Ocean Child, Page 2

  ‘Don’t forget we’ve been invited to cocktails and dinner tonight at the brigadier’s to discuss the Easter fete. If you’re not coming with me, you’ll have to make do with cold cuts and soup. It’s Vera’s night off.’

  The brigadier was a bluff, red-faced old buffer who had been pursuing Clarice unsuccessfully for years. Lulu had long decided there were better ways to spend an evening and declined the invitation.

  With the tea things washed and set to dry on the drainer, she fed the dog then slowly went upstairs. After her bath, she snuggled into her fleecy dressing gown and sat at her dressing table, where she could glean the meagre heat from the fire that was doing battle with the draught from the ill-fitting window.

  The mysterious letter had been forwarded from her address in London, and was lying beside her. Although she’d read it several times this morning and almost knew it by heart, it intrigued and unsettled her. Tugging the single sheet from the envelope, she smoothed it open. The handwriting was bold and masculine – the contents completely baffling.

  Dear Miss Pearson,

  As I have been training your colt, Ocean Child, for over a year now and have had no word from you, I thought you should be kept informed of his progress. Perhaps your agent, Mr Carmichael, has done this already, in which case I apologise for contacting you.

  The Child is proving to be an exceptional two-year-old, having won most of his trials – these are races to test young horses over different distances, and there is no betting or handicapping involved. Although he has yet to be fully tested over longer courses, I have high hopes he will prove to be a stayer. He has a good temperament, is not distracted by noisy crowds and has become a firm favourite in the yard, especially with Bob Fuller, the young jackaroo I employ to ride him.

  The Child is still too young for more important races, but he’s muscling up nicely, and I’ve been working him hard with regular spells of rest in between. In another six months or so, I plan to enter him into some of the smaller steeplechases to see how he fares.

  I hope you don’t mind me writing, but as there has been no word from you, I feel it is my duty as trainer to keep you informed.

  Yours sincerely,

  Joe Reilly

  Lulu frowned. ‘I don’t know who you think I am, Mr Reilly,’ she breathed, ‘but you’ve obviously got me confused with someone else.’

  Her smile was wry as she put the paper back in the envelope. The nearest she would ever come to owning any kind of horse was the sculpture awaiting her attention in the studio. What an extraordinary mistake to make for a man who obviously knew his business. Surely he must have realised she couldn’t possibly be the owner? After all, she lived on the other side of the world – why on earth would she have a horse in training so far away?

  ‘Ridiculous,’ she hissed, as she tightened the belt on the dressing gown and reached for her writing box. Her reply was polite but short, and when she’d sealed the envelope she dressed and went down to the village post office.

  *

  He had been drinking a welcome beer in the village pub and was enjoying an evening pipe when he saw her walk down the lane. Following her to the tiny shop that seemed to provide everything, he hovered by the open door and eavesdropped on her conversation with the fat, garrulous woman behind the counter.

  Satisfied he’d heard enough, he headed for the station and the last train home. The letter from Australia had obviously arrived. All he had to do now was inform his employer and await further instructions.

  *

  As she strolled back to the house, Lulu wondered what Mr Reilly’s reaction would be to her letter. Embarrassment probably, she concluded.

  She skirted the side of the house and followed the path to the semicircular summer house which she’d turned into her studio. Nestled against the high brick boundary wall, its deep windows looked out over the lawn and offered a sunny spot even on the coldest day. She had fallen in love with it the day Clarice had first brought her to Sussex. Ten years old, and trying to come to terms with the sudden changes in her life, the summer house had become her refuge.

  Great-Aunt Clarice had understood her need for solitude while she sketched and painted, or moulded clay figures, and those early years, which might have been interpreted by some as lonely, had brought a slow, steady awakening in Lulu – a realisation that now she could dare to dream – that under Clarice’s loving, watchful eye she was free to blossom. It was the greatest gift anyone could bestow, and she adored Clarice because of it.

