Cheeky bastard! Billy turned from the wall, putting his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. You coming?
Nah, think I’ll hang on for the next. What about yourself?
Naw man you kidding! Anyhow, if I wanted to stand in a betting shop all day I’d’ve went to my fucking work.
Ha ha.
Actually I think I’ll get the fucking head down man I’m a bit tired.
Okay.
Heh . . . Billy grinned. Watch yourself!
Aye.
When the next race was coming under orders he was standing gazing at the previous day’s tote returns and he had to run to the counter, he scribbled a bet on the favourite. At the furlong marker it moved up to challenge but its effort was always being held by the eventual 20/1 winner. He walked out of there and went to the shop two blocks away. The coming race was for 2 year olds and almost half of the field was unraced; minutes before the off one entered the betting at 12/1 and was quickly marked down through all rates to 6/1. He hesitated, strode to another formpage. It went to 5/1 and he scribbled the bet and raced to the counter, taking the price.
The horse led till the distance; then it was passed, it finished unplaced.
His shoulders ached. He flexed them while leaving the premises. He crossed to the newsagent’s and bought a packet of cigarettes though he still had quite a few in the packet in his jerkin pocket. He checked his money. Back in the bookmaker’s he studied form. Half an hour later he was walking home. Margaret frowned when he came into the living room. She said: You better get a move on.
Ah I’m no bothering Margaret.
You’re no bothering?
Nah. He sat down and looked at the television.
Margaret said nothing.
No, he said, I really, I just eh, I dont think I’d be that keen on Blackpool anyway.
But Tammas, you’ve paid your fare down. And your bed & breakfast – I thought you had paid that as well.
No it all, naw, just part of it.
Still . . . That’s money down the drain.
He nodded. She had turned her head back to face the television but after a moment she made to resume speaking. He stood up and yawned: Think I’ll lie down for an hour.
Margaret looked at him.
All I’m doing in the factory these days is walking about; its more tiring.
You’ll be here yourself for the three days.
Fine.
She shook her head: I think you’re silly. Did you have an argument with somebody?
Naw no really.
She shook her head again, shifted on the chair.
He was standing at the corner opposite where the convoy of buses would leave. People were already filing aboard or having their luggage loaded into the rear compartments by the drivers. Ten minutes from time and still they had not appeared, then he saw them. They came from Buchanan Street, running across Sauchiehall Street, suitcases and holdall bags swinging and both Rab and Donnie were carrying large carry-out bags. John and Billy were first aboard. The bus driver was chatting to Rab and then with Donnie the three of them stepped away from the rear and began to look this way and that way but finally they stepped up inside the bus. A few minutes later the first of the convoy moved out from the stance. Tammas edged a little farther back down the lane and he turned aside while their bus passed.
•••
Next morning it was dry and once Margaret and her husband had gone he searched the house. He found a pile of coppers amounting to 17 pence. The meter-bowl was empty. Gathering his new suit from the wardrobe he went out and pawned it in a different broker’s. He collected a Sporting Life on the way home, studied form until early afternoon. His nap for the day was going in the third race at one of the flat meetings. In the betting shop he glanced at the other newspaper formpages on the wall, reading the stable news and any sort of racing gossip. The first race was about due off. The shows of betting had been coming through for some time. He glanced back at his own newspaper then made out a bet for the favourite, laying on what he had. It finished fourth.
He watched the boardman wiping out the old price quotations, tearing down the runners’ list and replacing it with the next. Three or four guys hovered near the pay-out window. He did not know any of them. A show of betting came for the next race. He walked to the door. Upstairs in the house he switched on the television for the televised racing, seeing his nap win at 5/2 and hearing the commentators recall how it had won and why it had been well fancied to do so. And the owner being interviewed briefly, receiving a trophy. He turned channels. Motorbikes were racing over bumpy countryside. He switched it off altogether and went ben the kitchen and put on a kettle of water to boil; then he switched off the oven ring. He went to his room, undressed and got into bed, then got back up again and drew over the curtains. He dozed eventually.
