Nothing to Lose (7 page)

A bookmaker – like Benny . . . Jasmine took a deep breath. Benny had left her the pitch because he
knew
she could do it, so why on earth was she dithering around like a neurotic gnat? She’d been helping Benny for as long as she could remember; he’d always said all it took to be a successful bookie was tickets and chalk and a bit of nous. She’d listened to him chatting with Roger and Allan in the Crumpled Horn for most of her life; it was simply a matter, he’d claimed, of changing the prices, taking the mugs’ money – and winning. Simple as that. A child could do it.

Jasmine stood up, brushing down her jeans. She
could
do it. No, more than that – she
would
do it, and make a success of it. It would be easier, of course, if she had someone writing up the bets for her, the way she had for Benny, but the crowd wasn’t large, so she presumed she’d manage somehow. If only Andrew was more supportive, he might have come along tonight to help her. She giggled, imagining him in his chinos and immaculate shirts, frantically scribbling on the foolscap sheet at the back of the joint as she doled out tickets and yelled, ‘Eleven pounds to five, twenty three!’

‘Jasmine! Darling!’ Peg Dunstable suddenly powered her way out of the stands. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Nervous,’ Jasmine admitted, ‘but more confident than I was half an hour ago. I was just thinking I could do with someone to do the writing up. I’m scared I’ll make a mess of it.’

‘We’ll try and find someone,’ Peg nodded, her race-night Doris Day wig – one with impossibly bubbly layers and a fringe – dancing in time. ‘Of course Ewan will be able to help you out when he arrives. It’ll do him good to have a little job. Keep him out of mischief.’

Jasmine squeaked and puffed out her cheeks in a gesture of disbelief. Andrew would definitely break off the engagement – if she hadn’t already done it first, of course – if he thought she and Ewan were snuggled up together under Benny’s banner. Not that Ewan would be interested in her
that
way, she reminded herself quickly. Even if they hadn’t known each other so long that they were like brother and sister, Ewan had always been attracted to such beautiful women – oh, and, of course, he was still married to Katrina -even if he seemed to forget the fact on a regular basis. ‘I thought he’d have arrived by now.’

‘So did I.’ Peg flicked at the Peter Pan collar of her white shirt. It sat neatly over the lapels of a tightly fitting fifties-style black suit. It was definitely a steal from
Move Over Darling.
‘I telephoned Katrina to see if they’d had a reconciliation and gathered from the invective that they hadn’t. As far as she knew he was in London – and she was more than happy for him to stay there from what I gathered.’ She sighed. ‘You know, I do think he’s got himself mixed up in something iffy this time.’

‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Jasmine grinned. ‘It’ll just be another married woman or something like that. He’ll be hiding from an irate husband.’

‘I don’t think so, pet, not this time. He told me he was in trouble, some undercover work or something, and Katrina said that he’d got involved with freedom fighters.’

‘Freedom fighters? Ewan?’ Jasmine rocked with laughter. ‘Idealistic he may be, but he’s also bone idle. I’m sure natural sloth and procrastination are not top of a mercenary’s must-have list. Katrina was probably just shit-stirring. And he was far more likely to have said underwear than undercover. Don’t worry, Peg. Ewan will turn up here before long.’

‘I sincerely hope so. I do like to be able to keep an eye on him.’ Peg patted Jasmine’s arm, pausing to peer into the distance as a volley of high-pitched yapping splintered the Tannoy’s version of ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon’. ‘Damn! It sounds like one of the tourists has interfered with a dog! I’ll have to go and raise Cain. Now, you try your best tonight for Benny’s sake – and to cock a snook at your boring family – and I’ll pop along as often as I can. OK?’

Jasmine nodded as Peg marched away to bring order to the chaos which looked like erupting at the kennel end of the stadium.
For Benny’s sake . . .
She straightened her shoulders and picked up the chalk. As neither Roger nor Allan had put up their opening prices, she knew she’d just have to wing it. She’d always taken it so much for granted – the names of the dogs for each race just miraculously appeared, the prices beside each runner doing the same. For all her involvement, it had never occurred to her to ask her grandfather how these things actually materialised.

Of course, she knew that at the larger stadiums the bookmakers all had pre-printed disposable sheets to pin up prior to each race, and wrote the odds against them with fat marker pens. Such innovations had not yet reached Ampney Crucis.

