Handsome Jack: A Whizz-kid's Story

By Jeff Hopkins

The ‘Whizz-kid’ is Jack Burton, a boy from the Goldfields’ town of Kalgoorlie, who wants to be an apprentice jockey. Almost jokingly, Jack’s father ‘Boy’ Burton, suggests that career path, and then has to stand back and watch his son’s introduction to the world of thoroughbred horse racing, which is both dynamic and dangerous.

Featuring in the passing parade of characters from the ‘Sport of Kings’ are the Stewards, who make and enforce the rules, and the cheats and criminals who try to bend and break them. There is also the state’s biggest owner- breeder, and a range of horse trainers; some who are just starting out, others who are struggling to survive, and one who is making a comeback at 71 years of age and relishing getting ‘another chance’.

Into that ‘heady’ mix are thrown a crusty newspaper Editor and his young protégé, the staff of a chemical analysis laboratory, private investigators, lawyers and two brothel Madams, from opposite sides of Australia, who have very different attitudes, agendas and perspectives on life.

Towering above all of that are the horses, which all have their own unique stories. Named after popular songs, playwrights and a surfing beach in South Africa, they all have one thing in common. They have the courage to run fast, and do so, especially for apprentice jockey, Jack Burton, the ‘Whizz-kid’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781922261687

Jeff Hopkins

Jeff Hopkins (1950) is a retired schoolteacher. He lives in Walyalup, Western Australia. Walyalup which means 'lungs' is the Whadjuk name for Fremantle, and is part of the Noongar Nation. As the drama master at Hale School in Perth, he wrote ten original musical plays and produced and directed them at the school.In 1992, he researched and wrote a family history, 'Life's Race Well Run', and after retiring in 2006 he has written twenty novels, a memoir, and three 'faction' biographies.

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Handsome Jack

A Whizz-kid’s Story

Jeff Hopkins

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

https://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright © Jeff Hopkins 2019

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

For Charles William Hopkins

1908–1999

Who told me all the stories.

Chapter 1:

Breeding

Even the most casual, or irregular, racegoers can become fascinated by a thoroughbred racehorse’s breeding. The way the horse’s name is derived from that of its sire, and the mare which gave birth to it, often intrigues or amuses them. Serious gamblers and punters look into breeding even more deeply. Could the sire, or the sire of the mare, whose foal this is, race over sprint or staying distances? Did the parents of this particular horse have a preference for firm tracks, or did they race best on rain affected ground? Then there are the professional owner-breeders who spend a career, and sometimes a lifetime, studying the stud books from around the world looking for that ‘special bloodline’, which might make the perfect cross breeding option and, as a result, produce that elusive champion galloper. However, breeding thoroughbreds is an inexact science.

Often mating the same sire with the same mare, on multiple occasions, will produce conflicting results. One foal becomes a champion and the full brother or sister may never win a race, or even get to the racetrack. The history of racing is littered with such contrasting stories. Then there are the tragic stories of thoroughbred breeding. A colt, which is unruly as a young horse, may be settled down by being gelded or neutered. The horse then goes on to be an out and out champion, but all prospects of using the horse as a sire have been lost for ever, as has the unique bloodline. Similarly, a champion race mare may string together a record number of wins and earn millions of dollars on the race track, but when she retires to the breeding barn, and has foals of her own, they sometimes prove to be complete flops as gallopers.

Breeding human beings has similar foibles. Before the unravelling of the human genome late in the 20th century, unproven theories about different generations of children abounded. Some genealogists believed that ‘likeness’ or ‘similar traits’ in a particular family, skipped generations. A boy might be more like his grandfather, than his father. A girl might display the characteristics more applicable to a great aunt, rather than her mother. Aristocratic families, who had the luxury of referring to long lines of family portraits, often saw how ‘likeness’ appeared across the generations more often than it should have. In the 19th century photography began to allow middle, and working class families, to compare ‘likeness’ in their ancestors.

