by Wade, Calvin
“His name’s Richie.”
I hated that name. I didn’t know anyone called Richie, but from that moment forward, I hated that name. I instantaneously changed his name to ‘DICK’!
“And where is Richie?”
I said ‘Richie’ but thought ‘DICK’!
“Roddy, it’s a long story! A very long story!”
“I’m all ears!”
“Roddy, stop being so cheeky, there’s not enough time to tell you the whole story now!”
“Yes there is! There’s fifteen minutes before the end of our lunchbreak! I will not say a word during those fifteen minutes. I’ll just listen. Come on, Kelly! Fifteen minutes will cover it!”
We were in the staff kitchen. Just the two of us. I used to go to bed every night praying I’d have the same lunch break as Kelly. It was a child-like crush, but I loved the way Kelly made me feel and I wanted more of it. Kelly laughed her lovely, feminine, attractive laugh.
“Is it possible for Roddy Baker not to speak for fifteen minutes?”
“Try me!”
And so the story began……
Kelly had had a crush on this bloke, Dick, since she was thirteen and had been drinking cider at a bus shelter, spotted by a copper, rescued by her sister and dragged to some party where she had met Dick.
Kelly had ignored him for years after the party, because she thought he’d knobbed her sister (I bet he had too!) but after some poncey karaoke outside her bedroom window, she had let him off.
Kelly and Dick started dating, it was all slushy-wushy and then Kelly’s mother, who was more than just a bit of a pisshead, had died and Kelly’s sister ended up getting arrested and charged. Fearing arrest herself, Kelly buggered off to travel the world, abandoning Dick..
Several years later, Kelly bumped into some girl she half knew in New Zealand. This girl knew Dick. The girl told Kelly what had been happening with Dick, he had been really ill with cancer and even had to have a bollock off. Kelly felt awful about Dick being ill whilst she was away, even though he had recovered, so she had decided it was her destiny to be with Dick. So she travelled back to Britain, but for some girlie reason, decided not to go and find him, but instead she decided to write him a letter. Kelly posted this letter off but despite not hearing anything back, every 4th July, she travelled up to some ‘Lovers Lane’ that they used to shag on and she waited for him like an abandoned dog. She had been back for four years and every year Dick did not show. In my mind, this was probably down to the fact that he had not received the letter in the first place or he had, but was shacked up with some other Goddess, so did not give two hoots about Kelly’s declaration of love in her letter. Either way, I concluded that Dick probably did not care a jot whether Kelly was dead or alive, yet here I was, totally infatuated and prepared to take a bullet for her. Which one of us was she interested in? Typical!
For a while after that story was told, the Spin Doctors “How Could You Want Him When You Know You Could Have Me” became my most listened to tune. No idea why!
At the end of the story, with three minutes still before the end of lunch hour, my anger, I supposed spawned by jealousy, could contain itself no longer.
“Kelly, this Richie, may or may not know it, but he is, without doubt, the biggest loser in the entire world, because he has lost your love. Don’t demean yourself by ever going back there again. There’re plenty of decent blokes out there!”
And I’m one of them, Kelly, I’m one of them! Kelly looked solemn. “Do you not think though, Roddy, that everyone has one person that they are destined to be with?”
“Who do you think I am, Kelly? Barbara Cartland?Of course not!”
I did though. I felt I was destined to be with Kelly. Destiny does not always prevail. I felt like Buttons to Kelly’s Cinderella. Buttons lusts after Cinderella, but she buggers off with Prince Charming! I hate Cinderella! She’s a bad role model. She bases romantic feelings on looks and money when there’s a perfectly good, poor bloke there with a fine sense of humour. In my mind, Cinderella is a class traitor.
“I do.” Kelly replied, almost dewy eyed.
“So are you just going to sit on this road, once a year forever then? When you’re eighty, hobbling along the road on your walking stick, he will probably drive past you in his sports car, with a twenty five year old dolly bird on each arm!”
“No,” Kelly replied, checking her watch to see if lunch time was officially over, “this July I am heading up there for one last time. I’m putting my heart in the hands of fate. If Richie’s there, it’s meant to be. If he’s not, I am not going to track him down. Five years is long enough.”
‘Five years is four years too long!’ I thought. If I was Kelly, I reckon I would have gone up there just the once.
“Oh well!” I said jokingly, “if he’s not there and you need someone for that rebound relationship, just let me know! I’ll drop everything, including my pants!”
“What are you like?”
Kelly laughed as she stood up to leave the staff kitchen. She thought I wasn’t serious, which was what I wanted to imply, but in truth, I was deadly serious. I decided at that moment, to make an addition to my prayers. From then on, each night, I continued to pray that every day I would have the same lunch hour as Kelly, but I also prayed that, come 4th July, Prince Dick Charming did not turn up on the “Sunny Road”.
Charlie
In life there are winners, there are losers and then there are people who spend their life ducking and diving, flitting from the edge of heaven to the edge of disaster and back again. I was one of the duckers and divers.
