In Lonnie's Shadow (21 page)

TROPHY

Item No. 3769

Miniature replica of the Melbourne Cup trophy celebrating the win of Glenloth.

Over the next few days, Lonnie’s grave fears were not reassured by the comings and goings in Little Lon. Mrs B’s houses, together with Annie’s, were raided by the law, for it was believed the mace had found its way to one of the brothels before being melted down and sold off. Parliament was in uproar, all eyes, as well as being pinned on each other, were watching the trade in gold. Two constables who obviously hadn’t been briefed were caught short in the searches, found hiding in the water closet behind number four. However, no one out of the ordinary had as yet come knocking on Lonnie’s door to march him off to gaol, and he was beginning to hope he had escaped detection.

After all the explosiveness in his own life of late everything else seemed mundane by comparison. He sometimes wondered if life meant to deliberately hand out disasters, which in his case seemed to come in lashings, so that good times would follow; as if the heavens needed to balance life’s ups and downs.

Thankfully it had not taken long for him to fully recover from his injuries.

But his stroke of luck came when Ned gave him the word to start work at the Glen. He had settled in so well he could barely imagine having worked anywhere else. Golden Acres was a distant bad memory. Even his mam was going about these days with a smile, reassured her son had an honest, hard- working job – away from the Cricks – to keep him out of mischief, and hopeful he meant his promise never to street race again.

Lonnie’s fears about Mr Alcock not buying Trident had been unfounded. It was incredible news to him when he heard how the Glen had sent Ned over to Golden Acres to buy the horse. Trident had been put out to pasture and given time to settle in before being put to work. He was now in full training.

In fact, life could not be more fortunate, if not for his guilt over Slasher Jack, which he still wore like a weighted saddle on his back. Nevertheless, Lonnie was determined to make the best of these go-ahead opportunities, which at this very moment meant pitching hay from a wagon, and he did it with the same enthusiasm he would have used digging for gold.

‘Over here, lad.’

Ned’s voice broke Lonnie out of his daydreams.

‘Who, me?’ he called.

‘Of course you, Lonnie.’ Ned waved him over. ‘I’ve just had our top jockey ride that horse you persuaded us to buy and I’m afraid it’s not looking so good.’

‘Trident?’

‘Yes. If we keep him we’ll be changing his name, something more fitting to the Glen.’

‘If you keep him?’ Lonnie knew how foolish he sounded to his new foreman, but he couldn’t conquer the fear that something was wrong. ‘You’ve got to let me check him, let me ride him, see if he’s injured.’

‘Steady on,’ Ned replied. While he valued a passionate and testy spirit, he was far too busy today for an outburst. ‘Pull your horns in a bit and listen to me, because you obviously didn’t before. First, I do know horses and he’s not injured. No question of that.’

Lonnie swallowed hard, forcing himself to stop the rambling. He took a step backwards to lean on the wagon. The last thing he wanted was to agitate his foreman. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m not suggesting you don’t know horses.’ Lonnie was not questioning Ned’s ability. He had seen enough to know Ned shared his own deep feelings for animals. Nor did he want him thinking he was a shirker, or worse, a fool.

‘There you go, off and running again, shut up, lad, and let me speak.’ Understanding the boy’s discomfort, Ned softened his tone. ‘Let me finish what I have to say then you can say your piece. Agreed?’

Lonnie nodded, even though he could hardly hold back what was on his tongue.

‘Fine, let’s say we agree the horse is not injured and that my very best jockey rode him. And, might I add, gave him every chance. And that I saw the trial with my own eyes. But Trident just didn’t fire. Believe me, he seemed a very ordinary horse. Now you have your say and then get back to work.’

Lonnie was grateful to be allowed to speak his mind, although he realised there was no reason for Ned to give any credit to his opinion. ‘I’m not so good with words, sir,’ he started awkwardly. ‘I can’t win you over that way. But let me ride against your best horse and jockey, and I’ll prove that Trident is no ordinary horse.’

The foreman shook his head, still unconvinced.

‘It’s a waste of time, my lad, and time’s money. We’re not paying you to play games.’

Lonnie knew if he let this chance slip by he may never have another opportunity to convince the Glen to hold on to Trident. He pressed on. ‘Let me say one more thing, sir, and then I’ll go back to work and make up for any lost time. For that you have my promise. But if you give me one chance to race Trident against your best horse and jockey, I’ll prove he’s fine. If I lose I won’t argue any further and you won’t have to pay me next week.’

