Harry and I couldn’t take the bets fast enough. There was a big turnout for the race, bigger than we’d expected. Not just kids but adults as well, and they all wanted a piece of the action. While Kit was busy marking out the starting positions on the road with chalk, I checked out the competition.
I was up against five other billycarts – three locals and two blow-ins. Sid Dunn was my only real threat, he’d been trying to beat me for the past two years, and came close last year. Sid’s cousin, Stan, was racing Sid’s old billycart, and the other blow-in was that new kid from Cowra. Only been in Glebe a week and thought he could win the Derby. No chance! Gordon always comes last in his fruit box on wheels. I didn’t expect it’d be any different this year – same Gordon, same fruit box. Tommy Fisher didn’t have a hope in hell. He was only ten, the same age as Kit, and way too young to handle the pressure of a big race like this.
Being the Glebe Billycart Derby champion, I was the favourite to win. Judging by the bets being placed, most of the punters thought so too. Harry and I did some quick calculations and worked out that we’d be at least thirty shillings in front if I lost the race. Kit was beside himself.
‘What do you mean “lose the race”? You’re going to win, aren’t you?’ Kit asked, picking his nose. He does that when he gets nervous or upset.
‘We’re running a business here, not a charity. The whole point of the Derby is to make money.’ I tried to give him a brotherly hug but he pushed me away.
‘You’re the Glebe Derby champion – don’t you care about that?’ It was touching that Kit was more concerned about my reputation than the money we’d be making.
‘Of course I do, but only when I’ve got better odds. I’ll win the Derby next time or maybe the time after that. It all depends.’
‘I don’t get it. How can we win money if you lose the race?’
‘Haven’t ya parents taught ya nothin’?’ Harry almost spat at Kit, rolling his eyes in disgust. ‘We make bucket loads of cash if Joe loses ’cos we don’t hafta pay the punters nothin’.’
Kit still wasn’t happy. ‘Why did we go to so much trouble building a new billycart if you’re only going to lose? Why did you take the wheels off Matilda’s pram?’ He was shaking and looked like he was about to cry.
My mind was focused on billycarts, not family heirlooms. I had a race to lose. I climbed into the billycart, shifting my body about to get a feel for the new model. I looked at Sid, my main competition, and stared him down.
Harry was ready with the starter’s gun. ‘On ya marks, get set—’
When the gun sounded, I was off. The billycarts rolled together down the road, getting ready for the big downhill section. At the top of the hill, I could see people lined up on both sides of the road, cheering for their favourites. I accelerated down the hill, faster than I’d ever gone before. Must be Matilda’s pram wheels, I thought. I flew over bumps and potholes, and took the bend in the road with ease. I was a nose in front of my nearest rival and we were well in front of the others, damn it! This called for desperate measures. I pulled on my rope and steered across the road, ramming the new kid from Cowra.
‘Piss off !’ he shouted. He managed to pull free but we were drawn together again like magnets, and our wheels locked.
‘Get off me!’ he screamed.
‘I can’t!’ I screamed back.
We skidded for several yards, still locked firmly together and about to win the race. I tugged on my rope as hard as I could. We both swerved, crashing into a garbage bin that was lying in the gutter and then spun into a lamppost, the force of which finally threw us apart, not far from the finish line but not close enough, thank God! Sid Dunn won, his cousin Stan came second, Tommy came third, and Gordon came last for the third year in a row, a new race record. The new kid from Cowra and I were disqualified for going outside the race boundaries.
Harry paid five shillings to each of the two punters who’d bet on the winner, and then started counting all the money that was left – our winnings. Gordon, who had come last in the race, was quietly watching Harry. Standing next to him was a tall, thin man wearing an old hat that was pulled down over his eyes.
‘I know what ya did and me son wants ’is money back,’ the man said.
‘I dunno what ya talkin’ ’bout,’ Harry replied.
‘I heard ya talkin’ before ’bout throwin’ the race. Ya said ya’d make more money that way.’
‘Well ya heard wrong, mister. Sid Dunn won fair ’n’ square.’
‘Give me son ’is money back!’
‘Piss off !’ Harry replied, staring the man down.
‘Ya haven’t heard the last of this. Gordon, go get ya billycart, we’re goin’ home.’
I may have lost the race and the respect of a few people, but Harry and I won thirty-six shillings. I also got much more than I bargained for. As I picked myself up from the gutter, my right arm went limp and started to throb. ‘Bugger it!’ I yelled at the peeling paint on the lamppost.
‘Ya bloody idiot! Ya didn’t hafta crash it. That’s four weeks’ work down the drain,’ Harry said, kicking the broken pieces of billycart off the road. ‘Here’s ya share o’ the winnin’s.’ He dropped eighteen shillings into my hand. ‘Don’t forget the cricket match tomorra. I’ll pick ya up at eight.’ He headed back up the hill whistling. Harry’s not the most sympathetic bloke, but he’s still my best mate.
‘You could’ve won the Derby easily if you wanted to,’ Kit said, picking up the four pram wheels from the gutter, inspecting each of them. Surprisingly, they looked as good as new.
‘Here’s a couple of bob for helping me out with the race,’ I said, trying to give Kit two shiny new shillings. ‘Ow!’ I screamed, clutching my sore arm.
‘I don’t want your money,’ he said, walking away. He went a few yards up the road and then stopped. ‘How’s your arm?’ he called out.
‘Bloody sore – I think I’ve broken it.’
‘I’m going to put the wheels back on Matilda’s pram before Mum notices they’re gone. Are you coming?’
‘You bet!’ I might have scored a broken arm but I had a pocketful of money and was feeling almost on top of the world. Kit wasn’t so happy – he didn’t say another word to me the rest of the way home.