I was into my horses. Horse racing enthusiasts love horse racing. They have an in depth understanding of the “Sport of Kings”. They care what happens to horses. They mourn the death of a racehorse as though it was a family member or a close personal friend. They have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the horse racing calendar. The National Hunt crowd go racing in tweed, some of the flat racing chaps will go in top hat and tails. From the moment they emerge from the birth canal, they have an awareness of horse racing terminology, such as ‘lost an iron’, ‘on and off the bit’, or ‘off the bridle’.
I was into my horses, but I was not a horse racing enthusiast. I was a gambler. I belonged in a smoke filled, tacky bookmakers in any town or city throughout the length and breadth of Britain. I have never sat on a horse in my life. The terminology baffled me for years and to be frank, if a horse died, I only cared if I’d had money on it. Why should I have been sentimental about horses? They eat horse in France and apparently despite their size, they are far less intelligent than your average dog. My interest in horses was purely a financial one. I was not in love with horses, I was in love wth gambling. When the horses won for me, gambling was my best friend. When the horses fell at the last fence when still in with a chance of winning or got touched off by a nose when I had lumped on large, gambling became my worst enemy.
I knew every bookie in Ormskirk, most in the North West of England and some from further afield. Whenever any of them drove past me in their Audis and Mercs, I always thought, ‘I paid for that!’
Gambling was my drug of choice. Nothing could beat that adrenalin rush from outwitting the bookies, handing them a tenner in the morning, then collecting a couple of hundred back in the afternoon. Obviously, like 98% of gamblers, the bad days far outweighed the good, but you have to be optimistic to gamble, no matter how bad a day you have had, no matter what financial losses you have had to endure, you always think things will be different the next day. Every race is a puzzle with an answer. Unfortunately, during 1996, my losses were always going to be re-couped the next day and then the next day and then the next day. The sun was always going to be coming out the following day. Sadly, the more I lost, the more I put on to try and win it back. Somewhere along the line, you should just call it a day and limit your losses, but that’s hard for gamblers to do, as I say, we’re an optimistic bunch, the next big win is always so close you can smell it.
I was a Sales Rep in insurance, covered a big area around North West England across from Liverpool to Manchester and then the whole way up to Carlisle. Sometimes it was great, but in hard economic times, some people would rather have enough money for their daily pack of fags than their life cover, so if their policies lapsed, I had to deal with the insurance brokers who had their commission ‘clawed back’ off them. At times it was stressful, during these times I relieved my stress by nipping into the bookies during my lunch hour and then I tended to stop off for a pint of brown bitter on my way home. The ‘Dog & Gun’ in Aughton was my usual haunt and my mate, Dave was often there. Dave was a milkman, he would generally start his round at three in the morning, so if he wanted a couple of pints, he tended to nip out to ‘The Dog’ late in the afternoon or early in the evening. Dave is into his horses too, at the time, his son was an up and coming National Hunt jockey, who was making a name for himself on the ‘Point to Point’ circuit, so often Dave would pass me a tip. One Friday afternoon, Dave was sat in ‘The Dog’ having a pint of mild and as soon as I walked in, he said,
“Charlie, I was hoping you’d come in! I’ve got a surefire winner for you tomorrow at Newton Abbott, ‘Red Nosed Knight’. You need to lump on, Charlie, our Joe says it will win by a distance. The trainer apparently has it in peak condition and it’s stepping up to three miles on good ground for the first time. He says it will definitely stay. It’ll be a real bookie basher for you, this one.”
“Dave, I’d love to lump on,” I said, “you know there’s nothing I like better than a decent bet, but things are pretty tight right now. It’s hard enough having four kids, but with one at Uni, it’s even tougher. I’m just going to have to put a few quid on this one.”
“Our Joe doesn’t get these tips wrong very often!”
“I know that, Dave, but what can I do? Unless I rob a bank, I just can’t afford to.”
This was the moment I met Kiffer. He arrived like a fairy godfather or, with hindsight, like a Godfather. Kiffer was sat at the other end of the bar, drinking a Mexican bottled lager with a slice of lime in the top, not a standard tipple of choice in ‘The Dog’. He wasn’t tall, but thick set, with a couple of days dark growth on his face and sporting the latest designer tracksuit. He spoke with a soft Liverpool accent.
“What’s the story then, Gents?” he asked.
Dave immediately clocked who he was and became uncomfortable and hesitant.
“I was just…erm..telling my mate here, Simon, about a horse that’s running tomorrow.”
“Going to win then, is it? Worth a bit of a punt?”
“I think it might do quite well,” Dave replied, suddenly a lot more cautious about its chances.
“What did you say it was called?”
“Red Nosed Knight.”
“And are you boys both backing it?”
“Erm….just a small wager,” Dave answered shakily, “you never know what can happen with horses, unreliable creatures. I might just put a fiver on for a bit of an interest.”
Not knowing who this guy was, I wondered why Dave had become a bumbling idiot.
“What about yourself ?” Kiffer asked turning his attention to me.
“I’ll have a few quid on, but I was just saying to Dave, things are tight, so that’ll be it.”
“What if they weren’t tight?” Kiffer asked as he glugged his drink through the lime, “what would you put on then?”
“A bit more. Dave’s lad gives us the tips and they are normally spot on.”
