At Bordertown Races
I might well have made a case for that day’s being my best so far. Of the hundreds of faces in the crowd, none looked in my direction, not even the few young women I had to look twice at. Before long I was no more an elderly widower new to the district; I had gone back to a time when my true life, so to call it, was one of a dozen possibilities. I knew nothing of any wife or sons or books with my name on their covers No more need to pretend! I could be my true self at last: none other than the solitary boy of fifteen who loved racing first, just ahead of poetry and whose teachers and parents never preached or recommended higher goals. I spent much time staring at trainers from Naracoorte or Murray Bridge or Mount Gambier and deciding which one I ought to work for as a stablehand.