Women and War (6 page)

‘Come on, I don't want to get into your father's bad books for keeping you out here to catch your death of cold when you should be inside doing your duty. After all, it is your sister's engagement party.'

‘Oh my goodness yes! Suppose they do the formal announcement and I'm not there! What's the time? Is the music still playing? Come on!'

Light spilled out of the house and onto the lawns in a golden flood. Hand in hand, laughing, they ran towards it.

‘Who is this young man you are going out with?' Frances asked.

Alys, fixing her ear-bobs in the dressing table mirror, looked up to see her mother standing behind her.

‘Race Gratton.'

‘I know that,' Frances said sharply. ‘There's no need to be impertinent.'

‘I wasn't being. I was just telling you …'

‘I know his
name
. We would never have countenanced you going out with someone whose name we did not even know. In fact, if we were still in England he would have had to come to see Daddy and give a full account of himself before we allowed it. No – what Gratton is he, I'd like to know? I don't think we have come across any Grattons.'

‘He comes from Yallourn.'

‘Hmmm.' Frances' lips tightened a shade. ‘The thing is, Alys, I'm not at all sure he is the sort of boy we want you associating with. There are some very fine families in Melbourne. The Davenports to name but one. Clarrie is keen on you I know. And one knows where one is with one's own sort of people.'

Alys swivelled on her stool, looking up at her mother pleadingly.

‘Please give him a chance, Mummy! I'm sure you'd like him if you got to know him!'

Frances lifted her chin, holding her shoulders very stiff and still.

‘I very much doubt if it will last long enough for that,' she said.

Race Gratton had been born twenty-two years earlier, the son of a miner who worked the huge brown coal deposits around Yallourn. His father, a hardworking but unambitious immigrant who had modified his almost unpronounceable surname to the more easily handled ‘ Gratton', had expected nothing but that his son should follow him in his occupation. But, from the moment he had pushed his first toy car, carved for him by his father from a block of wood, across the scrubbed wood floor of their tiny but spotless kitchen, Race was set firmly on a very different course.

He was just four when he went missing from home and after his frantic mother had alerted the neighbourhood he was eventually found in the town garage sitting on a pile of tyres and watching, fascinated, while Fred Holder, the proprietor, tinkered under the bonnet of a farmer's ute.

At twelve he paid his first visit to the Motodrome in Melbourne and there, excited to fever pitch as he watched the cars race crazily around the concrete bowl, he had recognized for the first time the ambition that was burning within him. This was what he wanted to do – drive a car with the skill and courage these drivers displayed, smell the oil, feel the surge of power that as a spectator he could only hear, see the dust spew up from the gravel track. He had told his father that night what he wanted and had been hurt but not discouraged when he was laughed down.

Someone else to whom he confessed his ambitions did not mock, however. Fred Holder had retired now, but his son Jeff who had taken the garage on had warmed to young Race's interest in all things mechanical. He encouraged Race, gave him jobs to do and taught him everything he knew. At fifteen Race was driving anything on wheels – two, three or four. At sixteen he owned his first motorcycle, saved for from the money he earned working for Jeff. From there it was a short step to racing motorcycles at the Motodrome – mostly hybrids made up of parts Jeff was able to acquire and put together with his help.

Race's ambition was still to drive cars but they were becoming too fast for conditions in the death-defying Motodrome. After several drivers were killed car races there ceased, though the motorcycle races continued and Race was able to keep on riding. Then, when he was twenty years old, his big opportunity came. Midget car speedway was introduced at the Motodrome and Race was right in there in his fast and noisy little car built around a motorcycle engine.

His daring and skill paid off; before long he was one of the heroes of the midget car racing. But still it was not enough for him. With the backing of Jeff Holder he acquired an Austin Nippy, working on it every spare minute, testing it, modifying it, fitting cannibalized parts, souping it up. Now at last it was almost ready – in time for the start of the spring and summer season. This year the Grand Prix was to be held at Bathurst, over the border in New South Wales, and Race was determined he would be there lined up with the others, the enthusiasts like himself in their hybrids, and the rich boys; backed by money that came from wool and farming, in their MGs.

