Nothing to Lose (3 page)

She lingered for a moment in the evening shadows, looking at the deserted track, biting back the tears. It was the first time she’d been here since her grandfather’s death, and she could see him everywhere, hear his voice barking the odds, feel the comforting touch of his worn tweed jacket as she’d snuggled against him on cold nights when the wind came straight off the sea.

The bookmakers’ pitches, three of them, were permanently sited at the foot of the stands. Greyhound racing at Ampney Crucis was very far removed from the bright lights and glamour of the big stadiums. The site had been in the Dunstable family for generations, and Peg was fiercely proud that it was one of the few surviving independent tracks in the country.

God knew, Jasmine thought, trailing her fingers along the wobbling rails, how it had survived at all. With meetings three times a week, all year round – solely for the Dorset locals in winter and with the addition of the bemused Ampney Crucis holidaymakers in the high season – they somehow seemed to manage to scrape a living. Quite a good living really, she supposed, if Benny’s legacies were anything to go by.

Completely alone in the stadium, Jasmine wandered towards the bookmakers’ pitches, shivering slightly as she plunged from the warm evening sun into the towering shadows of the stands. ‘Benny Clegg – The Punters’ Friend’ stood in the middle of the three, ‘Roger Foster – Bookmaker to Royalty’ was to the left, and ‘Allan Lovelock – Honesty is my Middle Name’ to the right. Roger and Allan, both of her grandfather’s generation, like Peg, had been permanent fixtures at the Ampney Crucis track all her life. This was the only place – apart, of course, from the beach hut now – where she really felt at home.

She sat forlornly on one of the three orange boxes which made up the rest of her inheritance, and wondered briefly if she could really make a go of it. Could she, in all honesty, become a successful bookmaker? Oh, sure, she’d written up the books for Benny ever since she’d been able to add up: standing beside him at the meetings, writing down the bets in the ledger as the punters put them on, able to work out winnings quicker than any calculator. But being in charge? Setting prices? Calling the odds? Actually running the business? Would she ever be any good at that? Her grandfather had entrusted everything to her – she prayed that she wouldn’t let him down.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, darling.’

Peg Dunstable swept down the stand steps, her tricked-up hair swinging jauntily, kept in place by a broad Alice band. With her swirling skirt cinched in by a black patent belt, the collar of her poplin blouse standing up, a two-ply cardigan slung round her shoulders, and wearing ankle socks and flatties, from a distance she looked the spitting image of her heroine. It was only close to that anyone could see the wrinkles on the papery skin beneath the panstick, the mesh round the base of the blonde wig, or spot that the inky curly lashes weren’t securely attached at the corners. No one in Ampney Crucis would ever have been brave enough to point this out.

‘No problem.’ Jasmine stood up and brushed the dust from the seat of her jeans. ‘I needed a little bit of time alone – to – um – get used to Grandpa not being here.’

Peg hugged her. ‘I know, pet. I know. I miss him so much too.’

It was an awkward hug, Jasmine felt, as Peg only reached her shoulder. She could see all the intricate knotted roots of the Doris Day wig.

They stood in silence for a moment, remembering Benny. Then, because she was going to cry, Jasmine shrugged herself free. ‘So, where do we stand? The licence is mine in two weeks’ time – I know that. And I know Roger and Allan have been very kind and said they’ll help me to get started – which is nice of them as we’re supposed to be rivals for the same business – and that the meetings are every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do.’

‘Make money,’ Peg grinned. ‘And lots of it. That’s what Benny did. The money he left was the bit that the tax man didn’t get wind of. Oh, I know they say you’ll never meet a poor bookie, but at a small venue like this one – and with virtually the same punters backing virtually the same dogs every session – it’s a miracle that he managed to stash away anything at all.’

Jasmine sighed. ‘I know. I was amazed that he had so much.’

‘Any ideas what you’re going to do with yours?’

‘Keep it in the building society just in case I go belly up as the Punters’ Friend. No, really. I’ve walked out of the only job I’ve ever had. I’m not qualified to do anything else, and if I make a mess of this –’

‘You won’t,’ Peg said stoutly. ‘Once you get the licence through we’ll all help you out. I thought you might be thinking of using Benny’s cash for the deposit on a house.’ ‘No, there’s no need. I’ve got the beach hut for the time being, and Andrew and I are getting married next year and – ’

‘Pah!’ Peg clicked her fingers dismissively. A false nail fell off. ‘Andrew Pease is a waste of space! He’s a freeloader, Jasmine, a smarmy, nasty piece of work, just like your dad.’

