Forever Is Over (114 page)

I parked up in the car park by the bu
s station, with more adrenalin
flowing through my veins than I had ever felt before. Could this have
possibly been the Holy Spirit? I needed to go to Stanley Racing and pick
the right horse. It was still only late morning, so I decided I would pick
my horse, refrain from placing the bet, head out for lunch, take time
to ponder and deliberate, then return just before the race, if everything
still felt right, to invest my thousand pounds.

By eleven thirty that morning, I was in Stanley Racing in Ormskirk,
praying fate and faith would lend a hand. It was busier than a normal
Saturday morning in there, not Grand National busy, but certainly
Cheltenham Festival busy, so I found
myself having to make pleasant
chit chat with part-time punters who I
had not seen for a few months,
all looking for a bit of guidance. I was genuine when I told them I had
yet to decide. Some punters like to keep their cards close to their chests,
but I was not one of them, it defied logic,
it was not as though the horse
knew my money was down and would sud
denly feel additional pressure
to perform. I just told people that they cou
ld copy my bets if they liked,
but if they did not have big enough balls to choose for themselves, then
they did not have the right to come whingeing to me if things
worked
out badly.

As soon as I looked at the racecard for the Derby, on the wall of
Stanley Racing, that euphoric feeling that had never been far away since
my
“
Roads To Damascus
”
moment,
came hurtling back. Something
weird happened. Every horses name seemed to shrink so they became
impossible to read, with one exception, DUSHYANTOR. As the others
shrank, this one was magnified to ten times it normal size. It was as if
God was imprinting the name on my brain, DUSHYANTOR. I had
a look at its form, its breeding, its jockey, its trainer and its odds and
amazingly everything seemed right. I was so excited my body started
shaking like God was using me as a rattle.

“
Thank you Lord!
”
I whispered.
“
Thank you!
”

Dushyantor, second in the Dante stake
s at York, fantastic pedigree,
ridden by the sublime Pate Eddery, trained by the wonderful Henry
Cecil and priced at 5-1, meaning if I placed the full
£
1000 on this horse,
I would collect
£
6000 when it won. I just felt destiny was well and truly
on my side. I felt so confident, I nearly filled out the betting slip and
ran to the counter waving my thousand pounds in the air. There was
definitely no way I was going to chang
e my mind. I felt the engraver
could start putting the name Dushyantor on to the trophy already.
I stopped myself. Was this certain
ty or optimistic excitement? I
had to be sure. My mindset had been that
I would follow a set routine,
choose a horse, go and have coffee and l
unch, then return to place the
bet. If God wanted me to change hors
es, I was sure this would give
him ample opportunity to give me a sign
. I decided against placing my
bet there and then, but bade my fello
w punters farewell convinced I
would see their faces again on a regular
basis around town and that in
twenty four hours time, I would be fea
sting on a Sunday Roast rather
than providing a feast for some undergro
und insects. I had the winner.
Dushyantor. No doubt about it. I had the winner.

I went over to Taylor
’
s coffee shop for my lunch, I just had a b
aked
potato with cheese and a black coffee and read the papers. I always started
a newspaper from the back, the sports p
ages and all the tabloids were
full of hype about England football teams first game in the European
Championship against Switzerland, that was kicking off at three o
’
clock
at Wembley. This was the first time Engla
nd had hosted a major football
tournament since the 1966 World Cup.
Would this be the year to end
thirty years of hurt? The tabloids susp
ected it was, I suspected not.
Venables was a good manager, but w
e were still emerging from one
of the most disastrous spells English
football had ever known and I
thought this tournament had arrived a b
it too soon for us. We had not
qualified for the 1994 World Cup and automatically quali
fied for this
because we were hosting it. The Derby was at 2.25pm, so if I picked up
my six grand after that, I could go and have a pint or two in
“
The Buck
”
,
“
Bowlers
”
or
“
Disraelis
”
and cheer the boys on.