Nothing, he promised himself, would stand in his way now. And no one, especially beautiful and rich young ladies, would ever ask ‘Race who?' again.

Alys leaned back in the passenger seat of the Morgan lifting her chin and half closing her eyes as the wind whipped her hair across her face and blew breath back into her throat.

‘Oh, this is heaven! Will it go faster, Race? Make it go faster!'

He glanced sideways at her, laughed, and pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car surged forward on the arrow-straight road so that the trees which lined it sentry-like shot past in a green blur and the g-force seemed to stick her navel to her backbone.

They had been to the garage where Alys had met Jeff and seen for the first time Race's pride and joy, the Nippy. Once through the wooden doors and into the workshop the men had hardly seemed aware of her existence but she had not minded. She was happy to watch them work, though she had laughed at the sight of Race's legs, divorced from his body, poking knees bent from beneath the car – and the smell of the petrol and oil had excited some deep chord within her that none of the ladylike pursuits she had been forced into had ever done. She had nosed around the garage ignoring the pin-ups on the walls and oblivious to the grease smudges that had somehow transferred themselves from her fingers to her nose and also the pocket of her dress. The language she could not ignore – a mixture of interesting technicalities and ripe adjectives she had never heard before but knew instinctively she would never dare to use. But not even that had bothered her. Being with Race would have been enough – being part of this fascinating world of his was better than she had ever dreamed possible.

Up ahead a pub at the roadside indicated the first outpost of another sprawling small town and Race slowed to pass through it.

‘You've never told me how you got this beautiful motor,' Alys shouted above the roar of the engine.

‘I told you – I inherited it.'

‘Yes, but who from?'

‘An old guy who used to come into the garage. He was a farmer – he had no use for it really – kept it locked up in a barn fifty weeks of the year. I used to go out and see him – well, it was to see the car really. He knew how I felt about it and he left it to me in his will. He had nobody else. Just a daughter who thought he was crazy. He told me once he didn't want to think of it just being used to take her kids to school and back. So I got it.'

‘You must have been really surprised when he left it to you.'

‘Yeah,' Race said but something in his tone jarred on her slightly.

‘I'm learning to drive,' she said, changing the subject.

He looked along at her. ‘Do you want to have a go then?'

‘Oh not in your car! I couldn't! I might do something dreadful.'

He smiled at her. ‘You wouldn't. I wouldn't let you. Go on, try it.'

She caught her lip between her teeth. ‘ Well, if you're really sure …'

He pulled the car in to the side of the road, climbed out and went around to the passenger side.

‘Move over then.'

She did, trembling with nervous excitement, and under his guidance drove the car along the road. At first, she was horribly conscious of the responsibility then she began to relax and enjoy herself, thrilling to the surge of power and the heady feeling of being in control of this handsome, monstrous machine.

‘That was very good,' Race said when she eventually pulled in on his instructions. ‘ You're a natural. You just need proper teaching. You have to love the car, understand?'

‘Oh, I do!'

‘But you have to treat it like you love it!' He put his arm along the back of the scat catching her shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. ‘ Don't look so worried! You'll soon get the feel of it.'

Her eyes were shining. ‘You mean I can try again?'

He nodded. ‘Yes. As long as you do what I say and not what somebody else tells you.'

‘You teach me then!' she said boldly.

‘All right.' He caught her eye and grinned. ‘ You're sure there's nothing else I can teach you while I'm at it?'

Sharp excitement corkscrewed inside her. It reminded her of the g-force she had experienced when he had accelerated the car. She pursed her lips and looked at him primly under the long lashes. ‘What can you mean?'

He laughed and pulled her towards him. ‘One of these days, Miss Peterson, you will find out. For now, I think I'll have to make do with this!'

