The Big Frog Theory - 16

THIRTY THREE

Emerging into the Cathedral square, Neville checked that the bus was there rather than pursue any faint hope — if hope was indeed the appropriate emotion — that he might see his Aunt and the boy walking ahead of him. That the bus had moved was certain, as it was now parked facing away from the Cathedral; that his relations (if he might categorise them as such) were not in sight was evidenced by the square being deserted.

‘You were gone a while Sir,’ said Samuel as Neville climbed onto the bus again.

‘Was I?’

‘A little over three hours, by my watch.’

Neville checked his own. It felt as if he had been gone no longer than fifteen minutes or so, but Samuel’s estimate appeared to be pretty accurate. Did time have a worth then, in the same way that money did; something unconnected with its empirical and relentless progress? If this was so, then the time his watch was telling him he had left might vanish in the blink of an eye.

‘I was about to go out for the food, but thought I ought to wait for you.’

‘Thanks, Samuel.’ Neville moved through to sit on his bunk. Samuel followed him.

‘Did you have any preference for dinner, or shall I get a range of dishes?’

‘I don’t mind. Go for the selection; that might be better.’

‘I agree, Sir. I’ve opened a bottle of wine in readiness. It’s breathing in the galley.’

‘Fine.’ Neville stood up again. ‘I’m going to have a bath before dinner, if that’s OK.’

Samuel smiled.

‘I thought you might Sir, so I ran one for you. It may be a little hot still, but it’s all ready.’

Neville nodded and began to pull off his cardigan.

‘Well, I’ll be off. Shouldn’t be too long, Sir. I’ve been recommended a suitable establishment in the town centre by a gentleman at the garage.’

Left alone, Neville removed the rest of his clothes and donned the blue and red striped velour dressing down that Samuel had laid out for him. Opening the top drawer of his small cabinet to retrieve some clean underwear, he saw the “Croak” guide still in its place, though he suspected that — no matter how hard he might try — he would now be unable to find the “Your Ship” guide to the S.S.Pilgrim.

Walking through the galley he could hear laboured puffing from the bottle of wine as it breathed heavily on the work surface, readying itself for the meal.

‘Evening,’ it said as he passed.

‘Keep it up,’ said Neville encouragingly, then went through the door and into the bathroom.

The surface of the water was almost totally covered in suds from the bubble bath Samuel had obviously put into it. Neville pushed his hands through the surface to test the temperature of the water. It was a little hot, as Samuel had suggested, but nothing he couldn’t stand. Disrobing, he placed his right foot into the bath, then the left; eventually lowering himself in.

‘Hey! Careful, chum!’

From beneath the surface of the bubbles came a voice, followed by the yellow plastic duck which bobbed Neville’s way.

‘Sorry,’ said Neville.

‘Ain’t I seen you before?’

‘Yes, a few days ago.’

‘Sure, I remember you. Never forget a — face. Know what I mean?’

The duck laughed its peculiar laugh.

‘How are you?’

‘How am I, mate? OK except for all these bleeding bubbles! I saw that geezer — Sam, in’t it? — come in here with that foamy stuff and I just knew he’d put too much in. Now look at me!’

‘Can I help?’

‘Na. I’ll be OK, ta. It slips off after a bit; I got the right sort of skin, see?’

Neville picked the soap from the side of the bath and began to lather around his neck and arms.

‘You rich?’

‘Rich?’ The question surprised him.

‘Yeah, rich. Most guys I only see once, but this is the second time I’ve seen you. Staying long in the ‘otel, are you? Must be rich if you’re still here.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be here much longer, actually. Maybe another day or two, that’s all.’

The duck bobbed off into a little circle, skirting the edge of the bubbles, while Neville continued washing. Having rinsed himself, Neville slid a little further down the bath and tried to relax. He listened for sounds from outside, but could only make out the faint puffing of the wine. With the water now up to his chin, the duck bobbed up closer.

‘So, what you been up to then? Since I last saw you, I mean. Had a good time, eh? Seen the sights; that sort of stuff?’

‘In a way, yes.’

Steadying himself about six inches from Neville’s chin, the duck eyed him directly.

‘What’s the matter, mate? You look pretty pissed off, like you’ve lost a biscuit and found a breadcrumb.’

Neville smiled.

‘I like that, it’s clever.’

‘Clever; that’s what I am see, though people don’t pay be me no attention. Like, they think that ‘cos I’m just a duck all I do is float around all day, know what I mean? They don’t give you credit, see?’

‘I think I understand.’

