Nothing to Lose (20 page)

‘Ooh! No! You can’t do that! Not here!’

The giggle from the depths of the windbreaks made her stop in her tracks. All the fond and sentimental feelings ebbed away. She felt violently sick.

The giggle was huskier now. Almost a growl. ‘Oh, well maybe – but it’s risky . . . What if someone sees us? Oooh, yes – that’s lovely . . .’

Clutching the black bag, Jasmine turned and belted blindly back up the beach. High-jumping the pensioners with the Lilo, she ran towards the cliff steps.

What the hell was her mother doing here? On the beach? Hidden in the windbreak love nest? With someone who definitely wasn’t her father?

Her phone rang. Irritably, she dragged it out of her pocket. On autopilot she snapped it open. ‘Yes?’

‘Jasmine, pet. It’s Peg. In the light of your wondrous news, I’ve taken the liberty of immediately ringing that nice little girl – Normandy, is it? – at Frobisher’s and suggested they make their inspection sooner rather than later. She’s agreed to move everything forward, and they’re going come down for the August Bank Holiday meeting! Isn’t that wonderful?’

The greyhounds, shoulder to shoulder, swerved round the top corner of the Ampney Crucis track. A solid swoosh of colour beneath the dark sky, their progress was followed somewhat shakily by the moth-strewn floodlights.

Roger leaned across the gap between the joints, yelling above the raucous bellows of the crowd. ‘This one looks like it’s going to be a close call! Looks like Trimmy’s got his nose up front. What did you do on him?’

Jasmine glanced at her board. ‘Oh, damn. Twenties.’

Allan shook his head on the other side of her. ‘Trim Tone always gets up there with the leaders – didn’t you check the form?’

Jasmine hadn’t. She’d been walking about in a haze of unhappiness ever since that afternoon. Now, on the penultimate race of the evening, still the only thing she could hear was Yvonne’s voice cooing sexily from the depths of the windbreaks.

‘Mistakes like that’ll cost you,’ Roger warned her, tipping his Panama to the back of his head. ‘What’s up? Too much champagne earlier?’

‘I wish . . .’ Jasmine groaned, watching as the white-jacketed Trim Tone swept across the finish line, a whisker in front of the pack.

Almost immediately, as Gilbert announced the result, the winning tickets were being waved in a fluttering forest beneath her nose.

‘Bloody hell,’ Clara, who had been doing the writing-up in a state of post-champagne and post-Ewan euphoria, woke up at last and jerked her head towards the satchel. ‘I don’t think I’ve got enough in here to pay them out.’

Jasmine groaned again. This evening’s meeting should have been a breeze. Everyone else was in serious party mode after the news about the demise of the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza. Even Clara had seemed pleased, although Jasmine reckoned that had far more to do with Ewan than delight at being done out of a retail outlet. As it was, because of Yvonne, Jasmine had wrongly calculated every race, been surly towards the winning punters, and twice shouted at Peg.

‘You’ll have to go to the cashpoint,’ Clara hissed, up to her armpit in the satchel. ‘And withdraw some of your inheritance. We’ll never make the last race if you don’t.’

Jasmine emerged from a bunch of holidaymakers reeking of suntan oil and fish and chips, all of whom had unloaded the last of their spending money on Trim Tone. ‘I haven’t got any inheritance money left. I gave it to Peg for the refurbishment.’

‘Bloody hell. All of it?’

‘Most of it. And the rest is earmarked for an illuminated sign over the entrance gate – from me to Grandpa. That’s what I wanted to do.’

‘What about your earnings, then? They must have accumulated considerably by now. Or have you pledged all those to Peg, too?’ Clara frowned, flapping her hands at a teenage boy who was trying to burrow his way into the satchel. ‘Excuse me – can I help you?’

‘I had a tenner on Trimmy. That’s two hundred to come back and me stake. You wasn’t going to do a runner, was you?’

‘What? Of course not.’ Clara looked scandalised, and deftly counted out the notes. ‘Now, say thank you.’

‘Bugger off.’ The boy pocketed his winnings greedily. ‘I never says thank you to damn grasping bookies.’ He winked. ‘Not even if they’re pretty hot babes.’

Clara jabbed a finger in Jasmine’s shoulder. ‘Stop grinning. Even if he was referring to you, you’re not into cradle-snatching, are you?’

‘To be honest, I’m up for anything that isn’t Andrew at the moment. And,’ she stared after the boy’s rear view, ‘he’s got a great bum.’

‘Christ.’ Clara shook her head.

