Nothing to Lose

by Christina Jones

  Ewan tried not to stare too obviously at Brittany in the short biscuit-coloured dress, but it was very difficult: she was almost more gorgeous in the flesh than she was in her many photographs. Elegant and assured, she was being introduced now, shaking hands, saying a few words to everyone, and looking as though she was riveted by the answers. Exactly like the royal family, Ewan concluded. Good breeding, beauty and brains in one exquisite package. She was going to be no pushover, that was for sure.

  Ewan relished the challenge. All the important women in his life – like all the things that had really mattered to him had been difficult, powerful, risky. Brittany Frobisher, he thought, would fit into that category nicely. But then there was Clara. He was pretty sure that Clara would have nothing more to do with him if he should stray – again.

  Peg had everyone seated and was well into her opening spiel. She was good, Ewan had to admit. Even at her age her voice was strong and persuasive, and Brittany and Sebastian were being treated to the full works about how Ampney Crucis intended to cater for the greyhounds, the media and the punters who would attend the Frobisher Platinum, and being shown the plans for the refurbishment.

  None of them seemed to have realised that Jasmine wasn’t in the room. Ewan, transfixed on Brittany, certainly hadn’t. It wasn’t until she clattered in from the kitchen bearing a tray of iced drinks, that he remembered.

  ‘Jasmine, pet!’ Peg paused in the middle of describing how the corrugated iron roofing was to be replaced. ‘We’ve started without you. Sorry, but there’s a lot to do. Now, this is Brittany Frobisher and her friend Sebastian. Miss Frobisher, this is Jasmine Clegg, another shareholder and – Oh bugger me!’

  Jasmine had done a Bunny and dropped the drinks tray.

  Ewan, immediately getting to his feet to rescue Jasmine, was beaten to it by Sebastian who practically sprinted from his chair. He and Jasmine gathered the glasses and jugs together with a lot of whispering. There was even some giggling, Ewan detected, over the eel-like qualities of the ice cubes.

  Brittany flapped her hand. ‘Shall we get on? Sebby is ace at clearing things up – and I’m sure Jasmine knows exactly what’s going on and will be able to say her piece later. OK, so I can take away copies of the actual restructuring plans, which is very kind of you, but considering the extra amenities on offer, what safety procedures do you have in place – now and in the future? And press coverage? And car parking facilities?’

  The rest of the board members resumed their discussions. Ewan was far more fascinated by the fact that Jasmine and Sebastian, having scraped up all the broken glass, were now chattering quietly together almost like old friends. As they disappeared into the kitchen, his curiosity was very much aroused.

  Still, he thought, rather bored by the haggling that was currently going on over sponsorship and advertising billboards, it would be nice if Jasmine and Sebastian hit it off, it would suit his plans admirably if Brittany’s walker was occupied elsewhere. And Andrew, the smarmy sod, would certainly get his comeuppance.

  Ewan shook his head. It just wasn’t going to happen, was it? What man in his right mind would jack in the inestimable Brittany for plump and puppyish Jasmine? Oh, Jas was great, of course, but no one would call her beautiful, or sexy, or even pretty, would they? She was just Jas – one of the crowd, a good mate. Whatever Sebastian saw in her, it certainly couldn’t be measured in seduction terms.

  The phone on Peg’s desk rang in the middle of Brittany explaining exactly what Frobishers were looking for by way of refreshment facilities for their visiting hordes. Ewan picked it up. It was Gorf, one of the turnstile men.

  ‘We got someone here who’d like a word with the management.’

  ‘Will I do? Everyone else is in a meeting.’

  ‘S’pose you’ll have to, then,’ Gorf said. ‘You’n a Dimstable anyway. It’s some woman – a new ’un – who’s got a dog running in the nine thirty. She wants to ask a favour.’

  ‘OK,’ Ewan said, ‘I’ll come down. Tell her to wait round by the kennels. What? Oh, Christ. Are there? A whole family? Right – oh, and check their paperwork, passes, certificates – you know, just in case.’

  He put the phone down. Brittany paused in the middle of explaining the Frobisher presentation podium requirements and raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Are you leaving us?’

  Ewan smiled apologetically. ‘Afraid so. I’m – er – sorry to have to dash off but there’s a problem downstairs.’

