It seems to me that in most ghost stories it is the ghosts rather than the haunted parties who deserve our sympathy. Not only were they in death usually hapless and innocent victims, killed in some horrid way, but they are condemned to endure again their final unpleasantness each anniversary. So it is that on any night of the year wayfarers out and about in the witching hour are taking even-money about running into the ghosts of decapitated noblemen blundering about trying to locate their severed heads, or wronged maidens flinging themselves from castle turrets, or possibly spectral miners bearing maps, looking for lost El Dorados. In the celebrated case of the late Mr Fisher, of Campbelltown, New South Wales, that ghost is condemned to forever squat, very uncomfortably I imagine, on a post-and-rail fence, directing passers-by to the spot where he was done in.

None of these would be my choice for killing time awaiting Judgement Day, but they would be a barrel of laughs compared with the dreadful fate of the Gambler’s Ghost, of which I have first-hand knowledge, having once held a lengthy conversation with that same spirit.

It happened on Rawson Stakes day, some thirty years ago. I was on the train to the Rosehill races. At that time I was suffering a wretched losing streak, and this day was about my last chance to save myself from disgrace and punishment, for without a very big win that I could use to offset a series of unauthorised withdrawals from accounts held at the bank where I worked, I knew my fraud would soon come to the attention of the auditors who had lately commenced an inspection of the books.

In the preceding months, as my desperation increased, I adopted the common response of studying the racing papers all the harder, but, as any horse-players reading this will have guessed, this only made things worse. A case of ‘too much information’, it just clouded the natural judgement and intuition that had served me so well in those facile days as a cocksure schoolboy racegoer. Now each race day a cold, sweating fear of losses I couldn’t afford caused me to bet miserly amounts on hopeless outsiders, and take unlikely exotics like trifectas and quinellas in the early events, until at last all these small losing bets amounted to a considerable sum. Then would come the desperate attempt to ‘get out’ with a large wager on some short-priced favourite in the last, backed just because it was favourite. Sometimes these would win and get me even for the day, or perhaps just in front, so that on the return train trip I could almost convince myself the tide had turned. More often, though, they would lose and I would beat myself up all the long way home, swearing off gambling forever to take up non-life threatening—if unlikely—Saturday afternoon pastimes like bird watching, or landscape painting.

As I had this day caught the earliest race train I had the carriage to myself, apart from one or two fellow punt-drunks who had also got on at Central station and walked to the upper level. However passing through Stanmore station I suddenly became aware that someone was sitting opposite me. This puzzled me because the train had not stopped to pick up passengers (the racecourse special in those days being an express) and anyway I had not noticed anyone taking a seat; and I am abnormally sensitive to invasions of my personal space. Soon enough the newcomer issued a little cough—as an overture, I feared, to conversation. I was however in no mood for companionship and frankly was annoyed that, given this person had virtually the whole train to pick from, he had decided to sit almost in my lap. So I decided to ignore him, and, to give him the tip, I raised my paper above my eyes. However, my unwelcome companion was not deterred by this snub and it was not very long before he spoke.

‘Listen, cobber,’ he said in a high, clear voice like Tommy Smith the trainer’s, ‘can you tell me when this tram gets to Rosebery racecourse?’

Still I ignored the fellow who, apart from anything else, was evidently drunk, or else ‘a few runners shy of a full field.’ I buried myself even deeper in my racing paper, but soon my obtuse and persistent booth-mate addressed me again.

‘I said, “Can you tell me when this tram gets to Rosebery,” dig?’

I sighed as I folded down my paper, my intention being to give this fool a blast, but I hesitated when I saw him.

He seemed to be much the same age as I was at the time (about thirty), but he was dressed very unusually, even by the laissez-faire standards allowed by the many bizarre characters who frequent racecourses. But perhaps it would be more accurate to say his clothes were old fashioned; he wore baggy trousers supported by suspenders, a very large pair of work boots, a collarless shirt and cardigan beneath a suit coat, and a battered and soiled fedora hat with the brim turned down all around. He was looking at me with rather an expression of expectation, like a dog anticipating a bone, giving him, to be honest, an appearance of open-mouthed imbecility.

‘Look,’ I began in a much more moderate voice than I had intended to use, as I realised that I was dealing with a simpleton, ‘for one thing you’re on a train, not a tram, and for another it’s going to Rosehill racecourse, not Rosebery, which they closed down God-only-knows how many years ago. Where are you from anyway—Melbourne or somewhere?’

‘Fair go!’ he responded in an offended tone. ‘Never went to Melbourne but the once—for the Cup. Did me dough on Eurythmic and never been back to the bastard of a place since.’

On reflection, his reference to Eurythmic—a champion racehorse of the early 1920s—should have warned me things were crook in Muswellbrook!

‘Alright, you’re not from Melbourne,’ I conceded, ‘but can’t you see you’re on a train, not a tram? There hasn’t been a tram run in Sydney for over fifteen years!’

‘Well, to let you in on a secret, of course I know this is a train—I have, after all, got eyes, of sorts, in me head. The Rosebery thing is just one of the ridiculous lines they’ve given me to say.’

‘Who’s “they”?’ I asked, aware that I was being drawn into conversation.

He pointed with a finger into the air. ‘The upstairs mob,’ he said.

‘What, the people on the top deck of the train?’

‘No upstairs upstairs—you know, where the members committee watches the races from—the top deck of the official grandstand. You see, it was either go around making a dill of myself asking people “when does this tram get to Rosebery?” or of being stuck with a bloody great bookmaker’s ledger tied around me neck—neither of them good options, really.’

‘“Hobson’s choice”,’ I agreed.

‘Eh? Who’s ’Obson? Trainer? Jockey? What race is it in?’ the ghost demanded sharply.

‘I’m not talking about a horse. What I meant was—oh, never mind.’ By now I was totally flummoxed, other than for the conviction that I was talking to someone who had somehow slipped his leash at the asylum. My companion seemed to sense my uneasiness. ‘The fact is, I’m a dead man,’ he told me.

‘You and me both, brother, if I don’t win today,’ was my response, concluding that the bloke was, like me, in financial trouble.

‘Don’t talk like a mug. Let me give it to you straight—I’m what’s called a spirit down here, and a lost soul up there—in short, I’m a ghost.’

‘Fair dinkum?’ I responded in a neutral voice, not wishing to excite the fellow, who might have been homicidal, as well as crazy, for all I knew.

At this he sighed in a resigned sort of way, and quickly made as if to grab my wrist. But when I expected to feel the pressure of his fingers on my skin, there was nothing. I looked down and saw his hand appearing from the knuckles upwards out of my wrist, like the fin of a shark projecting from the water. And for the first time I noticed that while he had seemed a big, solid looking fellow at first glance, there was something incorporeal about him as well; I could see, for example, his wallet in his back pocket, even though, as I have explained, he sat facing me. In short, unless I had lost my senses—a possibility that could not be entirely ruled out in my hyper-stressed state—it seemed that this entity was indeed the metaphysical carry-over of some long dead punter.