‘Sure, I ain’t never gonna be no brain surgeon — ain’t got the qualifications for that for a start — but that ain’t the point. I know who I am, I know what I’m supposed to do; that’s it. I just gets on with it, being a duck; but it don’t mean I’m stupid!’

Neville watched the duck as it bobbed gently backwards, its big eyes unflinchingly wide.

‘I don’t think you’re stupid; not in the least.’

‘See,’ said the duck, coming closer again, ‘that’s what I mean. You’re all right, you are. If you can take a guy for what he is, you know, and just let him be; shit, that’s all there is to it!’

There was a slight pause as the duck quack-quacked gently away down the bath. Neville eased himself up in the bath, making slight waves as he did so.

‘Hey, don’t mind me mate!’ said the duck, obviously happy that he had been gifted a degree of respect from his fellow bather. ‘You make all the bleedin’ waves you like; I’m OK.’

Careful not to hit his yellow companion, Neville raised his left leg out of the water and began to wash it. The lather from the soap had started to disperse the bubbles, and the surface of the water was now relatively clear. Having finished his left leg, he moved on to the right.

‘Where you off to then?’

Neville paused.

‘Next, you mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Actually I’m going racing, to the Derby at Epsom.’

‘That’s horse racing, ain’t it? I’ve heard of that.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yeah. ‘Cos I’ve got a cousin who works on a farm near a place called Newmaster.’

‘Newmarket?’ Neville suggested.

‘Sure; Newmarket, Newmaster — what’s the difference? Anyhow; there’s this horse riding place next to his farm, see. Sometimes — or so he says, anyway — he gets to hear things about the horses and the races they’re in, like.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ The duck bobbed closer and lowered his quacky voice to the equivalent of a whisper. ‘Look; as you and me’s mates, I’ll have a word with him and see if he knows anything about this ‘ere Derby thing. Might be able to tell you somethin’, eh?’

‘Indeed.’

Neville was uncertain how the duck might be able to communicate with his relative in Newmarket; but then, seeing as he had — in some sense or other — just managed to communicate with his own self from a previous generation, perhaps nothing was impossible.

From outside, he heard the sound of the bus door being opened, and immediately the smell of Chinese food came wafting his way.

‘Heads up,’ said the duck, ‘it’s Sammy!’

‘It’s only me, Sir!’ Samuel called when he reached the galley. Neville heard him put a bag on the work surface, then a “sniff-sniff” as he checked the wine. ‘Dinner shouldn’t be long; I just need to put the plate warmers out. That sort of thing.’

‘You’d better get goin’ chum,’ said the duck with a playful quack, ‘else old Sammy’ll be after you, and no mistake!’

‘Samuel’s OK, actually. Something of a gentleman to be honest.’

‘That so?’

Neville nodded.

‘Well, if that’s what you says, then it’s good enough for me.’ The duck paused. ‘But tell him to chuck a little stale bread my way, OK?’

And with the duck still cheerfully bobbing around at the foot of the bath, Neville hauled himself to his feet and reached for a towel. Within a couple of minutes he was standing by the side of the bath, once again in his dressing gown. He looked down at the bath and the duck still mobile within it.

The duck saw him looking.

‘Hey, don’t worry about me! Just pull the plug; I’ll be fine!’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure!’ replied the duck, adding, just as Neville leant forwards, ‘Listen; I won’t forget about the horses, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘And take care of yourself.’ And with those words the duck became rigid plastic once again, transformed as simply as if someone had flicked a switch.

Neville left the bathroom and walked through the galley (where Samuel was sorting out plates and tin foil containers) and back to his compartment where he dressed. From that point on, the evening passed off without incident. The food was acceptable, without being exceptional (despite the King Prawns scoring quite highly) and then, after dinner, Samuel suggested that they try a few hands of rummy to pass the time.

It had been a while since Neville had played rummy, but, apart from a few “local rules” as Samuel called them, they embarked upon a version of the game that was quite familiar to him. Familiarity was not, however, enough for him to triumph over Samuel’s exceptionally strong play.

‘I put it down to my memory, I’m afraid’, he said, half way through the game, when he was leading by nearly two hundred points, ‘I suppose it gives me something of an advantage, but I hope it doesn’t spoil it for you.’

‘Not at all; I actually enjoy seeing someone play the game well — even if I am on the receiving end!’ Neville’s complement was only half true: he did enjoy seeing the game played well, but as for being on the receiving end… ‘and anyway, it’s only a game!’

