I Own the Racecourse! (11 page)

‘Is that what you like next best?' said Joe relentlessly. ‘The people? I suppose you don't reckon you own
them
?'

Andy laughed. ‘You must be crazy, Joe! Nobody owns people.' He laughed again.

‘All right,' said Joe tensely. ‘So we've got that far, then. You don't own the horses, or the dogs, or the people. You don't own the cars and buses, either, do you? You don't own the money, or the men that do the sweeping…' He stopped to take a breath, and to force himself to calm down. ‘I don't see how you own much at all, do you? Nothing very good, anyway. All the best parts, you don't own them at all. I mean, you said so yourself.'

‘I never said I did!' cried Andy stormily. ‘I never said any of that—the horses—the dogs…' He struggled with the words that came crowding into his mouth. ‘I told you—all I said—I said
I bought Beecham Park!
'

‘Steady on, boy,' said Joe. ‘I'm trying to work it out for you, see? I mean, if you don't own any of the best bits, it doesn't matter much, does it? What's the good of Beecham Park without the horses and dogs and people? What do you want with it, without that?'

‘But they're
there
!' cried Andy. He thrust fiercely with his hand at the scene below. ‘Can't you see 'em?
There
they are.'

‘Put a sock in it, Andy—listen, can't you? Of course I can see them. I can see them just as good as you, and I never reckoned
I
owned Beecham Park. So what's the difference if
you
don't own it either? You can see it, just the same as me. What's the difference if you own it or not?'

‘I don't know if it's any difference,' said Andy. He sounded hopeless and sullen. ‘I just own it, that's all.'

‘Don't kid yourself, boy.
I
don't own it, and I'm looking at it too. You don't own it either, not really. That old chap was just kidding, to get your money out of you.'

‘You don't know nothing—you wasn't even there! It wasn't kidding—not like that game you play with the gasworks and the Manly ferry and all of that. You never owned that stuff;
I
know. You never bought it at all, not like me. You don't want me owning Beecham Park, that's all it is.'

‘Andy—Andy, boy. If it was mine, I'd give it to you. But it's not real, boy. You'll find out you've got no Beecham Park and no money either, just nothing. You've got to know what's real, or they'll take it all from you. Look, will you ask your mum? Will you listen to her? She'll tell you the same.'

‘What does she know? She wasn't there, no more than you.' Andy tried for more words, choked, and tried again. ‘I got gardens down there, with flowers and that onion-weed. They're mine. I grew that onion-weed…'

‘Three dollars is a lot to pay for a bit of onion-weed. Is that all you've got?'

Andy struggled to his feet. ‘Come on,' he said fiercely. ‘I'll show you.' He started off, scrambling and tumbling down the cliff with an agonized, clumsy speed. Joe hesitated for only a second, then went climbing and sliding after him. He mustn't lose Andy, now that they had come so painfully far in this fierce, wrestling argument. He hoped that it might be finished, once and for all, tonight.

They reached the pavement of Wattle Road, behind a line of parked cars. Across the road there were lights, parked buses and groups of people. Andy loped along on the darker side, with Joe following, until he reached the corner of Blunt Street. They both paused there, waiting for a chance to cross; and that was when Mike O'Day saw them from the other side of Blunt Street.

Mike was wandering aimlessly, alone and out of sorts. Terry and Matt had gone off to the workshop together as soon as the yard was full of cars, and without inviting Mike to join them. Mike knew they were baffled by the disagreement between himself and Joe. He didn't blame them, for he was baffled too—but it hurt, all the same. He missed Terry; and he missed Joe. When he saw Andy and Joe across the street, he almost turned back. Then he saw their faces. He frowned, and walked across the street towards them.

‘Hi, there,' said Mike. ‘Going somewhere, Andy boy?'

Andy scowled at him. ‘You coming too? Come on, then.
I'll
show you.'

‘Good show,' said Mike, shooting a hard look at Joe and receiving one in return. They both followed Andy across Wattle Road to the turnstiles of Beecham Park, where he hovered for a moment.