‘I see,’ I responded at last. ‘Funny sort of place for a spook—a ghost, I mean—a racecourse train—to hang out, isn’t it?’

‘On the contrary,’ responded the ghost, as though reading a prepared statement, ‘there are more spirits condemned to wander this racecourse train than there are in all the stately homes of England combined.’ He quickly resumed his slangy and conspiratorial way of speaking. ‘Actually, a spirit’s haunt depends on how he “tailed the coins,” or on where he was in the moments just before he died. If he got bumped off in a castle, he’s likely to mooch around the battlements. If it was a pub or inn, the beer cellar’s likely to be his go. Of course if something happens to the ghost’s original haunt he has to hump his bluey to the next best place. This Rosehill train service to the races is the last of its kind. When the Randwick race trams ended and they shut down the Warwick Farm rail siding, all the lads that had been haunting those places had to transfer here. It’s become as crowded as the main ring on Doncaster day! I, of course, had come over much earlier, when the Ascot race trams finished in 1942.’

‘Why not haunt the Randwick race buses?’ I suggested. ‘Closer to Rosebery, aren’t they?’

‘No self-respecting ghost on remittance would haunt a bus,’ responded the ghost contemptuously. ‘No bloody atmosphere; and anyway, too many stops, with people getting on and off all the time. No chance of spooking anyone properly.’

‘But still, why the race train? Did your—er, demise—have something to do with horseracing?’

‘Too bloody right it had!’ responded the ghost with asperity, half rising from his seat in his excitement, and shoving his head, which was as big as an Easter Show blue-ribbon pumpkin, into my face.

‘Take it easy, man—do you have a name, by the way?’

‘I do. It’s Neville.’

‘Well, that’s a good racing name,’ I said. ‘Neville Sellwood; Neville Begg; Neville Voigt. Most appropriate. Well, Neville, my brain is throbbing with studying this racing form. And here’s the guard walking down the track to the front of the train, which odds-on means a long delay. I reckon you should take this chance to get it off your chest.’

‘Get what off me chest?’

‘Your story, of course.’

‘My story!’ he snorted. ‘You want to hear it? I haven’t ever given it, from barrier to box, in this world. It might be a mercy to tell it to someone who’s still a going concern, at that,’ he said, considering, while rubbing the spectral stubble on his ghostly chin. ‘You don’t get much sympathy from the other spooks with a hard-luck story, I can tell yer.’ He cocked an eye at me and said, ‘You seem to know some racing history?’

‘I haven’t memorised the colours of every winner of the Melbourne Cup, like some of the fanatics do, but on the whole, I’d pass, I flatter myself.’

‘Well, you’ve heard of Rosebery racecourse, and that’s more than can be said for most of your crop. As it happens my story is largely associated with that joint.’

The ghost cast himself into an appropriate storytelling posture (I fancy he had seen the statue of Henry Lawson in the Domain at some time) and tilted his hat back.

‘You might say this business started in 1928,’ he began, ‘but really it began during The Great War, as people call it; not the name I would give it. I went right through the Western Front with the 19^th Battalion, from Pozieres to Montbrehain. I was buried alive five times, each time dug out by cobbers. The last time was just before we moved out of the line for good, in October 1918. By that time I was as mad as the Kaiser, and I didn’t care who knew. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had threatened me with a firing squad; I wasn’t going back into the trenches no more. I was lucky that it didn’t come to that, because the war ended in November.’

‘I finally got home in 1919, and I tell you that the Sydney Heads when I sailed back beat anything I’d seen in France. All the diggers got a war service bond that wasn’t supposed to be convertible to cash, but there was no trouble with that if you knew who to see—which I did; I’d always been a knockabout type—and were prepared to lose a few shillings in the pound.’

‘When I got my hands on the money, like a lot of the diggers the first thing I wanted to do was give it a fly on the races. I’d only been once or twice before the war, as I didn’t look old enough to fool the gatemen, but I knew all about racing and betting, don’t worry, and hung around Ascot racecourse, near where I lived in Lauriston, on race days, so that I could talk racing to the men as they came out.’

‘My first time racing after coming home was at Randwick at the 1919 Spring Carnival. I couldn’t afford the Paddock enclosure, of course, but I was still in uniform and the clubs used to let you in for half price, so I took a punt on the Leger, instead of going with the absolute no-hopers to the infield Flat, which cost a shilling to enter. There were plenty of times in the next ten years when the Flat was all I could afford, and I even hung around the “outer” on the sand hills behind Victoria Park when I could not raise a deener, but this first day at Randwick I had money and I backed half the program, including two pounds on a twenty-to-one winner. I decided on the tram back to the city that working for a living was for mugs and that I could make a quid betting full-time on the races. It makes me laugh now to think I could ever have believed that!’

‘You’re not the first—or last, I can tell you—to have that delusion,’ I commented dryly.

‘You’re right,’ he agreed, ‘I see ’em here after the races all the time. Crying and blubbering and shaking their heads, or just staring out the window at nothing. I’ve seen you on these inbound trains more than once before today, you know.’

This made me squirm a bit, as I recalled some of the shocking states I had been in on the way home from the track. No one relishes running into witnesses to their past flirtations with suicide.

‘But never mind about you,’ the ghost continued, ‘this yarn’s about me—for the time being, anyway. For the best part of ten years, supported by the odd day’s yakka and running bets for SP bookmakers, I scraped a living on the punt, rarely missing a meeting; AJC races on a Saturday, Richmond or Menangle on Tuesdays, the pony races on Wednesdays, and wherever they were racing on Thursdays. Everyone knew me at the track; the gatemen, the bookies, the jockeys, the pie sellers, the betting supervisor, the racecourse detective. They called me “Neville the Devil”. Some of ’em said I was the biggest desperate for a bet they’d ever struck—not even barring “Baron” Bob Skelton and old Billy Tindall! And they weren’t far wrong.’

‘I was surviving, but I wasn’t building any mansions out at Vaucluse either. I was renting a room from an old coot in Surry Hills. It was somewhere to doss down at night, but not much more. Gradually, though, as years went by, despite a good day now and then, I had to admit I was going backwards, and that long term I was bound to end up with the arse totally out of my pants. On New Year’s Eve, 1927, I gave myself an ultimatum; start to earn a decent quid from the game—at least wages—or give it away and get a job; as simple as that.’

‘And strange to say, almost directly I did come good on the punt. I’d got to know well some of the pony jockeys that lived around Rosebery and Mascot, and I was putting bets on for them if they told me they liked one of their rides, and had largely given up the gallops for the unregistereds.’