By two o
’
clock, lunch eaten, coffees drunk, new
spapers read, I was
ready. It was time to go to work. Time f
or my lifesaving bet. Time for
the last bet of my life, that was a guarantee
, win or lose, it would be the
last bet. If I lost, there would never be an
other opportunity. If I won, I
had made a deal with God and I needed to
stand by that. I had read the
Bible, God didn
’
t seem to sympathis
e too much with the people who
crossed him, just ask Noah who he went fo
r a pint with after the floods
or ask Lot what he had on his fish and chips.
This was it. My time had
come. It was quite literally do or die. Bring it on! I gathered up my plates
and mugs
, put them on a tray and returned them to the ladies in the
kitchen, put my newspapers under my arm and headed to the door. As
soon as I took one step outside Taylor
’
s, on my short journey to Stanley
’
s,
I heard a familiar voice,

“
Dad!
”

To be honest, despite its familiarity, I didn
’
t take too much notice,
probably a third of the people in Or
mskirk were answerable to that
name.

“
DAD!
”

It was deeper and louder second time, followed by a high pitched,
“
Charlie! Charlie!
”

I looked over and making their way through the crowds were our
Jim and Amy.

“
Shit!
”
I mumbled to myself.
“
Could you not have distracted them,
God?
”

Jim and Amy, holding hands, were sid
estepping market day shoppers,
heading towards me with faces full of smiles. I did not look quite as
gleeful, I felt they coul
d be signing my death warrant.

             
“
Dad! How are things? All set for the Derby?
”

This was a catastrophe! There was no way I wanted Jim anywhere
near me when I placed my lifesaving bet. How could I explain to him
why I was putting a grand on Dushyantor?
I tried to lie.

“
I think I
’
ll give the Derby a miss this year, son.
”

Jim automatically thought I was joking.

“
Good one, Dad! That would be like Father Christmas saying he
fancied a night in front of the TV on Christmas Eve! No really, what
’
ve
you picked?
”

“
I haven
’
t even looked, son.
”

Amy then did her impression of Inspector Jean Darblay from Juliet
Bravo.

“
What
’
s that you
’
ve scribbled on your paper, Charlie?
”

I looked down at my Daily Mirror. As well as having nervously
scribbled moustaches, beards and cross-eyes on every male and female
character, I had written, Dushyantor, hundreds of times, all over the
front and back cover. Normally with Dot, I had a bit of time to think
of excuses, this time I felt really on the spot.

“
Erm
…
Dushyantor
…
it
’
s a new cream.

“
What sort of cream?
”
Amy asked.

“
For my piles,
”
I answered.

Nosey bitch deserved that!

“
Oh!
”

Jim laughed.

“
Take no notice of him, Amy! Dad
’
s taking the mickey out of
you! It
’
s a horse in the Derby! It won
’
t win though.
”

“
What
’
s going to beat it, then?
”
I challenged Jim.

“
Shaamit. Nailed on.
”

“
Shaamit!
”
I said like it was something I
’
d stood in,
“
that
’
s got no
bloody chance!
”

“
It
’
ll win!
”
Jim insisted.

“
Amy, don
’
t let him put any of your money on that thing,
”
I advised,

“
it
’
s got no worthwhile form, it
’
s not even run this season!
”

“
Michael Hills, good young jockey.
”
Jim explained.

“
Damon Hill is a good racing driver, but he couldn
’
t get a tractor
to win the Grand Prix!
”
I countered.

This was standard banter between
Jim and I. Normally, I loved it, but on this day, it definitely had a less
lighthearted edge. Th
at would have been down to me.

             
“
Where are you watching it?
”
Jim asked,
“
Amy was going to do a
bit of shopping, see if she pick up a few bargains off the market, so I
was going to head up to Stanley
’
s for an hour. Is that where you were
heading?
”

“
No, I was going to go to Woolies to buy a Neil Sedaka CD,
”
I lied,
“
but seeing as though you are heading to Stanley
’
s, I
’
ll head up there
with you.
”

I needed to shake Jim off somehow. I suppose I could have just made
my excuses and gone to another bookies, there were a few scattered
around the town, but Stanley
’
s was my home territory, my lucky bookie,
so I did not want to go anywhere else. Up until this point, I was convinced
God was on my side, but now I felt the devil had joined the game. I felt
like God had handpicked
‘
Dushyantor
’
for me and now the devil was
trying to sabotage the plan and stop me placing this bet.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing next to my youngest
son in Stanley Racing, wishing he would faint. I wanted a spade that
I could knock him out with. Everything I had suggested to get rid of
him in the previous twenty minutes had failed.