Groups of people were clustering about the turnstiles or drifting through them, giving up their tickets as they went. Andy wandered along the row, looking at the faces of the men on the turnstiles and drawing back when anyone else came near. At last he made a dart at one of the turnstiles and spoke to the man in charge.

‘You know me, mister?'

The man gave him a friendly nod. ‘Hello, it's the owner. Coming in to have a look, boss?'

Andy nodded. Then he jerked his head at Mike and Joe who stood close behind, uncomfortable but determined. ‘These others are coming in too. They're my friends.'

The man hesitated. ‘Friends, are they? Well, I don't know. It's different with you—and we don't sell tickets to kids, of course—but I don't know if I can let half the kids of Appington Hill come through, without they come with their parents. Can I, now? That's not reasonable, boss.'

Andy considered. ‘I never said that,' he pointed out. ‘These two, that's all I said. I gotta show 'em. Half the kids of Appington Hill, I reckon that's not reasonable. I only said these two.'

‘Well…' said the man. He took his hand from the turnstile. ‘I'm not having any trouble with your dads, that's all. I never saw you.'

They pushed between the wire barriers. Joe muttered ‘Thanks, mister,' as he passed.

‘Don't try it on next week,' the man warned him. ‘Tonight you're with the owner, that's the difference.'

Again Mike looked hard at Joe and Joe frowned back.

They came through a narrow passage from the turnstile, and they all stood still. Even Andy had never seen Beecham Park like this before. At first they hardly saw the drifting crowds, the boys selling programmes, the rows of little windows where people were placing bets. In front the ground sloped down to the blazing oval of the track with a pool of darkness inside it. From here the darkness looked much blacker than it did from above; there was only a glimmer here and there from the cars parked inside it. Beyond this circle of darkness and brilliantly lit track rose the big grandstand on the other side of the course. Its shape outlined with strings of lights, it seemed to float in a magical way above the course, the long rows of seats mounting tier above tier. The boys stared at it for a long moment, floating there against the rose-grey sky. When Andy turned to his friends, the driven look had gone from his face. It glowed again with the enchantment of the racecourse.

‘I said I'd show you,' he said simply. ‘There's more than onion-weed.'

He wanted to show them the onion-weed too, and the bookmakers' stands, and the room where his broom was locked away with the others; but wherever they turned there was the excitement of race-night snatching Andy away. Joe and Mike followed him from place to place, half dazed with listening and looking.

‘There's my gardens—can't get round, they've locked the gate. I never knew about that gate. See, Joe? That cuts her in half, that does. See where they get their money, Mike? See, Joe? The bookmakers…'

They listened to the bookmakers and watched the crowd placing bets. There were men in sports jackets, women in floating frocks and sparkling brooches; there were men in crumpled shirts and shorts, and women who might have stepped straight out of their kitchens. There were babies in prams, and small children wandering among the crowds. A man with a bruised face was led off by a policeman.

‘The band—see them, Mike?'

They watched the band marching and playing on the other side of the track. There were two very small bandsmen, two who looked very old and feeble, several with red stripes on their dark blue trousers, and several others with gold braid on their sleeves. They were a mixed lot. No one seemed to listen to them. There were young couples who stared at everything, people who walked primly in order to be stared at, men and women staring vacantly at nothing, and bored children who wanted to go home.

‘I'll show you where I did the sweeping…'

They walked along the white rails towards the shabby old stand on this side of the track. There were glasses of beer standing on posts, and white light beating down on the gritty surface of the track. They reached the place where the ground rose above the levelled track, and stood against the rails looking down.

‘They'll come real close,' said Andy solemnly. ‘We'll see them all right.'

A car came slowly round the track and stopped below the spot where the boys hung over the rails. A man got out. He was an expensive-looking man in a sleek suit and a wonderful bowler hat. He disappeared below the rails, and the car drove on without him.

‘A car always comes,' said Andy, puzzled. He leaned out as far as he dared, craning to see. Then he burst into loud, surprised laughter and drew back. ‘You know what, Joe? Hey, Mike, you know what? He's got a little seat that he sits in, all by himself! I never knew that!'