After a second game, they decided to call it a day. Samuel went to make coffee while Neville cleared away the cards and — at Samuel’s request — found a road atlas of Britain. As they drank coffee, they plotted the best route to Epsom, planning to arrive in the early evening, after the departure of that day’s race-goers. Samuel had already phoned ahead to book their parking place — ‘in the centre, near the fair’ — which meant that was one thing they wouldn’t have to worry about.

Having chosen the route and estimated both departure and arrival time — the length of the duration between the two suggesting that Samuel would not be pulling any “tricks” the next day — they finished their coffee, chatted for a short while, then retired to bed.

Neville did not sleep well. His dreams were contorted with visions of himself as a young child drowning at the hands of a malevolent duck who — as a bookie’s runner — was getting revenge for an account that Neville had failed to settle. Having flitted in and out of sleep, at around seven Neville gave way to the inevitable, and decided to get up.

He drew back the curtains in his compartment to reveal that the weather was indeed on the change and the day had dawned as all June days should, bright and blue. Judging by the trees, the wind had not yet totally abated, but it was a step in the right direction. Driven by the need to go to the toilet as much as anything else, Neville donned his dressing gown and went to the galley where he put the kettle on. Then, while waiting for it to boil, he went into the bathroom.

As he stood urinating into the bowl, his eyes inadvertently focused on the mirror above the sink. There, in barely legible writing, was a message evidently meant for him. It took Neville a little while to decipher the rather strange script which was probably inevitable given the words had been scribed by someone with webbed feet. Eventually he made out the soap-scrawled note thus:

Mate, this durby thing. My cusin says that somefin called Restrant Rendevoos is the nag to be on, an no shit. OK?

Neville had yet to see a list of the runners for the race, and consequently had no way of knowing if Restaurant Rendezvous was a horse, let alone entered into the Derby. However, the duck appeared to have been as good as his word, and Neville — at this stage of the game — was not going to turn down anything that might resemble a “hot tip”.THIRTY FOUR

Samuel appeared in the galley as Neville was making the tea, and immediately their day began. There was a strong air of routine about the performance of breakfast which followed. Neville was beginning to get a handle on Samuel’s way of doing things — for example, the sequence in which he made toast, fried sausages, and poured orange juice — and how he had been able to augment the overall process so that the composite article materialised in double-quick time.

The breakfast ritual became, from Neville’s perspective, an appreciation as to how one should go about its cooking and what it should eventually look like. The product of his recent domestic experience with Mirelle invariably led to a plate of food which at best resembled the crude attempt made by the hotel in Paris rather than anything which an Englishman would want to be served. His mother had, at various stages, gone through phases of cooking “a proper breakfast”. These usually coincided with either fits of depression or happiness and, as far as he could tell, these moods were initiated by his Father (though after his vision of himself the previous day, he could no longer be truly certain of that).

The two men ate in relative silence, passing only the most superfluous comments on the state of the weather, the condition of the bus — which was, according to Samuel, far from excellent — and Neville’s prospects for Epsom. He chose not to mention the duck’s tip.

‘What happens if I win, Samuel?’

‘If you win, Sir? I’m not sure that I understand.’

‘Well,’ Neville put down the glass he had been holding, ‘let’s say I get lucky. I have a couple of bets and win a few quid.’

‘I’m with you so far.’

‘What happens to the money? I mean, I may well not need it.’

‘In what sense?’

‘In that — well, it depends on the outcome of Option 3, doesn’t it?’

Samuel nodded.

‘Yes, I see.’

‘And secondly; if I’ve decided that money isn’t as important to me as I once thought it was...’

Neville let the sentence finish itself there, confident that Samuel would be able to fill the blanks. There was a short pause, before Samuel responded.

‘I would suggest — if I may — a slightly different approach, Sir.’

‘Which is?’

‘Firstly, maintain your new-found assertion that money is not as vital to you as you once imagined it was. That is important because — as I think you now see yourself — it is a healthy attitude to have.’

‘And secondly?’

‘Secondly, do not scorn it either. You cannot know what will happen to you in the future. If the goal you seek is achieved, then it may well be that money will be of considerable use to you in the future. On that basis, I would not worry about being successful. If you win — well, so much the better, whatever the outcome.’

‘So, go to the races prepared to lose, but try to win?’

‘Indeed. I think that may well serve your purpose.’