She felt his breath warm and fluid against her wind-cooled cheek. When he kissed her, his hand cupping her breast beneath her blouse through the thin material of her brassiere, she thought that wonderful as driving and being driven fast was, this was perhaps better.

It was hot and noisy in the Motodrome. The sun, high overhead, poured down into the concrete bowl and reflected back from it in waves. The crowds, vying for the best view of the circuit, gave off a heat of their own and the smell of sweat mingled with engine fumes and the pungent whiff of oil. Their cheers and shouts of encouragement were drowned out by the screaming of the motorcycle engines which powered the midget cars, but though their throats were dry from the clouds of dust that spewed from the track they still cheered, borne along on the thrills and spills.

Alys, squeezed between a fat man in a sweat-stained shirt and a sunbronzed rouseabout, cheered with them. She guessed they thought it was odd – a girl on her own at the Motodrome. But she did not mind. She felt special – and very proud. That's my boyfriend down there, she longed to tell them. But of course she said nothing, just went on cheering.

A car veered suddenly and the crowd gasped as it skewed across the track, clipping the rear of another and sending it broadside into the barrier. Alys screamed involuntarily, clapping her hands across her mouth. Race! Look out! But it was all right. He was past the danger, swerving and manoeuvring with all the skill that was making him a leading driver, and her frantic heart, beating so hard that the echoes of it throbbed in her throat, swelled again with pride.

Was he going to win? Come on, Race! You can do it! Come on – come on – yes! He was over the line and she was leaping up and down, unable to contain her excitement.

And then he was out of the car and looking up, looking for her, one face in the crowd. He could not see her of course, she knew that. But as he clasped his hands high above his head, acknowledging victory, she felt for all the world as if the gesture was just for her.

Afterwards, though, when he drove her home, he was unusually subdued.

‘I thought you'd be high for hours after winning like that,' she said. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.' But the lightness of his tone was false and she knew it.

‘There is. You can't fool me, I she said.

He sighed, holding onto the steering wheel and shifting himself on the fat leather seat. ‘All right, if you really want to know. It looks as if I won't be driving in the Grand Prix after all.'

Her eyes widened. ‘But why, Race?'

‘The money has run out. I heard today. I didn't want to think about it before I drove but now the adrenalin has stopped flowing there's no way I cannot think about it.'

She gave her head a little shake. ‘Race, I don't understand.'

‘Jeff is going bust. That's it in a nutshell!' He looked along at her, smiling wanly. ‘ He's too soft, that's his trouble. Too many people owe him money and now his creditors are going to pull the rug out from under him. That not only means I shall be out of a job, it also means there's no money to do what still needs doing to the car. So goodbye Grand Prix – for this year anyway – maybe forever if I can't find someone else to back me.'

She chewed on her lip for a moment. ‘Race – ask Daddy!' He half turned towards her; in the fading light his profile was very strong and it caught at that jagged nerve deep inside her. ‘Ask Daddy to back you!' she said.

‘Oh, I don't think I could do that …' But there was a note of uncertainty and perhaps a glimmer of hope in his voice.

‘Of course you could! He's not an ogre. He owns a racehorse – why not a racing car?' She reached out, covering his hand on the steering wheel with her own. The tendons felt taut and stretched beneath her fingers. ‘Look – I'll come with you. We'll ask him together.'

‘No!' he said harshly. ‘I've got to do this myself.'

‘All right, if that's what you want. But do it, Race. You can't give up now. I won't let you!'

Alys pushed the meat around her plate with her fork. It was saddle of new season's lamb, pink and succulent enough to melt in the mouth, but tonight she had no appetite. She speared a pea, popped it into her mouth and looked up, wondering if perhaps this was the right moment to say what she had to say.

At the head of the table Daniel Peterson was eating heartily, a large white damask napkin tucked into the neck of his waistcoat, while at the opposite end Frances was helping herself to more baby carrots from one of the bone china tureens. Beverley, across the table from Alys, appeared to be in a day dream – planning her wedding again, no doubt.