She wants to finish the washing up. The jug.
What. I stopped the weighing and turned and the fucking barrel fell, the spuds all rolling about the fucking floor. The boy stepped back out the road. It’s okay son, it’s okay, just take the thing away.
The next load was the last for me although the French would be picking until 8 p.m. Their morning began at 5 a.m. I wouldnt’ve worked hours like that. The farmer had asked me a couple of days back. Are you interested in a bit of overtime for fuck sake! 5 till 8. Why in the id of christ did they do it! The dough of course. By the time I had cleared and swept the area and shot off home and got back the following morning another load of fucking sacks would be stacked there ready and waiting.
The farmer was hovering around again. He went off and I heard him calling over a couple of Frenchmen to give me a hand with the travail. I got the time on one of their watches. I stopped work. I looked at the farmer. Well scotti, he said, taking the pipe out of his pocket. A good day’s work eh? See you in the morning then.
I couldnt believe my ears. I stared at him. He was patting the tobacco down and when he noticed me he added, Alright?
My hands were trembling. I clasped them, rubbed them on the sweat rags I wore round my waist.
Something wrong then?
Something wrong! What d’you mean something wrong! My christ that’s a fucking good yin right enough, a miserable bastarn nicker as well you’d think it was the crown fucking jewels or something.
He went tugging on the stem of his pipe. I grabbed my T-shirt and walked out the place. I heard him start and exclaim: The pound. Scotti! The pound. Sorry.
He was digging into his hip pocket for that big thick wallet and the Frenchmen standing smiling but curious as well. Forgot all about it, said the farmer, coming towards me while unwrapping a single.
Sorry. Sorry by christ, that is a good yin, a beauty. I continued on and out of the yard and kept on until about halfway between the farm and the turnoff, heading up towards the site where the tent was pitched. Then I stopped and sat at the side of the track. I sat on the turf, my feet on the caked mud in the ditch. I had forgotten to parcel a few spuds for my tea. Also the tin but it only had dust in it anyway. I had also forgotten a piece of string for my jeans. I was meaning to buy a belt, I kept forgetting and the threads at the cuffs of the jeans were dragging when I walked. The string would do meantime then I could get the belt. I got up, stiff at the knees. I strode along swinging my arms straight and on beyond the shortcut between hedges further on up to the front of the field where the tent was and left wheeling across the place, a few holiday-makers were wandering about with cooking utensils.
I was lying on top of the groundsheet, cool, the breathing coming short, in semi gasps maybe. I relaxed. Slowing down, slowing down, allowing the shoulders and the belly and the knees, letting them all get down, relaxing, the limbs and everything just slackly, calm, counting to ten and beyond, deep breathing exercises now, begin, and out in out in out in hold it there and the pulse rate lessens the heart pumps properly slowly does it slowly does it now yes and that fresh air is swirling down in these shadowy regions cleaning the lungs so now you can smoke and be okay and live to a ripe old age without having to halt every few yards to catch your breath, yes, simply continue and.
The sacks were piled high next morning. The lorry long gone to the fields. My mouth was sticky. I opened the tin and sniffed the dust. The boy had poked his head in and disappeared as soon as he saw me. Away to tell his mother probably. Fuck the pair of them. Later the crashing of gears and the lorry coming in. The Frenchmen with the load. I was getting a few looks. Fuck them as well. Then the farmer. Looking as unamazed as he could. Fuck you too. I laid down the barrel I was filling and went over. A nicker, I said, that’s all I’m asking, till payday, just deduct it.
Of course scotti . . . He was taking out the pipe.
I mean just now, you know, it’s just now I need it.
He nodded and got the wallet out, passed me a single.
Great. Fine. I nodded, I’m just going.
He looked at me.
The wee shop in the village just, I’ll only be a minute . . . I grabbed the T-shirt.
