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horses, nineteen starts, four, three, four. Much the same the year before.’ He drank some black tea. ‘A Bob Jane.’
    ‘A what?’ Bob Jane was the name of a chain of tyre dealers. Racing always held another mystery.
    ‘Retreads old tyres. Won a race in Albury in ’91, nineteen hundred metres, horse called Live Marine.’
    ‘Like that name,’ said Harry. He was a connoisseur of horse names, knew thousands, approved of few.
    ‘Nice name,’ said Cam. ‘Nice age, too. Fourteen. Retired at nine this Marine. Won six out of seventy-five, placed fourteen. Never closer than eighth in the last twelve.
    Pensioned off, never heard of for five years, presumed dead or carryin kids in some paddock. Come 1991 and aged fourteen, it was like Fred Stolle coming back to win Wimbledon.’
    I said, ‘I see. Bob Jane.’
    ‘This year McCurdie’s got two new little payslips, both won at nineteen hundred.’
    ‘Had other comeback nags before Live Marine,’ Harry said. ‘But then the luck run out.
    Now McCurdie’s feelin a twitch in the underwear again.’
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    I drank some tea. Mrs Aldridge’s tea both soothed the stomach and cheered and stimulated the brain cells. What did Mrs Aldridge know about the chemistry of immersing small leaves in boiling water that was unknown to all other tea-makers? Yet another mystery.
    Harry held up a video cassette. ‘Brought this to show me. Looks like a man with the DTs took it. Bring the cups over.’
    On the way across the passage to Harry’s elegant twelve-seater cinema, I admired his outfit of the day: Irish houndstooth tweed suit, soft white shirt, silk tie, Lobb’s plain toecap shoes the colour of caramelised onion.
    Cam pressed the buttons. We watched a three-horse race run on what looked like an abandoned racecourse. The camera operator suffered from both St Vitus’s Dance and an uncontrollable urge to play with the zoom. In spite of this, it was clear that a large grey won by about five lengths.
    ‘I see what they mean about country racing being in bad shape,’ I said. ‘Collapsed grandstand, field of three, crowd of one, jockeys riding in shorts.’
    ‘That’s the creature,’ Harry said. ‘Vision Splendid. Twelve years old. Give Jack the history, Cam.’
    ‘Sir Rocco out of Clancy’s Angel. Bred by H. and J. Morrisey, Angaston. Owned by two Adelaide lawyers, sold to Ken Gumble, trains at Mornington, as a three-year-old maiden. Gumble sold half share to a lawyers’ syndicate. Lightly raced, forty-four starts, five wins, six seconds, eight thirds, total career winnings $164,500. Not placed in eighteen months, then given to a riding school in Bendigo. That’s where McCurdie bought it two years ago. The school’s run by a friend of his daughter’s.’
    ‘He’s run this Vision, has he?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ Cam said.
    ‘Man of patience,’ Harry said. ‘Admire that.’
    ‘Could be patient,’ said Cam. ‘Could be slow.’
    ‘The beaten nags there,’ said Harry, pointing to the screen. ‘That’s McCurdie’s two three-year-olds. Winners the both.’
    ‘Winners in Quambatook and Moulamein,’ said Cam, ‘where two slabs of Vic Bitter buys off the whole field.’
    ‘So he’s looking for another Albury,’ I said.
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    ‘Not this time,’ Harry said. ‘Albury he can do himself. No, he’s lookin for the jeweller’s shop, join those white-shoe boys up in Queensland. Problem is, he’s got no capital.’
    ‘Man of ambition,’ said Cam. ‘Admire that.’
    Harry smiled. ‘Cheeky. Thought we might go for a little sky-borne inspection. Put a pro on this antique horse. Too bloody far to drive. Jack, you in?’
    ‘Try to keep me on the ground.’
    ‘Good man. Well, let’s get out to Kyneton and see what this Burnbank Boy can do for us.’
    At the Flemington Road lights, Harry sat tapping his big fingertips on the wheel.
    ‘Mystery’s gone out of racin,’ he said. ‘Blame the cameras. See everythin. Used to be like war out there in the back straight. Life