In the 21st century mapping the human genome has allowed the whole process to become much more scientific and accurate. Now it is clearly established how a generation of one family pass down genetic codes to their children, sometimes with unwanted and disastrous results. However, even with all these old traditions and modern science there is always ‘one right out of the box’, a child that no one can link to anybody else in their family history, who proves to be exceptional. Such was the case with Jack Burton, the ‘whizz-kid’.

As a boy on the Goldfields, Jack walked around in bare feet and bare chested in just a pair of close-fitting work shorts, which bore the rips, tears and stains of many adventures. At the Olympic sized swimming pool in Kalgoorlie, Jack would swim in those shorts as well. He took to the water like a young dolphin and he soon developed superior swimming skills, which quickly came under notice. However, he didn’t like the discipline of competitive swimming, and he eschewed all attempts to get him to join the Kalgoorlie Swimming Club.

Jack’s father, Reg ‘Boy’ Burton was a railway worker. It was all he knew. He worked hard and married quite late at thirty-five years of age. ‘Boy’s’ father was a mining engineer. It was quite a flash title for what really amounted to a blacksmith working on mine sites, but Charles Burton had also developed skills in fitting and turning, and over the years he became valued at many Goldfields’ mines. ‘Boy’s’ mother was a housewife. She had five live children as the result of seven pregnancies. The first four children were all girls, and when they tried one last time, they were blessed with the boy they so wanted. They christened him Reginald James, but for all his working life he was simply known as ‘Boy’, and there were some people who didn’t actually know his given names.

Gloria Clarke, Jack’s mother, was a girl from Leonora, who came to work in Kalgoorlie and got a position as a barmaid in the Palace Hotel. Her father, Stanley Clarke, was a timber cutter who made pit props for mines. Stan was actually a qualified carpenter, and when he had time, and was sober, he made high quality furniture for his house. Gloria’s mother, Belle Clarke, was not spoken of much. She had left the family home and gone to Perth, when her children were still quite young. Some said Belle had run away with a geologist, with whom she had become involved. Other rumours suggested she had been the victim of family violence. The Clarke home in Leonora was not a happy place. When she turned sixteen years of age, Gloria Clarke walked out of her father’s house, and hoped that Kalgoorlie would give her better opportunities.

Gloria worked as a barmaid for five years and at twenty-one years of age she met ‘Boy’ Burton and found him to be a kind, strong, hard-working man, who she also discovered, she loved. They married after a six-month courtship and engagement and almost immediately Gloria fell pregnant. Tragically, she died of ‘complications’, soon after giving birth to Jack. Hence, Jack was an only child. ‘Boy’ Burton never remarried and tried hard to bring up the little boy the best way he could. As a father, ‘Boy’ could only draw on his own experience of his father, and so Jack got the life experience that the ‘school of hard knocks’ invariably produced. In the early years of his life, Jack benefited from periods of care by ‘Boy’s’ older sisters. One even offered to adopt the little boy and bring him up as her own, but ‘Boy’ was having none of that!

It was a meagre existence for both ‘Boy’ and Jack, but as that was all they knew, they simply accepted their lot, and got on with it. ‘Boy’s’ discipline regime was harsh but fair. He sensed from an early age that his son, Jack, was a secretive boy who was probably up to all kinds of mischief. When ‘Boy’ caught him out, Jack was upfront and honest and admitted his wrong doing and took any punishment that was meted out. ‘Boy’ noticed that his son took his reprimands, and the occasional belting, without a whimper and didn’t sulk or hold a grudge, but he suspected that he was never permanently corrected on some matters of behaviour.

At school, he seemed distracted and at times bored and his reports invariably included a comment like:

‘could do better if he applied himself fully.’

Jack never applied himself fully at school except on the sporting side of things. Although he was small in stature he could run very fast and he was fearless. Playing Australian rules football with boys much bigger and older than he was; he more than held his own. He was skilful and evasive and with blistering speed he made an impact and he was respected and valued as a player. He didn’t like cricket. The game moved too slowly for Jack and in the summer months he much preferred to swim.