‘Don’t spare my feelings,’ Jasmine smiled. ‘Say what you really think.’

‘Oh, darling! I’m so sorry! Me and my mouth! It just all comes out.’

‘I’m glad it does.’ Jasmine moved her hand to touch Peg, then withdrew it in case she dislodged the hairpiece or something awful. ‘It’s about time people were honest with me. I’ve always just bumbled along, living at home, having Andrew, doing a job I loathed – because Grandpa was there to make everything all right. Now I’ve got to stand on my own two feet.’

Peg looked up at her and winked. ‘That’s the spirit. You’re not Benny Clegg’s granddaughter for nothing, you know. Now, I didn’t really ask you to come along here this evening just to bad-mouth your family – fun though it is – I wanted to ask for your thoughts on something I’ve been pondering for ages. Shall we go up to the office?’

Peg’s office, at the top of the rickety stands, was a sort of Portakabin on stilts. The bits of it that weren’t buried under the racing papers and greyhound form books, were covered with photographs of Doris Day and Rock Hudson. There had been an awful patch, Jasmine remembered, at the time when Rock had been outed. Peg had worn deep mourning and closed the stadium for a fortnight. However, if the pictures were anything to go by, his sexual
faux pas
had now been forgiven.

From the window Jasmine could see the sea; the evening tide was going out in little sunburst ripples, leaving the sands flat and clean and pale. The roofs of the beach huts, looking like a child’s pastel necklace, were just visible, as was the Crumpled Horn and the narrow streets climbing away from the front towards the church and the housing estates. Bathed gently in the sun’s last rays, the village looked peaceful and time-warped. Jasmine allowed the familiar scene to soak into her like a balm and prayed that it would never change.

Pouring two pints of Old Ampney ale from a selection of bottles in the fridge, and switching on the stereo system to allow ‘Secret Love’ to billow round the plaster board walls. Peg indicated that Jasmine should sit down.

‘I’ve discussed this with Allan and Roger, pet, and they’re all in favour. Now, as you’re part of the syndicate, we’ll need your agreement before we go ahead.’

Jasmine was intrigued. ‘It all sounds very hush-hush. You’re not planning to nick the Greyhound Derby from Wimbledon, are you?’

‘Oh!’ Peg looked affronted. ‘Who told you?’

‘What! You’re kidding!’

‘Yes, actually, I am.’ Peg put her head on one side in a coquettish manner. ‘But you’re not too far off the mark, to be honest. Now – just take a look at these . . .’

Peg pushed a pile of glossy, laminated brochures through the heaps of newsprint on her desk. Jasmine flipped through them. Romford, Crayford, Wimbledon, Hackney, Walthamstow ... all the huge and famous greyhound stadiums were represented.

‘Very impressive, but I don’t see . . .’

Peg fished another highly coloured brochure from her desk drawer. ‘It’s time we were competitive. Oh, I know we can’t compete with these big boys as such, but we can certainly do more than we’ve been doing. I’ve heard on the grapevine that the Greyhound Racing Association are having a big push this year to update and improve the industry’s image; bring dog racing into the twenty-first century – you know, fun for all the family . . .’

Jasmine nodded. The change within the sport had been going on for some time. There were all sorts of family packages on offer, and corporate hospitality, and things like that – every single one of them way out of Ampney Crucis’s league.

‘And that Sky telly are going to be moving away from the established BAGS tracks and covering the smaller meetings. But this,’ Peg continued, brandishing the remaining brochure under Jasmine’s nose, ‘is what really sparked it off, pet. That new stadium at Bixford. Look at it – it looks like an art deco mutation of the damn Millennium Dome! And they’re raking it in! And they’ve just pitched for the Platinum Trophy for next February . . .’

Jasmine leafed through the brochure. Bixford was in Essex, in the heart of dog-racing territory, and the Gillespie Stadium had been making the headlines for several months. The new Platinum Trophy race, sponsored by Frobisher’s Brewery, would definitely be the jewel in their cloth cap. She sighed. ‘Yes, well, good luck to them, but–’

The telephone on Peg’s desk shrilled. Peg hurled papers aside in a frantic attempt to locate it. Holding up her hand to Jasmine, she snatched at the receiver. The conversation was brief, cooed, and punctuated by besotted smiles.

‘Ewan,’ Peg said softly, replacing the receiver. ‘He’s done something silly and left Katrina again. He’s coming to stay for a while to let the dust settle. Won’t that be a hoot?’