  Stepping inside, she lit the gas lamps, dug her chin into her coat collar against the cold and began to peel off the damp cloths that kept the clay pliable. She examined the three-foot high sculpture and smiled at the irony, for her current work was a colt. A leggy, unbroken creature with a stubby tail and short mane, he seemed poised to break free from the restraints of the armature that held him to the wooden turntable. She absorbed the lines and curves, the promise of growing muscle and strength she’d managed to capture, and the feeling of constrained energy and movement that had been so difficult to attain. It was a fine piece, maybe the best she had done.

  She regarded the colt, her thoughts dwelling on the strange letter. Perhaps it was an omen – a sign that he was somehow linked to the one in Tasmania. It was a ridiculous idea of course, one that Clarice would scorn – and yet, as she assessed the clay colt and her thoughts raced, she realised how very auspicious this moment was. The piece had yet to be titled, but because of Joe Reilly’s error in sending that letter, she now had a name.

  Her imagination took flight as she hastily reached for a lump of clay and began to soften and mould it. It might be difficult to do, but it was a chance to stretch her ability and enjoy the challenge. The real Ocean Child would race over Tasmanian tracks, grow old and end his days at pasture, but hers would stay forever young and dance in the shallow ripples and waves of a bronze shoreline.

  Galway House Racing Stables, Tasmania, April 1920

  Joe Reilly had finished mucking out, the yard was swept and hosed, and Bob Fuller, the jackaroo, had just left to exercise Ocean Child up on the gallops. It was still early, but the kookaburras were already laughing in the nearby trees and Joe could hear the haunting single note of a bellbird not far away.

  He dug his hands in the pockets of his moleskins and proudly surveyed the yard. It looked very different to how it had been when he’d returned from Europe, and although it had taken time, energy and most of his savings, it had been worth it.

  Where the stables had been falling down and infested with rats, they now rose sturdily on either side of the paved yard, their newly tiled roofs and fresh paint gleaming in the autumn sun. The repairs to the barn, tack room and feed store were almost finished, the fences replaced and the paddocks clear of harmful weeds.

  There had once been over thirty horses at Galway House, with stable hands and jackaroos to look after them. But that was in the good years – the years before war and influenza had intervened. He remained optimistic, however, for there were already five recent arrivals to the yard, with enquiries about two others, and he’d had to take on a couple of hands to help. The stock markets were still jittery, but the world had begun to shake off the gloom of the past years and there was a sense of excitement in the air as they entered a new decade, reflected in the jazz music that was becoming so popular, and in the way people were prepared to spend their money on pleasures again.

  His gaze travelled beyond the yard to the hills where the gallops ran for four miles along their crest. He had heard Tasmania being compared to England, and now he understood why, for this corner of the island was as green and lush as the Sussex countryside surrounding the military hospital where he’d recuperated.

  The two-storey homestead stood squarely among the trees and faced the short driveway and double gates. Its rear aspect was of the fast-flowing river that ran in a tree-lined gully at the bottom of the valley. The wrap-around veranda was cluttered with the usual chairs, tables and his mother’s tubs of flo
wers. The shutters and screens were mended, the lawn had been cut and the trees were in full leaf. It was the home he’d once thought he would never see again, and he felt a glow of appreciation and love for the old place.

  The Reillys had lived at Galway House for four generations, their name synonymous with well-trained and successful racehorses. Joe had willingly followed in his father’s footsteps, and had been looking forward to marrying his childhood sweetheart, Penny, and taking over on his father’s retirement. Then war intervened. His father had died shortly after Joe had been shipped out, and as the memories of Gallipoli and Fromelles came unbidden, his fingers automatically traced the scars that puckered the flesh above his left eye and cobwebbed his cheek.

  Penny had promised in her letters that she would love him regardless of how badly injured he was – that they would marry and take over the yard as planned – and yet on his return home he’d seen her flinch from his kisses and had noticed how she avoided looking at him. She had done her best to hide her revulsion, but the girl he’d loved since boyhood could not accept the changes in him and, knowing she was too kind-hearted to do it herself, he’d broken off their engagement. The relief in her eyes had torn him apart, the scars a tacit reminder – if he ever needed one – that war had changed everything.