Ned raised an eyebrow. ‘Losing a week’s pay will set you back hard. You really believe you’re a better rider than my top jockey?’

‘No, sir, but I do believe Trident will go so much better for me. I don’t know why, he just does.’

‘Why I’m bothering I don’t know, but okay, let’s see you prove your point. Saddle up the horse. I’ll arrange for a good jockey and horse to race you. Be at the six furlong post at eight sharp.’

Lonnie forgot his station in his excitement, saying,

‘Thanks, Ned.’ He quickly corrected himself. ‘I mean thanks, sir. But Trident won’t even get warmed up over the six furlongs. He’s a stayer, can we make it further?’

‘Don’t try my patience, it’s six or nothing. Besides, the rest of the track is under repair, you know that.’ Ned shielded a sly smile. Here he was explaining himself for no good reason. He wholeheartedly agreed with Mr Alcock, this lad certainly had some pluck.

At two minutes to eight, Lonnie cantered Trident over to the track, then dismounted. Best to take his weight off the horse’s back. He spoke in hushed tones, explaining to the horse the importance of doing its best on the track today. Even though Lonnie had faith in Trident, he waited anxiously for his competitor to turn up. When the Glen’s top horse and rider drew alongside, Lonnie nervously remounted.

The jockey had no intention of being pleasant.

‘Why I’m here in such a mismatch, I’ll never know, but I’m going to enjoy thrashing you, if only for what you did to my mate, Thomas Crick.’

Lonnie gulped. Here I go again, he thought. Just when I’m about to ride in another race with such high stakes, I find myself up against a mate of Crick’s. He steadied Trident and whispered to the horse and to himself,

‘We can do it.’

Ned leaned over the running rail and called, ‘Are you two ready?’ Both riders touched their caps in a salute of confirmation. ‘Go!’

Down at the five furlong mark, Lonnie and Trident were three lengths behind. Lonnie chastised the horse. ‘If only you didn’t miss the start every time and get so far behind, you wouldn’t have to work so hard later in the race.’

Trident stuck out his tongue the way horses often do when racing, but Lonnie could have sworn the horse was making a point.

‘Come on,’ he coaxed a few moments later, ‘move up a little closer, we’re approaching the two furlong mark. The race is nearly over.’ Lonnie stood high in the stirrups, leaning forward to take the weight off the horse’s back. ‘Come on boy, come on.’

Trident understood all right. He went into top gear and finished off the race at a speed that Ned would later recall he had never seen before in any horse, stayer or sprinter.

On many a future first Tuesday in November, the Glen foreman would fondly recall this particular morning to anyone who cared to listen. How everyone knew him to be a tough bloke who, like all good Scotsmen, rarely showed his emotions, but the sight of that Little Lon lad and his horse riding so gracefully was one of those rare occasions that could break through his cast-iron mask. How it had made his face glow with anticipation. How he had shaken his head in disbelief and said, ‘I swear that’s not the same horse I saw earlier. What an unbelievable finishing burst!’ How he had asked in amazement:

‘Does he do that for you all the time?’ How Lonnie had answered proudly: ‘He does, sir. He does.’ And how Ned knew, without a doubt, that one day Lonnie McGuinness would ride this horse in first place past the winning post in a major race. And there would be a trophy to prove it.

Ned was only too happy to give the lad his proper dues. ‘Well, you’ll get your pay next week, don’t you worry! You never intended losing your wages, did you?’ But he’d have to earn those dues from now on.

‘I want you to ride Trident all the time. As your main job. You must ride him at all track work. You feed him, you groom him, you exercise him and you even sleep with him if he’s sick. Agreed?’

At first Lonnie thought he was hearing things, that he had somehow got Ned’s announcement muddled. But as the orders sank in he was in full agreement.

‘Too right I will.’

Ned appeared to be as excited as Lonnie. ‘Here’s the deal then, lad. How’d you like to be signed up as an apprentice jockey? We’ll get you riding at the races as soon as possible. Apart from a few minor refinements, I think you’re up to it. You’ll get a bit more money, of course. I suppose I should talk to the boss first. He’s looking to see how you settle in, but I’ll take the punt that he’ll agree.’ With a grin as broad as a beach at low tide, Ned reached out to shake Lonnie’s hand.