When Jack turned fifteen in June, 1999, he attained the earliest school leaving age, and there was no suggestion that he would be staying on to further his education. Kitchen table discussions turned to what Jack was going to do now that he could leave school. With his small stature and physical skills, ‘Boy’, half-jokingly, suggested that Jack could be a jockey. Jack leapt at the idea and asked whether ‘Boy’ could make some inquiries about turning that suggestion into a reality.

To this end ‘Boy’ took Jack to see the Eastern Goldfields High School’s Counsellor and Careers’ Advisor. ‘Boy’ told the Counsellor, Mr. Garrett, that Jack was interested in pursuing a career as an apprentice jockey. The Counsellor explained, that in the modern era, that career path was very different to what it had been historically. He said that boys or girls, who hoped to be jockeys in the future, usually stayed on at school for two days a week in Year 11, did one day a week at a Technical and Further Education College (TAFE) to get their initial qualification, and simultaneously were indentured to a racehorse trainer for the remainder of the week for ‘on the job’ practical training. In effect this meant the other four days of the week because stables often were busiest on weekends with most race meetings scheduled at that time. He explained that some trainers insisted that their indentured apprentices ‘lived in’ at the stables. When Mr. Garrett quizzed Jack as to whether he was still interested and got a positive response, he produced pamphlets, application forms and gave a detailed summary of the path that needed to be undertaken.

‘Being a jockey, Jack, is a full-time career. While you are learning the skills required, you enter into a four-year apprenticeship. During this time, as an apprentice jockey, you will be employed full time and receive a fortnightly wage throughout the four-year duration of the apprenticeship in addition to income from riding in races. Do you have any questions so far?’

‘Boy’ asked:

‘What is the fee for riding in a race these days, Mr. Garrett?’

‘I believe it is a standard $92 per ride, whether the jockey wins, places, or runs last!’

Both Jack and ‘Boy’ exchanged approving glances and Mr. Garrett took that as a signal to continue.

‘Racing and Wagering Western Australia, they simply use the acronym RWWA for most purposes is a registered training organisation and supervises and delivers all training throughout the term of the apprenticeship. Apprentice jockeys work in both metropolitan and regional areas of the state and also ride at race meetings in all areas. Once your training is completed, and when a jockey licence is issued, it is possible to travel all over Australia and many parts of the world to ride in races.

‘Boy’ asked:

‘I heard that jockeys get 5% of the prize money allocated to races. Is that true?

‘Apprentice jockeys and jockeys receive a riding fee for every race ride, as I told you, and 5% of any prize money earned by the horses they have ridden. In the case of apprentice jockeys that 5% is held in trust and is managed and invested by RWWA. They pay you that money out in full when your apprenticeship ends. Any more questions?’ Jack asked:

‘Do I have to stay at School and do a TAFE course?’

‘Basically, the answer is ‘Yes’. You see you are actually earning qualifications throughout your apprenticeship. Under the training programme, after 18 months, apprentices are awarded what is called Certificate III. ‘Boy’ asked:

‘What does Certificate III allow you to do?’

‘Certificate III is called the Thoroughbred Racing Track Rider qualification. It allows you to compete in Trial races and ride, on a restricted basis, at provincial, country and regional race meetings. At the completion of the four years of your apprenticeship you will get Certificate IV. This is the Thoroughbred Racing Jockey’s qualification and allows you to ride on metropolitan tracks throughout Australia, and is recognised all over the world.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘There is one other factor to consider, Jack. What if being an apprentice jockey and living full time in a stable doesn’t suit you? At least you will not have burnt all your bridges, and you will still be at school and have some course credit points to fall back on at TAFE.’

