Nothing to Lose

by Christina Jones

  John Bestley gathered the pages of the will together tidily. ‘Congratulations, my dear. You are now the proud proprietor of Benny Clegg – the Punters Friend.’

  Jasmine, not knowing whether to laugh or cry now, was slightly disturbed to find she was doing both.

  Benny had left her his bookmaker’s pitch at Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium.

  Chapter Two

  ‘And just what do you intend to do with this?’

  Jasmine sat down heavily, puffing from her exertions, and surveyed both her best friend, Clara, and the Victorian chiffonier, with grave doubt. ‘Goodness knows. I thought it’d sort of slot in.’

  ‘It’d sort of slot in,’ Clara said, ‘to the mansion it was designed for. It was a tight squeeze in Benny’s front room. It is never – never, ever – going to fit into a beach hut.’

  It was a month after the funeral. June had come to Dorset, bringing with it fine weather and the first rush of holidaymakers. The beach hut, one in a row of two dozen perfect 1920s specimens, had a wooden slatted veranda, two main rooms, a minuscule bathroom, a kitchenette comprising two sockets and a gas ring, net curtains, and a line for hanging up wet bathing costumes; and, like its neighbours, was painted in sugared-almond colours. The huts stood in proud defiance along the Ampney Crucis sea front; with the skewwhiff wooden steps down to the sands in front of them, and the undulating gradient of the cliffs behind.

  Jasmine had already transferred most of Benny’s furniture into the beach hut. The chiffonier was the last to go. Clara, in one of her rare moments either not at work or in the gym, had been co-opted in as heaver-and-shover-in-chief. The chiffonier’s move had taken far longer than Jasmine had anticipated, and they now had an interested audience of small children in shorts.

  Scrambling to her feet, Jasmine once again grabbed a corner of the chiffonier. For a few minutes they seemed to be making some headway, then Clara dropped her end of the enormous cabinet with a groan.

  ‘There! That’s it! I’ve broken a fingernail! Andrew should be helping you with this. I can’t believe he’s let you do the house clearance on your own.’

  ‘I wasn’t on my own,’ Jasmine panted, tugging futilely at the immovable object. ‘Roger and Allan and Peg helped.’

  ‘Get real! They’re all eighty at least!’

  ‘No they’re not. And anyway, they helped me with respect and sympathy, and didn’t mind me crying all the time. Andrew would have mocked.’

  ‘Yeah, he probably would, the bastard. But still, Allan and Roger must be pensionable by now, and Peg Dunstable is away with the fairies.’

  ‘She is not!’ Jasmine giggled. ‘Just because she thinks she’s Doris Day doesn’t mean that she hasn’t got all her marbles. She’s a very astute businesswoman, she’s just got a bit of a fixation – ’

  Clara picked at the flaking nail. ‘You are so naive, Jas, do you know that? Peg Dunstable is totally barking. God you’ll make a right team.’

  ‘Yes, we probably will. Now forget your manicure and my sanity and lift your end.’

  They lifted and pushed, but the chiffonier was still wedged at an angle across the veranda. Clara, again examining the damaged fingernail, leaned against the cabinet with a sigh. ‘What we need is a strategy – and the help of a couple of rugby teams. Why couldn’t you have got yourself engaged to a man with biceps, instead of . . . ?’

  ‘Go on, you can say it. You’ve said it often enough. A smarmy showroom-bound wimp like Andrew.’

  Clara disliked Andrew even more than Benny had, if that were possible. Jasmine, who had known Andrew ever since schooldays, and who had had no previous serious boyfriend, had been engaged to him for the last three years. They’d sort of drifted into it, sort of stuck together, and certainly Jasmine had never considered ending it. So what if it wasn’t a Grand Passion? Neither of them had expected that, had they? It was safe, it was familiar, and both sets of parents approved.

  She grimaced. Her parents would never, ever approve of anything she did again . . .

  Philip and Yvonne had been incandescent since the day of the funeral. The rows in their five-bedroomed mock Tudor detached had raged for weeks. They had culminated in Jasmine, for the first time in her life, leaving home. Silently, she’d packed her suitcase and decamped to the beach hut. Andrew had joined in on the parental front at this point, and told her that there was no way she could live, like some down-and-out, in a dilapidated chalet that was due for demolition.

