Nothing to Lose (8 page)

‘I wish. At least half of this will have to go to the punters who backed Battling Bertie – and God knows what will happen in the next few races.’ Jasmine braced herself as the successful punters all converged from the stands, waving their tickets. ‘Ready for the onslaught?’

For a frantic five minutes, she took winning tickets, checked them with the ledger entries, and instructed Clara how much money to pay out on each one. Roger and Allan, engaged in the same occupation, gave her conspiratorial grins across the holidaymaking heads. Jasmine felt a surge of blissful happiness. She’d done it! Her first race! She was a bookie – a real bookie – just like Benny had intended.

‘All going OK, pet?’ Peg powered her way through the crowds. ‘No probs?’

‘None. Clara’s been a star – and Mariner Queen didn’t win.’ Jasmine was still suffused in the afterglow of triumph. ‘And I’m going to do this for the rest of my life! I’ll be like Grandpa, still taking bets when I’m– ’ She stopped and looked at Peg’s face. ‘What’s up? It’s not Ewan, is it?’

Clara, counting out fivers like she’d been born to it, paused momentarily at the mention of the name.

‘Much closer to home.’ Peg shrugged her padded shoulders. ‘Your bloody father.’

‘Dad? He’s
here
?’

‘No, unfortunately. If he’d been here I’d have cheerfully removed his head from his bloody smarmy shoulders!’

Jasmine blinked. ‘What’s he done this time?’

‘According to the latest kennel gossip, he,’ the Doris Day wig wobbled angrily, ‘and his bloody planning committee sodding cronies, have apparently filed a motion for the north-east corner of Ampney Crucis to be redeveloped into the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza.’

‘Oh, wow! Really?’ Clara was practically jigging up and down. ‘With designer outlets and stuff like that?’

‘Precisely stuff like that.’ Peg’s glare was withering. ‘You stupid child.’

Jasmine frowned. ‘Hey, come on, Peg. There’s no need to be snotty to Clara. Ampney Crucis could do with a bit of a spruce up and – ’

‘And we’re on the north-east corner!’ Peg roared. ‘This stadium is slap-bang in the middle of it! And your beach hut’s on the periphery, pet, so I wouldn’t look too damned smug!’

Jasmine felt the euphoria drain away from her like the air from a punctured balloon: slowly, and with a plaintive hiss. Her father couldn’t do it! Could he? Her head reeled. Of course he could. And probably would – especially with her mother’s strident voice nagging him. How better to get their revenge on Benny’s humiliating words in the Crumpled Horn on the day of the funeral? How better to make sure their only daughter toed the party line and returned to the family home, the dutiful fiancé, and the proper job? How better to wipe away the last ignominious traces of Philip and Yvonne Clayton, pillars of Ampney Crucis society, having once been related to Benny Clegg the Punters’ Friend?

‘Bastard!’

‘Couldn’t have phrased it better myself.’ Peg gave a grim smile. ‘We’ll have to put our heads together on this one. I’ll speak to Roger and Allan and–’

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Gilbert rasped rudely into the conversation. ‘The runners for the second race are just starting their parade. This race, a 480 metre sprint, is sponsored by Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar, with a trophy for the winning owner and trainer – and a piece of cod and six penn’orth for the losers!’ Gilbert’s voice disappeared into paroxysms of laughter.

‘Silly sod!’ Peg glared at the speaker trumpeting above their heads. ‘Thinks he’s bloody Tommy Cooper!’ She patted Jasmine’s arm. ‘I’ll leave it with you, pet. You best have a word with your damned father as soon as possible.’

‘So that makes two thousand, three hundred, and forty-two pounds!’ Clara, her voice rising an entire octave in amazement, called towards the open door. Sitting on the edge of Jasmine’s bed, balancing a beaker of Old Ampney shandy on her knees, and with the night’s takings arranged in heaps across the duvet, she gave a further whoop of delight. ‘Good God, Jas – two and a half grand in one night – three nights a week – that’ll mean your annual salary is – bloody hell!’

Jasmine, perched on the top step of the beach hut’s veranda in the darkness, was only half listening. It should have been wonderful, her first night. She’d made a profit and she’d done Benny proud. But even without being there, her parents and Andrew – she lumped Andrew in with them purely out of pique – had completely ruined it.

