by Lewis Orde
Disregarding the people who were laughing at the incident, Roland rushed back to the seat and grabbed hold of Catarina’s arm. ‘One more word, and so help me I’ll put you across my knee in front of this crowd.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ She traced the contours of her lips with her tongue and grinned at him.
‘Watch the race,’ he said, turning away from her.
‘Rollie . . . I am going to call you Rollie in the future because you look so roly-poly in that coat,’ she prattled on, hugging him. ‘Rollie, I love you.’
‘I love you, too. Now watch the race.’
Roland lost the first race and he accepted the result stoically. But he was shocked when his own selection in the six-furlong one-thirty, a strongly fancied mount named Nancy’s Folly, lost by a nose to Fat Fanny. ‘Ten to one,’ Catarina crowed in his ear. ‘How much have I won so far, Rollie?’
‘Nothing.’ Damn her – her luck was holding out better than his. ‘Your other horses have to win as well.’
‘They will,’ she answered with a confidence that disturbed him.
In the two-forty, a mile-and-a-half race, Roland’s selection – another favorite – avoided total humilation by finishing one from last. To make matters worse, Catarina’s Boring Dora put on a frenzied spurt in the final half furlong to win by a length, pulling away.
‘What are you, a witch?’ Despite the cold, Roland began to sweat uncomfortably inside the sheepskin coat. Boring Dora had paid twenty-five to one. Coupled with ten-to-one Fat Fanny in the first leg, the tote treble was already worth a small fortune. Roland knew that the track odds didn’t reflect directly on the tote treble’s value – that was determined by the number of winning tickets – but all the same he couldn’t help wondering how many people were still left in the pool. Catarina’s ten tickets and how many others? And who else, if anyone, had been foolish enough to couple the first two winners with such a dubious selection as Jealous Nat?
‘Does two out of three count, Rollie?’ She knew it didn’t, but she couldn’t resist needling Roland.
‘Certainly, they let you take your tickets home as souvenirs.’ He barely even noticed the name she had conjured up for him; all he could think of was the tote treble. What if Jealous Nat won? No . . . it couldn’t. Damn it . . . it could! The longshots were having a field day out there.
He became so engrossed in possibilities that he barely followed the three-fifteen race. Catarina tapped him on the arm. ‘Congratulations, you finally won. You had your ten pounds on an odds-on favorite. You won eight pounds.’
Rollie brightened up. ‘Which is more than you’ll do, my girl.’ He went down to the bookmaker’s stand to collect his winnings and place twenty pounds on the strong favorite in the three-fifty, Bonnie May. Catarina’s Jealous Nat was shown at thirty-three to one. Some hopes, Roland thought as he returned to his seat.
When the horses for the three-fifty, a five-furlong sprint, entered the ring, Catarina walked down for a closer look. She returned, her eyes sparkling with excitement and confidence. ‘Jealous Nat is beautiful, Rollie. He prances around like a ballet dancer, and his jockey wears a gorgeous emerald green shirt. I just know he’s going to win, and then I’ll give you the biggest present you’ve ever had.’
‘Only if Bonnie May breaks a leg somewhere,’ Roland replied, patting Catarina’s hand. He watched the field of sixteen horses canter down to the start, his eyes riveted on the scarlet-and-white colors of Bonnie May’s jockey. He felt a twinge of sadness that it was nearly impossible for Catarina’s horse to win. Bonnie May had won the last three times out, all sprints, all won in the final hundred yards with a powerful finish.
The field came under starter’s orders. Roland stood, clutching Catarina’s hand as the race began. Immediately, the horses divided into two even groups, one on the stand side, the other on the rail. Both Bonnie May and Jealous Nat were close to the stand, lost in the middle of the pack. Then, as they entered the penultimate furlong, the emerald green of Jealous Nat’s jockey moved up, into third, then second and, as the stand group passed the one-furlong marker, into first. The group of horses on the rail faded as Jealous Nat made its move. Right behind it, breaking from the pack and matching Jealous Nat step for step, was the scarlet and white of Bonnie May.