Jasmine nodded because it would be. She and Ewan had grown up together. Dark, dangerous, delicious Ewan Dunstable, Peg’s beloved nephew, was every woman’s wildest fantasy. He was a serial cheater – but lovely with it. The last time he’d left his wife and holed up with Peg, he and Clara had had an affair that left Ampney Crucis reeling. Andrew absolutely loathed him.

‘Now, back to business.’ Peg patted the golden hair. ‘Where were we before that naughty boy interrupted? Oh, yes. Bixford and the Platinum Trophy . . . Now what we’d thought – me and Roger and Allan – was that, if you re agreeable, we’d pool Benny’s legacy money together, give this place a bit of a spruce up, and rename it the Benny Clegg Stadium.’

‘Oh!’ Jasmine fumbled in the sleeve of her T-shirt for a tissue. ‘Oh, Peg! That would be absolutely brilliant.’

Peg leaned across the desk and jabbed at the Bixford brochure. ‘And, once we’ve done that, we thought we’d really put the old place on the map, and give these Essex geezers a run for their money, by applying to stage the Frobisher Platinum Trophy!’

Eighty miles away from Ampney Crucis, on that same June evening, April Padgett was having one of the worst nights of her life – and that was saying something. In her twenty-three years she’d managed to have some humdingers.

The Gillespie Greyhound Stadium’s Copacabana Cocktail Bar was packed with its usual designer-dressed Bixford clientele; the air conditioning had packed up; the ice-maker had jammed and immediately defrosted; and someone had been sick behind the token plastic palm tree.

However, far worse than any of these was the sight of Martina Gillespie, April’s boss, behind the bar, with the till wide open, clawing her magenta talons through the takings.

‘You’ve been giving them buggers freebies again!’ Her squawk quite drowned out the soothing tones of Barry Manilow inside the bar, and the orgasmic shouts of the track commentator outside it. ‘Don’t deny it! I’ve been watching you most of the evening. I know what drinks you’ve served and I know what the float was, and I know this till is short! How did you manage it, eh? My back was only turned for five minutes while I went to check on that fracas in the lavs.’

April groaned. Martina Gillespie had eyes like a hawk, a voice like a strangled donkey, and a face like a ferret. A crew-cut in Tequila Sunrise orange, more make-up than Danny La Rue, and copious amounts of post menopausal body-piercing, completed the picture.

Oh God! Why hadn’t she put the money in straight away? Why had Jix appeared in the Copacabana while Martina was sorting out the loo punch-up? Why did she always feel so sorry for him? Why had she given him that damn drink?

April tried smiling. ‘Well, no, it’s not short really. . .’

‘Yes, it is not really!’ Martina shrieked, somewhat ungrammatically. ‘Do you want this bar job, my lady, or don’t you?’

Bloody, bloody stupid question, April thought, still managing to look confused and innocent at the same time. ‘Of course I do, but – ’

‘But nothing!’

A large part of the designer brigade had turned from gawping at the on-track excitement through the huge plate-glass windows, and were listening with interest. As they were all sweating profusely because of the lack of air conditioning and ice, it seemed that a good row might just take their minds off their discomfort.

April shifted her balance on her borrowed Manolo Blahniks, and winced as the circulation started pumping into her toes. ‘I was going to put the money in myself later. I just got busy. Anyway, it was only a Fuzzy Navel – without the ice, of course, because of the machine.’

‘Only a Fuzzy Navel!’ Martina howled, clutching her Versace-clad bosom. ‘Only a Fuzzy Navel! Dear God! Have you any idea how much a Fuzzy Navel costs?’

‘Of course I have. I’ve been working in this bar for long enough to know the price of the damn drinks!’

‘And don’t you come the old acid with me, my girl! I don t want none of your smart backchat, OK?’

God, April thought wearily, Martina was dog-rough under the posh frock. Her vowels, which before the invective had started might have had their origins somewhere around Knightsbridge, were rapidly floating down the Estuary.

‘Look, Martina, it was one drink. Just one drink. And like I said, I was going to put the money in.’

‘Don’t you Martina me, young lady!’ The pointed chin had performed some sort of upward manoeuvre and was nearly touching the beaky nose. The selection of diamond ear-studs all winked under the deep-set ceiling spotlights. ‘I’m Mrs Gillespie to you – understand? And whose bloody freebie was it tonight? Another one of your freeloading pals with a sob story about having lost everything on the last race and – ’