I interrupted the ghost. ‘By “the gallops” you mean the Saturday meetings at Randwick, Warwick Farm, Rosehill, Canterbury, and—’

‘Moorefield, down near Kogarah,’ the ghost volunteered.

‘Thanks. While the ponies—the unregistereds—were Ascot, Kensington, Victoria Park and Rosebery, right?’

‘Well, you’ve done the form, alright,’ said the ghost in a slightly sniffy tone. ‘But as I was saying, I was following the ponies even on Saturdays, every second Saturday, when they clashed with the AJC races. There’d be fifteen races at the ponies, but only six at the registered meeting, so where would any punter worthy of the name rather be?’

‘I guess a mug could go broke a lot quicker at the ponies,’ I commented.

The ghost looked at me narrowly, like he thought I was having a shot at him, but soon continued.

‘Well, there came a Saturday in 1928, in May, and I was down to my uppers, as we used to say. There were clash meetings at Rosebery and Rosehill. I had some information for Rosehill and was about to jump on the race train, when I saw my old cobber Prince Bruce was in at Rosebery. The Prince was a 14.1 hand pony, and a trimmer too. One of the few at the unregistered tracks that could come from last to win, he’d saved my Albert many times. Why, only the previous Wednesday he’d won a 14.2 handicap at Ascot carrying the bloody grandstand. On the Saturday he was entered for the Rosebery Cup, open to horses of all heights; five divisions and a run-off final. Despite his good record Prince Bruce was in with a light weight because he was only a macker. But I reckoned he could beat the all-heights anyway.’

‘Archie Stanton gave me the mail. His old man trained Prince Bruce and his brother Alf always rode him. Archie was riding the stable mate in the Cup heats but he said that the Prince was the pea and to get on.’

‘So I said to myself, “Bugger Rosehill!” and I got the next tram to Rosebery from Railway Square. I remember going south down Botany Road thinking what a low day it was, weatherwise. It was squally and a wind was blowing that could near cut a man in half. Rosebery wasn’t a bad track but there wasn’t much shelter from the rain and I remember thinking I was short odds to end up with a wet backside.’

‘I got there not long before the second race. Straight away I could see that in spite of the crook weather and another race meeting across town there was an enormous mob in. I’d just about bored a hole in the racing paper on the way out, I’d been concentrating on it so hard. I’d walked in with five pounds and after four races I’d trebled my bank. The next race was the second heat of the Cup, in which Prince Bruce was to run. I walked around behind the stand hoping to get five-to-two or three-to-one but the Prince had the blows and a few books were calling eight-to-one. This set me thinking that maybe Archie had sold me a dummy and that the horse was not trying. But then some money came for him so I rushed in and took the eights.’

‘I couldn’t tell in the run if Alf was on the job or not because like always the Prince was tailed off last. So it was a nervous minute or so until they turned into the straight and Alf pulled him out. And then he came pelting down the outside fence going faster than last week’s pay. Alf eased him up at the half furlong, to save something for the run-off I suppose, but he still won easily. When I collected I wasn’t far off holding 70 quid! As soon as the bookies started betting on the run-off I whipped into the ring and had 40 quid straight on him at fives.’

‘I said to myself “Jeez, this is the bon ton!” The next race was a trial stakes over a mile and a bit, starting in the home straight, in front of the Leger, where I was located. After I placed my bet I decided to go down to the lawn to watch the start and give my jockey some riding instructions for free.’

‘Now all this time the clouds had been rolling in and rolling out, but it had not yet rained. But then, about five minutes before post time, there was the greatest cloudburst I had ever seen; worse than anything in Flanders, even. Within seconds the brims of the hats on the blokes standing around were streaming like waterfalls.’

‘There was only one shelter close enough to be of any use and that was the Leger stand, a rickety old wooden thing they’d brought over from the original Rosebery racecourse on Botany Road. Built in the 1890s and looked even older. I didn’t fancy waiting around for the Cup run off at four-thirty soaked to the skin, so I headed for the stand. Apparently everyone had the same idea because soon it was like the start of the open surf race at Bondi Beach, with blokes shooting off in all directions. The old stand had no seats and it was just about full even before the rain started. As all these blokes started pelting in—I was one of the first—the people already there, mostly women and old folk, were forced in towards the centre. In twenty seconds there were twice as many crammed in, mainly on the lower decks.’

‘I began to feel very uneasy. Although it was more than ten years since France I’d never got over being buried alive and couldn’t stand confined spaces. I could not get into the lifts at David Jones’s. This was way worse than any lift.’

‘There was a lot of pushing and shoving going on. Then there was an enormous creaking noise and the deck gave way below me. Three women who’d been standing in front of me vanished as though they had dropped through a gallows. I looked down into this bloody big hole where seconds before there had been a malthoid deck and saw a women sitting—frozen—in a dining chair with a cup of tea to her lips; the tea-room was underneath the stand. The section I was on dropped two or three feet, without collapsing entirely. Everywhere women—and men—were screaming, hysterical. People had lost their feet and eye-glasses and were crawling around on all-fours. There was blood, and broken bones, I don’t doubt.’

‘The next part it grieves me to recall. I said just now I don’t like confined spaces and crowds. That’s an understatement. I can’t breathe; I’d even peed myself once. I thought that the whole stand was about to collapse and that I would be buried alive for the sixth and last time. Well, not if I had anything to do with it, I decided. I could see that if I jumped over the right hand edge of the hole I could climb the railing at the Paddock end of the grandstand and get out onto the lawn. I set myself up like I was doing the standing broad jump, and let go. Now, just as I took off one of the women—she was only a girl, really—who had been thrown to the decking rolled over backwards, her face in the space I had picked for landing. It was too late to do anything about it. My big hob-nailed boots came down right on her pretty face. She screamed. Then blood started coming out her nose, her mouth, her ears. For a moment I was too shocked to even get off her. Then some blasted fellow looked at me and called me a dingo and asked what the hell I was doing. Think of it; a member of the 19^th battalion, called a dingo!’

‘By this stage I was a mess. Being whistled for a dog took all the wind out of me; not only that, but the bloke who’d done it was busy telling other blokes standing around about it, and pointing me out. That was enough; I couldn’t handle the shame. I found my way out of the stand’s remains and headed quick smart for the Gardeners Road exit. No one followed me; which was not surprising, as the joint was a shambles. A great cloud of dust hung over the grandstand, and men were running towards it from all directions.’

‘As I walked up past Mahoney Street I slowed down to check whether I was much hurt myself. Apart from a bung wrist I was fine—more’s the pity, I thought; if a man had copped a decent blighty he could maybe justify getting windy.’