‘Boy’ thanked Mr Garrett for being so patient and thorough in his explanations and for his part the Counsellor invited Jack back anytime to ask more questions or seek further information. At ‘Boy’s’ railway workers’ cottage, father and son discussed all the possibilities. The sticking point for Jack was always staying on at school two days a week. He agreed the TAFE course could be interesting. So eventually it was agreed that ‘Boy’ should fill in the forms and send them off and seek a Goldfields’ trainer who might accept Jack as an indentured apprentice for four years.

Towards the end of the year in which he turned fifteen, ‘Boy’ told Jack that he had secured an apprenticeship for him with Kalgoorlie trainer, Ray Ratcliffe. After an interview and a medical examination, the paperwork was completed and submitted to RWWA and Jack moved into ‘Baccarat Lodge’ stables as a first-year apprentice.

Chapter 2:

Breaking In

According to the Racing and Wagering Western Australia agreement, which he and his father had signed, Jack Burton’s four-year jockey’s apprenticeship, with Goldfields’ trainer, Ray Ratcliffe, began officially on the first of January. As that was the New Year’s Day holiday Jack didn’t move into Ray Ratcliffe’s stable complex until the 2nd of January. Jack was informed that the stables were called ‘Baccarat Lodge’ after the champion racehorse, of that name, that Ratcliffe had trained in his early years in the racing game. He was also told that nowadays it was simply called ‘The Lodge’.

Jack was shown his accommodation in the apprentices’ rooms and was a little taken aback by the primitive nature of the facilities. Everything was designed for communal living with beds arranged in dormitory style and the toilet and open showers area providing little or no privacy. Each apprentice had a wardrobe beside his bed, but Jack had no time to unpack before Ray Ratcliffe appeared and instructed him to follow him into the stabling area.

The stables were extensive. There were loose boxes either side of a long central corridor and Jack quickly saw there were ten numbered boxes on one side suggesting that the stables could accommodate at least twenty horses, and when he checked the other side, he saw he was correct as the box numbers from eleven to twenty were displayed. By comparison with the apprentices’ rooms, the horses were housed in relative luxury. The gabled roof had opaque panels allowing plenty of light to be diffused throughout the area. The smell was foreign to Jack, but it was a fresh one of clean straw and polished leather. It filled the young boy’s nostrils and he breathed it in with an initial pleasure.

In the distance a large set of sliding doors was open and Jack could see the exercise yards through the open doors. Even from far away he could see that they too were well constructed and maintained and the sand, by contrast with everything else in the Goldfields was not ferrous red, but looked like white beach sand. Jack wondered at that as he followed Ray Ratcliffe to the eastern end of the stables, next to the sliding doors. They stopped at what appeared to be an office area. When they reached this zone Ratcliffe stopped and turned to face Jack.

‘Alright, strip off down to your jocks.’

Jack was nonplussed and hesitated before querying the instruction:

‘What?’

‘It is not such a good beginning to question the first instruction I give you, lad. I give the orders, you obey them. That is how the trainer and apprentice relationship is designed to work. Now strip down to your ‘undies’ and be quick about it.’

Jack did not hesitate. He removed his boots and socks and then unbuttoned his shirt and put it beside his boots. He dropped his jeans and stepped out of them and then stood up tall facing Ratcliffe with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Stable hands in the area paused in their tasks to focus on the new boy and were impressed by what they saw.

In his sixteenth year, Jack Burton was a handsome young man. Stripped down he was lightly framed, but wiry and strong. He had light brown hair which was cut fashionably above the ears and fell loosely onto his forehead. He had concentrated brown eyes that were focussed, and at times piercing, and his thin lips always seemed to be on the point of a smile, but it rarely materialised. Jack was smooth skinned, with just the hint of wispy hair on his chest. He had square shoulders and long arms and his hands were large and looked like they could produce a vice-like grip. Ratcliffe was quite impressed by the boy standing in front of him and he took a moment to do his own assessment then he said:

‘Now jump on the scales over here.’

