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!’
‘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.’
Chapter Six
‘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.
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