‘Come on!’ Catarina screamed. ‘Come on!’ She snatched her hand away from Roland, clenched both fists to her face in horror as she watched Jealous Nat falter. A hundred yards to go and the gap was closing. Fifty yards and there was nothing between the two horses. Mud flew from eight hooves as the favorite and longshot battled side by side. Only inches separated them. They seemed to collide and break apart again. Hunched over their mounts’ necks the two jockeys flailed with their whips for that extra yard of speed. And as they passed the winning post in front of the grandstand, Roland closed his eyes and put his arm around Catarina.
‘Sorry – the distance was fifty yards too much.’
She buried her face in his shoulder; the excitement had drained her, now only biting disappointment remained. ‘But you won,’ she managed to reply.
For the first time in his life, Roland fervently wished that he had lost. Not because of the money Catarina’s treble would have paid – that was beside the point – but for Catarina herself and the lift it would have given her.
‘How much did you win?’ she asked quietly.
‘Fifty pounds. Bonnie May started out at five to two.’
‘Good.’ She started to cheer up, managed a weak smile. ‘You improved on your performance at Brighton last week. But what a thrill I had.’
‘I shared every moment of it with you.’ He felt in his coat pocket for his winning ticket and found Catarina’s tickets, too. ‘Here, two out of three – you get to take them home as souvenirs.’
‘Thank you. I will have them mounted and framed.’
As Roland lifted his eyes toward the board announcing the winners he felt the hair on his neck begin to rise. Next to Bonnie May’s number in the winner’s slot was a large, ominous letter O. ‘Objection,’ he said to Catarina.
‘Objection? What does that mean?’
‘Maybe when the two horses seemed to collide.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, too nervous even to speak. Thirty seconds dragged by . . . a minute . . . two . . .
At last, the public-address system crackled into life. There was a flurry of movement at the board as numbers were moved around. ‘Following a steward’s inquiry, the result of the three-fifty is now: first, Jealous Nat; second, Bonnie May; third . . .’
Roland did not even hear the third. He was too busy looking at Catarina. ‘My god, you’ve won.’
With forced calmness they waited until the tote-treble dividend was announced. It was five hundred and thirty pounds for each of the ten winning tickets – and Catarina held all ten. Together they walked to the tote window and presented the tickets. The clerk gazed at them in amazement, then told Roland he would arrange for a check to be issued.
‘We’ll take cash.’
‘Cash? Five thousand three hundred pounds comes to one thousand and sixty five-pound notes. And that’s if we’ve got that many fivers, which I seriously doubt.’
‘We’ve got big pockets.’
Half an hour later, when they left the track, Roland could appreciate the name Catarina had given him that afternoon. Rollie . . . roly poly. That was how he felt, big and bulky with bundles of money stuffed into every pocket. Even Catarina carried more than one thousand pounds stuffed into her handbag and coat pocket. They found a taxi to take them to the railroad station and sat in the back seat, laughing like schoolchildren as the enormity of their fortune became clearer.
‘Presents of nothing you can do without, eh?’ Catarina kidded.
‘I can’t take this money, be serious.’
‘I can’t take it either. What would my father say if I walked in with more than five thousand pounds? He would think I robbed a bank.’
‘You could always tell him you’ve gone into your countr
y’s national business – taking in Nazi war criminals for a profit.’
She punched him playfully in the ribs.
As the taxi neared the railway station, Catarina let out a shriek. ‘Stop! Stop at once!’
The driver jammed on his brakes. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Reverse. Go back to that car shop we just passed.’
‘Car shop?’ The driver looked behind him. A hundred yards away was a Jaguar showroom. He backed up.
‘Thank you. This will be fine.’ Catarina got out of the taxi, Roland followed, thrusting a large five-pound note at the driver and telling the amazed man to keep the change.
‘Might I ask what we’re doing here?’ Roland said to Catarina as they stood in the street.
‘I want you to spend some of your winnings. I dare not take any of the money, but you can buy something I will enjoy.’ She raised her arm and pointed to a dark green convertible sports car standing alone in the showroom’s parking lot.
