Peter Temple: Black Tide

Lyn, the robustly sexy Mrs Strang, came in, escorted by Mrs Aldridge, Harry’s housekeeper through thirty years and three marriages. Cameron Delray, Harry’s lean and taciturn offsider, and I followed Harry’s example and stood up. Lyn had the silver teapot and the bone-china tea-set. Mrs Aldridge had the accompaniments: small, perfect chocolate eclairs, warm shortbread the colour of melted butter.

‘One of each for you, Mr Strang,’ Mrs Aldridge said. ‘And no more than one.’

Lyn made a fist, a fair-sized fist, and touched Harry’s cheek with the knuckles. ‘Listen to the lady,’ she said.

When they had gone, Harry poured tea. He took four eclairs and three shortbreads. ‘They mean well,’ he said. ‘Used to dream about stuff like this when I was ridin.’

I took milk. Harry took lemon. Cam added hot water. We ate and sipped in silence. Then Harry said, ‘Now. Business. Jack, had a talk yesterday. Fellow called McCurdie. Grows somethin or other, dabbles in the cattle out Echuca way. Come via Tony Ericson.’

He bit off half an eclair, looked at the plump layered remains, put them in his mouth. His eyes closed. ‘Hmm, lovely. Why does the Lord put bad in with the good? Anyway, this McCurdie. Bit slow but then a lotta the Woops only got one gear forward. Cam’s run the ruler over him. Cam?’

Cam was looking out of the French window. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘before this year he had nothing for years and he wasn’t ever Bart Cummings. But the strike rate’s not bad. Five years ago, run three horses, sixteen starts for three, two, three. Year before, bit better. Four horses, nineteen starts, four, three, four. Much the same the year before.’ He drank some black tea. ‘A Bob Jane.’

‘A what?’ Bob Jane was the name of a chain of tyre dealers. Racing always held another mystery.

‘Retreads old tyres. Won a race in Albury in ’91, nineteen hundred metres, horse called Live Marine.’

‘Like that name,’ said Harry. He was a connoisseur of horse names, knew thousands, approved of few.

‘Nice name,’ said Cam. ‘Nice age, too. Fourteen. Retired at nine this Marine. Won six out of seventy-five, placed fourteen. Never closer than eighth in the last twelve. Pensioned off, never heard of for five years, presumed dead or carryin kids in some paddock. Come 1991 and aged fourteen, it was like Fred Stolle coming back to win Wimbledon.’

I said, ‘I see. Bob Jane.’

‘This year McCurdie’s got two new little payslips, both won at nineteen hundred.’

‘Had other comeback nags before Live Marine,’ Harry said. ‘But then the luck run out. Now McCurdie’s feelin a twitch in the underwear again.’

I drank some tea. Mrs Aldridge’s tea both soothed the stomach and cheered and stimulated the brain cells. What did Mrs Aldridge know about the chemistry of immersing small leaves in boiling water that was unknown to all other tea-makers? Yet another mystery.

Harry held up a video cassette. ‘Brought this to show me. Looks like a man with the DTs took it. Bring the cups over.’

On the way across the passage to Harry’s elegant twelve-seater cinema, I admired his outfit of the day: Irish houndstooth tweed suit, soft white shirt, silk tie, Lobb’s plain toecap shoes the colour of caramelised onion.

Cam pressed the buttons. We watched a three-horse race run on what looked like an abandoned racecourse. The camera operator suffered from both St Vitus’s Dance and an uncontrollable urge to play with the zoom. In spite of this, it was clear that a large grey won by about five lengths.

‘I see what they mean about country racing being in bad shape,’ I said. ‘Collapsed grandstand, field of three, crowd of one, jockeys riding in shorts.’

‘That’s the creature,’ Harry said. ‘Vision Splendid. Twelve years old. Give Jack the history, Cam.’

‘Sir Rocco out of Clancy’s Angel. Bred by H. and J. Morrisey, Angaston. Owned by two Adelaide lawyers, sold to Ken Gumble, trains at Mornington, as a three-year-old maiden. Gumble sold half share to a lawyers’ syndicate. Lightly raced, forty-four starts, five wins, six seconds, eight thirds, total career winnings $164,500. Not placed in eighteen months, then given to a riding school in Bendigo. That’s where McCurdie bought it two years ago. The school’s run by a friend of his daughter’s.’

‘He’s run this Vision, has he?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Cam said.

‘Man of patience,’ Harry said. ‘Admire that.’

‘Could be patient,’ said Cam. ‘Could be slow.’

‘The beaten nags there,’ said Harry, pointing to the screen. ‘That’s McCurdie’s two three-year-olds. Winners the both.’

‘Winners in Quambatook and Moulamein,’ said Cam, ‘where two slabs of Vic Bitter buys off the whole field.’

‘So he’s looking for another Albury,’ I said.

‘Not this time,’ Harry said. ‘Albury he can do himself. No, he’s lookin for the jeweller’s shop, join those white-shoe boys up in Queensland. Problem is, he’s got no capital.’

‘Man of ambition,’ said Cam. ‘Admire that.’

Harry smiled. ‘Cheeky. Thought we might go for a little sky-borne inspection. Put a pro on this antique horse. Too bloody far to drive. Jack, you in?’

‘Try to keep me on the ground.’

‘Good man. Well, let’s get out to Kyneton and see what this Burnbank Boy can do for us.’

At the Flemington Road lights, Harry sat tapping his big fingertips on the wheel. ‘Mystery’s gone out of racin,’ he said. ‘Blame the cameras. See everythin. Used to be like war out there in the back straight. Life and death. Fellas do anythin. Anythin.’

Cam was reading the Age. Neither of us said anything.

Harry opened the ashtray that held the wine gums and chose one. ‘Prime example that Wes Gales. Dangerous little bastard. Hard. Cut the teeth over the border, Mindarie, Halidon, places like that. Out to buggery.’

We were in the big navy BMW, tenth in line at an intersection that didn’t allow more than seven or eight through at a time. The green arrow came on. Harry revved the machine. The first car was slow off the mark. It wasn’t even going to be eight this time. The car ahead of us went through on red. Two lanes of traffic started coming at us.

‘Bugger this,’ said Harry. He put his foot down, took the BMW into a screaming right-hand turn. We passed across the face of death, alive by a metre or so.

‘Sluggish,’ Harry said. ‘Tuned by these galahs just the other day. Charge like proctologists. Cheaper to keep a horse in trainin. Wes Gales. Wonder what happened to him? Saw him stick his whip up a fella’s arse once. On the favourite, Mavourneen’s Kiss, good name that, went around on her a few times. We’re just at the school at Flemington, Wes pulls the arm back and rams it up him. Hole in one. The fella, Carter, he gives a big squeak, sits down, that’s it, runs near last, poor sod. Stable wants his clangers on a plate.’

‘Good old days,’ said Cam. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.

‘Hard old days. Inside the door, Carter takes a swing at Wes. Big mistake. Wes slaps him a few, knocks him down, gives him a bit of grace with the slipper.’

‘How’d the stewards like that?’ I said.

‘Not a word said to the stewards. Had to look after yourself back then. I said to Gales, he was lookin pleased, I said, “Wes, you wouldn’t put the stick up my arse, would you?’’ He says, “Only do it to blokes don’t enjoy it.’’’

‘Cheeky,’ said Cam.

Harry straddled lanes, preparing to take the vehicle between a semi-trailer and a truck carrying huge sheets of glass. ‘My word,’ he said. ‘So I king-hit him. They got the doctor in, the boy’s that slow to start answerin questions. Know yer name, what day’s it and suchlike.’