By the grassy verge beneath the veranda of the local general store with the morning sun on my shoulders, the tin lying open at one side and the cider bottle uncorked on the other, and the cows lowing in the adjacent meadow, and the smoke rolled and being lighted and sucking in that first drag, keeping the thrapple shut to trap it there; with no bout of coughing, not a solitary splutter, the slight zuzz in the head. Instead of exhaling in the ordinary way I widened my lips and opened the throat without blowing so that the smoke just drifted right out and back in through my nostrils. Dizziness now but the head was clear though the belly not so good, and a shudder, fine. Then the cider, like wine it tasted and not too pleasant, just exact, and ready now, the second drag.
Time had passed. The lorry. It came into view, chugging along, the farmer at the wheel. I gestured at him with the bottle and the smoke, but as a greeting only. He returned it cheerily. The French on the back, the women there. I waved. Bon, I shouted. Once it had passed from view I swallowed the remainder of the cider and got up to return the bottle. I walked back to the farm, the tea would soon be coming.
A wide runner
I was in London without much cash and having to doss in the porch of a garden shed; it lay behind the shrubbery section of a grass square which the locals referred to as a park. The man who maintained it was called Kennedy. When he found me asleep he didnt kick me out but wanted to know what was what, and he left some sacking for me that evening. Next morning he brought John along with him; inside the shed he brewed a pot of tea. It was good and hot, burned its way down – late autumn or early winter. He got me answering the same questions for John’s benefit; when I finished he looked to him. John shrugged, then muttered something about getting me a start portering if I wanted, interview that afternoon maybe. With a bit of luck I could even be starting the following morning.
Christ that’s great, I said.
If he cant do it then nobody can, chuckled Kennedy. He’s the blue-eyed boy in there!
John grimaced.
Yeh. Kennedy winked at me. Gets away with murder he do!
John shook his head, moments later he left.
At 8 a.m. next day I was kitted out with the uniform then being introduced to the rest of the squad in the porter’s lodge. The place was a kind of college and the duties I performed were straightforward. For the first few days John guided me round; we pushed barrows full of stationery and stuff though in his position – Head Porter – he wasnt supposed to leave the vicinity of the marble entrance hall. He also fixed me up with a sub from the Finance Office, one week’s lying time being obligatory. It was a surprise; I hadnt asked him to do it. That’s great, I said, I’ll buy you a pint when we finish.
He glanced at the clock in the lodge and shrugged, Just gone opening-time Jock, buy me it now if you like.
Kennedy was on a stool at the bar. I ordered pints for the three of us and he nudged me on the ribs. Yeh, didnt I tell you? blue-eyed boy he is!
Leave off, muttered John.
But Kennedy continued chuckling. You’ll be moving to a new abode then?
Aye, thanks – letting me use the shed and that.
He laughed. Us sassenachs arent all bad then eh!
Silly fucker, grunted John.
After work they showed me to a rooming house they reckoned might be suitable. The landlady was asking a month’s rent in advance but they had prepared me for it and eventually she did settle for the same sum spread over the following four weeks. It was an ideal place for the time being. The college was less than 10 minutes’ walk away. Round the corner lived Kennedy and his family while John rented a room further down the road, in a house managed by a middle aged Irish couple who tended to make a fuss of him – things like laundry and making a point of getting him in for Sunday dinner every week. They were a nice co
uple but John got slightly irritated by it. Yeh, he said, you’re into the position where you got to go; you’re letting them down if you dont.
It turned out his wife had been killed in an accident several years ago. I didnt discover the exact details but it seems to have been an uncommon kind, and made the newspapers of the day. One night he was drunk he told me he could never have married again, that she had been the greatest thing in his life. To some extent this would explain why people reacted to him as they did. And Kennedy was also right, John did get away with a lot.
