these days. No ‘little Jimmy’ anymore. James Claybourne Cunningham. Claybourne, would you believe, was his mother’s maiden name. A bit fancy for the likes of her.’
‘It’s a nice tribute to his mother,’ Carrie said quietly. ‘He can’t have any fond memories of your side of the family.’ What an understatement!
‘Nor we for him! But the feud was on long before that. My grandad and great-uncle Angus hated one another. The whole Outback knows that.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Carrie said, long acquainted with the tortured saga of the Cunninghams. She angled her wide brimmed cream hat so that it came further down over her eyes. The sun was blazing at three o’clock in the afternoon. A shimmering heat haze hovered over the track. ‘Look, they’re about to start.’
‘Oh goody!’ Natasha mocked the excitement in Carrie’s voice. ‘My money’s on Scott.’ She glanced sideways, her blue eyes filled with overt malice.
‘So’s mine,’ Carrie answered calmly, visibly moving Scott’s two carat diamond solitaire around on her finger. Natasha had always had her eye on Scott. It was in the nature of things Natasha Cunningham would always get what she wanted. But Scott had fallen for Carrie, very much upsetting the Cunninghams, and marking Carrie as a target for Natasha’s vicious tongue. Something that had to be lived with.
Three races had already been run that afternoon. The crowd was in fine form calling for the day’s big event to begin. There was a bit of larrikinism quickly clamped down on by Jimboorie’s resident policeman. The huge white marquees acting as ‘bars’ had been doing a roaring trade. Scott, on the strapping Sassafras, a rich red chestnut with a white blaze and white socks, was the bookies’ favourite, as well as the crowd’s. He was up against two fine riders, members of his own polo team. No one had had any prior knowledge of the riding skills of the latest arrival to their far flung bush community. Well they knew now, Carrie thought. They only had to watch the way he handled his handsome horse. It had an excellent conformation; a generous chest that would have good heart room. The crowd knew who the rider was of course. Everyone knew his sad history. And there was more! All the girls for hundreds of miles around were agog with excitement having heard the rumour, which naturally spread like a bushfire, Clay Cunningham, a bachelor, was looking for a wife. That rivetting piece of information had come from Jimboorie’s leading publican, the one and only Vince Dougherty. Vince gained it, he claimed, over a cold beer or two. Not that Clay Cunningham was the only bush bachelor looking for a wife. In the harsh and lonely conditions of the Outback—very much a man’s world—eligible women were a fairly scarce commodity and thus highly prized. As far as Carrie could see all the pretty girls had swarmed here, some already joking about making the newcomer a good wife. Perhaps Clay Cunningham had been unwise to mention it. There was a good chance he’d get mobbed as proceedings got more boisterous.
He certainly cut a fine figure on horseback though Carrie didn’t expect Natasha to concede that. The black gelding looked in tip-top condition. It had drawn almost as many admiring eyes as its rider. A fine rider herself—Carrie had won many ladies’ races and cross country events—she loved to see good horsemanship. She hadn’t competed in the Ladies’ Race run earlier that day, which she most likely would have won. She was to present the Jimboorie Cup to the winning rider. Her mother, Alicia, President of the Ladies Committee and a woman of powerful persuasion, had insisted she look as fresh as a daisy and as glamorous as possible. A journalist and a photographer from a popular women’s magazine had been invited to cover the two-day event with a gala dance to be held that night in Jimboorie’s splendid new Community Hall of which they were all very proud.
A few minutes before 3:00 p.m. the chattering, laughing crowd abruptly hushed. They were waiting now for the starter, mounted on a distinguished old grey mare everyone knew as Daisy, to drop his white flag…Carrie began to count the seconds….
‘They’re off!’ she shouted in her excitement, making a spontaneous little spring off the ground. A great cheer rose all around her, lofting into the cloudless cobalt sky. The field, ten runners in all, literally leapt from their standing start. The horses as was usual were bunched up at first. Then the riders began battling for good positions, two quickly becoming trapped on the rails. The field sorted itself out and the horses began to pound along, hooves eating up a track that was predictably hard and fast.
When the time came for the riders to negotiate the turn in what was essentially a wild bush track, half of the field started to fall back. In many ways it was more like a Wild West gallop than the kind of sophisticated flat race one would see at a city track. The front runners had begun to fight it out, showing their true grit. Scott, his polo team mates and Jack Butler, who was Carrie’s father’s overseer on Victory Downs. Clay Cunningham’s black gelding was less than a length behind Jack and going well. Carrie watched him lean forward to hiss some instruction into his horse’s ear.
‘Oh dear!’ Carrie watched with a perverse mix of dismay and delight as the gelding stormed up alongside Jack’s gutsy chestnut, then overtook him. Jack, who would have been thrilled to be among the frontliners, was battling away for all he was worth. At this rate Clay Cunningham was a sure thing, Carrie considered, unless Scott could get some extra speed from his mount. Scott was savagely competitive but the newcomer was giving every indication he’d be hard to beat. One thing was certain. Clay Cunningham was a crack rider.
Natasha, too, had drawn in her breath sharply. The possibility Scott could be beaten hadn’t occurred to either woman. Golden Boy Harper, as he was popularly known, was captain of their winning polo team and thus had a special place in Jimboorie society.
‘Your cousin looks like winning,’ Carrie warned her, shaking her own head. ‘Damn it, now, Scott! Make your move.’ Carrie wasn’t sure Scott was riding the right race. Though she would never say it, she didn’t actually consider Scott had the innate ability to get the best out of a horse. He didn’t know much about coaxing for one thing.
Natasha belted the air furiously with her fist. ‘This shouldn’t be happening.’
‘Well it is!’ Carrie was preparing herself for the worst.
She saw Scott produce his whip, giving his horse a sharp crack, but Clay Cunningham was using touch and judgment rather than resorting to force. It paid off. The big black gelding had already closed the gap coming at full stride down the track.
‘Damn it!’ Natasha shrieked, looking ready to burst with disappointment.
Carrie, on the other hand, was feeling almost guilty. She was getting goose bumps just watching Clay Cunningham ride with such authority that Scott’s efforts nearly fell into insignificance. That feeling in itself was difficult to come to grips with. The fast paced highly competitive gelding, like its rider, looked like it had plenty left in reserve.
Carrie held her breath, still feeling that upsurge of contrasting emotions. Admiration and apprehension were there aplenty. Sharp disappointment that Scott, her fiancé, wasn’t going to win. Elation at how fast the big gelding was travelling—that was the horse lover in her she told herself. That animal had a lot of class. So did its rider. There was a man determined to win. After the way Jimboorie had treated him, Carrie couldn’t begrudge him the victory. She liked a fighter.
Two minutes more, just as she expected, Lightning Boy flew past the post with almost two full lengths in hand.
What a buzz!
‘Oh, well done!’ Carrie cried, putting her hands together. For a moment she forgot she was standing beside Natasha, the inveterate informer. ‘I wonder if he plays polo?’ What an asset he would be!
‘Of course he doesn’t play polo,’ Natasha snapped. ‘He’s a pauper. Paupers