  He shook off the gloomy thoughts, whistled for the two dogs, cranked up the flatbed truck and headed for the gallops. He was one of the lucky ones who’d made it home. At thirty years old he was fit and healthy and his business was on the up. He loved his home and his work, had embraced the isolation and peace they gave him, and was content.

  Bob Fuller was walking the Child to rest him, but even from a distance Joe could see the tow-headed youth’s excitement. He’d barely climbed out of the truck before Bob was chattering at him.

  ‘He’s a little ripper, Joe. Didn’t turn a hair when I asked more of …im.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t overextend him.’

  ‘Fair go, Joe. Look at him! He’s not even blowing.’

  The boy’s enthusiasm was catching, and Joe returned his grin as he assessed the colt and realised he still had plenty of running in him. Ocean Child was a chestnut, with pale mane and tail and a white diamond blaze on his forehead. Still youthfully leggy, he nevertheless had an air of confidence about him that boded well, for he’d proved over the past year that he was undeterred by noise and strange surroundings.

  Joe ran his hand over the well-shaped hindquarters and down the sturdy legs. There was good muscle and bone there, the pasterns just the right length. His chest was in perfect proportion and would widen and muscle up as he matured, and the eyes were intelligent.

  ‘You’re a beaut and no mistake,’ he murmured as he stroked the neck and looked into those golden eyes. ‘Give him another short run so I can see how he’s moving, then spell him. He’s had enough for today.’

  He leant against the railings, hat in hand, dark hair tousled by the breeze as he watched horse and rider canter away along the dirt track. The Child was certainly moving well, and seemed eager for the exercise, but unformed muscle and growing bones needed time and patience to build to their full potential, and he’d seen the tragic results when other trainers pushed too hard.

  He watched keenly as Bob brought the Child around and galloped back towards him. The colt’s neck was stretched, ears pricked, each leg placed with confidence as he opened up his chest and raced along the track. Joe’s pulse quickened. Ocean Child was one hell of a good horse, and if he lived up to this early promise, Galway House might have a real winner.

  *

  The morning passed quickly as everyone went about their usual work, and Joe had just sat down to deal with the account books when he was interrupted by the arrival of his mother. ‘Our visitors are here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I bet you’d forgotten they were coming.’

  Joe had indeed, but whenever he was with the horses he forgot most things. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, reluctantly closing the ledger. He smiled as he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t suppose you could deal with them, Ma? I’ve got a lot to do this morning.’

  Molly Reilly was short and plump, with a bustling presence and a mop of rather wild greying hair. She had struggled to keep the yard going after her husband’s death, but despite her determination and energy had found it an impossible task. Joe understood that her relief at his survival was tempered by the knowledge that he now found socialising extremely distressing.

  ‘You can’t hide in here for ever,’ she said with a briskness that belied the concern in her eyes. ‘This is business.’

  He noted the determined tilt to her chin and knew there was little point in arguing. Towering over her as he took his battered hat from the nail on the wall, he rammed it on and tugged the brim low so it shadowed the damaged side of his face.

  ‘What are they like?’ he muttered as he ambled along beside her.

  ‘Rich.’

  ‘That’s a good start.’ A smile twitched his lips. His mother had her own endearing way of cutting straight to the point. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They’ve got two horses at Len Simpson’s yard in Melbourne, but they’ve had a falling out with him and want to move them.’

  ‘Sounds like they could be trouble. Len’s a good bloke.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, but we can’t afford to be picky.’

  Joe had been weaned on stories of difficult owners and their high, sometimes impossible, expectations of their horses. It seemed the more money they had the more awkward they were. He tugged the hat brim and steeled himself for the meeting. His mother was right – they needed the money.

  A showy black car sat on the driveway, chrome headlamps and wide running board glinting in the sun. Joe took in the two people waiting on the veranda. The man wore tweeds and had a cigar clamped between his teeth. The young woman was wreathed in furs against the chill wind, and Joe could only think of the word ‘glossy’ to describe her.

