Twenty-One

"You're looking lovely this morning. All dressed up, too. You know Sunday isn't until tomorrow, don't you?"

I laughed as Merry fell silent and poured herself some more tea. Her body shuddered as she started coughing again. My chest ached in sympathy for her pain.

"Are you sure you'll be all right without me?" I asked.

She nodded, unable to answer between the barks of her lung-wrenching coughing fit.

"Merry, I don't have to go to the races today. I can stay here to take care of you. I'll even postpone my trip if I have to. You've been so good, taking care of me for all this time. The least I can do is nurse you when you're so sick."

Merry shook her head violently. "No. You need to do this. Find your future. The path you want to travel. Follow where your heart leads, ssss –" Her words disappeared into more coughing.

I grasped her hands. "All right, but you return to bed and rest. The doctor said you won't get well without it."

I couldn't explain how I'd come to care for her more than I did my mother, but Merry's kindness through the years she'd let me live with her meant more to me than eighteen years of my mother's cold community.

The truck engine rumbled outside and I heard male laughter. I rushed to the door, checking my hat in the hall mirror as I slipped into my horrible, heeled shoes. There was such finality in the click as the front door closed behind me.

Tony waved from the driver's window while the men in the cab with him wolf-whistled. The truck's tray was full of fishermen instead of their catch today, all dressed up to go to the races. "Come on up, Maria."

Squabbling started over where I was to sit in the back, while I wished I wasn't wearing a skirt. What I wouldn't give to be wearing practical pants like the men today. Climbing over the sides in this was a recipe for disaster.

Tony appeared at my side. "She's riding in the cab with me. Vince and Steven can sit in the back with you lot."

Gratefully, I took his hand and allowed him to assist me into the seat.

"You look beautiful and you smell heavenly," he said as soon as the doors were shut.

I laughed. "The smell is Aunt Merry's perfume. She insisted I wear some tonight. Made of myrrh, sandalwood and flowers, she said."

"I've never smelled myrrh, though we get plenty of sandalwood come through the port. Myrrh is something I only hear about at Christmas." He grinned and urged the truck to start moving down the road.

We headed up Canning Road, along the river to the racetrack. The tide was out, so the river mud smelled musty as the morning sun struck it. Behind us, the men were complaining about the smell and blaming each other for breaking wind.

"Have I told you how happy I am you decided to come with us?" Tony said, glancing at me before returning his attention to the road.

We bumped and jolted all the way to Ascot Racecourse. Outside the entrance, there must have been twenty or thirty motorcycles lined up along a line painted in the dirt. The blokes in the back jumped out and I slid down to the ground without waiting for assistance. Steven appeared, wheeling Tony's Indian motorcycle and wearing a huge grin. "With your good luck charm along, you'll have no trouble this time, cuz."

Tony deliberately avoided my searching gaze, so I was forced to ask, "Good luck charm? Are you racing today? I thought we were just here to watch!"

"We're all here to watch," Vince drawled. "But Tony's entered the Half-Day Trial. He's got a lady he wants to impress."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who'd caught Tony's fancy, but a quick glance at his blush told me I already knew.

The rest of the morning was interminable, as the race organisers explained the rules, the nature of the thirty-three mile track and how they'd be watching to see how many time the men put their feet down to help their bikes through the various hazards around the track. Tony and his fellow motorbike enthusiasts didn't look anywhere near as bored as I was – quite the contrary. Every word seemed to increase their excitement about the race.

Noon came and went with sandwiches served in the refreshment tent beside what one of the race organisers informed me was the finish line. He turned out to be Mr Davy, one of the office-holding members of the Motor Cycling Association, and he was soon explaining the difficulties of the course to me and, not long after, to Tony.

I decided to take one more sandwich before Tony turned to me, said, "Wish me luck," and headed off. Past him, I could see the other competitors checking and mounting their motorcycles. Finally, the race was about to start. I crammed the last sandwich into my mouth and looked around for somewhere to sit and watch the race.

"Here, Mrs Basile. Come to the judges' box so you can see better," Mr Davy said.

I almost choked on my food, but my mouth was too full to speak, so I let him lead me up to the temporary judges' box to the sound of sniggers from Tony's friends.

"Gentlemen, start your engines!" someone called. Twenty-six booted feet kicked the starters for the motorcycles and engines rattled to life. Several seconds and a great deal of swearing later, all the bikes were vibrating, ready for action.

"GO!" he bellowed, barely loud enough to be heard over all the engines. Dirt flew and the convoy of motorcycles took off.

A nailbiting wait ensued as the buzz faded even from my acute hearing and all I could hear was the chatter of those who'd remained here to watch the end of the race. Everyone else had headed for vantage points around the hazards. With my best dress and heeled shoes on, I was hardly dressed for traipsing through the bush, so I sat forlornly in the judges' box, waiting for the riders to come through for the second lap.

I heard them before I saw them, but the first two burst out of the scrub and whined around the curve to cross the starting line for the second time. To my surprise, the third man to appear was Tony on his Indian. I cheered and he lifted a hand to wave, though his eyes never left the track. Hot on his heels was a man wearing a huge pair of goggles, hunched over his Triumph.

One of the motherly women who'd brought out the sandwiches lifted a tray up to the judging box. Mr Davy offered it to me and I thanked him as I took the nearest mug of steaming, milky tea. For several minutes, motorcycles sped past us, headed around the track for their next lap before the sound of their engines faded into the distance once more.

When the next wave came through, for a moment I thought it was Tony on the leading motorcycle, but the Sun the man was riding wasn't Tony's. He zipped past, closely followed by another man I didn't know. Tony crested the rise beside Goggles, edging slightly ahead of him to take the inside of the curve to their final lap.

In a momentary lull between a river of motorcycles, Mr Davy remarked, "Your husband's holding his own with some of the best riders in the state, Mrs Basile."

It took me a moment to realise he was referring to Tony – and speaking to me. I blushed. How to correct him without saying the wrong thing? "Oh...I'm not...I mean, he's not..."

My flustered attempt at explaining was drowned out by loud cheering from a crowd of men who'd appeared by the finish line.

Mr Davy jumped up. "And the winner of the Half-Day Trial is...Wilkinson, on his brand-new BSA, followed by Armstrong on his Sun in second place!" he roared.

I heard buzzing in the distance and a third motorcycle appeared. "Third place goes to...Hunter!" Two more crested the rise, gunning their engines furiously to outdistance one another, but neither seemed to be able to lose his opponent. "Fourth is tied – Mortlock and Charman!"

My heart plummeted. Where was Tony?