  Fired by a fierce determination that she hadn’t even known she possessed, Jasmine had told him to mind his own business, and had also evaded both her father’s and Andrew’s insistence that she must invest her nest egg wisely – either in Andrew’s car dealership or Philip’s portfolio – and had deposited her inheritance in her building society account.

  She had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of the matter.

  ‘Tell you what.’ Jasmine fanned herself with the flapping hem of her T-shirt. ‘Shall we abandon this for a bit and go to the Crumpled Horn?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘We will not. We’ll finish the job first.’

  ‘God, you’re so bloody focused.’

  Clara looked smug. ‘Which is why I’m Sales Director of Makings Paper, while you’re – well, God knows what you are.’

  ‘I’m a bookie.’ Jasmine grinned at her. ‘Or at least I will be as soon as I’ve had a few lessons.’

  Clara gave her a withering look, and once again applied her shoulder to the cluster of carved beechnuts dangling from the chiffonier’s corner. ‘And have you told your parents and the squirmy Andrew that you’ve jacked your job in yet?’

  ‘Hell, no. They’re still getting over Grandpa’s legacies and the fact that I’ve left home. Telling them that I’m no longer inputting boring figures on to boring computers in the boring accounts department at Watertite Windows would possibly be a scrap of information too far at the moment. Hey – I think we’ve done it! It moved!’

  With a lot of scraping and cursing and a shriek from Clara as another fingernail splintered, the chiffonier was finally heaved into place. Sweaty, grimy, and triumphant, Jasmine surveyed it with pleasure.

  ‘Doesn’t it look lovely? Oh, thanks, Clara – you’re a real pal.’

  ‘I’m mad and so are you. Look, Jasmine, you do know you don’t have to live here, don’t you? My flat is huge, and it’d be really fun to share and – ’

  ‘And I’d drive you crazy by filling it with clutter and making a mess and knocking things over. ’ Jasmine said, thinking of Clara’s pristine minimalism with a shudder. ‘No, thanks so much, it’s really kind of you – but I don’t think even our rock-solid friendship would survive being together twenty-four hours a day. Anyway, I love this hut.’

  Clara grinned. ‘Rather you than me then – but the offer stands should things get desperate. Right, so now you can stay here and play house while I go and get a takeout from the pub. Any preference in crisp flavour?’

  ‘Not cheese and onion. They make me cry.’

  Clara gave her a swift hug. ‘Poor thing. Is it still awful?’

  ‘Yup. It’s getting a bit better, though. I usually only cry at night now.’

  ‘I should have been here for the funeral.’

  ‘You couldn’t help being in Guatemala.’

  ‘Guadeloupe. And it was naff timing for a holiday. I can’t bear to think of you having to cope with it all on your own.’

  ‘Well, I did, so maybe it was a good thing that you weren’t here. Mum and Dad and Andrew were useless, so I had to just get on with it. Anyway, could we not talk about it any more, please?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Sorry. So, it’s a pint of Old Ampney and a packet of smoky bacon?’

  ‘Make it half a pint. I want to keep a clear head. I’m going to meet Peg at the greyhound stadium later for my initiation.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Clara forced her way through the inquisitive audience of children who were now three-deep on the veranda. ‘She’ll have you doing sugar-sweet smiles an
d singing “The Deadwood Stage” complete with whip noises and thigh slapping. I know – I’ve seen her do it in Sainsbury’s. I’d better make it a treble whisky at least.’

  Laughing, Jasmine watched Clara disappear towards the prom road and the Crumpled Horn, and then looked proudly at the chiffonier now firmly wedged at the back of the hut. The place was possibly a mite overcrowded, but at least she now had everything she needed to call it home. It’d be fine for the summer months. The winter, with the notorious Dorset gales swooshing in from the English Channel, coupled with plunging temperatures, could be another matter altogether, but she’d deal with that when it arose. Right now, she thought, as she delved into one of the dozens of cardboard boxes she’d brought from her grandfather’s house, she was relishing her newfound independence.

  ‘Bugger off!’ Clara, balancing a tray of beer and crisps, climbed back on to the veranda and glared at the children. The show’s over. Go and watch Punch and Judy. Although, on second thoughts, this is probably funnier.’