•••
Once he had washed and shaved he put on the fresh shirt and his old suit. Taking the jacket off again he began peeling a couple of potatoes but stopped, he went into the front room and put on the television and lay down on the settee with his head on an arm of it. Mrs Brady lived in the room and kitchen on the landing directly above. Tammas had known her most of his life; she had been acquainted with his mother and friends with his grandmother. She rarely left the house; she would be sitting watching television, or reading maybe. Margaret did her shopping quite a lot; and Tammas too, on occasion – even collecting her pension a couple of times last winter.
Going into the lobby he opened the outside door but closed it immediately and went ben the kitchen. The potatoes lying on the draining board at the sink. His cigarettes lay on the floor next to the settee in the living room. Three of them remained. He smoked part of one then nipped it and shoved it back in the packet, and walked to the front door. He left the door on the latch before going upstairs. When Mrs Brady answered his flapping of the letter box he said: Eh Mrs Brady I was wondering if you had a ten pence bit by any chance – the electricity’s away and that . . . He sniffed.
She nodded. I think so, wait a wee minute. Then she closed over the door. Back she came with her purse and she opened it in such a way that he could look inside also. I’ve got a couple, she said, and she took them out and gave them to him. Here’s another yin as well Tammas.
Probably one would be enough, he said. He made to return the other two.
Are you sure? Take them, just in case.
Well okay. Thanks. I’ll hand them back in tomorrow.
Och there’s no rush: she shook her head. As soon as you like, it doesnt matter.
Well . . . thanks.
Mrs Brady smiled: And where is it the night?
He shrugged.
The dancing?
Maybe, maybe. He grinned, turned away, about to go downstairs.
And how’s your grannie?
O fine, fine.
You tell her I was asking for her. I would go up and see her if I could.
Okay Mrs Brady.
Mind and tell her now.
I will.
•••
The conductor was standing waiting for the money. Tammas passed it to him and was returned half. The conductor nodded very slightly, not looking at him, not giving him a ticket, before moving on down the aisle. Tammas stared out the window, keeping the money enclosed in the palm of his hand. The night could yet turn into something although in another way he would have preferred the actual ticket. Having this extra bit of dough was a bit of a nuisance. It left him twopence short of the minimum tote bet. Better to have had nothing but the sixty quid he was giving himself. He stuck the change into his trouser pocket. Out of this sixty he was keeping forty for his nap. The dog in question was running in the fourth and it was out of Trap 1. It was a good dog, a fast dog, and he fancied it very strongly. The other twenty quid was just for playing about with on forecasts and small single bets.
The bus was crowded; it had been standing room only downstairs. On arrival at Shawfield Stadium he sat on until everybody else had l
eft; he strode down to the rearmost seat and from there back to the front, peering down into the corners of the floor but nothing at all was lying except a few empty beer cans and other assorted litter. The conductor was reaching to change the destination screen while listening to something the driver was saying; they both glanced at him as he came down the stairs.
He walked on past the vendors of the Greyhound Adviser, on up to the entrance where an elderly woman was sitting on a wooden stool, selling pens and pencils. He paid his money at the turnstile and was returned a programme.