‘In the circumstances, Neville,’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. I would have behaved much the same.’

‘Yes, but you hadn’t been to France. Diggers did not behave like that; at least the blokes in my battalion didn’t. It wasn’t my fault that I had landed on the lass; that was an accident. It was me panicking like a new chum in the trenches and taking to my heels that disgusted me—and would have disgusted my mates. But it was too late to do anything about that now.’

‘I walked up Gardeners Road until I came to the Rosebery Hotel. I went inside and ordered a double brandy, which I paid for with shaking hands. I did not want to hang around that vicinity too long, as in the circumstances there was a good chance that if some of the old hands began to leave the racecourse they would come looking for a drink, and I could not say how I would be standing with them. As I said, all the racecourse regulars knew me. I was assuming that the rest of the meeting would be called off. I could hardly imagine that more racing could take place. But I underestimated the resourcefulness—or the greed—as you like—of the Rosebery Race Club. After about twenty minutes had passed without an influx of racing types into the bar, I realised that the meeting had continued after all. In fact it seemed to be some time before anyone in the pub twigged that anything out of the ordinary had happened at the racecourse.’

‘There would have been no public address system or radio coverage at that time to put anyone onto it,’ I agreed, nodding.

‘There was also the question of the live ticket I was holding on Prince Bruce in the Cup run-off,’ continued the ghost. ‘I had no way of knowing if it had been run yet, though as it was growing dark the likelihood was it had. If I could find out somehow that old Bruce had won, I was prepared to chance everything and go back to the track to collect my money before the bookmakers shot through for the arvo.’

‘Couldn’t you have collected it another day; or had someone pick it up for you?’ I suggested.

Neville laughed cynically. ‘You were flat out getting some of those bookies to pay you on correct weight, let alone a couple of days later! There was no fallback position. In theory they were supposed to have paid a deposit to the race club, but there was no certainty of that with the Leger bookmakers. If they weighed in a few bob for the official instead, he’d sometimes overlook it. And anyway, if it turned out I was a fugitive, I wouldn’t want to be fronting no betting supervisor four days down the track asking for my money!’

‘I had more brandies, trying to steady my nerves,’ the ghost continued, ‘but they wasn’t working, although I was getting more than a bit of a glow up. I wasn’t what you’d call a regular at the hotel, but the barman knew me. He knew that I wasn’t a heavy drinker, normally, so he raised the eyebrow a bit when I kept fronting the bar. But he kept serving me. By this time it was almost dusk and the books would definitely have left the course. I was just about to pack it in myself when in through the bar-room door slunk an individual known as “The Zetland Sandfly” or the “Glebe Sandfly”—depending on whether he was living with his mother at the time—looking shifty and furtive, as usual. The Fly was one of the lower forms of pond life that infested the Sydney racecourses; a magsman, an urger and a coat-puller who gulled unsuspecting new chums he cornered in the betting ring. He was known as the Sandfly because his victims did not realise until sometime later that they’d been bitten at all, but when they did, they found the pain lingered on for ages. He’d give out five different tips before a race to five different greenhorns, and if one of them won he’d oil up to his pigeon after the race and ask for a quid for having tipped the winner. It often worked, believe it or not, and he only got belted occasionally. The only problem with this dodge was that, generally speaking, it only worked once, because even with new chums it was a case of  “once bitten, twice shy”, as they say. The Fly wasn’t above operating as a pick-pocket either. He’d work the race trains to the provincial tracks like Menangle, when he could walk through the carriages, end-to-end, so that he had somewhere to bolt if someone fingered him. He always preferred to work the morning train out, because in most cases, he said, punters’ pockets weren’t worth picking after the races.’

‘So in normal circumstances this Sandfly character was not a person whose company I’d seek out; in fact the last time I’d seen him, at Kensington races, I’d threatened to massage his face with a brick. But I was desperate at that moment for intelligence from the track, so holding up my drink, I beckoned him to join me; you know, my shout. The Fly knew the shorthand for that alright, although he wasn’t often invited by people without a police record to join them—and we hadn’t exactly parted last time singing each other’s praises—so he glared back at me through his bug glasses with obvious suspicion. But he couldn’t bring himself to refuse a free drink, whatever the dangers, so, pulling his cap over his glasses, he came over to my table by the window.’

‘“You’re getting back to the bar a bit late tonight aren’t you Fly?” I suggested to him after I’d returned from the bar with his scotch—and another brandy and beer chaser for me. “You haven’t been sandbagging blokes again, have you?” Now, I’ll admit this crack wasn’t in keeping with the “long lost brother” approach I’d kicked off with, but I couldn’t help myself. This bloke baulked at nothing and got up my nose.’

‘“I had to wait to collect on the run-off of the Cup,” the Fly replied, swilling his scotch around in his mouth, at the same time “casing” the room. “They was running late, what with that business over the Leger stand collapsin’, and all.”’

‘I experienced an immediate tightening of the throat. This was the news I had been waiting for—news of a potential 200 pound win in the run-off. And of course I had more than a casual interest in the matter of the grandstand, too. But that could wait.’

‘“Don’t tell me you backed the winner!” I demanded. ”Who tipped you into Prince Bruce?”’

‘The Fly blew a Hibernian-scented Bronx cheer in my face. “Nobody did, and it didn’t win anyway,” he said, with a sort of whiney cackle—the offensive bastard. “Although,” he reflected, “If Alf Stanton hadn’t fumbled with his whistle, he might have won, at that, instead of runnin’ second.”’

‘“What are you getting at?” I asked him.’

‘“His brother Archie was in front of him, on the fence, in the lead, on the stable mate and favourite, Green Bird. Blind Freddie could see it was meant to have been a set-up. Half way down the straight Arch rolled off the fence and gave Alf the run on the Prince. But it was too late. Should have done it at the turn. The race was already over.’”

‘“Well, what did win the bloody race?” I asked.’

‘“The Furrier”, declared the Fly.’

‘“The Furrier!  No! That would have been a skinner of a result!” The Fly missed the joke.

‘I knew this hay bandit, The Furrier, of course. Earlier in the day it had won the fourth heat of the Cup to qualify for the run-off. But it had fallen in to win, and I rated it no hope. Before the heat, it had won just one race—a novice at Ascot— in thirty-odd starts, hardly good enough form for a race worth 1000 pounds. It seemed impossible. For that reason I explained to the Fly what the consequences would be if it turned out he’d been spinning me a yarn.’

‘Again the Fly let go with a raspberry. “Yarn nuthin! I’ve got the money to prove it.’ He began to reach inside his coat pocket like he was going for his wallet, but as was usually the case with him, that was far as he got. He paused and said, ‘I thought you knew all the inside-info, Dev! The Furrier’s been running dead for years, like a Stawell Gift smokey. He got into the run-off with seven-stone-five. He was a handicapping certainty!”’