“Are they now?” Kiffer said with a great deal of interest.
“Begginer’s luck!” Dave explained.
“Don’t be harsh on the lad, Dave! He knows his stuff!” I added.
I didn’t know I was potentially creating an issue for young Joe, only after, when Dave told me about Kiffer and I was reminded of the conversation, did I cringe. Luckily, as far as I’m aware, Kiffer never did make contact with Joe, although whenever he is unseated when riding a favourite, I do wonder whether Kiffer had advised him that it if his girlfriend wants to continue looking pretty, it may be in his interest to fall off .
“So,” Kiffer continued, “how much more if things weren’t tight?”
“I’ve no idea. This all very hypothetical, as they are pretty damn tight right now. I have four kids in their teens and twenties. Cost me a fortune.”
“I understand,” Kiffer said empathetically, “I have a two year old daughter myself, Melanie, she’s my little angel but she costs me an arm and a leg. Luckily, in my game, I can afford to spoil her, but I understand everyone is not as lucky as me.”
“What is it you do?” I asked.
“This and that.”
Dave threw me a warning look but at the time, I thought it was some sort of nervous tick.
“Like what?”
“I help people. Good people who need a helping hand. People like yourself, Charlie.”
I concluded that he had obviously heard my name earlier. I realised he knew my name but I did not know his. “Sorry, what’s your name?” I queried.
“Simon Cunnington.”
“Pleased to meet you, Simon” I said. I got up, walked over and shook his hand.
“Always good to meet new people,” he replied.
The name Simon Cunnington meant nothing to me. Fifteen minutes later, when he announced he had better get going, as he had a small matter to attend to, Dave revealed that Simon Cunnington was ‘also known as’ Kiffer.
“So, go on then, Simon, explain how people like you help people like me.”
“Simple economics, Charlie. You want to have a tidy bet on a horse tomorrow, but can’t afford to. I provide the financial backing to allow you to place your bet and if you win, you give me my money back plus 50% on top for allowing the transaction to take place.”
The idea sounded interesting but the costs sounded prohibitive. “50%! So if you give me £100, I have to give you £150 back? No thanks!”
“Think about it though, Charlie. What price is this horse of yours?”
“I’ve no idea. Dave what sort of price will this horse go off at?”
By now, Dave really did not look like he was wanting to be part of this conversation. Normally, he drank at a very leisurely pace, but his pint of mild that had been almost full when I had walked in, was virtually gone.
“I’m not sure, Charlie, with it going at a new distance and on better ground, there are a lot of unknowns. I’d guess about 5-1.”
“OK then, Charlie. The way it would work, is that I would give you £100. You would back the horse at 5-1. It wins. You collect £600, pay me back £150 and you get to keep £450 without ever having to place a penny of your own money. How good is that?”
It sounded too good to be true. I needed to investigate the potential catch.
“What if it loses?”
“Just pay me back when you get the money, there would be no rush, you look like a man I can trust. You could just pay me back the next time you get paid, or if you want, I could lend you a bit more next time you get a tip and you could pay me back from the winnings from that one. I’m a fair man, Charlie. A very fair man.”
I have subsequently learnt that if a man has to tell you he is a ‘fair man’, he probably isn’t one.
“So what do you reckon, Charlie? Want to borrow a hundred notes?”
A deal was done and Simon Cunnington took out five crisp twenty pound notes from a wallet crammed full of them. It felt great, but admittedly not half as good when Dave told me who I was dealing with. As luck would have it, Joe was right, “Red Nose Knight” won by a distance at 9-2 and I pocketed £400 after paying Kiffer back, the following evening in ‘The Dog’.
“I knew I could trust you!” he said with a smile, “I could tell.”
This should have been the end of my dealings with Kiffer, it wasn’t, it was just the beginning. I knew his reputation, knew he was not doing this through generosity of spirit or to win a knighthood for services to mug punters, he was a businessman and a ruthless, vicious businessman at that. I just got greedy.
To be fair, the first few horses I backed, having borrowed Kiffer’s money, all won and then, when the next couple didn’t, Kiffer was patient and understanding. Kiffer said there was no panic, he knew I was good for it and if I ever wanted any more, the same 50% increase on capital borrowed terms would apply. I had a couple of County Court Judgement’s that Dot did not know about, so it was not as though banks were falling over themselves to lend to me at better rates, so the simplest way for me to get hold of money was via Kiffer. Caroline, my daughter, bailed me out once, but other than that I was always good for Kiffer’s money, that is until that spell in 1996, when the wheels well and truly came off. Day by day my losses were just getting bigger and bigger and eventually rather than asking Kiffer for more money, I just decided it was best to keep a low profile and avoid him. Kiffer was not the only person I needed to avoid, I needed to avoid all my creditors too, as I had managed to rack up a series of debts I could no longer afford to pay.
Our postman, Tom, used to turn up between seven and seven thirty every morning, so I used to wait for him and once he had parked his bike at the top of our drive, I would sneak out, collect the mail, stuff any bills in my pocket and then leave the rest on the kitchen table so Dot could deal with the Reader’s Digest subscriptions and the junk mail.