Roland looked at the car and gulped. Low and long, the wings were swept back gracefully. In the front of the car a massive hood stretched forward until it ended in a narrow radiator grille, and the soft top made the car seem precariously unsafe. But Roland’s initial reservations were balanced by his appreciation of the car’s beauty. He had never thought of cars having personality, but this particular model was like a prize athlete, strong yet graceful, a balance of power and coordination. He walked around, looked inside, saw the short gearstick, the speedometer that showed a hundred and twenty miles an hour, the cluster of instruments he didn’t even begin to understand.
‘May I help you, sir?’
Roland turned around to see a young man in a tweed sportcoat and flannel trousers; just the sort one would expect to drive something like this, he couldn’t help thinking. Before he had a chance to say anything Catarina spoke up. ‘We would like to buy this car. What is it, please?’
The young man smiled at the mixture of determination and naivete. ‘It’s a Jaguar XK-120, miss. But I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’
‘Why not? You sell cars, don’t you?’
‘Yes, miss, we do. But this particular model hasn’t been on the market long and we’ve got a backlist of orders that we can’t fill until next year. This is my own car but I’ve agreed to let them use it as a showroom model.’
Roland looked inside the car again; five thousand miles showed on the odometer.
‘How much is a car like this?’ Catarina asked.
‘New, nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds.’
‘We will give you fifteen hundred pounds for it, right now.’
Roland spun around in shock as Catarina made the offer. He saw the young man blink in surprise, open his mouth to say something, then close it again.
‘Isn’t that enough? All right, sixteen hundred pounds.’
‘Catarina!’ Roland finally managed to blurt out. ‘What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?’
‘I want you to have this car. For us.’
There was such determination in her voice that Roland knew when not to argue. He turned to the young man. ‘Will you sell it to us for sixteen hundred pounds?’
The salesman nodded, amazed at the offer.
‘Can you arrange insurance coverage as well? We want to drive it back to London.’
‘Come inside.’ Roland and Catarina followed the salesman into the office where he wrote out the sales contract. Then he telephoned a broker to arrange insurance.
‘One other point,’ Roland said. ‘How about an hour’s worth of driving lessons as well?’
‘Do you have a driving license, sir?’ The entire transaction was so unusual that the salesman wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that neither of his customers could drive.
‘Yes.’ Roland produced it. ‘But I haven’t driven for a while. And certainly never anything quite like this.’
‘Come on, I’ll take you for a spin.’ Leaving Catarina in the office, the salesman led Roland out to the car. He spent twenty minutes going over it, explaining the instruments, the engine. Terms like three-point-four-litres and double overhead camshafts were lost on Roland. He wasn’t interested in the technical details. He just wanted to get his hands on the steering wheel. For the first time in his life he wanted to drive.
The salesman took the car slowly through Leicester, then out into the countryside. Before Roland realized what was happening they were doing ninety miles an hour. The wind whistled around the soft top, ballooning its shape, and Roland’s stomach began to churn in almost childlike anticipation.
‘Ready to try it now, sir?’
‘You bet.’ Roland changed seats, put the stick in first and let up on the clutch. The engine stalled. He tried again, this time with more success. Gently he eased the needle up to five thousand revs per minute and changed into second. Ahead of him, the massive hood seemed to stretch forever. The white lines in the road flew toward him, then merged into a single solid barrier as he pressed down on the accelerator.
‘I think that should do it, sir.’
Roland dropped his eyes to the speedometer. The needle was flickering just below the hundred-and-ten mark. He eased off and let out his breath in one long, nervous sigh.
When they returned to the showroom, Catarina was waiting outside, worried because they had been gone so long. Roland climbed out of the car, a grin stretching across his face. He kissed her, then followed the salesman back into the office.
Ten minutes later the deal was complete. Roland handed over sixteen hundred pounds in five-pound notes and received the log book, bill of sale, keys and the insurance binder.
‘Good luck with it,’ the salesman said, still somewhat bemused by the rapid progression of events.