Taking another mouthful of celebratory beer, she pushed her fringe away from her eyes and sighed heavily. She was pretty sure that her father’s council planning committee had no intention at all of demolishing the stadium – after all, it had been tried before and come to nothing – but just the mention of it was enough to stir the local anti-greyhound contingent into protests and boycotts and similar aggravation. Whether it was genuine or not, it had taken the shine off the night somehow; sown seeds of doubt over her bookmaking future. Probably just as they’d planned it would.

‘Jasmine! Are you listening to me? I said – ’

Jasmine bit her lip. ‘Sorry. I know . . . yes, it’s great. But don’t forget, the good nights at the track are usually only in the summer months. Grandpa always had to balance out his holidaymaking profits against weeks and weeks in the winter when you were hard-pressed to get more than twenty people into a meeting, and every night meant a loss.’

‘I’m sure we can come up with some business plan to tide you over the closed season.’ Clara, ever the businesswoman, staggered through the assault course of cramped furniture and nudged in beside Jasmine on the step. ‘And Benny must have pulled off some major coups if his legacies were anything to go by.’

Jasmine heaved a sigh. She supposed he must. She just wished he’d let her in on one or two of his secrets. Nights like this one definitely weren’t going to be the norm.

Clara’s eyes were gleaming. ‘You know, much as I hate to say it, it’s been bloody impressive. I thought you’d make a right hash of it – ’

‘Like I have everything else? Give me time.’

‘Dope!’ Clara hugged her. ‘You’re only just starting, Jas. You’re just a late beginner in the finding-your-feet stakes – and this is something you can make a success of all on your own.’

‘Maybe . . .’ Jasmine listened to the invisible sea tugging at the shoreline shingle as the tide receded. ‘As long as Mum and Dad don’t foul it up for me first.’

Clara drained her half-pint glass. ‘God! You don’t really believe what Peg said, do you? This place thrives on gossip and speculation. Not that a shopping mall wouldn’t be much appreciated – but not, of course, at the expense of the stadium.’

Despite her gloom, Jasmine laughed. Clara’s addiction to retail therapy was legendary. It had passed into local folklore ever since they were at school – she and Clara and Andrew and Ewan, together since Ampney Crucis Junior Mixed. They’d taken their pocket money into Bournemouth on Saturday mornings, and while Clara had always bought high-fashion girlie things like pretty tiny tinselled purses or patterned tights or palettes of eye make-up, Jasmine had spent hers on sweets and comics. Clara had always seemed grown-up, somehow. Jasmine felt that even now, by comparison, she was still at the twenty something equivalent of gobstobbers and
Bunty.

She drained her glass and closed her eyes in the soft darkness. All those years ago . . . when Clara had wanted to be the next Margaret Thatcher, and Andrew had wanted to be rich, and Ewan, because he and Andrew were rivals even then and had wanted to go one better, had wanted to be rich and famous, and she – she grinned, remembering. She’d wanted to be like Benny . . .

Clara balanced her beaker on the sandy step and stood up. ‘I ought to be going. I’ve got a breakfast meeting tomorrow, despite it being Sunday, with some saddies who are here for a golf-and-business weekend. But thanks for tonight. It was good fun. I’ve spent my life avoiding the stadium like the plague. I always thought getting mixed up in greyhound racing was a bit sleazy, but it was a real blast.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be writing up for me again?’

‘Maybe . . .’ Clara twirled her car keys. ‘Especially if Ewan is back on the scene.’

Jasmine sat for a little longer in the darkness after the red taillights of Clara’s hatchback had disappeared along the cliff road. If only Ewan hadn’t married Katrina, he and Clara would have been perfect for one another, she was sure. They’d enjoyed teenage flirtations – and, of course, had had the celebrated affair a couple of years back – and it was because of Ewan, Jasmine knew, that Clara never stayed long in any of her relationships.

She sighed, leaning back against the open door. They’d both made a mess of the lurve thing, really, hadn’t they? She because she’d got Andrew, and Clara because she hadn’t got Ewan. Maybe they should both have moved away from Ampney Crucis years ago – but Clara was busy climbing the Makings Paper corporate ladder, while Jasmine had been blissfully happy simply to be here with Benny.

Feeling the tears once again rising unbidden behind her eyes, Jasmine swallowed quickly. It must be the Old Ampney ale that was causing all this depressive introspection. What she needed, she decided, trying to work out where the darkness of the sky and the blackness of the sea actually met, was a rollicking, heady, just-for-fun affair. Oh well, after she’d broken off her engagement, of course. A girl had to retain some standards.