Jack had not previously noticed the large set of platform jockey scales that stood next to the office area. He had seen something like them before in the arcade of a department store, when his father and he had made a trip to Perth. He vaguely remembered an attendant offering to weigh anyone who walked by. Indeed, this set of scales had come from just such a location. Ratcliffe had purchased them at a disposal sale and brought them back to Kalgoorlie in a horse float. The base of the scales was of machined steel painted black and the pedestal and the metallic casing of the huge round dial were red in colour. The actual weight scale was in gold and black lettering on a white background. The graduations were in imperial pounds and ounces, but had smaller markings inside the imperial measurements, that were in metric numerology. Inscribed in bold black letters in the centre of the dial were the words ‘Toledo Scales’.

Jack stepped onto the platform and it moved underneath him and then the large needle swung around the dial and assessed his weight. The trainer waited for the needle to settle.

He read the dial aloud:

‘Seven stone, two pounds, two ounces in the old, forty-six kilograms in metrics. It is a good starting weight for an apprentice. Do you eat normally to maintain that weight?’

‘It’s the first time I think I have been weighed properly, Mr Ratcliffe.’

‘Really! From now on, you weigh yourself every day. Always do it stripped down like you are now, and record your weight in the apprentices’ record book in my office. I will show you where it is later. Now over here.’

Jack moved to an apparatus next to the scales which he recognised as a machine to measure height.

‘Feet on the plaque, back straight against the pole.’

On his bare feet and back both the plaque and the pole were cold to the touch. He straightened his back and Ratcliffe manipulated the sliding guide down onto Jack’s head. Once again, he read the measurement out aloud:

‘Five feet six inches’ imperial, that’s one hundred and sixty-five centimetres tall. You have the height and weight to be a jockey at this stage. How old are you?

‘I will be sixteen in June.’

‘Well let’s hope a growth spurt or a weight problem doesn’t cut your career short.’

‘Will I get dressed now?’

‘Not yet lad, we have only just begun. Follow me.’

This time they walked out through the sliding doors and into the exercise yards. Jack felt the sting of the morning sun on his bare shoulders and wondered who would be watching him parade around the stables in his underwear. Ratcliffe led the way into a small yard, covered in soft white sand, and as Jack entered the enclosure he felt his bare feet sink into the pliable material. It was a good sensation. In the centre of the yard was a forty-four-gallon drum mounted on an axle that was slung between two ‘X shaped’ trestles. Jack had no idea what this was. Ratcliffe manipulated a lever attached to one of the trestles that seemed to act as a brake on the drum and gestured as he said:

‘Jump aboard. It will be your first ride at Ratcliffe’s stables. We call this a spurboard.’

Gingerly, Jack straddled the drum and the rough, rusted surface dug into his naked inside thighs.

‘Now put your hands on your head and grip the drum with your knees and ankles.’

Jack followed the instructions without question and then Ratcliffe released the braking system and the spurboard rotated suddenly to the right and Jack was deposited in the yielding white sand. A burst of laughter erupted from the open sliding door area as the stable hands, and two other apprentices enjoyed the show, recalling, in the process, their own first experience of the notorious spurboard.

‘Get up and back on the spurboard, lad.’

Jack got up slowly and dusted himself off. He was embarrassed and a little humiliated by the other boys laughing at him. However, now this was simply a physical challenge and Jack had never shied away from one of those in his life. Ratcliffe applied the brake and Jack scrambled back on gripping with his knees and ankles and then placing his hands on his head. He saw Ratcliffe move to release the brake and he braced for the spurboard to lurch to the right and he prepared to compensate. He did, and for a moment he had equilibrium. To Jack’s disappointment, his compensation had been too much and this time he tumbled off to the left. Another peel of raucous laughter erupted. Ratcliffe turned on the mirth filled group and shouted.

‘Get back to work, you layabouts. This is not a show for your entertainment. Go!’

Before he had finished his sentence, Jack was back astride the spurboard and without the shock of the brake release to confuse him he steadied for each rotation and compensated accordingly. Much to Ratcliffe’s surprise the boy was in control at his third attempt.