Out on the track the handlers were walking the dogs for the first race. Numbers flickered slowly on the totalisator board, few bets ever being struck in earnest for this race; it usually consisted of dogs new to the track or dogs returning after injury. Form rarely existed on it. Tammas leaned on a stanchion studying the programme. Of the twenty quid he was allowing five on this race; he decided to stick it onto Trap 3. The handlers began leading the dogs into the traps and he was aware of the loose change in his pocket. An additional twopence and he had an actual bet. The hooter sounded. The hare trundled off round the rail. Some cheers from the punters. Dog 3 got beat. While the handlers were out capturing them after the finish he wandered off, his gaze to the ground. He reached the wall dividing the track from the enclosure and stared about. The busfare home was not essential. It was not a bad evening, mild. The busfare would give him a bet. Coupled with the cash returned him by the conductor he had enough for a twenty pence bet on the tote, twice the minimum. He could stick the whole lot on a dog. Or split it two way, 10 on the 2nd race and 10 on the 3rd. Or keep the 20 pence for the nap he had chosen; it would be racing in the 4th. Or a forecast, a 10 pence reverse forecast. Or even a place-only bet of 20 pence. No need even to dig out a winner, just one to finish in the first two. It was a safety first bet, that was the thing about it. And if it came up and he had the same sort of bet on the 3rd, then he might end up with something for the 4th, to stick down on his nap. The place-only bet was correct, it was the correct thing to do. And so what if the dog actually won the race instead of just running second, it would not matter, the point was to get a return, to keep getting returns. It made no difference whether it won or was second, just so long as it was placed and he could go up to the pay-out window and be given a return for his money.
He was standing amongst the small crowd directly beneath the row of bookies, checking the form for the race, studying times and weights and distances. Yet it would not matter. The dog he decided on would either be placed or not. Which dog did not make any difference. He glanced at the list again. Nothing striking about the names of the five runners. More punters had arrived and he watched them busying about the line, trying to pick off the best price about their selections. And the vet was now on the track checking the dogs. He gazed back at the punters and the bookies but there was nothing catching the interest, nothing of note. He turned and strode off towards the tote windows and joined one of the queues. There was a woman in front of him, smoking rapidly and continually glancing behind to see if the dogs were about to start racing.
He was going to back Trap 4. The dog coming out of Trap 4, this was the one. The woman left the window clutching her tote receipts.
Tammas sniffed. Trap 4 twenty pence a place, he said to the girl. She stamped out the numbers, took his money and gave him the receipt.
Trap 4.
On examining the form he saw that this dog out of the fourth trap had a good chance after all. He was glad he had gone for it. According to the form notes it had been off the course injured for some time but was now back and expected to do okay. He remembered he still had £15 out of the £20 playing about with money and decided to stick it all on. In fact he felt like sticking the other £40 he was keeping for the nap down on it as well. But no, that was wrong, that was the wrong way. The forty had to be for the nap. The quick route to going skint usually lay in changing your mind at the last minute.
The hooter. Tammas thrust the programme into his back pocket and pulled the half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, he struck a match to light it, was exhaling smoke when the traps crashed open.
He kept silent throughout the race but began nodding as the favourite came wide round the last bend to run on past dog 4 up the home straight, with this dog 4 just managing to hang on for second place from the fast finishing Trap 1.
In the large queue at the pay-out window he listened to the folk who had backed the winning forecast. He could have backed the forecast. Easy. The favourite to win from dog 4. He could have dug out that forecast no bother. The fact that he went for dog 4 a place proved it. Yet this was nothing to do with anything. What he had done was back the dog to get placed and it had got placed and he was getting a return for his money, and this was the point.
Once he had the money he went into the bar and bought a carton of bovril, carrying it to a shelf at the side of the area. Including everything he now had 57 pence. This 57 pence was good. Another 3 would see him with 60. Without the bovril he would have had 65 and with 5 pence more the round 70.
Leaving the bovril on the shelf he returned to the counter and bought a packet of crisps. This left him with 51 pence. 50 pence was not bad at all. It had come from nothing, nothing. A 50 pence bet was fine.
Along at the tote window he struck his next bet. Dog 2 50 pence a place, he said to the woman.