There were still a few night sounds: the rushing of the surf, the distant voices of home-going Ampney-Crucians, the shrill giggling of teenagers somewhere up by the beer garden of the Crumpled Horn. Had she ever giggled shrilly as a teenager? She feared she probably hadn’t. Andrew had never been given to sudden lunges of passion in shadowy places. It was one of the many things she’d missed out on. Maybe she should start catching up? It would be a bit complicated, of course, having her first grown-up taste of self-employment
and
rejuvenating herself into an adolescent at the same time, but she was sure, if she put her mind to it, she’d manage it somehow.

Still, she thought, grabbing hold of the handrail and pulling herself to her feet, first things first. Before she started to enjoy herself at any level, she’d really have to speak to her father about whether the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza was simply a nasty rumour intended solely to put a dampener on her new career, or a glass-and-chromium reality.

Tugging closed the beach hut’s warped wooden doors, she paused. Had she heard something? Someone? Holding her breath, she listened again. Yes – there were definitely footsteps plodding slowly down the cliff steps. One set? Two? It was difficult to tell. Her palms were suddenly sticky, and for the first time since she’d left home, she questioned the wisdom of living in the hut with doors which only held together with a sort of hook-and-eye contraption and one rusty bolt.

While Ampney Crucis was way down the list of Dorset’s crime hot spots, nevertheless, there were enough people who knew that she lived here alone, who knew she’d taken over Benny’s pitch, and who would therefore be aware that she’d pocketed substantial winnings that evening.

Damn! Sod! Damn! She fumbled with the fastener. Why hadn’t she taken Clara up on her offer of driving into Bournemouth and depositing the takings in the night safe? She held the doors together, her hands shaking. The bolt wouldn’t shoot home. She rattled at it again, her anxiety making her even more clumsy than usual.

‘Jasmine! It’s me!’

She jumped at the voice echoing from the other side of the scarlet panels, then felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by a wave of anger. Andrew? What the hell did he want at gone midnight?

Wriggling the bolt free and pushing the door open again, she peered out into the sultry darkness. ‘God – you scared me. I was just going to bed.’

Andrew, outlined against the black sky, looked slightly encouraged by the statement. ‘I saw your lights on down here. I thought I ought to check on you.’

‘Why?’ She pulled the door open wide enough for him to step inside the beach hut. With both of them in there it was very crowded. She was pressed up against the chiffonier. ‘I don’t need looking after.’

Andrew, who was in danger of being garrotted by the washing line, ducked under it. ‘Don’t you? I beg to differ.’

Jasmine wrinkled her nose. Why did Andrew always have to sound so pompous? Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Maybe she had; maybe she’d simply chosen to ignore it as part of the comfort thing.

‘Jasmine?’ He’d manage to extricate himself from the towels draped on the line and was looking round at the clutter with some exasperation. ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Not really. It’s late and I’m tired and I don’t think there’s anything to say. Not tonight, anyway.’ She pressed even closer to the chiffonier. ‘Did my parents send you?’

‘What?’

Jasmine narrowed her eyes. Andrew looked – what? Shifty? Worried? Whatever it was, it passed immediately and he’d regained his equilibrium within a split second.

‘Your parents? No, of course not. I’ve been in the Crumpled Horn with the blokes from the dealership. Quiz night. We beat the Old Speckled Hen.’

‘To a pulp? How cruel.’

Andrew, who obviously didn’t see the funny side, frowned. ‘There were crowds of holidaymakers coming in right on last orders. They’d been to the stadium. I remembered it was your first night as a . . .’ He looked embarrassed and trailed off.

‘Go on. You can say it. It won’t contaminate you. A bookie. Try it. B-o-o-k-i-e.’

‘You’ve changed, Jasmine, do you know that? There’s an air of flippancy about you. Something of the dark side.’

‘God – now you sound like Ann Widdecombe – or Pink Floyd. Or maybe even–’

‘My point proved, I think.’ Andrew looked smug. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I remembered that you would be working as a – er – as well, your grandfather’s replacement – and I thought I’d see how it went.’

‘What the hell for?’ Jasmine felt truculent. She was tired and longed for a shower and to crawl into the downy feather bed which had served her grandparents well for the entirety of their married life. ‘As I recall, the last time the subject was raised, you chucked the Levy Board licence at me, told me to stop snivelling, and stormed off out of here before I got tear stains all over your Fred Perry.’