  ‘Alan Frobisher,’ the man said, shaking his hand, ‘and this’s my daughter, Eliza.’

  Joe glanced at the girl, who was eyeing him with open curiosity. He dropped his gaze as he swiftly shook the cool, slender hand, then stepped back and tugged furiously at his hat. He was aware of her continued scrutiny as they headed back towards the stables, and was so disconcerted he became tongue-tied. His mother had no such inhibitions and was chattering like a sparrow as they toured the yard.

  *

  They had inspected everything and were now standing by the paddock fence. Joe began to relax as the women went off to the house and he was left alone with Alan. ‘How did you hear about us in Queensland, Alan? You’ve come a long way.’

  ‘A bloodstock agent called Carmichael,’ he replied. ‘I understand he’s recommended you before.’

  Joe’s interest was piqued. ‘He sent me Ocean Child, but we’ve never met, only communicated by mail. What’s he like?’

  Alan shrugged. ‘I’ve only spoken to him on the two-way, but the Victorian Breeders Association recommends him.’

  Joe nodded. It seemed the elusive Carmichael did all his business at a distance, for no one had yet admitted to ever having seen him. ‘May I ask why you want to move your horses?’

  The other man looked away. ‘There was a difference of opinion,’ he muttered. ‘Things got awkward.’

  Joe waited for him to continue, but it seemed Alan had decided he’d said enough. Whatever had proved awkward would remain between Alan and his previous trainer – and yet Len Simpson was well-regarded in racing circles for his easy-going temperament. Joe couldn’t fathom what had gone wrong. ‘Len has a fair reputation,’ he said, ‘so if he took them on, I’d be glad to. But I’ll have to contact him and make sure he has no objection.’

  ‘Fair enough, but he won’t object. Speaks very highly of you, which is why I took Carmichael’s advice.’ Alan turned from his scrutiny of the grazing horses and smiled. ‘I think I’ve seen enough, Joe. Let’s do business.’ His expression became quizzical as his gaze
settled on Joe’s face. ‘France, I suppose.’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘At least you came home,’ the older man muttered. ‘So many didn’t.’ They began to walk towards the house. ‘Don’t mind Eliza, mate – she’s still young and, without a mother’s guiding hand, hasn’t really mastered the art of discretion.’ He shot a glance at Joe. ‘I saw how she was staring, and I apologise.’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ Joe lied tactfully.

  ‘Once she gets to know you she’ll forget about the scars, you’ll see. Eliza’s a little headstrong at times – it’s what comes of losing her mother at such a young age, I reckon – but she’s a born horsewoman, and once she’s fully engaged with her animals she’s a very different person.’

  Joe felt a chill of apprehension and he drew to a halt. Perhaps the differing opinions and awkwardness stemmed from a meddling Eliza – if so, he could not do business with Alan no matter how much he needed his money. ‘I run a tight yard here,’ he warned. ‘The owners are welcome to visit any time as long as we’re not preparing for a race, but I don’t encourage them to linger or mess about with the horses. It upsets the rhythm of the stables.’

  ‘Too right, mate. Any time you feel we’ve outstayed our welcome, just tell us. You’re in charge.’

  ‘As long as you understand that?’ He sternly held the other man’s gaze.

  Alan’s expression was solemn. ‘You have my word, and I’ll make sure Eliza keeps her distance too.’

  ‘I thought you lived in Queensland?’

  ‘We do for now, but I’m thinking of buying a place in Deloraine.’ He must have noted Joe’s alarm at this news, for he chuckled. ‘No worries, mate. We won’t get in your hair. Just give us a winner now and again, and we’ll be happy enough.’

  *

  As he stood on the veranda and watched the Frobishers drive away in a cloud of dust Joe was still not convinced about the contracts he’d just signed. ‘Len didn’t give much away, but he assures me the horses are promising and that Alan pays his bills promptly.’ He gnawed his lip. ‘Alan seems a nice enough bloke, but that girl could be a menace if they move over here,’ he muttered.