Oh well, the names at least were easy. They were listed on the race card. Jasmine chalked up each of the six dogs for the first race in their trap order, her capital letters sloping downwards more each time until it would be beneficial to be standing on a slope in order to read them. She stared at them critically. They’d have to do – she’d try harder for the next race.

Now for the prices . . . She frowned. That shouldn’t be too difficult, surely? Ampney Crucis attracted the same trainers and owners, and the same greyhounds and their offspring year after year. She knew them all. The stadium didn’t attract big owners or trainers from far afield, and the only time a stranger infiltrated their ranks it was to try out a novice greyhound far away from the touts’ prying eyes.

She knew well enough that anything trained by Bess Higgins might be expected to win, and anything trained by Able Nelson wouldn’t. Then there were the regular names who occasionally chucked up winners, but more often than not fielded the also-rans. Having sorted out the pros and cons in her mind, Jasmine beamed and hummed along with
Doris Day’s Greatest Hits,
chalking up the relevant starting prices. Bess’s had the shortest odds and Able’s the longest; the others sort of fudged somewhere in between. Piece of cake really, she thought, finally making Mariner Queen twenty to one and blowing the chalk dust from her fingers.

The public address system suddenly ceased its nasal interpretation of ‘Love Me or Leave Me’, and Gilbert, who doubled up as the snack bar’s hot-dog seller in between races, coughed chestily into the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium. The first race will begin in fifteen minutes’ time, which should, by my reckoning – he paused here for a chuckle at his own wit – ‘give you just quarter of an hour to place your wagers. May I wish you, on behalf of the management, an enjoyable and prosperous evening.’ The microphone clicked off, then immediately screeched on again. Gilbert was still wheezy. ‘Oh, and there will be hot and cold drinks and a selection of refreshments, all at very reasonable prices, available from the kiosk between races. Thank you.’

Confident that she was now ready for anything, jasmine opened her foolscap double-entry ledger, made sure the money satchel was out of reach of sticky fingers, and felt a punch of excitement land just beneath her ribs. The greyhounds were coming out for the parade!

The handlers, in their buff-coloured coats, led the six dogs along the sandy track in front of the stands. The dogs’ jackets, red, blue, white, black, orange, and black and white stripes – always in that order from one to six – blurred as Jasmine sniffed back tears. Benny always loved this bit: the first sight of the dogs as they pranced away from the visitors’ kennels, sniffing the air and each other, clashing leather muzzles, wagging whippy tails.

The holidaymaking crowds were getting excited now, pushing towards the rails, calling to each other. Jasmine, with her float of £500 beginning to appear merely small change, swallowed nervously. Casting surreptitious glances across at Allan and Roger’s boards, she could see that her odds on Mariner Queen, the five dog, were far too generous.

Just as she reached for her cloth to amend the mistake, a weasely-looking man in vest and braces thrust himself forward.

‘I’ll take the twenties on Mariner Queen, my duck.’ She groaned. Sod it! Too late. She glanced down at the fifty-pound note clutched in the scrawny, freckled hand. Christ! If the five dog won she’d be paying out twice her float – and then some! She handed over the ticket. ‘Er – one thousand to fifty – seventy-six.’

She hastily rubbed out the twenty to one and replaced it with twos.

Allan shook his head across the knot of punters. ‘You’ll regret that one, Jasmine. Better lay some off.’

What? Oh yeah – dead easy. With whom exactly? It was OK for Roger and Allan, they packed up their joints occasionally and decamped to race courses across the south of England, taking in horses as well as dogs. They had contingency plans. Laying off unwelcome high bets on a potential winner was easy when the ranks of bookmakers stretched into infinity. There was no mug bookie here who would happily take her money on the favourite, simply to watch his own profits slump. Allan and Roger had probably had their own little wagers during the week, cancelling out any would-be losses with bookies at Brighton and Plumpton.

Praying that Mariner Queen would catch a cold on the first bend, Jasmine shoved the foolscap ledger under her chin and doled out a rush of nice and simple pound bets to a clutch of women in white cardigans and cross-over sandals. Only another thousand of those and she’d be able to pay out the weasely man should the worst happen.

As the minutes ticked away, and the odds fluctuated with each bet, Jasmine chalked and rubbed, took cash and handed out slips, and made sure that each transaction was marked in the ledger. God! Much more of this and she was going to meet herself coming back!

‘Very impressive,’ Clara, wearing pale linen trousers and a handkerchief top, grinned. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Jas, I’d say you looked pretty organised.’