‘Now take your hands off your head and push them forward towards the front of the drum, but don’t try to hold onto it. Just keep your hands and arms forward about an inch above the spurboard’s surface. Jack did as he was told. He became slightly unbalanced as he removed his hands from his head and again as he stretched his arms forward, but he did not fall into the sand.

‘Not bad, lad, now see if you can hold that position until I get back.’

The rusty spurboard dug into his thighs, knees and ankles and his back, shoulders, arms and hands ached as he held the uncustomary position. Constantly anticipating and adjusting for any slight movement in the spurboard just aggravated Jack’s discomfiture. He knew this was a physical and mental test and he had no intention of failing again. For what seemed an eternity, Jack held the pose and then, at last, Ratcliffe appeared through the sliding doors rolling himself a cigarette. When he was beside the spurboard he stuck the roll-your-own into the corner of his mouth and lit it.

‘OK lad, you can sit up now.’

As he said this he jammed on the braking device and the spurboard was stable as Jack sat up on it.

‘Sore?’

‘Yep.’

‘Dismount near side.’

Jack guessed this was to his left-hand side and close to Ratcliffe, and as he wasn’t rebuked when he did so, he thought he must have got it right. When he stood in front of Ratcliffe, trickles of blood were running down his legs from his inside thighs and his knees and ankles were scratched and showing tell-tale signs of beginning to bleed.

‘Collect your clothes, and go and have shower in the apprentices’ room. You will find a first aid kit in the bathroom area. Clean up those cuts and scratches and apply some antiseptic cream to them. Then get into some working clothes and muck out stalls fourteen to twenty and put in new straw and fill the water troughs. By then Mabel Grace should have something for us to eat.’

Jack noted there was no praise for his efforts or sympathy for his suffering. Ratcliffe was a hard man and this was going to be a testing lifestyle. While he was in the shower both the other apprentice jockeys, Clint Hall and Gareth Moloney, found excuses to make their way into the bathroom and check out the new boy’s ‘credentials’ while he was fully naked. They said nothing, but were clearly impressed.

Jack found the ‘mucking out work’ demanding, but he derived a certain satisfaction by doing it well. Just as he finished, horses arrived back from exercise yards and morning trackwork and filled up the freshly cleaned boxes. Jack looked admiringly at the thoroughbreds and wondered what it would be like to be astride one of them and riding trackwork with them. He was highly motived by that thought, which was interrupted by the clanging of a bell at the house. Without really knowing, Jack assumed this was the signal for lunch and so he went to the bathroom area, washed up and headed up to the house.

The eating area was an annex to the main house. Like much of the rest of the house and stable complex that was ‘Baccarat Lodge’, with the significant exception of the apprentices’ area, this was beautifully constructed. It featured laminated timber arching beams and a high ceiling with skylights allowing floods of light to cascade into the room. The tables were beautifully handcrafted in polished wood and benches, made of similar material, either side provided the seating. Jack wondered who had taken the trouble to do all of this? The food service area was done in highly polished stainless steel and the smells that wafted from the kitchen beyond were inviting.

It was cafeteria style service. The three apprentice jockeys and several stable hands were there for lunch and so was Ratcliffe and a well-dressed middle-aged man who Jack later found out was the Veterinarian, Dr. Seamus Caitiff, who had been the consulting Vet. at the Ratcliffe stables for many years. In the future Jack would meet him again in less congenial circumstances, but for now he seemed quite a jolly and friendly man.

The two tables were called up in turn and Mabel Grace Malone made her first appearance at the serving window. She was a former shearers’ cook, but had tired of trooping all over the outback and had settled in Kalgoorlie. When Ray Ratcliffe’s wife died suddenly he advertised for a stable cook. Mabel Grace couldn’t believe her good fortune and she applied for, and got the job. She didn’t want to live at the stables, preferring to stay in her own home which was nearby. That suited Ray Ratcliffe ideally and the two negotiated a working arrangement which had progressed satisfactorily for nearly a decade. There were