Inside the college an ex-R.A.F. man had overall charge of the hourly-paid workers; he treated those under him as though they were servicing the plane he was to pilot, but he shied clear of John. Our dinner hours were staggered between 11.45 a.m. and 2.45 p.m. Unless totally skint John spent the entire three hours in the pub. If the ex-R.A.F. man needed to contact him he made a discreet call to the lodge and sent one of the older porters with the message. Not surprisingly a few people resented this special treatment; yet nothing was ever said directly to John. He was in his early sixties, as thin as a pole, his skin colouring a mixture of greys and yellows. He could be a bit brusque, short tempered, frequently ignoring people who were speaking to him. I got on fine with him. Once he realised my interest in horse racing wasnt confined to the winning and losing of money we got on even better. Money was probably the main reason why he affected people; John had won and done vast sums of the stuff; and while I was hearing many stories from him I was also hearing quite a few about him – and not always to his credit. A fair amount of respect was accorded him but often it would be tinged by that mixture of scorn and vague annoyance which non punters and small punters can display whenever the exploits of heavy gamblers are discussed. Kennedy was an example of this. Although he genuinely liked John, and enjoyed recounting tales of his past wins, he would finish with a wink and a snort . . . Yeh Jock, then me and the Mrs had to feed him for the next bleeding month.
A couple of weeks into the job I was given additional duties in the college refectory. Being the last porter in I had no option in the matter, but it suited me anyway. In return for rinsing the pots and the pans I could eat as much free grub as I wanted. It meant I didnt have to worry about eating in the evening. Also I was escaping from the lodge. Portering can be an extremely boring job. Much of the time was spent in and around the lodge; when John was available it was fine but if not the only conversation to be had centred on job-gossip or last night’s television. It was the kind of job people either stuck for a month or remained until retiral; most of them had been there for years, and even the arrival of some nice looking female didnt particularly interest them. One of the morning duties involved the distribution of mail; this entailed journeying in and out of all the different offices. It seemed the kind of thing the porters would be working on a rota-system but they werent bothered at all; anybody who felt like it could do the rounds. It was good. The college employed a great many temporary staff from the office agencies and it became something to look forward to.
The woman in charge of the kitchen and refectory was another to make a fuss over John. She nagged him about eating. She wrapped left-over food in tinfoil and sent it to the lodge in time for the pub shutting. At this stage of the day John’s actions were erratic, absentminded; he would stick the packages in his uniform pocket and forget all about them. You could be sitting having a drink with him at 10 p.m. and out one would come, the tinfoil unwrapped and John continuing the conversation as he munched on a couple of rashers of bacon. One time in the lodge a porter went into silent hysterics at the window. The rest of us crept over to see what was what. Out in the marble entrance hall John with a piece of shepherd’s pie in one hand and a clutch of mashed potato in the other; a visiting dignitary was inquiring directions and John was gesticulating various routes between bites. Too much brown ale was the chief cause but added to that was his preoccupation with the afternoon’s racing results. John bet daily. And nightly where possible. He had a credit account with the bookie over the road. Either he used the phone in the lodge or sent me, if he couldnt be bothered walking across. I placed quite a few bets for him, but not too many on my own behalf. I wasnt very interested at the time – horse racing had come to a complete standstill. Not because of the weather, but some unknown virus had swept through stables up and down the country. In an effort to check it the authorities postponed racing indefinitely. John was betting on greyhounds, the virus being strictly equine.
In his day he had been a regular round many of the London tracks and whenever he was holding a few quid he still liked to have a go. But at the present everything he touched went wrong. It was the kind of spell anybody goes through. With John it was bad though; he seemed to be tapping dough from everywhere, from anybody; and the way things were about him it quickly became common knowledge. I got irritated when I heard them talking in the lodge or the pub but there was little to be said. By tapping their money he gave them the opportunity. Its unusual to meet anybody with the credit he had. He could be skint on a Wednesday morning but filling his place at the bar at dinner time, having a bet in the afternoon and meeting you in the pub late on in the evening. He had sources all over the place. Yet even so, gradually, he was returning from the pub before 2.45 p.m.; if making a bet he would do so only in cash and get me to carry it to another bookie because he was in for too much to his own; in the evening he would mutter an excuse and go home early. He was taking a real hammering.