With the ticket in his pocket he swallowed the remains of the bovril and crumpled the crisp packet onto the floor, and left the bar. The programme was in his back pocket. But he left it there. No point even seeing if the dog stood a chance. That had nothing to do with it now. The bet was made. The 50 pence on Trap 2, no matter what. If it finished first or second he would receive cash in exchange for the ticket. He got it from his pocket and looked at it, it was green, a green ticket; 2. Trap 2, 50 pence place. A 50 pence was not bad. Even for the nap it would not have been too bad. 50 pence the nap would have been fine, it would have been alright. But no matter. It made no difference. Not at all. Nothing. There might have been no 50 pence. A mistake to even think about things like that.
The hooter.
Again he stayed silent throughout the race but he nodded, he nodded at dog 2 coming inside on the rails rounding the third bend and on round the last bend. And staying on really strong to get up and win its race on the line. Trap 2 winning the race. Trap 2 as the winner. But fuck all to do with it, fuck all to do with it. It made no difference. None at all. To have finished placed was the thing, the bet. To finish in the first two, that is what mattered, to get a return on the stake, in exchange for the cash; this is what it is about. And the next race was the fourth on the card, and the nap was going.
Dog 2 paid 2/1 on the tote a place, giving £1.50 in return for the 50 pence. And if he had backed the dog as a straight win on the tote he would have received more than four quid but so what, it was irrelevant, it had nothing to do with it – a mistake to even think it. He had £1.50 in his pocket and it had come from nothing, and that was the only point.
When it came time he made his way to the line of bookmakers, letting the 1 pence coin fall from his hand, not looking where it landed. He hovered around the crowd of punters waiting to shade the odds and finally dashed in to take the 7/2 to the whole £1.50. And that was not bad. The morning paper had forecast 5/1 for this dog but he had known such a price was out of the question. 7/2 was fine, it was good. And when he was turning to leave the area he saw one bookie scrub out the 7/2 and mark up 3’s. He nodded.
Up at the spot where he had been standing were two middle aged men. He stepped in closer, and another step, until he was in as near as he could manage, without banging into them. He was gripping the programme when the hooter sounded. And the hare trundling off on its way, collecting speed till rounding the bend and now hurtling towards the boxes, and up crashed the trap gates. Dog 1 was the nap, and it walked out its box, and he nodded, there was no chance. It had to get well off its mark to have any chance and it didnt, so it had none. There w
as no point even giving it a shout.
He watched the dog chasing after the pack, making up a fair bit of ground down the back straight, coming inside the dogs directly in front and eventually running on into third place. If the thing had trapped properly it would have guyed it, no danger. But it had finished third. Dog 2 had won and dog 5 was second. From somewhere behind him somebody cried: That fucking 5 dog should’ve pished it.
Tammas turned and shouted: You fucking kidding! Dog 1 was a fucking certainty – if it’d trapped it’d’ve fucking guyed it. Bastards. He shook his head and strode off and up towards the exit.
An attendant was standing there and he unlocked the door for him. Some boys were waiting outside and they glanced at the man as he closed the door.
He continued striding till beyond the car park and outside the ground he walked more slowly. Approaching the bridge he paused, taking the bookmaker’s ticket from his pocket. He began to tear it up in rectangular sections, and then scattered them over the parapet, watching them as they landed on the river.
•••
On the following Tuesday morning he rose from the bench and walked from the smoke-area, down to the short flight of steps up to the gaffer’s office. He walked up and chapped on the door, and opened it immediately. The chargehand was there, sitting on the edge of the desk. He was talking to the gaffer who was leaning back on his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. The two of them frowned at Tammas. He sniffed and said: Eh I want to leave, on Friday, I want to lift my books – I’m chucking it.
After a moment the gaffer nodded. Fine, he said.
He did not acknowledge the chargehand. He turned and went back out and down the steps. In the smoke-area he saw where he had been sitting previously, and he smiled. He nudged the man next to him: You got a spare fag at all?
The man said, Aye. And gave him one from his packet, and gave him a match.
Ta . . . Tammas lighted the cigarette and exhaled, he looked across at Ralphie and winked, smiled again. Ralphie nodded.
A Chancer Page 7