‘Two things about all this amazed me. The first was the news that the Furrier had been “running byes” all this time. I’d heard nothing about it. I’m sure the Stantons hadn’t known about it either. The second was the desperation of the Sandfly. Despite big-noting himself since he’d walked in, he’d still been unable to resist the lure of a free drink. What a bloody specimen!’

‘“Earlier I was nervous that the meeting was going to be called off—after what happened to that sheila in the stand,” the Fly continued.’

‘I felt sick at the mere mention of that business. “What do you mean?” I managed to ask.’

‘“When the stand collapsed some joker stomped on her head. McGill told me. As dead as a mullet, she is.”’

‘“Dead! How could she be dead? You can’t kill someone just by jumping on their head, surely, even in size twelve boots!”’

‘“What are you on about, Dev?” asked the Fly, him giving me a funny look now.’

‘“Forget it. What makes you so sure she tailed ’em?”’

‘“I got it from a reliable source. Old Heterick, the gateman on the Paddock-Leger transfer. Said he saw them carrying her through on a stretcher.”’

‘“That doesn’t make her dead,” I pointed out.’

‘“Heterick said he heard the doctor telling the ambulance driver they could stop for a “Tosca” on the way, ’cause she was past help.”’

‘I eyeballed the Sandfly. There was no doubt that he’d rather lie than tell the truth, just for the practice, but something told me that he really did believe this girl was holding a losing ticket.’

‘That was it then. As a result of my actions—of my unmanly panic in a little incident that was nothin’ compared with some of the carry-ons at the Front—a perfectly innocent girl’s life had been snuffed out years before its time. I stared into the bottom of my glass for a moment, then downed it at a toss.’

‘“Well, Fly,” I said, “I’ve have a gutful of this joint,” and with that I turned from him and hurried out the door.’

‘What happened next—or I should say, why it happened—I don’t really know. I was absolutely filthy on myself, that is for sure, but I honestly do not believe that I had any intentions of doin’ myself harm. I was, on the other hand, more than a little bit shickered. Anyway I found myself in the middle of Gardeners Road and almost immediately heard a bell ring. I looked up and saw a tram bearing down on me at top speed. I remember the driver’s face, goggling at me, like, and then—’

‘You were run down by the tram, I guess,’ I interrupted. ‘And this explains why you haunt trams and trains. And what about afterwards? Did you see a bright light at the end of a tunnel, and hear a heavenly choir?’

‘Garn, nothing like it!’ sneered the ghost, waving me off with his forearm. ‘I found myself in a box of a room, sitting on a bench. High above was a window, letting in some sunlight. Directly in front of me was a door with no glass in it.’

‘“What’s the strong?” I remember asking myself. “How did I end up in solitary confinement? And how long have I been knocked out?”

‘I might have been prepared to concede I was dead, but this didn’t look much like heaven to me—or that other place, for that matter. However, I didn’t have long to ponder over it, for just then the door opened out, revealing a representative of about the last form of humanity I would have expected to see, in the circumstances.’

‘What was it?’ I demanded of the ghost.

‘A bloody greencoat!’

I pause here to insert a word of explanation, though none will be required by regular Sydney racegoers. Greencoats were men employed by the Jockey Club on race days to perform minor tasks. The main one was to obstruct the entrances to the various enclosures and stands and deny entry to unauthorised persons, though they didn’t much like letting anyone short of the chairman by. Most were former jockeys, bookmakers’ clerks, or other racecourse flotsam. I have heard them described as ‘the last word in officiousness.’ But I return to the ghost.

‘This greencoat walked into the room and looked me up and down, then snorted as though to show he was not much impressed. He laid a hand on my shoulder and said “Come on, Carroll”—that’s my surname—“Come on, Carroll, you’re wanted by your betters.”’

‘“What place is this?” I asked him.’

‘“You’ll see soon enough,” he answered. “Come along, follow me.”’

‘Well, there didn’t seem to be any future in staying where I was, so I fell in behind him. He went into a sort of tunnel, at the end of which were a set of narrow stairs. He gestured for me to follow him, and at the top we come out onto a deck. We were standing at the top of an enormous grandstand that stretched away to the right for two furlongs or more. Other than us, there was not a person to be seen. Before us was a racecourse. It sort of reminded me of Randwick, except it was built on a massive scale that made Randwick look like Bong Bong. I screwed up my eyes and squinted up the straight, but could not see the home turn. The main track must have been more than four miles around, from the winning post and back, and all the parts of it I could see were as green as a swamp. The course infield was a maze of fountains, flowerbeds, hedges and bridle paths. Here and there peacocks and guinea fowls were mooching about. There were no inside training tracks or structures.’

‘Now I knew I for sure I was dead. No racecourse on earth was like this.’

‘The greencoat turned to the left and climbed even higher up a broad set of stairs that led to double-glass doors with gold handles. There was another greencoat manning the entrance and as we approached he nodded at my scout and, stepping away, opened one of the doors. We went on down a hallway until we came to a closed oak door. Set at about eye level was a wooden plaque with the single word “Committee” written in a flowing copperplate hand.’

‘The greencoat knocked lightly on the door and coughed softly.’

‘“Send him in, Mr Kuhn,” ordered a muffled voice from inside.’

‘“Now you’re for it, mate!” said the greenie to me under his breath, as he ushered me in.’

‘There were three coves sitting behind a large mahogany desk that was topped with green baize. The one on the left was a sour looking old bird with mutton chops and a high white cravat at his throat. He was glaring at me from under big craggy eyebrows like I was wearing his shirt. The bloke on the right had a big black beard like Ned Kelly the bushranger. He was studying hard what looked like a race book. He did not even look up as I entered the room. The third of them, who was seated between the other pair, was clean shaven except for a little “Charlie Chaplin” moustache. He gestured to a low stool that had been set before the desk. I sat down and rested my elbows on my lap and had a look around me. The first thing I spotted was an oversized portrait of the first fellow, painted in sombre browns and blacks—except for his face, which was lit up. He looked even fiercer if anything than he did in real life. Below the portrait was a little plaque that read “Sir Edward Davis Thomas, President AJC”. Now, as I say I had cottoned-on by this time that I was dead myself, but all the same it gave me a strange feeling to know I was sharing a room with a spook.’

‘I looked at the other wall and was not surprised to find a painting of the second exhibit. He was portrayed with a sort of self-satisfied smirk, like he’d just pulled off a big betting plunge or something. The placard suggested this was Sir James Black, a chairman of the AJC in the 1880s. I gave a whistle.’

‘The cove in the middle spoke. He had a Scottish accent. “I see that you have recognised the portraits of Sir Edward and Sir James. You know of them of course?”’