  Peg frowned. ‘A big problem?’

  ‘One Gorf can’t handle.’

  ‘Gorf? How cute!’ Brittany beamed. ‘Do you give all your ground staff Tolkeinesque names?’

  ‘Tolkie-Who?’ Peg frowned. ‘Good Lord, we didn’t call him that. It’s not a nickname, pet. He was christened Gorf. He’s got a sister called Waffon. God knows why. Mind, their father was a bit asthmatic . . .’ She looked beadily at Ewan. ‘Hopefully it’s something you can deal with. Shout if you can’t.’

  Ewan smiled again at Brittany. ‘No doubt we’ll see more of you and – er – Sebastian later in the evening, when the meeting starts?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’ Brittany met his eyes, holding his stare. ‘We’re not able to stay. We have another venue to visit on the journey back to London. I hope I’ll be able to come and watch another race meeting when your refurbishment is completed. However,’ she held out a slender hand, ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again some time soon.’

  Ewan practically cartwheeled down the stairs from Peg’s office. He was in! First base! Yesss! He was still mentally punching the air by the time he reached the turnstiles. Brittany was interested – he knew she was – and Jasmine and Sebastian still hadn’t come out of the kitchen!

  Gorf, squat and pugnacious, jerked his head towards a Toyota people carrier blocking the main exit. ‘Over there. Yon scruffy family. Got a problem with their dog.’

  ‘He’s a runner, is he? For tonight?’

  Gorf nodded. ‘Like I said, in the nine thirty. I’ve checked the papers and everything. He’s genuine – it’s just that the owner needs to ask something before the race.’

  ‘Leave it with me, then.’ Ewan felt buoyant. He’d really had very little to do since coming back to Ampney Crucis. Peg had found him made-up jobs to keep him busy, and Clara had taken up the rest of his time, but he’d let his other crusades slip a bit. Now, with Brittany Frobisher obviously interested maybe – just maybe – the stadium would get the Platinum Trophy and he’d be promoted to some sort of manager. Anyway, he could certainly do a bit of troubleshooting in the meantime.

  He approached the people carrier feeling very authoritative. A gorgeous blue brindled greyhound scampered up and down on the back seat, scrabbling long thin paws over a middle-aged woman and a small girl and a vast array of towels, carrier bags, and a pink Lilo, still inflated.

  ‘Nice dog,’ Ewan said to the driver, who looked as though he belonged to one of the prettier heavy metal rock bands. ‘Did someone say there was a problem?’

  ‘Yes, me.’ A girl with damp fair hair screwed up on top of her head leaned across the driver. ‘We have a favour to ask you about Cairey.’

  Cairey? The driver? The woman? The child? Ewan frowned. ‘Cairey?’

  ‘Cair Paravel.’ The girl indicated the greyhound, who was now trying to thrust his head through the driver’s window to lick Ewan’s face. ‘It’s to do with his running. We were training him on the beach this afternoon and we’ve discovered something, but this is his first race and we’re not sure about the rules.’

  Ewan groaned. Maybe troubleshooting wasn’t going to be his forte after all. A small queue of vehicles was gathering impatiently behind the Toyota.

  Gorf clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘Best get ’em shifted, Ewan. We’ve got a gridlock situation here.’

  Gridlock, Ewan thought, was overegging it a bit. However, he took the point. He leaned back into the Toyota. ‘If you drive round the outside of the track to the kennels over there – ’ he po
inted to where a lopsided sign read ‘KNLS’ – ‘and park up, then I’ll meet you in a moment and hopefully sort out your problem.’

  The people carrier moved away and Ewan exhaled. He knew very little of the rules of greyhound racing; he hoped that the problem wouldn’t involve him having to look something up and losing face. Still, he thought, jogging round the track in the Toyota’s wake, the girl was rather attractive. It looked like it was going to be a good night all round.

  Having completed the circuit, Ewan walked into the owners and trainers’ area, loving the smell of the dogs mingling with the salt-tang of the sea, and the circus scent of fresh sawdust. The kennels were already lively and noisy, with the greyhounds being pampered and fussed by their owners. As most of them visited the track at least once every week, it was a very jolly reunion atmosphere, and there was no sign of pre-race nerves, tension, or even the slightest animosity. Ampney Crucis didn’t go in for histrionics, and anyone getting ideas above his dog-racing station would certainly get short shrift.