‘It’s going to be lock up your sons for the mothers of Ampney Crucis, is it? Not before time, if you ask me. You never had a splurge when the rest of us did, did you?’

‘Don’t remember. When was that?’

‘Ooh – somewhere between being thirteen and fifteen.’ ‘No, then, I didn’t.’ Jasmine poked out her tongue. ‘Some of us were far too busy keeping our Clark’s sandals clean and collecting Sindy dolls. Still, can we lay off my lack of splurging until later, while I concentrate on making some money?’

Clara looked again at the depleted satchel. ‘Sounds good to me.’

Jasmine chalked up the runners for the last race, wondering whether she should cut the odds on all of them so that she wouldn’t have to pay out too much on whichever dog won, and if she did so, whether she’d actually have any customers at all. Roger and Allan, offering longer odds and better prices, would surely take all the punters.

‘Oh God, Grandpa. What do I do now?’

She closed her eyes. She could see Benny’s warm grin. She could hear Benny’s voice inside her head. He sounded as though he was laughing. ‘First of all, cheer up. Life’s a breeze. Be happy – that’s what I wanted you to be – always. Then lengthen the odds, my love. Take the mugs’ money, as much as you can. That’s the only way.’

Of course! She’d watched him do it so many times! Cooking the books, he’d told her. What being a bookmaker was all about – gambling everything, making a book which hopefully would finish with only one winner – the bookie. Opening her eyes, Jasmine feverishly rubbed out all her chalked up figures and started again. She also began to smile. Benny was there with her, she knew he was. She could almost feel his presence.

Roger and Allan stared at her in bewilderment, peered through their bifocals at her board, looked askance, then, not to be outdone, changed their figures too. Jasmine lengthened hers again. So did Roger and Allan. And again. This time Roger and Allan didn’t.’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Clara squeaked.

‘Covering my losses. An old trick of Grandpa’s. Don’t go all Young Exec on me now, please. Trust me . . .’

The long odds seemed to do the trick. At least for the moment. As it was the last race, it was now-or-never time for the punters, and they were eager to recoup any earlier losses. Gilbert was extolling the virtues of the six dogs across the tannoy, Doris was doing the business on ‘Sentimental Journey’, but somewhere in the background, Jasmine could annoyingly still hear Yvonne’s purring voice. Yvonne, it seemed, was splurging indiscriminately.

She clapped her hands over her ears. That was two voices in her head now. It was beginning to get a bit crowded. She’d probably end up like Joan of Arc, barking mad and leaping onto bonfires outside the Crumpled Horn.

‘Jasmine!’ Andrew pushed his way through the crowds.

‘Is what I’ve heard the truth?’

‘Doubtful,’ she shouted back, still snatching five-pound notes with gay abandon and mouthing, ‘Thirty pounds to five, four hundred and two,’ over her shoulder at Clara. She looked at Andrew, all earnest in his cream chinos and mustard-coloured Fred Perry polo shirt. His question sounded like one of those tracts plastered up outside St Edith’s by the new vicar. However, his expression was so serious, she felt it would be cruel to tease him. ‘No, sorry. What exactly have you heard?’

‘About this – this stadium?’ Andrew was about three punters back by now, being elbowed out of the way by a contingent of women with Lancashire accents and fierce perms. ‘About you and these silly old duffers,’ he recklessly indicated Allan and Roger, ‘and loony Peg all putting your money into a refurbishment?’

‘Quite true,’ Jasmine sang happily, lengthening the odds still further as the punters continued to pile in. She could just see Andrew’s apoplectic face disappearing behind a sea of bri-nylon. ‘Who told you?’

‘Never mind who told me! That money was supposed to be for our future! Next year, when we get married, I thought you’d invest some in the dealership. We were going to buy a house . . . Your money would have moved us up into the next council-tax bracket – ’

‘Andrew,’ Jasmine interrupted, ‘this is neither the time nor the place. Meet me later – at the hut. I’ll explain it to you then. Now go away and leave me alone . . .’

‘Spoken like a woman truly in love,’ Clara muttered, merrily stuffing wodges of notes into the satchel.

Allan and Roger glared at Jasmine. ‘What did he call us?’

‘No idea,’ Jasmine chewed her lower lip. ‘But whatever it was, can you save garrotting him until later?’

The kennel handlers mercifully appeared at that moment, leading the dogs for the last time that night, and the betting became even more frenzied. After five further minutes of frantic money-taking, Jasmine glanced up, but couldn’t see Andrew anywhere. Either he’d taken her advice and sloped off to the beach hut, or he’d been trampled to death by the posse of Vera Duckworths.