“’I know they both have races at Randwick named after them. Where’s your portrait hidden pal?’”

‘He gave me a dirty look like my old schoolmaster used to do when I had fired a spit ball at him. “I am a servant of the Club. The right to be hung on the walls of this committee room is reserved for past chairmen. I am Thomas Stanley Clifford, sometime secretary of the AJC.’”

‘“And what are you the rest of the time? No seriously, there’s no need for you to feel like a no-hoper, mate; you have a race named for you at Randwick, just the same as these big shots, don’t you?’”

‘I can’t tell you why I had decided to muck around like this. I’d never been in the members stand before and maybe I wanted to show them that I was not overawed. If I had known what was in the wind, I would have been a lot more respectful, believe me.’

‘“This is a serious matter, Carroll,” said Clifford, “and playing the fool does you little favour. This Committee has been instructed by—ahem—a higher authority to decide what your fate in this afterlife should be. There are several options. In theory you could be nominated for membership of this Club and entrance to the members stand—”’

‘Here he paused and sort of waggled an eyebrow at the other pair, who laughed as though this was a great joke.’

‘“But that is hardly an option, given your colourful history. Apart from anything else, you are a known frequenter of unregistered pony racecourses, which ipso facto renders you persona non grata here.”  They seem to like jawing in Latin in the members. “What we are to do with you is largely dependent on the circumstances of your death. You should be aware that suicide is in the judgement of God—and therefore also in that of this Committee—a mortal sin no less than murder.”’

‘I could see where this was heading. “Fair crack of the whip!” I demanded. “I didn’t top myself! I was shickered and—I think—fell in front of a tram.”’

‘“All the evidence indicates the contrary. My stewards have discussed the matter at length and examined the patrol film of the incident and it is their opinion that on May 5 1928, about a furlong from the corner of Botany and Gardeners roads, while travelling erratically on the inside of other pedestrians, you failed to give yourself every opportunity to avoid a collision with an outbound Daceyville tram. Thus are you charged under article 17(b) of the rules governing this administration. Have you anything else to say in your defence?”’

‘“Much, though I doubt that it will do me any good in this flamin’ kangaroo court. How do you come to have a film of this?”’

‘“We have perpetual visual records of all incidents on Earth, and some cracking good archivists.”’

‘“Nuts!”’ I said. I looked at the other two. ‘“Haven’t you jokers got an opinion on this?”’

‘“We have every confidence in the judgement of the Club’s officials,” said old mutton chops—showing me there wasn’t much hope in an appeal to the Committee. There rarely is course, as any jockey will tell you.’

‘“Look, I won’t deny that I was upset. After all, I had been the cause of the death of a young girl, though I had not meant it to happen.” I had forgotten all about the girl until then. “She did die, didn’t she?” I asked.’

‘“There have been no transfers here from the Flat in the past 24 hours, with your exception,” Clifford said.’

The ghost looked at me. ‘I suppose I should explain this matter of enclosures. You know that on a racecourse there are three enclosures, with different admission prices—the Paddock, the Leger and the Flat. Well, the Committee members, who are just as snooty in the afterlife as they were down here on earth, have pinched those names for the different regions of the afterlife they control. The Flat is what they call this world you are currently living in. The Paddock is what my Sunday school teachers had in mind when they talked about Heaven. No pearly gates, but a very nice brick art deco entrance. The other-world Leger is a sort of in-between place where nothing much happens. In the Leger you can see the racecourse, but none of the racing.’

‘Then there are two other parts of the course that no amount of money can get you into—or keep you out of, for that matter. One’s the members stand. That’s where the Committee and their officials, and a few privileged others, hang out. Best views of the course, best tucker, best good sorts on hand.’

I put what I thought was an obvious question. ‘What about the owners of the racecourse?’

The ghost looked non-plussed. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘You know, Jesus and his dad, and the others. Where are they?’

The ghost tilted his hat back even farther. It seemed like he had not thought of this before. ‘I dunno. Never seen them on course. I guess that they are not racing men.’

‘I guess not. But what’s the other place?’

‘I’ve left that for last. That’s the place they call the “outer”. It’s what you people in this life think of as Hell. I’ve never been there—few that go ever come back—but they tell bugaboo stories about it in the other enclosures. A place of sand hills and great heat; hot, flat, beer; odds-on favourites in every race and defaulting bookmakers, they say.’

The ghost consulted a watch that he had pulled from his cardigan pocket. It seemed to have no hands or hours. ‘Cripes, I’ll have to finish this yarn soon. Now, it seemed from what Clifford had told me that the girl in the stand had not died after all, despite what that fly-blown Fly had said. I would have a few things to say when I caught up with him. But her fate was not of concern to the Committee, apparently. It seemed that they had it in for me because they believed I had killed myself; that combined with the fact that I had been a pony racing man. Not sure which was the worse crime in their eyes.’

‘In any case I did not see much point in arguing the toss with them. I told Clifford I had nothing more to say in my defence.’

‘“Very well,” he said. “It is the Committee’s opinion that you are a person of regrettable character and do not possess the sensibilities suited to the Paddock enclosure and for association with the respectable people therein. It is the Committee’s further opinion, however, that you are not perhaps beyond redemption, and for that reason in its clemency it has chosen not to warn you off to the “outer” forever. Therefore you are banished to the Leger for a period of forty earth years, at the end of which time the Committee, if it judges your attempts at reform favourably, may recommend your admission to the Saddling Paddock. During your term you must on race days leave the St Leger enclosure and spend 24 hours in the Flat, presenting yourself from time to time to inmates of that place travelling on trams to all unregistered racecourses, as a forewarning to them of their terrible fate if they do not mend their ways. You will be suitably attired to inspire a mixture of fear and loathing; to wit, you will be bound around the waist by a ponderous leather surcingle, with a rails bookmaker’s ledger suspended from your neck, and a lugging bit holding your lower jaw in place—in the manner of the character Jacob Marley of Mr Dickens’s novella A Christmas Carol.’”

‘“The best possible reading for a recidivist like you,” put in Sir James Black. “I recommend it to you most earnestly.”’

‘Clifford resumed. “You will ask fellow travellers to advise you when the tram approaches the unregistered racecourse precinct. You will then engage in conversation and dissuade them from their erring ways. In the admittedly unlikely event of you saving one of these sinners from his fate, it will be considered very favourably in reviews of your case.”’

‘I thought for a moment about what Clifford had said. I couldn’t imagine all this ghost clobber being too comfortable to get around in. “I don’t mind the bit of chat,” I told them, “but you can spare me the bookie’s ledger and lugging bit? I like to travel light to the races­—just a form guide and a set of field-glasses for neckwear, usually.”’

