Saturday is race day – it starts like any other day then the tension starts to build. There’s important work to be done, and the sooner we get breakfast and chores out of the way, the better.
This Saturday you could have cut the tension in our place with a knife. Dad got home late the night before and Mum was giving him the silent treatment. It was the Anniversary Day long weekend with races on Saturday and Monday at Randwick Racecourse to celebrate the landing of Captain Arthur Phillip and the First Fleet on 26 January 1788. Dad was going to be flat out all weekend. The big races – the Anniversary Handicap and the Adrian Knox Stakes – were on Monday with big prize money for the winners. The Adrian Knox Stakes is a race for three-year-old fillies only, which is rare in horseracing.
‘It gives the fillies a chance to race without having to worry about the colts getting too frisky and excited,’ Dad explained.
Dad knows all about getting frisky and excited, I caught him in the act once. Mum was still in hospital with Matilda. I heard voices upstairs and thought they’d come home early. I ran into the bedroom then stopped dead in my tracks. There was Dad in bed with another woman. I don’t think he saw me; he was way too busy. I ran away as fast as I could. Dad called out but I didn’t answer. He must have figured out it was me; he’s been out to get me ever since.
That morning, my little brother Kit and I were eating breakfast quickly, crunching and munching loudly, trying to outdo each other. I grabbed a third piece of buttered toast, demolishing it while Kit was still on his second. We slurped hot, sweet, milky tea in between mouthfuls.
Dad threw his cup into the sink, smashing it. ‘I’ve had enough of this! I work seven days a week, and this is the thanks I get?’ He glared at Mum and she glared at him.
‘I can smell it on you,’ she said.
‘Can you smell it now?’ Dad lifted Mum off her chair with one hand. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that!’ he said.
I jumped up, grabbing his hand as he went to slap her across the face.
He pushed me hard against the wall. ‘You stay out of this! It’s between me and your mother.’ He grabbed Mum by the arm. ‘It’s my business what I do on a Friday night. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.’
Mum squeezed my hand on the way past. It was her way of telling me that she was alright.
While Dad was going to be busy taking bets for the Anniversary Day races, I was planning to be four blocks away with Harry, taking bets for the Glebe Derby, the biggest billycart race in Sydney.
Dad had locked my old billycart in the back shed to punish me for almost burning the house down, when all I was trying to do was light a really hot fire to unblock the chimney in the lounge room. I’d already tried using the poker but the soot wouldn’t budge. Old Billy told me that lighting a hot fire is a cheaper and better way to unblock a chimney than hiring a chimneysweep. I was keen to put it to the test.
The wood was a bit damp and I couldn’t get the fire started, so I splashed on some petrol, chucked on screwed-up newspaper and threw a match in. It all burst into flames but instead of burning through the soot, it filled the room with smoke. I could hardly breathe. Just when I was about to give up and put out the fire, the flames started racing up the chimney like wildfire. Everything went quiet for a couple of seconds before the thunder. I thought the chimney was going to explode. I ran outside just in time to see black smoke and feathers shooting out all over the roof then raced back in to inspect the damage before Dad did. The smell of burnt pigeon and starling combined with the petrol fumes was really disgusting. Soot, feathers and small charred bodies were all over the lounge room. It was much worse than when I’d tried to push Kit down the chimney to prove there was no Father Christmas.
I didn’t burn the house down but I did unblock the chimney – clean as a whistle! Then it took me all day to clean up the mess inside and out. I got the usual belting and to top it off, Dad locked up my old billycart, just because I’d brought it into the house. I had to bring the wood and petrol inside somehow. That old thing was falling apart anyway. I was going to throw it on the fire if the petrol didn’t work but it worked a treat.
What Dad didn’t realise was that my old billycart had already been replaced by a newer model. Harry and I built the best billycart ever at his nan’s house. I was the Glebe Billycart Derby champion, and was defending my title at three o’clock, the same time as the fourth race at Randwick. My regular Saturday chores would have to wait because I had bigger fish to fry.