As the greyhounds were led behind the traps, Allan and Roger were regarding her with severe doubt. She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Benny would have a fit over those prices,’ Allan said dolefully. ‘That’s a dumb trick.’

Jasmine pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘It’s not. He told me to do it, actually. Take a ton, risk paying out a ton, but hopefully make a profit.’

‘If Half A Sixpence wins, you won’t be making anything except a fool of yourself, my girl.’ Roger joined in the censure. ‘You’ve got him at fifties. And anyway, what exactly did that boyfriend of yours call me?’

Bunny, bless his plimsolls, snapped back the hare’s lever at that minute, and the traps sprang open. The greyhounds belted away on the first of their two circuits, and Jasmine exhaled with total relief.

As it was a longer race, the crowd had more time to whoop up the atmosphere. Jasmine decided not to watch the first lap at all. Neither, it seemed, did Clara. Ewan, looking dishevelled and gypsyish, had materialised out of the crowd and was playing havoc with the buttons on her sundress. It looked very much like they were about to have a no-holds-barred splurging session.

Tutting, and horribly aware that she sounded like some ancient dowager aunt, Jasmine turned away and dared to squint at the greyhounds’ progress. They were going round for the second time. Half A Sixpence in the striped jacket was slightly ahead.

The crowd was frenzied now, jumping up and down, encouraging their particular choice home with colourful epithets. Jasmine squeezed her hands together and prayed, Please, please God – anything other than Half A Sixpence.

The screams grew louder as the dogs blurred past, a jag of bright colours in the soft dusk. Jasmine held her breath.

‘Blueberry Muffin by a muzzle!’ Allan made an arthritic attempt to punch the air. ‘I had him on evens. That’s a result for me.’ He looked across at Jasmine. ‘What about you? What did you have for his SP?’

‘Ten to one,’ Jasmine was still trying to do the calculations in her head. It was no good asking Clara to help. She and Ewan had disappeared to splurge in private. I think I’ll be OK . . .’

Paying out was slower than usual as she had to do it single-handedly, but eventually everyone seemed satisfied – and she peeped inside the satchel. She wasn’t a hundred per cent sure, but it looked as though there may just be more money in there than she’d started with. She puffed out her cheeks. It had been a close call. A real gamble. And, if she was honest, one heck of a buzz. She grinned: this was what it was all about, the thing that had kept Benny going all those years – the risk, the excitement . . .

‘Got away with it, did you?’ Roger was grinning. ‘Bit of a blast, actually, when it happens.’

Allan joined in. ‘Congratulations, my love. Now you really know what being a bookie is all about, don t you?’

Jasmine jumped from her pallets, still hugging the satchel, and kissed them both. Then gathering everything together under both arms, she trundled rather inelegantly away to join the crowds queuing to get out through the turnstiles. Having dumped her paraphernalia in Peg’s office, and beamed good night at everyone, she suddenly realised that she hadn’t thought anything at all about her mother’s affair for at least an hour.

Still as high as a kite, Jasmine slithered down the last few of the cliff steps, took a long appreciative look at the black satin ripples of the sea, then skittered along the sandy track in front of the huts.

Andrew was sitting on the veranda in the pale lemon moonlight.

Jasmine grinned and swung the satchel on to his lap.

‘There! Tonight’s profit, oh, ye of little faith! Have you got a drink?’

Andrew lifted his beer bottle in a mock salute.

‘Oh, good. Nothing like a couple of Old Ampneys for celebrations, is there? Lovely as all the bubbly that Peg provided was, I still prefer beer. Another sign of my misspent youth, I suppose.’

Jasmine bent to kiss him, then stopped because she probably didn’t feel quite that euphoric, and simply retrieved the satchel from his lap instead. ‘Did you get one out for me?’

‘Ah – no. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.’

‘Whatever.’ Jasmine clattered across the veranda and into the hut. ‘I’ll get one from the fridge . . . Oh, you’ve had the last one!’

‘Have I? Sorry.’ Andrew’s voice, floating from outside, sounded anything but. ‘I didn’t realise. Would you like to share mine?’

‘No, thanks.’ Jasmine had tucked the takings in the back of the drawer, and removed several twenty-pound notes.

‘I’ll go up to the Crumpled Horn and get some takeouts. I think Clara and Ewan are up there anyway, and I haven’t paid Clara yet for tonight.’