  Having seen so many appalling sights during his greyhound rescue campaign, Ewan looked fondly at the thirty or so animals that had already arrived. Every last one of them was loved and pampered and part of the family. Most of them were simply graders who would spend their sprinting years at Ampney Crucis, and the rest of their lives slumbering in front of village firesides. There were no megastars here, but to their owners they were Ballyregan Bob and Mick the Miller all rolled into one elegant, slender bundle. Ewan stroked and patted and fussed them, and tried to push out of his mind the thoughts of the tortured, emaciated, malnourished, exhausted creatures that he’d seen in the last year. They constantly crept in. It didn’t matter that he’d helped so many to escape their ill treatment and suffering – he knew he could never rescue all of them, and it hurt.

  If he’d told these people here tonight about the things he’d seen abroad, they simply wouldn’t believe him. Greyhound racing in this country was so well ordered and controlled and decent that these men and women who loved their animals and the sport would simply dismiss his horror stories as figments of an overactive and grisly imagination. If only . . .

  He checked each kennel. He hoped Peg would bring Brittany down here to see the luxury they provided. The dogs were happily ensconced in their temporary enclosures, sniffing each other joyously through the mesh, and the warm evening air was splintered only by the occasional staccato bark from the greyhounds, or a hoot of ribald laughter from the owners. It was all very relaxed.

  By the time Ewan had completed his kennel check, and walked into the owners and trainers’ car park, Cair Paravel’s owner had slid from the Toyota and was heading in his direction. In her short denim dress, lightly suntanned, she was considerably more attractive than he’d first thought. Slapping on his best smile, Ewan waited for her to join him.

  ‘Ewan Dunstable, Stadium Manager.’

  Pleased to meet you.’ She shook his hand in a businesslike manner. ‘I’m – oh, yes, I’m Beatrice-Eugenie Padgett, registered owner of Cair Paravel. He’s down to run in the nine thirty, and we – that is, Jix and me – oh, that’s Jix in the driving seat. Well, yes, we wondered if there was anything in the rules about the hare.’

  Ewan blinked. Christ, now he’d probably have to get the handbook and look nothing like the Stadium Manager he purported to be. And why did these Londoners have to have such peculiar names. Beatrice-Eugenie, for crying out loud! And Jix! They sounded like the sort of very new, very PC names they gave to the presenters on Blue Peter. He tried to look efficient. ‘Er, what about the hare exactly?’

  ‘Well, Cairey – that’s Cair Paravel – he doesn’t run well . . . No, I mean, he runs, but he doesn’t want to chase the hare, you see. He loves it. He doesn’t like the idea of catching it. He just wants to baby it. It causes a problem.’

  Ewan raised his eyebrows and sucked in his breath. Jesus! ‘Yes, I can see that it would – him being a racing greyhound and this being a greyhound stadium. I mean, we don’t actually encourage the dogs to be affectionate towards the hare, otherwise we’d abandon the running part altogether and be having greyhound snuggling events instead, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’ The girl glared at him. ‘We know it’s a problem – but we have discovered a solution. You see, Cairey hates Jix’s mum, Daff – that’s Daff in the back, waving . . .’

  Ewan glanced over to the people carrier. The middle-aged woman was fluttering her fingers at him. She had the inflated Lilo on her head.

  He closed his eyes. He thought Cair Paravel may well have a point.

  ‘We discovered,’ the girl continued, ‘this afternoon on the beach when we were giving him some exercise, that if he can chase something of Daff’s he runs in a straight line, like the wind, in the right direction, and with real killer instinct.’

  God Almighty, Ewan thought. She’s going to suggest that we strap that daft old bat to the electric rail.

  ‘So,’ she stopped glaring and gave him a beguiling smile, ‘what we wondered is, if for the nine thirty, you could tie this round your hare?’

  Ewan looked down at the pink and purple polyester headscarf and thought he was probably going to cry.