‘I am organised,’ Jasmine hissed, taking a last-minute ten-pound bet on the favourite. ‘I’m amazingly organised, thank you. A little frazzled because I haven’t got three pairs of hands, but coping admirably. ’

‘Give us that book thing, then.’ Clara held out an elegant hand. ‘And tell me what I have to do.’

Jasmine passed her the ledger, and wiped the blackboard. ‘Nothing at all until the next race. All bets are finished on this one. The dogs are going behind.’

‘Behind? Behind what?’

‘The traps. Haven’t you learned anything in your years in Ampney Crucis?’

Clara shook her head. ‘I’ve tried really hard not to make the greyhound stadium one of my priority places to enjoy a glass of Chardonnay.’

‘Just as well then, because Gilbert’s never got beyond tea or coffee – and you don’t know what you’re missing. Still, there’s no time to educate you now. The first race is about to start. I’ll give you a crash course in bookmaking during the lull between races.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Thirteen tonight.’

‘Thirteen?’ Clara’s eyebrows rocketed into her hair. ‘Thirteen? Wake me up when it’s all over!’

Jasmine poked out her tongue. ‘Watch and learn. You’ll soon be hooked, believe me.’

Unclipping the leashes, the dog-handlers were already manoeuvring their quivering charges into their respective traps. The crowd was hushed as Gilbert chestily built the tension for the off. Jasmine, uttering a quick prayer that Mariner Queen wouldn’t win, watched as Bunny, the hare boy, took up his position behind the start. She smiled to herself. That was something else they’d have to sort out before the Frobisher’s Brewery high-ups descended on them to check out the track’s suitability. All the massive stadiums had automated hares: huge remote-controlled beasts in fluorescent colours which zinged aggressively round the track like enraged feather dusters. Ampney Crucis still retained the antiquated equivalent of Peter Rabbit.

Bunny, who had refused to change jobs even when his care worker had found him a nice little trolley-pushing number at Tesco, now held the hare in place, kept his eye on the starter, and, at the signal, pushed the button. The moth-eaten fur ball hurtled away on its rail, rattling teasingly past the traps, then the six gates shot open, and six canine streaks hit the track.

The roar from the stands instantly drowned Gilbert’s screeching commentary, and Jasmine, on tiptoe, watched as the greyhounds tore past. A blur of brindle and black and white. A gash of coloured jackets. A flurry of kicked-up sand. They were round the first bend in a nanosecond.

‘Who’s winning?’ Clara clutched Jasmine’s arm, all feigned disinterest forgotten. ‘Is it the orange one?’

As the orange one was Mariner Queen, Jasmine pulled an agonised face. ‘God, I hope not! No – it’s the six dog – in the stripes.’ That was OK. One of Able Nelson’s less favoured runners. ‘With the two dog catching fast.’ Not so good. Bess Higgins’s second favourite.

The volley of cheering from the punters seemed to act as a spur, and in a super-canine effort to catch the hare, the greyhounds accelerated into the home straight. Twenty-four elegantly muscled legs pumping like pistons, six sets of powerful shoulders bumping and barging, they belted after their quarry.

‘It’s the orange one!’ Clara screamed triumphantly. ‘He’s out in front! He’s going to win!’

‘He’s a she, and no, she isn’t. Battling Bertie’s going to take it!’

Battling Bertie, coal black, and wearing the red jacket, literally threw himself across the finish line. The three judges, all Ampney Crucis worthies, gave a unanimous thumbs-up and Jasmine punched the air in triumph. Battling Bertie was one of Able Nelson’s least-fancied dogs. Hallelujah!

‘Bless them,’ Clara said. ‘How sweet! Look – they’re all still running after the rabbit!’

‘Hare – and of course they are. They don’t know they’re racing – and don’t look at me like that. No one’s ever bothered to explain it to them. They just think they’re having a good time. Now, make yourself useful – grab this.’ Jasmine thrust the bulging satchel into Clara’s hands. ‘When a winning punter gives me their ticket, I’ll check it off in the ledger and tell you how much to pay out. OK? Clara – OK?’

‘Jesus, Jas!’ Clara’s eyes were huge as she peered into the money bag. ‘Do you know how much cash you’ve got in here? Hundreds and hundreds of pounds – maybe thousands! And that’s just on one race! And there’s another twelve to go! My God! You’ll be a millionaire by the end of the week!’