Ginger In Australia

Chapter 4

Winners and Losers

Ginger's ankle continued to improve after that temporary setback, and he filled the intervening days with visits to the university to tie up any loose ends for Dr Jennings' research and trips to the pool to keep himself fit and fight the boredom he always experienced through inactivity. Georgia, he noticed with amusement, was careful to pick him up each time. Clearly she did not like the thought that he might lose his way on a tram again.

Ginger, in turn, took Georgia to dinner at Florentinos to thank her for her hospitality and also, if he were honest, as a sop to his conscience because he knew she was not entirely happy about his association with Vera, although he acknowledged that there was no reason why Georgia should be unhappy about anything. The mutual antagonism between the two women that he had sensed the moment they met showed no sign of abating with further acquaintance. Ginger attributed it to the difference in their social standing.

The first Tuesday in November dawned clear and bright. The sun streamed into his bedroom window and woke him at a quarter to seven. Ginger lay awake, wondering what people wore to go racing in Australia. In England he would have worn a jacket and trousers with a collar and tie, so he supposed that a similar dress code existed for the Cup. He had packed a lightweight linen suit and assumed that would be acceptable. Somehow, although he had gathered it was an extremely prestigious event, from what he knew of those he had met so far, he could not see the citizens of Melbourne getting dressed up in morning suits and top hats as he had once been required to do when he accompanied Bertie on one of his rare visits to the Derby and Royal Ascot during the season. Ginger thought Melbourne's inhabitants seemed to share Biggles' dislike of dressing up. Besides, he reflected, it was going to be hot, in the seventies with up to 50% humidity according to the weather forecast, something he could never rely on in England. Indeed, he had been much amused only the other evening over dinner when Vera told him earnestly that the sun in England was never scorching and she found it hard to believe that they had any beaches there anyway.

Looking through the window after breakfast, Ginger saw Vera's car draw up. She got out wearing a lightweight cotton dress and sandals. The sun glinted on her mousy hair, giving it a golden tinge. He noticed an expensive looking wide-brimmed hat carelessly strewn on the parcel rack behind the back seat and thought that she would need some protection from the sun as it was already beginning to feel warm, not realising it was a tradition to wear expensive hats for the Melbourne Cup.

She came up the path towards the house and Georgia let her in. They exchanged greetings coolly and Georgia equally wished them a pleasant day without much warmth behind the conventional send-off. "Don't lose too much!" were her parting words as they set off down the path.

Vera slid behind the wheel, opening the passenger door for Ginger from inside. When he had taken his seat she told him there was a picnic hamper in the back and they would go early to find a good spot to park where they could have their meal later.

Ginger was amazed at the amount of traffic making its way to the racecourse, even at that early hour when the race was not due off until twenty past three. Vera had told him everything stopped for the Cup but he had not realised quite how true that was. He recalled that Brand, the manager at Barula Creek, had said his men only had one holiday a year when they went to Melbourne to see the Cup. As they went past Flemington station the first of the hordes were already beginning to stream out. Vera told him that the race trains ran every twenty minutes from the local stations Flinders Street, Spencer Street and North Melbourne, starting at 10.30 in the morning, and there was a tram service as well to accommodate everybody who wanted to attend the popular race meeting.

"There's a different Cup every year," Vera added. "The local jewellers make it up. This year it's valued at £550, they say." Ginger looked suitably impressed.

They pulled into the racecourse and found a pleasant spot where they could unpack the hamper and spread out the picnic rug. Others were doing the same on either side and Ginger looked at them curiously. He contrasted the more rustic feel of this event with the formality of the Royal Ascot picnic he had attended as Bertie's guest. Bertie's cousin's party had held a picnic in the car park, where the table and chairs had been unloaded from the boot of the Rolls Royce ready for the full-blown cold collation, complemented with iced champagne kept cool in silver buckets and drunk from crystal flutes, that was served by the butler on fine bone china laid on a sparkling white linen cloth. Conversation had been restrained and the ladies of the party had struggled valiantly throughout lunch to maintain possession of their hats in the teeth of a strong wind which threatened to send them cart-wheeling away across the car park at any moment.

Ginger thought the Melbourne Cup looked as though it might be a lot more fun as they took their time over the picnic and lay back lazily in the sun until it was nearly time for the first race.

"We ought to have a look at the horses in the paddock," suggested Ginger.

"Why?" asked Vera.

Ginger looked at her surprised. "To see what they look like; whether they look fit or not, if they're sweating or upset. Don't you usually do that?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled and admitted that she was new to racing. "I've never been before, but it's such a spectacle and so typically Australian, I thought you ought to see it," she confessed a little sheepishly.