‘Thanks.’ Roland held open the passenger door for Catarina. As he slipped into the driver’s seat he thought of Sally Roberts – wouldn’t she be jealous; this was the car every owner of a prewar MG wanted!
He turned the key, pressed the starter button and listened to the engine burst into life. His elation quickly dimmed as he remembered one minor point. With a sheepish look on his face he climbed out of the car and walked back to the salesman. ‘Which way is London?’
Having rarely driven Roland didn’t know his way around the countryside by road. He figured it was about time he learned.
*
The hundred-mile drive back to London took more than three hours due mainly to Roland losing his way half a dozen times. They arrived at Regent’s Park just after nine. In the bedroom, Catarina opened her handbag and turned out her pockets. Roland followed suit, tossing piles of money haphazardly onto the bed. Then they stood gazing in wonderment at the financial rainbow – white five-pound notes, green singles, red ten-shilling notes the racetrack officials had used to pay the bet.
‘Looks like someone’s made confetti out of an Italian flag,’ Roland said. ‘Want to count it?’
Catarina shook her head. ‘I want to make love on it, not count it.’ She threw herself backwards onto the bed, bouncing up and down, scattering the money with her hands while she giggled uncontrollably. Roland dropped down beside her, holding her tightly, trying to kiss her as the money fluttered between their faces.
‘What are we going to do with all this?’ Catarina asked.
‘Spend it. Waste it. Every single penny on our own pleasure. You name it and we’ll do it.’
‘Why don’t you do something sensible with it? Surely it would help your business?’
Roland thought about Bert Phillips – he could bribe the shop steward a hundred times with this money. But he’d be damned if he would with this or any money. ‘Gambling winnings aren’t real. They’re to be spent and enjoyed. Money that you don’t earn with the sweat of your brow doesn’t mean a blasted thing.’
‘I want fifty pounds to buy a gift for you.’
‘Take a thousand – take two.’ He scooped up a handful of notes and stuffed them down the front of Catarina’s dress.
‘Fifty i
s enough.’
‘Is that all I’m worth?’
She laughed and bit his ear. Yelling in mock pain, he sat up and, before she could resist, dragged her across his knee. ‘This is for throwing away my pajamas. One wallop for every candy stripe.’ She pummeled his legs with her fists as the flat of his hand beat a gentle but steady tattoo on her flesh.
‘You know what I’m going to do with all this money?’ he said, refusing to let her up. ‘I’m going to buy two thousand pairs of striped pajamas.’
‘And I’ll throw them away two thousand times!’ Catarina said as she wriggled free and massaged her behind. ‘With you inside them.’
At eleven o’clock they decided to get something to eat. They dressed and hurried down to the car, and Roland sped through the West End to an Italian restaurant in Soho where they gorged themselves on pasta and chianti. When they finished, Catarina suggested they visit her girlfriend’s house to see how the party was going.
Two young men were standing near the XK–120 when Roland and Catarina came out of the restaurant. Roland watched them with tolerant amusement. A day earlier he would have thought they were crazy, but now that he’d driven the Jaguar he could appreciate their interest. One man was admiring the car from a distance, taking in the graceful lines, while the other, with his back to Roland, was bending to look through the passenger window at the interior.
‘Two thousand pounds and it’s yours,’ Roland called out.
‘Profiteer,’ Catarina whispered from behind him. ‘How dare you try to sell my car?’
The man who had been admiring the Jaguar from a distance turned around. ‘How fast have you had her up to?’
‘Hundred and ten,’ Roland replied nonchalantly. Even in the dim glow from the streetlamp he could see the envy in the man’s eyes.
‘Tell him where,’ Catarina exhorted. ‘Along Park Lane in the middle of the rush hour.’
At the sound of Catarina’s voice, the second man straightened up and swung around. Slim and dark, he stood perfectly still for a moment, his eyes wide open in surprise. It was Juan Menendez, Catarina’s brother. Suddenly he lunged forward, confronting her in a torrent of Spanish. ‘What are you doing here? You were supposed to have gone away for the weekend! What are you doing with him?’