‘Shush!' said Joe; but Mike was leaning out to look. Sure enough, there was a small seat built into the bank. The expensive-looking gentleman sat primly perched below the rails and above the track.

‘He's there to see that nobody cheats,' Mike guessed. Andy laughed heartily.

Horses and gigs began to appear on the track and the voice came from the amplifiers. A crowd came pressing around the boys, pinning them to the rails, waiting silently. Mike, Joe and Andy looked along the track, waiting for the horses to come.

‘Mysterious Stranger,
' chanted the amplifiers.
‘Black Velvet—My Conscience—Lucky Jim…
'

‘I know him!' cried Andy. ‘I know a lot of 'em.'

The crowd stirred. With a rustling and drumming the horses sprang into view spread wide across the track. Powerful, beating forelegs, deep, straining chests and rolling eyes, they hurtled along the track straight at the boys. The three of them hung silent and breathless on the rails with the crowd packed round them. The voice from the amplifiers chanted on. A man waved a glass and called,
‘Come
on, fellers,
come
on,' as if he were tired of arguing with the drivers. Cockaded heads high, the fierce horses passed. The drivers in their shining satin were perched above whirling wheels. The horses swung towards the inner rail and flowed in a dark stream round the curve.

‘Come
on, fellers,' pleaded the man with the glass.

The stream of horses flowed by on the farther side of the track. Here and there, voices shouted to them as they passed. Then they were coming again in a great, strong rush, driving forward so that the boys could scarcely breathe.

‘Aw
come
on, fellers.'

Round the track again, and a string of red lights flashed as they passed the big stand. The amplified voice grew frenzied and was almost drowned by the roaring of the crowd. They went by like dark thunder, whips flashing and drivers' faces grim; and round the track the roar of the crowd travelled with them. This time a white light flashed, and the horses went flying separately, slowing and turning one by one. The race was over.

The crowd began to break and separate. For a moment the three boys stood where they were in silence. Then Andy turned with a dreaming face and was surprised to see Joe and Mike. He laughed and said, ‘I forgot.'

‘Don't blame you,' said Mike. ‘That was really something.'

Andy chuckled happily. ‘Don't you reckon it was really something, Joe?'

‘Sure, I do—but you don't own the horses, do you, boy?'

‘He's not talking about the horses,' said Mike shortly. ‘He's talking about the race.'

‘That's right,' said Andy. ‘That's what I said. The race.'

Joe and Mike looked darkly at each other. Andy was watching the track.

‘Here's that car. I bet the man's going back in it.' He craned over the rail. ‘He's got off his little chair… There he goes.'

Mike said, ‘Come on—we'll have some chips from that stall. My shout, Andy. You brought us in.'

Andy chuckled shyly, and they went to the stall. They had to wait while two or three other people were served.

‘That's where I did the sweeping,' said Andy. ‘Hey, Mike, did you know I helped sweep her out this morning? There's a place behind here for the brooms, only they're locked up now. Mine and all.' Mike hadn't heard about the sweeping, so he explained again. ‘They liked having the owner down,
I
know.'

‘Oh,' said the woman in the stall, ‘so
you're
the owner, are you?' The other customers had gone, and she was smiling broadly at Andy. ‘I heard you were down tonight. After your rent, eh?' She reached across to a shelf and gave Andy a large bag of potato crisps. ‘That do?'

‘I got no money,' said Andy, hesitating and looking at Mike.

‘That's all right,' said the woman. She was young and plump, with a mass of yellow hair swathed and looped around her head. ‘You don't have to pay. That's the owner's rent for the stall.'

Andy laughed with surprise and pleasure. ‘I never knew,' he told her, and stood chuckling while Mike bought two more bags for himself and Joe.

‘Look, boy,' said Mike when the young woman was serving another customer, ‘it's been great, and thanks for bringing us, but I reckon we better go now. We have to get home. Coming?'

‘All right,' said Andy. ‘We can come any time. I don't have to pay, see. I'm the owner.' He followed Mike and Joe out through the big roller door that was opened between races.