Ginger laughed. "I'm glad you did. Come on, I'll initiate you into the mysteries of the racecourse, then."

He took her to the pre-parade ring and explained that if they looked at the horses before the saddles were put on they would have a better idea of which ones were fit and ready to run because all horses tightened up once they were saddled and caught the excitement of the atmosphere. When he led her past the banks of roses to the parade ring proper she could see what he meant. Some of the horses were jogging around, tossing their heads and tugging their handlers along.

"They will be expending a lot of energy," explained Ginger. "You want to go for something that walks round relaxed like an old sheep, yet has that indefinable touch of class." The 'look of eagles', he called it, but could not describe exactly what that was. He tried to get Vera to appreciate it by pointing out examples, as Cub had done for him when he was learning about horses1. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time.

"How do you know so much about horses?" she wanted to know. "I thought you lived in London."

"I do, but I was born in the country and I have a very good friend called Cub Peters, who taught me to ride," he explained. "He also taught me what to look for. That horse, for instance," he pointed to a bay with black points that was striding fluently round the ring, "walks extremely well. His back feet step well beyond the prints of his front and his tail swings as he walks. He's also relaxed, has a good shine on his coat and," he smiled sheepishly, "big ears." When she looked at him as though he was crazy, he shrugged and explained, "I don't know why, but horses with big ears, and particularly lop ears that flop to the sides, seem to be very genuine. If you want to have a bet, I should put your money on him, but don't risk much," he warned. "It's not fool-proof."

She took him at his word and risked a modest amount. Ginger was delighted when the horse romped to an easy victory. Vera could scarcely believe it and secretly Ginger doubted whether he would pick another winner all afternoon.

When it came to the big race, Vera wanted him to select a horse for her, but he was reluctant as he thought the first winner had just been a lucky fluke.

"I don't know the form," he protested as they watched the 21 runners circling the parade ring.

"I shouldn't worry about that, Blue," a little man beside him remarked, having overheard his protest. "This race is a favourite's graveyard."

Vera renewed her request so Ginger examined the horses again. Number 9, a brown horse, took his eye and he asked Vera for the race card details. "Wodalla," she told him. "Four years old and from barrier five. Do you want to know the trainer and the jockey?" she asked him.

Ginger shook his head. "Their names wouldn't mean anything to me," he murmured. He watched the entire in the paddock for a little longer and then suggested that she have a small wager on him.

As Vera hurried off to place her bet, Ginger surveyed the crowd idly. Suddenly, he stared, as he imagined he had caught sight of someone he recognised at the far end of the paddock. He looked again, thinking he must be mistaken, but there was no doubting that lean aristocratic figure with the monocle and long amber cigarette holder. Von Stalhein was talking to a small, dark-haired man with a moustache whose face also looked familiar, although Ginger could not place him.

Ginger edged closer, taking care to keep hidden among the crowd and with half an eye open for Vera's return. He did not want her to start calling him and attracting von Stalhein's attention.

As Ginger watched, the German concluded his business with his companion and limped away toward the grandstand. As he left, something white fluttered to the ground and Ginger quickly made his way across to pick it up. It was a small piece of paper with the word "Kosminsky" written on it. Ginger put it in his pocket to deal with later as he hesitated, torn between wanting to see what von Stalhein was up to and fearing to lose Vera in the crowd if he moved away from where she had left him. He went back to his original position and looked around in the hope of seeing her returning, but she was nowhere in sight. Von Stalhein had almost reached the grandstand and would soon be lost to view. Ginger stood on tiptoe despite the warning twinge from his ankle, trying to keep their old adversary in sight as long as possible. Subconsciously he heard a roar from the crowd and realised the race had started. Fortunately, von Stalhein also heard it and paused in his progress to watch.

Ginger heaved a sigh of relief as Vera rejoined him. "Quick," he told her, "I've just seen someone we need to keep an eye on. He's in the grandstand. Let's get nearer."

She asked no questions but followed him closely as he made his way through the crowd, careful not to be seen by the German who, Ginger was relieved to note, seemed to have his entire attention on the horses.

The noise rose to a crescendo as the runners approached and swept past the winning post. Vera clutched his arm as the loudspeaker announced: "And number 9, Wodalla, ridden by J Purtell, trained by R Sinclair, wins this year's Melbourne Cup!"

"We've won!" she screamed in his ear. "I can't believe it, we've won!" Momentarily distracted, Ginger looked away. When he looked back, von Stalhein was nowhere to be seen.

1 See Ginger Learns A Lesson