  ‘There!’ Jasmine stood back to admire her handiwork. The chiffonier was now adorned with various pieces of her inheritance – two Staffordshire highwayman figurines, a walnut carriage clock which had stopped five years before, and a pair of slightly verdigrised brass candlesticks. She’d also added her grandparents’ wedding photograph in a silver frame. ‘How does that look?’

  ‘Like it belongs in a mausoleum.’ Clara shook her head. ‘You can’t be serious about this, Jas, can you?’

  ‘Deadly serious. Never more serious about anything in my life. Now, where’s the beer?’

  Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium was possibly a bit of an overstatement. An oval sand track surrounded by dirty and disintegrating white railings, enclosed by three tiers of rickety stands, with a snack bar at one end and a Portaloo at the other, it probably wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good night out at the dogs. However, Jasmine, who had grown up there, standing on a box beside Benny as he set prices, took bets, and hopefully didn’t pay out too much too often, absolutely adored it.

  She lingered for a moment in the evening shadows, looking at the deserted track, biting back the tears. It was the first time she’d been here since her grandfather’s death, and she could see him everywhere, hear his voice barking the odds, feel the comforting touch of his worn tweed jacket as she’d snuggled against him on cold nights when the wind came straight off the sea.

  The bookmakers’ pitches, three of them, were permanently sited at the foot of the stands. Greyhound racing at Ampney Crucis was very far removed from the bright lights and glamour of the big stadiums. The site had been in the Dunstable family for generations, and Peg was fiercely proud that it was one of the few surviving independent tracks in the country.

  God knew, Jasmine thought, trailing her fingers along the wobbling rails, how it had survived at all. With meetings three times a week, all year round – solely for the Dorset locals in winter and with the addition of the bemused Ampney Crucis holidaymakers in the high season – they somehow seemed to manage to scrape a living. Quite a good living really, she supposed, if Benny’s legacies were anything to go by.

  Completely alone in the stadium, Jasmine wandered towards the bookmakers’ pitches, shivering slightly as she plunged from the warm evening sun into the towering shadows of the stands. ‘Benny Clegg – The Punters’ Friend’ stood in the middle of the three, ‘Roger Foster – Bookmaker to Royalty’ was to the left, and ‘Allan Lovelock – Honesty is my Middle Name’ to the right. Roger and Allan, both of her grandfather’s generation, like Peg, had been permanent fixtures at the Ampney Crucis track all her life. This was the only place – apart, of course, from the beach hut now – where she really felt at home.

  She sat forlornly on one of the three orange boxes which made up the rest of her inheritance, and wondered briefly if she could really make a go of it. Could she, in all honesty, become a successful bookmaker? Oh, sure, she’d written up the books for Benny ever since she’d been able to add up: standing beside him at the meetings, writing down the bets in the ledger as the punters put them on, able to work out winnings quicker than any calculator. But being in charge? Setting prices? Calling the odds? Actually running the business? Would she ever be any good at that? Her grandfather had entrusted everything to her – she prayed that she wouldn’t let him down.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, darling.’

  Peg Dunstable swept down the stand steps, her tricked-up hair swinging jauntily, kept in place by a broad Alice band. With her swirling skirt cinched in by a black patent belt, the collar of her poplin blouse standing up, a two-ply cardigan slung round her shoulders, and wearing ankle socks and flatties, from a distance she looked the spitting image of her heroine. It was only close to that anyone could see the wrinkles on the papery skin beneath the panstick, the mesh round the base of the blonde wig, or spot that the inky curly lashes weren’t securely attached at the corners. No one in Ampney Crucis would ever have been brave enough to point this out.

  ‘No problem.’ Jasmine stood up and brushed the dust from the seat of her jeans. ‘I needed a little bit of time alone – to – um – get used to Grandpa not being here.’

  Peg hugged her. ‘I know, pet. I know. I miss him so much too.’

  It was an awkward hug, Jasmine felt, as Peg only reached her shoulder. She could see all the intricate knotted roots of the Doris Day wig.

  They stood in silence for a moment, remembering Benny. Then, because she was going to cry, Jasmine shrugged herself free. ‘So, where do we stand? The licence is mine in two weeks’ time – I know that. And I know Roger and Allan have been very kind and said they’ll help me to get started – which is nice of them as we’re supposed to be rivals for the same business – and that the meetings are every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do.’

