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Grace in Deep Waters

By Christine Dillon

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11 November 1944
Sydney, Australia

The radio dominated the room. All gleaming wood and intriguing metal dials.
William zeroed in on it, ignoring all the people, desks, and typewriters crammed into his father’s office. This was the first time he’d ever been allowed here, although Ian, his older brother, was always welcome. 
William reverently stroked one finger across the radio’s wooden case.
“Careful son,” his father said.
“He won’t hurt it, Mr Macdonald.” William could hear a smile in the lady’s voice. His face warmed and he looked around at the people eating and drinking out of tall glasses. The kind lady offered him the plate of crackers. William looked towards his father, who nodded. He took a cracker and thanked the lady. Mum always insisted he show good manners.
“Nearly time,” said someone at the back of the room. His father pulled out his fob watch and then came forward to switch on the radio. It crackled to life.
“One hundred thousand people packed into Flemington race track today. Good sports and good sorts.” The marching music in the background and the way the radio announcer emphasised the words sent reverberations into William’s stomach. “The bookmakers’ area is seething with punters.”
Yesterday he hadn’t known what all these words meant, but last night his father had explained what would happen today and had given him strict instructions about how to behave. Being too noisy or behaving like a hooligan would get him sent home.
“Bookmaker.” William whispered the word to himself. Dad wasn’t a betting man. Said it was a game for mugs but he allowed something called a sweepstake at the office and he’d promised both boys a ticket—against their mother’s protests. Dad picked him up, sat him on the edge of one of the desks, and handed him a slip of paper with the number four and one word written on it.
It was a strange word and William didn’t know if he could pronounce it correctly, but he knew it must be the name of a horse. S-i-r-i-u-s. He looked over Ian’s shoulder and read his horse’s name—Peter. Dad said the first three horses would win money—a whole shilling for the winner. William could hardly imagine it. He never won anything. Ian might have been only two years older, but he was bigger and faster and smarter. He always came out on top, and Dad was always there to clap enthusiastically.
“And the ladies,” the radio announcer said. “A sea of blue and green, red and pink. Whoops!” The announcer’s voice rose. “There goes someone’s hat.”
Who cared about ladies and their hats? William swung his legs and clipped the side of the desk. His father glared at him over his glasses, and William froze. He mustn’t mess up his first visit to Dad’s office.
People said his father was a successful man. He supposed Dad was, since he was boss of this office and had a big car and house, but William wished they saw him more. Dad almost always arrived home after William and Ian had eaten. By the time his father finished dinner, William was in bed and only Ian got the chance to talk to him. The weekends weren’t much good either for kicking a ball around or getting help with his train set, because Dad spent all his time attending Ian’s sports matches, instructing the gardener, or reading the newspaper.
Mum said they were lucky to have Dad home at all. Half the boys at school had fathers away in Europe, fighting.
“They’re coming out now. Twenty-three of the nation’s finest horses. Look at the sheen on their coats. Look at the way they prance and fight the bit. They know what’s coming—Australia’s greatest race.”
William couldn’t control a tiny wriggle. The announcer sounded so excited, and all the adults were motionless, staring at the radio like they didn’t want to miss a single word.
“Two miles of speed and glory. Two miles of agony and ecstasy. Two miles to prove who’s champion.”
The announcer reeled off information about each horse. William glanced down at the paper cradled in his hand. He was only interested in …“Number four—”
William sat up straight.
“Sirius, ridden by Darby Munro and owned by Reg Turnbull, our very own Chairman of the Victorian Racing Club. Three to one favourite.” William’s stomach fluttered. The numbers meant nothing, but favourite sounded promising. If only his horse would win.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the 1944 Melbourne Cup is about to begin. May our boys be home from the front to watch the next one.” The announcer’s voice went sombre for a moment. Dad said the tide of the war had turned, and Hitler would soon be running for cover. Course he would. How could he stand up against the great British Empire and the Americans?
A gunshot sounded, and William jumped in his seat.
“They’re off!” The microphone squealed. “A great start to the 1944 Cup.”
William had seen last year’s race on a newsreel, and he could picture the horses all bunched together.
“Clayton has settled down near the fence.”
He didn’t care about Clayton. Where was Sirius?
“As they pass the two furlongs post for the first time, Clayton is out front by two or three lengths. In second place is Judith Louise, and Sirius in third place.”
Sirius had a chance. William clenched his fist around the slip of paper. Come on, Sirius.
“As they come to the third furlong, Sirius is moving up.” The commentator’s voice sped up. “He’s looking in control.”
Come on, Sirius.
“Two furlongs from home, and Sirius is still in the lead.”
Could he do it? Could he win?
“Sirius now a length and a half in front. Cellini in second and Peter coming up on the outside.”
Not Peter. Any horse but Peter.
The commentator’s voice rose in a crescendo. “Peter on the outside has thrown out a challenge. He’s surging forward.”
William squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, and willed Sirius on. Go, go.
“Peter is closing the gap. He’s closing the gap.”
William wanted to vomit.
“Sirius is being ridden for dear life. Can he hold his lead?”
Come on. Come on. William pounded his fists on his knees. You have to win.
“And it’s Sirius by a head,” the commentator finished, his words breathless. “Peter in second and Cellini third.”
William pumped his fist in the air and flashed a smile at his brother. Finally. A win. He jumped off the desk and waved his paper. “Sirius won! He won!”
A whole shilling. What could he do with a whole shilling? Maybe buy the model aeroplane he’d been staring at for weeks in the shop window. Or maybe he’d keep the money and treasure it. He bounced up and down. Today he’d beaten Ian for the first time, and he didn’t intend it to be the last. Dad often told them “no one remembers who is second.”
Well, Sirius would be remembered, and maybe, just maybe, his father would notice him at last.

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