Selected as the Great Read in the November issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly. Rosemary Highgrove-Jones focused on the dog through her camera’s viewfinder. She chuckled, then pressed the shutter down. Click. In the sweltering heat, amongst dozing red gums and drunken racegoers, she’d captured the image of a cocky little Jack Russell pissing on Prudence Beaton’s chunky leg. Yellow urine seeped into Prue’s beige pantyhose as she continued to sip, politely and obliviously, on equally yellow Chardonnay. Satisfied, the Jack Russell snorted, pointed his stumpy tail to the sky and scuffed up dried grass and dust with rigid legs. He then turned his attention to Prue’s Maltese Terrier. The two little dogs stood nose to tail, in a formation not unlike yin and yang, and began spinning slowly in a circle, oblivious to the throng of human activity above their heads. Rosemary had raised her camera again to capture the bum-sniffing on film, when she heard her mother’s voice. “Rosemary Highgrove-Jones! What in God’s name are you doing?” Margaret hissed, firmly pushing the camera down. “You’re supposed to be working! Duncan’s relying on you! You’re not going to let him down again, are you?” “Why do you think they do that, Mum?” “Do what?” Margaret frowned, momentarily creasing her perfect foundation. Rosemary nodded at the dogs. “Sniff each other’s bums like that.” “Oh, Rosemary!” Margaret Highgrove-Jones took her daughter’s elbow in a pincer-like grip and steered her towards the VIP tent. “Now come on, I’ve got some people who are dying to get their faces in the social pages.” Margaret, tall, slim and upright in her blocky heels, seemed to tower above her daughter. Rosemary squinted at the sun shimmering in her mother’s rust-coloured organza dress and chanted to herself, “I must not be anti-social when doing the social pages.” “Let’s huddle in close for a nice photograph for The Chronicle,” said Margaret as she gathered up a collection of old ladies sweating in race-day frocks. Rosemary raised the camera, her eyes scanning the women. Her mother stood front and centre of the group, looking like a blonde version of Jackie Onassis. Click. Rosemary took up her pen and notebook and began to scribble down who was in the shot. No need to ask how to spell their names. They were her mother’s regular rent-a-crowd of graziers’ wives. “Got time on your social rounds for a glass of shampoo?” Margaret asked, waving a champagne flute at her. “Fraid I can’t,” Rosemary said. “Got to watch Sam in the next race.” Rosemary walked through the crowd towards the racetrack. The men standing among the litter of betting slips glanced away from odds chalked up on the bookies’ stands to watch the pretty girl pass. Some of them wore their dinner jackets with shorts and Blunnie boots. Others in proper suits had their shirtsleeves rolled and ties slackened about their necks. Beyond the fringe of bookies and punters, boys in jeans, blue singlets and big black hats slumped on a sagging couch on the back of a ute, drinking beer. They clutched cans in stubby holders while Lee Kernaghan’s songs vibrated from the ute’s stereo. When they saw Rosemary, one boy whistled. Embarrassed, she looked away, but then stumbled as a green wheelie bin rolled past her. A tubby bloke stood tall in the wheelie bin, like Russell Crowe in a Gladiator chariot. He held his beer can high and roared “Charge!” as his mate pushed him at high speed over the bumpy ground, scattering the crowd. Rosemary watched the boys until they were out of sight, then turned to see her father’s serious face. Gerald Highgrove-Jones was standing tall, like a slim grey gum, with other gentlemen of the ‘tweed coat brigade.’ These were the men of the district who never loosened their ties no matter how hot it was or how much alcohol they drank. Royal Show badges were pinned with pride to the thick woollen lapels of their jackets. Among them, his fine long legs clad in moleskin pants, was her brother Julian. As usual, he looked subdued and bored. Like Gerald he towered above the other men, but instead of standing upright he seemed to stoop, as if trying to hide. Like Julian, Rosemary had tried so hard to fit in. Each year, she’d tried to get excited about the coming bush races. Weeks before, the volley of phone calls between the ladies in the district would begin. Who would do hors d’oeuvres? Salmon or shrimp in vol-au-vents? Caramel slice or coconut slice? She tired to gush over the dresses in the latest catalogues from Maddison & Rose and be upbeat and bubbly about her mother’s special trips to Laura Ashley and Country Road in Melbourne. Margaret was always striving for Country Style magazine perfection. But Rosemary and perfection just didn’t fit. She looked down at her now-creased white linen dress with its pattern of cornflowers and daisies. It had been ordered from Melbourne and cost a bomb. But still, Sam had said she looked nice. She looked for him now in the area cordoned off for riders. Pretty girls in tight Wranglers, cowboy hats and singlets moved purposefully about their horses, carrying buckets, adjusting buckles, rubbing rough brushes over their mounts. They were girls her age. She’d known a couple of them at pony club, but her mother had refused to let her go on with her riding once she’d left the district for boarding school. In the years since she’d been home, the girls had barely spoken to her. Except when she was with Sam. She saw him on the far side of the track. He was with a group of riders making their way to the starting line. Collected in on tight reins, the horses bowed their heads and swished their tails nervously. Sam’s black gelding, Oakwood, loped in circles. Sam rode like a stockmen, not a jockey, and he’d set his stirrups longer than the other riders as he always did at bush races. Rosemary eyed Sam’s strong, tanned hands as he expertly gripped his reins. Beneath brown skin, the veins in his arms stood out. Oakwood, too, had rivers of veins running under his glossy coat. His Australian stockhorse freeze-brand gleamed against his dark coat. Rosemary felt a tingle run through her as she took in how magnificent Sam and Oakwood looked together. It was as if man and horse shared the same blood, veins pumping as one.
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