‘“But the Committee believes that the accoutrements suggested will materially assist you in saving souls!” Sir Edward Davis Thomas insisted. “Few spirits work with the living without employing some form of prop; an axe, a sword, a reaper, a hangman’s noose, et cetera. How will you frighten your cases back to the straight path without one?”’

‘“Oh, I reckon I’ll manage to frighten them alright. Anyway, I’m prepared to take my chances.”’

‘The three of them formed a scrum and mumbled together for a few moments. “Very well,” said Clifford at last, “your request is granted, although we do not think it is in your own interests. Your sentence will begin immediately. Mr Kuhn, escort this man Carroll to the St Leger enclosure.’”

‘Kuhn, who must have been listening at the keyhole, immediately entered the room and again took hold of my arm. We walked down through the grandstand and into what I guessed was the Paddock enclosure. It didn’t seem like a bad sort of place either. The main activity appeared to consist of sitting at wrought iron garden furniture scoffing champagne. There was lots of laughing and backslapping going on too. It struck me that something was missing though. It took me a few minutes to work it out. There wasn’t a bookie’s stand in sight. I commented on this to the greencoat, who chuckled in response.

‘“It’s rare a bookmaker gets in here,” he said, “and if they are admitted they are not allowed to field.”’

‘“You don’t mean—”’

‘“I do indeed,” said the greencoat. “They are all tote-betting only meetings up here.”’

‘“Well, I guess that figures. I always thought the books were in cahoots with Old Nick. How does betting work up here? Everyone wins, I suppose.”’

‘“On all racecourses there are winners and losers, and this one is no different in that respect. But all that is affected are the arrangements for the evening, in terms of partners, if I can put it that way, and whether you eat in the a la carte restaurant or the bistro. But everyone starts the next meeting with a full wallet. Of course, none of this will matter to you, Carroll; not where you’re going!”’

‘We had at last arrived at the transfer to the Leger. I passed through a little gate next to the turnstiles. The greencoat gave me an ironic salute and stepped back into the Paddock. I looked around my new home. It had all the infrastructure you would expect to find on a racecourse, but nothing seemed to be open; certainly not the totalisator windows or the bars. If there had been a notable absence of bookmakers in the Paddock, the Leger was packed solid with them. Within five minutes I had seen a dozen or more of my acquaintance from the Sydney racecourses. I found out from one of them later what the go was. Not everyone haunted the Flat—the Earth, that is—when there was a race meeting on down there; just those sentenced to be remittance men, like I had been. The majority of the Legerites remained in the Leger. They could hear races—both the ‘local’ meetings and those ran on Earth—but not see them, and they were strictly forbidden from betting on them. There were several deceased betting supervisors who were always snooping about. This restriction went against the grain for the bookmakers, of course. But there was some illicit betting, as I later found out. I took forty-to-one on Ajax with a bookie named Mitchell in the 1939 Rawson Stakes.’

‘You didn’t!’ I said. Ajax was famous in Australian racing folklore for being the shortest price favourite ever beaten in a race on a major racetrack—in the 1939 Rawson Stakes. ‘What were the stakes?’

‘I risked a 200 year’s addition to my sentence for a reduction of five years on the original. Don’t ask me how Mitchell arranged it, but I was called back before the Committee and told that I’d be sweeping up cigarette butts in the Leger for at least another 229 years. On the way back I saw Mitchell heading for the Paddock transfer smoking a big cigar, a race book in one hand and a champagne glass in the other, and looking pretty pleased with himself in general. That is why on Rawson Stakes day—today—I suffer for my sins more than during any other meeting of the year.’

*          *          *          *          *

At this point the train finally moved off again.

‘That’s more than enough about me,’ said the ghost, sighing, then looking at me hard. ‘You’ve got a decision to make, cobber, and you have to make it by the time we reach Clyde station. That is the last stop before the Rosehill racecourse platform. Listen to me son! It’s your last chance. Turn around; go home! If you go to the races you’ll lose the lot for sure, and if so, I can do no more for you. And then God, or rather, the Committee, have pity on your soul.’

‘But you don’t understand, Neville; I can’t. I have to win today.’

‘Oh, I know all about that business at the bank. It’s common knowledge up in the Leger. All I can say to you is; take your medicine now. Get help if you can. Going to the races today is the worst thing you can do.’

I turned away from him moodily and stared out the window. We were passing the markets sidings at Flemington. Neville’s assurances that I would lose were consistent with what deep down I felt I already knew; I was no chance of winning this day.

‘How many punters’ souls have you managed to save so far?’ I asked the ghost.

‘Not a one,’ he replied. ‘None of those I spoke to would have a bar of it. Said that they were out of form, temporarily, but they were bound to come good any time. Your’s would be my first. Of course, you are also the first to have had the benefit of hearing my story.’

‘So by saving me you save yourself?’

‘Well, I’m hoping for a reduction in my sentence, at least. I doubt that you’re worth a ticket to the Paddock on your own.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I said. The train was now passing through Auburn. I looked at my form guide. It made as much sense to me as the Rosetta Stone would have. This was madness. I heaved a deep sigh, and stood up.

‘Alright, Neville, I’ll do it. I’m going home.’

‘Fair dinkum?’ he cried. ‘You’re not kidding me?’ I shook my head. ‘You beauty! You’re my first winner in almost 60 years!’

The train was rapidly approaching Clyde. Just then there was a strange, compacted noise, like a bullet train had just sped past heading for Sydney. I looked down at the ghost. His bedraggled clothes had been replaced by an immaculately cut suit. A brand new pearl grey Stetson sat in place of the battered fedora. A cigar of monstrous proportions was wedged between his lips (you could still smoke on the trains in those days; not that I suppose Macquarie Street legislation would stop a ghost from smoking if he wanted to).

We looked at each other, equally bemused, I think.

A voice spoke from the far end of the carriage. ‘G’day, Neville,’ it said.

It belonged to a man of small stature dressed in a long coat, wearing a peaked cap; a greencoat, no less, and given the recent supernatural turn of events, most probably, I guessed, the same one that had figured in Neville’s long narrative.

The ghost immediately confirmed this. ‘Kuhn! What are you doing here, you arse-licker?’

‘Now Neville, watch your mouth. You should be happy to see me. You’re in.’

‘In what? The pooh again, I suppose.’

‘No you’re in. Not only the Paddock, but the members stand as well. The Committee has lifted your “warning off”.’

‘But I got “life”, only thirty years ago,’ the punter pointed out (as he was dead, this was strictly speaking an anomalous statement, but I let it go).

‘So did Mel Schumacher,’ said the greencoat, winking at me conspiratorially. ‘But they let him back in after only serving seven years. There’s a precedent for you!’ Shumacher had grabbed the leg of a rival jockey in the 1961 Derby.