Lost for words, Lonnie numbly returned the handshake.

‘Move yourself, lad, don’t just stand there like an imbecile, get that horse rubbed down.’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ Lonnie repeated, marvelling at his own luck.

Ned had one caution for him. A friendly word of warning for the future, he called it. ‘A lot of names have been thrown around over a certain street race. Be very clear about one thing, don’t ever enter one again or take any part whatsoever. You hear what I’m saying? Keep well away or you won’t be working here for long.’

If Lonnie had ever felt undecided about his promise to his mam to never street race again, the prospect of doing so was forever erased. Ned’s advice to go on the straight and narrow was the way it was going to be from now on. His future was at the Glen and he’d do his best to measure up. He vowed never to let this marvellous horse out of his sight. He wouldn’t even go home that night. He’d sleep in the stable alongside Trident and dream up a new name for his favourite horse himself.

‘So Ned’s just found out what we’ve all known for ages. It took him long enough to realise,’ Daisy said, full of praise when Lonnie dropped by the next day to tell her his good news. ‘That you’re the best jockey around.’

BRASS KNUCKLE

Item No. 3965

Common fighting weapon known to have been used by larrikins
.

As usual, when good news hit Lonnie’s life the bad was soon to follow, creeping up, never far behind, ready to slam him over the head with a pickaxe han- dle or crack him with a riding whip. Before too long, the latest round of bad business came in the form of a news article in the Argus: Francis Todd, also known as Billy Bottle, was being held on suspicion for the disappearance and possible murder of notorious Little Lon man, Jack Smith, who went by the alias of Slasher Jack.

It seemed Billy had been arrested during a brawl at the Leitrim, charged with causing an affray and tossed into a cell. While being searched, he was found to be in possession of a range of weapons, including a brass knuckle and a certain knife, the latter turning out to be of great interest to the police for it belonged to the missing Smith who had recently disappeared in mysterious circumstances.

The report mentioned a diligent young constable, new to the job, who had noted a man hogtied in a wagon, accompanied by a band of larrikins believed to be the Glass and Bottle Gang. They were in the vicinity of the bay on the very same night Smith went missing. Caught red-handed with the knife, Billy had been locked up pending further investigation.

On hearing the news, Lonnie panicked. He had to let George know. The law may have got their facts wrong on the identity of the gang, but it would only be a matter of time before they cottoned on to their involvement. It didn’t matter that Billy Bottle was a thug, he didn’t deserve to be found guilty of a murder he hadn’t committed. The trouble was, how could they prove Billy’s innocence without dropping themselves in it?

He ran blindly in the direction of the billiard hall and pushed his way though the swinging doors.

George seemed to find the news amusing. ‘What does it matter to us if they hang the ratbag?’

Lonnie felt the death cap sliding over his own head. The rough, itchy hemp on his neck. The twisting strangulation. ‘We’re the ones who damn well murdered him, so we’re the ones they should be hanging.’

George laughed off his declaration of guilt.

‘Speak for yourself. You may have killed Jack, me old pigeon, but I certainly had nothing to do with it.’ His voice sank, low and threatening. ‘If I were you I’d be very careful who you repeated that whopper to.’

‘It’s not a lie. We can’t let Billy hang for our crime.’

George’s sour breath hit Lonnie in the face.

‘You’re starting to annoy me, you little runt. I never killed anyone in my life, even if I did come close a few times. But if you keep calling me a murderer, I’ll make you my first.’

‘Jack’s not dead?’ It took Lonnie a few moments to realise he wasn’t the only one who could keep a secret. ‘But you told me you wrapped and weighted him for a burial at sea. That’s what you told me.’

‘Not my fault you got it all wrong,’ snapped George.

‘Thought you had a brain.’ George had never come clean with Lonnie about what had really happened the night he’d lowered Slasher Jack over the side of the boat. His suggestion that Jack go to the Western Australian gold diggings and try his luck was a much more enticing choice than the other alternative on offer – of being dropped into the water fastened to a hundredweight of old iron. Jack cared little for his missing knife or money bag, and even less about leav- ing Annie Walker’s employ. He was only too glad to escape across the desert with his life. And for the first time the boot was on the other foot. The aggressor now knew what it felt like to live in fear.