  ‘Don’t talk to me!’ Jasmine snapped over her shoulder after the fourth race. ‘Just write down what I tell you. I don’t want to hear any of it. Clara’s my best friend, and she loves you – and if you screw her up again, I swear I’ll kill you.’

  Ewan, balancing the ledger on one knee and trying to keep pace with the crowd of bank-holiday punters having a last-minute wager, felt irritable. Jasmine had gone all holier-than-thou over the Brittany thing. And he hadn’t had a spare moment to ask her about Sebastian. He’d therefore decided, under the circumstances, to keep very quiet about the hare and the headscarf.

  It was a shame, he thought, that Brittany Frobisher had left before the race meeting started: surely the atmosphere tonight would have persuaded her that the Frobisher Platinum could be run just as well here as at any glittery city stadium? The crowds were jam-packed onto the tiered stands, and even the trackside viewing areas were three deep. The night was dark now, and sultry, with the floodlights casting white pools over the sandy track. Roger, Allan and Jasmine had been snowed-under with people having a flutter, the strains of ‘Everybody Loves a Lover’ were whoopee-doing from the Tannoy and, all in all, it was a true Ampney Crucis party night.

  The dogs were being led out for the nine thirty race. Ewan exhaled. He had to do it. He’d promised he would.

  ‘Jas, be a love and cope on your own for five minutes, will you? There’s something I’ve got to do.’

  ‘Phone Brittany on your mobile?’ Jasmine’s brown eyes flashed fire. ‘Forget it, Ewan. No bloody way.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Brittany. It’s to do with this race – one of the dogs – Cair Paravel. I promised his owner I’d sort something out at the start of his race. They’ve brought him down from London. See.’ He jabbed his finger at the board. ‘You’ve got him at tens, which is a bit risky with him being a stranger.’

  ‘Since when did you know about setting prices? I’ve got him at tens because Bess Higgins is running Smokey Jo-Jo. He always wins. And if you’re longer than five minutes I’m going to tell Clara . . .’

  He grinned at her. ‘You sound just like you did in the playground. All self-righteous and indignant. You used to beat me up then when I teased Clara, remember? And I promise you I won’t hurt her. Now grab this book and I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Forcing his way through the record crowd, he headed for the traps. The greyhounds were just going behind and he could see the girl – Beatrice-Eugenie – and the rock-star boy, Jinx or whatever his name was, down at the start, looking anxiously at the crowd, searching for him. Cair Paravel, he noticed, had been drawn in trap two, wearing the blue jacket, and seemed far more at ease than his owners.

  Ewan nodded his head slightly in Beatrice-Eugenie’s direction and, spotting him, s
he grinned at him in delight. She really was remarkably pretty . . . Feeling like a complete prat, he dragged the headscarf from the pocket of his jeans and, praying that no one was watching him, stepped across the freshly raked sand towards Bunny.

  Bunny was just setting the hare on its course, making sure it was firmly attached and that no wires were loose.

  ‘Hi, Bun.’ Ewan tried the matey approach. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound a bit mad, but could you put this on the hare before you let it go?’

  ‘Uh?’ Bunny blinked at the headscarf. ‘Is it a joke?’

  ‘No joke,’ Ewan said through gritted teeth as the starter on his stepladder showed signs of agitation. ‘Just do it. Please.’

  ‘OK,’ Bunny took the scarf, and, straddling the rails, with the moth-eaten hare between his knees, placed the pink and purple square over its head. ‘Nice colour this, Ewan. My mum’s got one of these. Mind you, it ought to have a matching handbag to set it off right . . . You ain’t got a handbag, by any chance?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got a frigging handbag!’ Ewan was trying not to look at the starter. ‘Nor a pair of hare-sized sling-backs, nor a cardie for if the weather turns chilly! Just do it, Bunny – and, no, don’t bother with tying a bow under its chin. It’s an inanimate fur ball. I’m sure it’s not too worried about its sartorial appearance.’

  ‘There!’ Bunny stood up and admired his handiwork. ‘Don’t he look pretty?’

  The hare looked, Ewan thought, exactly like an East End Ewok. The handbag could have only improved things. However, there was no time to worry about it as the starter had already raised his flag. Beatrice-Eugenie and Jinx, he noticed, were exchanging high-fives behind the podium.