Neither was Ennis McAndrew.
* * *
—
Yes, Ennis.
Mr. McAndrew.
Ennis McAndrew had rules.
First, he made apprentices wait; you never rode your first year, ever, and that was if he took you in the first place. He naturally cared about riding ability, but he also read your school reports, and especially all the comments. If easily distracted was written just once, you could forget it. Even when he accepted your application, he’d have you come to the stables early morning, three out of six days a week. You could shovel, and lead rope. You could watch. But never, under any circumstance, could you talk. You could write your questions down, or remember them and ask on Sundays. On Saturdays you could come to race meetings. Again, no talking. He knew you were there if he wanted to know you were there. Very factually, it was stated you should stay with your family, go with your friends—because from second year on you’d hardly see them.
On the alternate days of the week, you could sleep in—that was, you could report to the Tri-Colors Boxing Gym at five-thirty, to run roadwork with all the boxers. If you missed one, the old man would know—he’d know.
But still.
He’d never been set upon like this.
At fourteen she started up the letters again, this time from Carey Novac. Kelly from the Country was gone. She apologized for the error of judgment, and hoped it hadn’t blighted thoughts on her character. She was aware of everything—his laws of an apprenticeship—and she would do whatever it took; she’d muck the stables out nonstop if she had to.
Finally, a letter came back.
In Ennis McAndrew’s tight-scrawled hand was the inevitable, identical phrasing:
Permission from your mother.
Permission from your father.
And that was her biggest problem.
Her parents were resolved as well:
The answer was still firmly no.
She would never become a jockey.
* * *
—
As far as Carey was concerned, it was a disgrace.
Sure, fine, it was perfectly acceptable for her miscreant brothers to be jockeys—and average, lazy ones at that—but not for her. Once she even pulled a framed photo of The Spaniard off the lounge room wall, and threw herself into her argument:
“McAndrew’s even got a horse from the bloodline of this one.”
“What?”
“Don’t you read the paper?”
And then:
“How could you have had this yourself and not let me? Look at him!” Her freckles were blazing. Her hair, tangled. “Don’t you remember what it was like? Hitting the turn? Taking the straight?”
Rather than hang it on the wall again, she slammed it to the coffee table, and the impact cracked the glass.
“You can pay for that,” he said, and it was lucky the frame was a cheap one.