The race was at four-fifty and we got there for three, and I paid the admission. When we pooled our money near the bookies, Henry took the roll out. He gave Clay a certain wink. “Don’t worry, boys, I’ve got this.”
When it was done, we made our way over, and up, past the members, to the muck. Both stands were close to packed. We found seats in the very top row.
By four the sun was dropping, but still white.
By four-thirty, with Carey stock-still in the mounting yard, it was starting to yellow, behind us.
In the color and noise and movement, McAndrew was in his suit. He said not a single word to her, just a hand down onto her shoulder. Petey Simms, his best groom, was there, too, but McAndrew lifted her upwards, to the breadth of Cootamundra.
She trotted him lightly away.
* * *
—
At the jump, the crowd all stood.
Clay’s heart was out of its gate.
The deep-brown horse, and rider on top, went straight out to the front. The colors, red-green-white. “As expected,” the course caller informed them, “but this is no ordinary field, let’s see what Cootamundra’s got for us….Let’s see what the young apprentice has—Red Centre three lengths second.”
In the grandstand shade we watched.
The horses ran in the light.
“Jesus,” said the man standing next to me. “Five lengths bloody ahead.”
“Come on, Coota, you big brown bastard!”
That, I think, was Rory.
At the turn, they all closed in.
In the straight, she asked him for more.
Two horses—Red Centre and Diamond Game—climbed forward, and the crowd called all of them home. Even me. Even Tommy. The shouts of Henry and Rory. We roared for Cootamundra.
And Clay.
Clay was in the middle of us, he was standing on his seat.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t make a sound.
Hands-and-heels and she brought him home.
Two lengths and girl and sea glass.
Carey Novac in the eighth.
* * *
—
It had been a long time since he’d sat on the roof, but he did that Monday night; he was camouflaged amongst the tiles.
But Carey Novac saw him.