losers overall, would then progress to the semis. The final field would be made up of the first- second- and third-placers from each semi.
Every year you get someone calling for the system to be changed, because it’s inevitable that one semi is slower than the other. But the public prefer a straight race over clocked times any day, not just because it avoids any allegations of clock-fixing but because it’s more exciting.
The first prelim heats normally kick off around eleven. The quarters run from three till five, with the two semis lining up at six and six-thirty. The Delawarr Triple runs off at seven-thirty on the dot.
It’s a huge day. As a kid I used to love it, the atmosphere most of all, that sense of being a part of something big. The end of June is often claggy and sulphurous, but not always. I remember race days during my childhood when the sky was a high pale blue and more or less cloudless. Dad was still a fit and healthy man back then. He’d give Del and me money for cracknels and raceday souvenirs and when we were a little older he’d let us place a bet on the race itself. Normally we weren’t allowed to gamble but the Delawarr was an exception, a special occasion. Mum never came to the race, but she didn’t harp on about the dogs the way she did most Saturdays, and she’d always have a late supper waiting for us when we got back.
She’d even tell us stories about her own first race day, before she met my dad and got pregnant with Del.
“I was crazy about one of the runners,” she said. “Melton Craigh was his name.” It was the same story every year but I still loved to hear it. I found a photo of Melton Craigh in one of the old racing magazines. He ran the Delawarr two years running but didn’t place. He died aged thirty, from a degenerative condition of the spine. I wondered if my mother knew this – I never asked her. Melton Craigh in the photo had sticking-out elbows and very straight, very pale blond hair, as pale as Brit Engstrom’s. He looked exactly the kind of person who would die young.
Years later and long after she left us, Del told me that Mum’s famous crush on Melton Craigh had all been a lie.
“Craigh’s career was over before she even arrived here,” he said. “The first time she was ever at the track, Craigh was already bent double in a hospital bed.”
“Why would she lie, though?” I asked him. Del just shrugged. I checked up on what he’d said and found he was right. Melton Craigh died before we were born.
~*~
After my telephone conversation with Del I thought I’d have trouble getting to sleep but I didn’t. I remember putting the radio on. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was awake. I went to the window and looked out at the dawn sky, blooming with pale-bellied clouds, blotched silver-white and slightly glistening, like the skins of fishes.
It would be a fine day.
I arrived at the track just after eight. There was already a queue at the turnstiles. I stood in line and waited. The early clouds had mostly vanished and the heat was rising. Eventually I reached the head of the line. I could tell from the cheers inside the stadium that they’d already started weighing the balls for the Rooster. I wondered if Lim’s name had been loaded yet. I knew Del would have been at the track since before seven, getting the dogs booked in and settled in their pens.
Behind me in the queue a small group of out-of-towners were exchanging animated remarks about the breakfast they’d eaten in one of the expensive cafes along the Bulvard.
“Delicious,” said one of the women, a shiny blonde with a diamond nose stud and elaborate eye makeup. “It’s perfectly safe here. Clive clearly didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.”
I wondered. For a moment I tried to imagine what it might feel like to change places with her, to run away like my mother in nothing but the clothes I stood up in.
A whole new life on the toss of a coin. I wondered what Clive
Every year you get someone calling for the system to be changed, because it’s inevitable that one semi is slower than the other. But the public prefer a straight race over clocked times any day, not just because it avoids any allegations of clock-fixing but because it’s more exciting.
The first prelim heats normally kick off around eleven. The quarters run from three till five, with the two semis lining up at six and six-thirty. The Delawarr Triple runs off at seven-thirty on the dot.
It’s a huge day. As a kid I used to love it, the atmosphere most of all, that sense of being a part of something big. The end of June is often claggy and sulphurous, but not always. I remember race days during my childhood when the sky was a high pale blue and more or less cloudless. Dad was still a fit and healthy man back then. He’d give Del and me money for cracknels and raceday souvenirs and when we were a little older he’d let us place a bet on the race itself. Normally we weren’t allowed to gamble but the Delawarr was an exception, a special occasion. Mum never came to the race, but she didn’t harp on about the dogs the way she did most Saturdays, and she’d always have a late supper waiting for us when we got back.
She’d even tell us stories about her own first race day, before she met my dad and got pregnant with Del.
“I was crazy about one of the runners,” she said. “Melton Craigh was his name.” It was the same story every year but I still loved to hear it. I found a photo of Melton Craigh in one of the old racing magazines. He ran the Delawarr two years running but didn’t place. He died aged thirty, from a degenerative condition of the spine. I wondered if my mother knew this – I never asked her. Melton Craigh in the photo had sticking-out elbows and very straight, very pale blond hair, as pale as Brit Engstrom’s. He looked exactly the kind of person who would die young.
Years later and long after she left us, Del told me that Mum’s famous crush on Melton Craigh had all been a lie.
“Craigh’s career was over before she even arrived here,” he said. “The first time she was ever at the track, Craigh was already bent double in a hospital bed.”
“Why would she lie, though?” I asked him. Del just shrugged. I checked up on what he’d said and found he was right. Melton Craigh died before we were born.
~*~
After my telephone conversation with Del I thought I’d have trouble getting to sleep but I didn’t. I remember putting the radio on. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was awake. I went to the window and looked out at the dawn sky, blooming with pale-bellied clouds, blotched silver-white and slightly glistening, like the skins of fishes.
It would be a fine day.
I arrived at the track just after eight. There was already a queue at the turnstiles. I stood in line and waited. The early clouds had mostly vanished and the heat was rising. Eventually I reached the head of the line. I could tell from the cheers inside the stadium that they’d already started weighing the balls for the Rooster. I wondered if Lim’s name had been loaded yet. I knew Del would have been at the track since before seven, getting the dogs booked in and settled in their pens.
Behind me in the queue a small group of out-of-towners were exchanging animated remarks about the breakfast they’d eaten in one of the expensive cafes along the Bulvard.
“Delicious,” said one of the women, a shiny blonde with a diamond nose stud and elaborate eye makeup. “It’s perfectly safe here. Clive clearly didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.”
I wondered. For a moment I tried to imagine what it might feel like to change places with her, to run away like my mother in nothing but the clothes I stood up in.
A whole new life on the toss of a coin. I wondered what Clive
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