the mare, finding herself grinning in her helmet.
These boys are in trouble.

Tully clicked her tongue as if she were out on her exercise track and it didn't take much encouragement to find another gear from Xena, rocketing around a slender bay to take the rail just after the first turn. Tully found the clear air a haven and the pale track an oasis in the sea of colour all around them. They tore down the back straight, the pack on their heels in a cyclone of dust.