  ‘Make money,’ Peg grinned. ‘And lots of it. That’s what Benny did. The money he left was the bit that the tax man didn’t get wind of. Oh, I know they say you’ll never meet a poor bookie, but at a small venue like this one – and with virtually the same punters backing virtually the same dogs every session – it’s a miracle that he managed to stash away anything at all.’

  Jasmine sighed. ‘I know. I was amazed that he had so much.’

  ‘Any ideas what you’re going to do with yours?’

  ‘Keep it in the building society just in case I go belly up as the Punters’ Friend. No, really. I’ve walked out of the only job I’ve ever had. I’m not qualified to do anything else, and if I make a mess of this –’

  ‘You won’t,’ Peg said stoutly. ‘Once you get the licence through we’ll all help you out. I thought you might be thinking of using Benny’s cash for the deposit on a house.’ ‘No, there’s no need. I’ve got the beach hut for the time being, and Andrew and I are getting married next year and – ’

  ‘Pah!’ Peg clicked her fingers dismissively. A false nail fell off. ‘Andrew Pease is a waste of space! He’s a freeloader, Jasmine, a smarmy, nasty piece of work, just like your dad.’

  ‘Don’t spare my feelings,’ Jasmine smiled. ‘Say what you really think.’

  ‘Oh, darling! I’m so sorry! Me and my mouth! It just all comes out.’

  ‘I’m glad it does.’ Jasmine moved her hand to touch Peg, then withdrew it in case she dislodged the hairpiece or something awful. ‘It’s about time people were honest with me. I’ve always just bumbled along, living at home, having Andrew, doing a job I loathed – because Grandpa was there to make everything all right. Now I’ve got to stand on my own two feet.’

  Peg looked up at her and winked. ‘That’s the spirit. You’re not Benny Clegg’s granddaughter for nothing, you know. Now, I didn’t really ask you to come along here this evening just to bad-mouth your family – fun though it is – I wanted to ask for your thoughts on something I’ve been pondering for ages. Shall we go up to the office?’

  Peg’s office, at the top of the rickety stands, was a sort of Portakabin on stilts
. The bits of it that weren’t buried under the racing papers and greyhound form books, were covered with photographs of Doris Day and Rock Hudson. There had been an awful patch, Jasmine remembered, at the time when Rock had been outed. Peg had worn deep mourning and closed the stadium for a fortnight. However, if the pictures were anything to go by, his sexual faux pas had now been forgiven.

  From the window Jasmine could see the sea; the evening tide was going out in little sunburst ripples, leaving the sands flat and clean and pale. The roofs of the beach huts, looking like a child’s pastel necklace, were just visible, as was the Crumpled Horn and the narrow streets climbing away from the front towards the church and the housing estates. Bathed gently in the sun’s last rays, the village looked peaceful and time-warped. Jasmine allowed the familiar scene to soak into her like a balm and prayed that it would never change.

  Pouring two pints of Old Ampney ale from a selection of bottles in the fridge, and switching on the stereo system to allow ‘Secret Love’ to billow round the plaster board walls. Peg indicated that Jasmine should sit down.

  ‘I’ve discussed this with Allan and Roger, pet, and they’re all in favour. Now, as you’re part of the syndicate, we’ll need your agreement before we go ahead.’

  Jasmine was intrigued. ‘It all sounds very hush-hush. You’re not planning to nick the Greyhound Derby from Wimbledon, are you?’

  ‘Oh!’ Peg looked affronted. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘What! You’re kidding!’

  ‘Yes, actually, I am.’ Peg put her head on one side in a coquettish manner. ‘But you’re not too far off the mark, to be honest. Now – just take a look at these . . .’

  Peg pushed a pile of glossy, laminated brochures through the heaps of newsprint on her desk. Jasmine flipped through them. Romford, Crayford, Wimbledon, Hackney, Walthamstow ... all the huge and famous greyhound stadiums were represented.

  ‘Very impressive, but I don’t see . . .’

  Peg fished another highly coloured brochure from her desk drawer. ‘It’s time we were competitive. Oh, I know we can’t compete with these big boys as such, but we can certainly do more than we’ve been doing. I’ve heard on the grapevine that the Greyhound Racing Association are having a big push this year to update and improve the industry’s image; bring dog racing into the twenty-first century – you know, fun for all the family . . .’