Read Online Nothing to Lose by Christina Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christina Jones
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each race, and wrote the odds against them with fat marker pens. Such innovations had not yet reached Ampney Crucis.
Oh well, the names at least were easy. They were listed on the race card. Jasmine chalked up each of the six dogs for the first race in their trap order, her capital letters sloping downwards more each time until it would be beneficial to be standing on a slope in order to read them. She stared at them critically. They’d have to do – she’d try harder for the next race.
Now for the prices . . . She frowned. That shouldn’t be too difficult, surely? Ampney Crucis attracted the same trainers and owners, and the same greyhounds and their offspring year after year. She knew them all. The stadium didn’t attract big owners or trainers from far afield, and the only time a stranger infiltrated their ranks it was to try out a novice greyhound far away from the touts’ prying eyes.
She knew well enough that anything trained by Bess Higgins might be expected to win, and anything trained by Able Nelson wouldn’t. Then there were the regular names who occasionally chucked up winners, but more often than not fielded the also-rans. Having sorted out the pros and cons in her mind, Jasmine beamed and hummed along with Doris Day’s Greatest Hits, chalking up the relevant starting prices. Bess’s had the shortest odds and Able’s the longest; the others sort of fudged somewhere in between. Piece of cake really, she thought, finally making Mariner Queen twenty to one and blowing the chalk dust from her fingers.
The public address system suddenly ceased its nasal interpretation of ‘Love Me or Leave Me’, and Gilbert, who doubled up as the snack bar’s hot-dog seller in between races, coughed chestily into the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium. The first race will begin in fifteen minutes’ time, which should, by my reckoning – he paused here for a chuckle at his own wit – ‘give you just quarter of an hour to place your wagers. May I wish you, on behalf of the management, an enjoyable and prosperous evening.’ The microphone clicked off, then immediately screeched on again. Gilbert was still wheezy. ‘Oh, and there will be hot and cold drinks and a selection of refreshments, all at very reasonable prices, available from the kiosk between races. Thank you.’
Confident that she was now ready for anything, jasmine opened her foolscap double-entry ledger, made sure the money satchel was out of reach of sticky fingers, and felt a punch of excitement land just beneath her ribs. The greyhounds were coming out for the parade!
The handlers, in their buff-coloured coats, led the six dogs along the sandy track in front of the stands. The dogs’ jackets, red, blue, white, black, orange, and black and white stripes – always in that order from one to six – blurred as Jasmine sniffed back tears. Benny always loved this bit: the first sight of the dogs as they pranced away from the visitors’ kennels, sniffing the air and each other, clashing leather muzzles, wagging whippy tails.
The holidaymaking crowds were getting excited now, pushing towards the rails, calling to each other. Jasmine, with her float of £500 beginning to appear merely small change, swallowed nervously. Casting surreptitious glances across at Allan and Roger’s boards, she could see that her odds on Mariner Queen, the five dog, were far too generous.
Just as she reached for her cloth to amend the mistake, a weasely-looking man in vest and braces thrust himself forward.
‘I’ll take the twenties on Mariner Queen, my duck.’ She groaned. Sod it! Too late. She glanced down at the fifty-pound note clutched in the scrawny, freckled hand. Christ! If the five dog won she’d be paying out twice her float – and then some! She handed over the ticket. ‘Er – one thousand to fifty – seventy-six.’
She hastily rubbed out the twenty to one and replaced it with twos.
Allan shook his head
Oh well, the names at least were easy. They were listed on the race card. Jasmine chalked up each of the six dogs for the first race in their trap order, her capital letters sloping downwards more each time until it would be beneficial to be standing on a slope in order to read them. She stared at them critically. They’d have to do – she’d try harder for the next race.
Now for the prices . . . She frowned. That shouldn’t be too difficult, surely? Ampney Crucis attracted the same trainers and owners, and the same greyhounds and their offspring year after year. She knew them all. The stadium didn’t attract big owners or trainers from far afield, and the only time a stranger infiltrated their ranks it was to try out a novice greyhound far away from the touts’ prying eyes.
She knew well enough that anything trained by Bess Higgins might be expected to win, and anything trained by Able Nelson wouldn’t. Then there were the regular names who occasionally chucked up winners, but more often than not fielded the also-rans. Having sorted out the pros and cons in her mind, Jasmine beamed and hummed along with Doris Day’s Greatest Hits, chalking up the relevant starting prices. Bess’s had the shortest odds and Able’s the longest; the others sort of fudged somewhere in between. Piece of cake really, she thought, finally making Mariner Queen twenty to one and blowing the chalk dust from her fingers.
The public address system suddenly ceased its nasal interpretation of ‘Love Me or Leave Me’, and Gilbert, who doubled up as the snack bar’s hot-dog seller in between races, coughed chestily into the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium. The first race will begin in fifteen minutes’ time, which should, by my reckoning – he paused here for a chuckle at his own wit – ‘give you just quarter of an hour to place your wagers. May I wish you, on behalf of the management, an enjoyable and prosperous evening.’ The microphone clicked off, then immediately screeched on again. Gilbert was still wheezy. ‘Oh, and there will be hot and cold drinks and a selection of refreshments, all at very reasonable prices, available from the kiosk between races. Thank you.’
Confident that she was now ready for anything, jasmine opened her foolscap double-entry ledger, made sure the money satchel was out of reach of sticky fingers, and felt a punch of excitement land just beneath her ribs. The greyhounds were coming out for the parade!
The handlers, in their buff-coloured coats, led the six dogs along the sandy track in front of the stands. The dogs’ jackets, red, blue, white, black, orange, and black and white stripes – always in that order from one to six – blurred as Jasmine sniffed back tears. Benny always loved this bit: the first sight of the dogs as they pranced away from the visitors’ kennels, sniffing the air and each other, clashing leather muzzles, wagging whippy tails.
The holidaymaking crowds were getting excited now, pushing towards the rails, calling to each other. Jasmine, with her float of £500 beginning to appear merely small change, swallowed nervously. Casting surreptitious glances across at Allan and Roger’s boards, she could see that her odds on Mariner Queen, the five dog, were far too generous.
Just as she reached for her cloth to amend the mistake, a weasely-looking man in vest and braces thrust himself forward.
‘I’ll take the twenties on Mariner Queen, my duck.’ She groaned. Sod it! Too late. She glanced down at the fifty-pound note clutched in the scrawny, freckled hand. Christ! If the five dog won she’d be paying out twice her float – and then some! She handed over the ticket. ‘Er – one thousand to fifty – seventy-six.’
She hastily rubbed out the twenty to one and replaced it with twos.
Allan shook his head
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