The equine virus caused great deprivation. Before Xmas, as a special treat for starved horse punters like myself, an enterprising television team crossed the English Channel to screen back three races from a meeting in France. It was a Saturday and the British bookies were offering an almost complete race by race service. Both of us had worked overtime in the morning and in the pub afterwards I gave him another tenner, we went to the other betting shop. Although we knew next to nothing of the French form we did know the good jockeys and trainers and the rest of it. He laid the £10 on three crossed £2.50 doubles and a £2.50 treble. My own bet was more or less identical – I just selected different horses.
Back in the pub we watched his first two runners win. And then we watched his third runner win.
That third winner is the magical side of life. According to the betting forecast in the ’Life the horse was a 7/2 chance. But the pari mutuel returned a dividend amounting to slightly more than 25/1.
Twenty five times your dough in other words.
When it flashed onto the television screen John paused then snorted; he glanced round at me, as if to say: These cunts think they’re kidding me . . . And we rushed away to the betting shop for confirmation. It was true, and his winnings amounted to more than £1200. There wasnt enough on the premises to pay out in full but he was quite happy to wait until Monday morning. While the man behind the counter was getting the cash together John walked to study form at a greyhound meeting also taking place that afternoon. He backed the next favourite for £300. The man had to phone his head office to have it okayed. I was watching John. He was really shot through with nerves and yet I doubt whether a stranger could have noticed. At the best of times he got the shakes, but during the period in the betting shop he seemed to have been making a conscious effort to control himself. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring up at the results’ board; usually his shoulders were round but now he was holding them as straight as he could. The greyhound favourite won at 7/4. When the result was announced he hesitated, he glanced at me then back to the board; finally he nodded. Yeh, he said, that’ll do.
On the way back to his house we stopped off at the licenced grocer where he purchased a crate of brown ale, plus two bottles of gin which he passed onto the Irish couple. It was the only occasion I was ever in his room. There were a few knick-knacks and family photographs, and a big pile of old Evening Standards heaped in a corner. A fusty smell hung about the place. He noticed my reaction. Fucking pong, he said, open a window if you like. Then taking t
wo cups from a cupboard he passed me one along with a bottle of brown ale, and he continued talking. He was defending greyhounds. It wasnt that I didnt like them, just that it was almost impossible getting a line to their form without actually visiting the track to see them race. He admitted this but went on to tell me about an old mate he used to have. He had told me about him before, in connection to a system he worked. In fact, according to John, his old mate worked it so successfully that the bookies refused to deal with it across their betting shop counter. The guy was forced into going to the track to make his bets with the on-course fraternity.
The system is quite well known, nothing startling; it’s called the stop-at-a-winner and in principle consists of a minimum I bet with a maximum of 4. You select your four dogs and back the first to win; if it loses you back the second; if it loses you back the third; if it loses you back the fourth; if it loses you’ve done the money. The cash outlay on the first doubles onto the second and triples onto the third, quadruples onto the fourth; if your initial stake was £10 and you choose four losers then you wind up doing £100 i.e. bets of £10, £20, £30 and £40.
The beauty of the system lies in this stopping-at-a-winner; as soon as a dog wins the bet stops automatically. Only one solitary winner from four is required and a profit is almost guaranteed. In theory to choose one winner from four is not too difficult. It is not certain and by no means easy, but still and all, it should not be too difficult – and one thing is certain, if the bookies dont like the bet then it cant be bad.
This is all fair enough, but like anything else it applies only under normal circumstances. When somebody’s on a losing streak everything can go crazy. Odds-on shots run like 100/1 chances; all these stonewall racing certainties that should win in a canter, they all fall at the last fucking fence. The one thing they all have in common is that you’ve backed them. It reaches the stage where you feel guilty about choosing a favourite because of the disservice you’re doing to all the rest of the punters.
Not Not While the Giro Page 12