The Ghost stuck his chin out belligerently and hooked his thumbs into his fob pockets. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he said. ‘Prove it!’

The greencoat grinned. ‘Have a look at your suit lapel.’

The ghost did look, then started violently. From the buttonhole of his lapel, suspended by a braided lanyard, hung a shiny gold medallion with green lettering. He recognised it immediately.

‘Coo, a fair dinkum Jockey Club member’s badge! I really am a member! How did this come about?’

‘Two factors influenced the Committee, I understand. The first was you straightening this boy out just now. The second, which has happened within the last half hour, was the death-bed confession of one Hurtle Angles, formerly an inmate of the “Finishing Post” Nursing Home for indigent gamblers, Kingsford.’

‘And who would he be?’ asked the ghost.

‘You knew him in life as the Zetland—or Glebe—Sandfly.’

‘The Fly still in training after all these years! Who’d have bet he’d stay a distance? I’d have thought he’d have carked it and been sentenced to the “outer” years ago.’

‘These desperate types often cling greedily to their miserable lives. Only the good die young; with the occasional exception.’

‘That would be a shot at me,’ the ghost observed ruefully, ‘but never mind.’

‘Anyway,’ continued the greencoat, ‘the point is while he was receiving the last rites Angles told the priest that when a young man he had been at Rosebery races on the day that the Leger grandstand had collapsed. After the races he had met a man known to him named Carroll in the Rosebery Hotel. Angles said that Carroll was very drunk and seemed to be inordinately upset by the stand incident. He also said that he had been told earlier by another racecourse idler that Carroll had won a large sum of money at the track. Angles had on the other hand lost his entire bank.’

‘He told me he’d backed the winner of the Cup run-off!’ cried the ghost, leaping to his feet. ‘That’s why he was late, he said: he’d been waiting to collect.’

‘Angles said he recalled telling you that, and that it was a lie. He had in fact been trying to lure victims into vacant land near the corner of the racecourse in order to hit them on the temple with a sockful of wet sand,’ continued the greencoat.

‘I picked that was what he’d been up to!’ the ghost boasted. ‘Capable of anything, that Fly.’

‘With his last breath Angles said that when you went staggering from the Rosebery Hotel onto Gardeners Road he followed you out. As you reached the gutter Angles saw a tram approaching from the east. On a sudden impulse he pushed you into the path of the tram.’

‘Huh! Well that bloody stewards’ patrol film didn’t pick that up. Did he happen to say why he did it, before he kicked off?’ asked the ghost.

‘Well, he said it was payback for an earlier incident involving you and a brick at Kensington. And also, after you were hit by the tram, he went through your pockets and lifted your wallet, so robbery was probably a motive. And finally, he said he just thought you were a real galah.’

‘By Jeez, the Fly got some mileage out of that last breath!’ observed the ghost. ’Wait till I catch up with him! I’ll give him “galah”!’

‘You’d better hope for your sake that your paths do not cross again,’ warned the greencoat. ‘You don’t want to end up where he’s going.’

‘Fair enough,’ the ghost conceded. His face brightened. ’Besides, I’ve got better things to look forward to than swatting the Fly. Let’s head for the members!’

‘And you be on your best behaviour son!’ said the greencoat to me, wagging a finger. ‘If you don’t stay on the straight and narrow, they’ll throw Neville straight out of the members, and maybe back over the fence into the Leger as well. And that won’t look good on your record when your own time comes to front the Committee.’

But I had no intention of reneging.

The train reached Clyde station and the carriage doors opened. I had only to walk to the other side of the platform to await the return local service to the City. The ghost and the greencoat began to mount the stairs to the station overpass. The ghost turned to me and playfully ruffled my hair with his form guide. ‘You’re not a bad lad. I’ll give you one last tip to go on with. The easiest way to find a winner is not to go looking for it. Let it come to you.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ I asked him.

‘I dunno. One of the old hands told me that one day at the Boolaroo races, but I never worked it out.’

The ghost turned back to the greencoat and they resumed their climb. But as they did the grubby backdrop of the railway tracks running off to Granville station began to dissolve. It was replaced by a sea of people who were dressed in all manners of clothing, ranging from those popular in the 1860s to the present day; but they all in common were dressed formally, as if for a day at the races, in the members stand—for that of course is what I was seeing. Neville Carroll and the greencoat were ascending into that metaphysical members stand that he had been describing to me moments before. And as I looked at the crowd that filled the stand, I began to see the faces of departed racing people I recognised; trainers like Etienne de Mestre, John Tait, Harry Telford, Jim Cummings, Bailey Payten; owners like Ossie Porter, the Reid brothers and John Brown; officials like Tom Watson, Jim Donohoe, Charlie Cropper and Frank Dempsey; racecallers and press men like Jim Carroll, Ken Howard, Pat Farrell and Bert Wolffe; punters like Eric Connolly and Billy Tindall; committeemen like Sir Adrian Knox, Colin Stephen and LKS MacKinnon.

Below them, circling in the birdcage, as though before a race, were the greatest heroes of the Australian horseracing pantheon; John Cutts on Archer, Bob Rammage on Carbine, Frank Dunn on Wakeful, Billy Duncan on Manfred, Jim Pike on Phar Lap, Darby Munro on Peter Pan, Bill Williamson on Rising Fast, Neville Sellwood on Tulloch, Harold Badger on Ajax, Sammy Howard on Tails.

As I watched, the gambler’s ghost left the greencoat and took his seat in the stand. He seemed to see me yet, for he rose again and doffed his Stetson. As he replaced his hat, the vision vanished, and once more I was looking at the approaches to Granville station.

On the following Monday morning I sought out the manager of my bank and confessed that I had been making unauthorised withdrawals from several accounts to bet on the races. He was a decent bloke and I was hoping that he would not take it further. He was shocked and disappointed by my admission, for he had been of the opinion I had a great future with the bank. At first he did not believe that he could not advise his superiors, but, placing his own position in jeopardy, he helped cover up my withdrawals and repaid the missing amounts with his own money, on the condition that I resign immediately and pay him back as soon as I could. It took several years, but I never missed a fortnightly payment to him, and did not begrudge making any of them.

Ironically, I discovered that I did have a talent for painting—but not for landscapes, in which there is no money, but for racehorses. Wealthy owners will pay gratifying amounts for portraits that emphasise the fine Arabian head and glistening coats of their stable favourites. If they sometimes suggest that I need not unduly emphasise that slightly turned out leg, or parrot mouth, who am I to argue?

I still go occasionally to the races; not every week, just when I fancy a day out. And I bet only with my money.

 

To read more about The Gambler’s Ghost and Other Racing Oddities click here.

To read more by Wayne Peake click here.

 

To return to our Footy Almanac home page click HERE.

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?

And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – click HERE.