Neville had heard his Uncle (Maggie’s husband, who had been an inveterate gambler) advocating that same philosophy every Saturday morning before he left the house to make his weekly pilgrimage to Ladbrokes. ‘My boy,’ he used to say, ‘I only go prepared to lose what I can afford, and if I win, well that’s a bonus!’ The problem was that Freddie had, over the years, lost track of what he could actually afford to lose, driven on as he was by an ever-inflating target of the actual amount he was trying to win. More than once — when he was older — Neville had accompanied Freddie on some of his last sorties to “church” (as he called it) and had discovered during those smoky afternoons that the “church” was filled with “Freddies”, each of them an incarnation of their own peculiar variety of the same fundamental human strain. It had been enough to quash any danger of him becoming an addict himself, but he had learnt enough to know the difference between a “Yankee” and a “Canadian”, and the pluses and minuses of a “Round Robin”.

Yet now, and for the first time, Neville felt his “tuition” — as Freddie might have liked to call it — might prove useful. Under the circumstances there was no way that Neville could fail to put money on “Restaurant Rendezvous”; a gambler’s predilection toward coincidence and superstition would not allow him to let it pass. Indeed, the very experience he was going through had much in common with the craps player whose attitude was to throw the dice, say “to hell with it”, and then ride his luck for as long as he could. It was difficult to know how benevolent Lady Luck was being just at present, but Neville felt willing to ride with her a while longer.

After breakfast they set off for Surrey. The route they had chosen allowed for a stop in Farnham for late elevenses and then a brief sojourn at a nearby beauty spot, Frensham Ponds. Here, despite the improved weather, Samuel chose to remain on the bus while Neville walked off the early lunch they had just consumed in the town. For an hour or so he wandered around the lakes, giving way to horses and their riders as they jogged along the bridle paths.

On his return, Samuel — who had been taking in the general scene through the windows of the bus — suggested that it might be useful if the horses Neville chose to back the following day went a little bit faster.

‘But you don’t know my luck, Samuel!’ Neville had replied.

‘Indeed. Perhaps that makes two of us!’

His laughter signalled that he was intending a joke, but Neville was still wary of Samuel’s penchant for the cryptic, and, as they drove away, the literal meaning behind those last words remained with him.

The traffic increased the closer they got to their destination. Neville wondered if this might be owing to the crowds leaving the course for the day, but Samuel’s theory — and one, he said, based on painful experience — was that the volume of traffic increased in proportion to one’s proximity to London and the M25. Indeed, for a short while, the bus was actually stationary, a mere cog in a seized-up chain.

Consequently, they arrived at the course a little later than planned. It was still light, but apart from a few cars belonging to course officials, deserted. Samuel paused alongside a man who was patrolling one of the main entrances to receive directions to their overnight parking space. As he had promised, they made their way to the centre of the course, finally parking close to the running rail about two furlongs from the winning post.

Neville got off the bus as soon as they arrived in order to “soak up the atmosphere”. Behind them, the fun fair — normally a bright, colourful and bustling arena — was quiet and dark, the only signs of life in the occasional shadows of the stall holders and ride mechanics as they went about clearing up, checking equipment, and generally preparing for the next day. Across the other side of the course, the grandstand — itself in darkness — loomed high into the air. Tomorrow, it and the vast space in front of it, would be thronged with a seething mass of spectators; a congregation which would come together and, as a single body, rise up with one voice to provide the inevitable crescendo to the big race. Neville had never been to the Derby yet could only imagine how, after the race was over, the rest of the day might be nothing more than an anti-climax.

He and Samuel had not talked about what might happen after the racing finished. Neville guessed that, if necessary, they might be able to stay another night; but if not, then he was fairly certain that Samuel would have something in reserve. If they were reliant on him coming up with their next destination, then Neville was currently in the dark as to where that might be. Or whether, indeed, there would be another destination at all.

THIRTY FIVE

Derby day dawned bright and clear. Neville, once more beating the alarm clock and Samuel’s call, was roused not so much by the light but rather by a sense of excitement, of place, and the feeling that something dramatic was about to happen. His first thoughts were of Mita and the question which had been hounding him on and off over the previous couple of days: would she be there? Speculation was, of course, pointless, and he had been trying hard to adopt the stoic approached advocated by Samuel: if she was she was, and if she wasn’t... Well, who knew what else might turn up?

Neville was conscious such a Micawber-like approach to life might get a little out of hand. He could see dangers in merely waiting for things to happen, and he knew he had not been pro-active enough in the past — how many times had he heard that complaint in his working and private life! Now recognising the trait and striving to be a little less passive, perhaps he was finally in with a chance of gaining a degree of control over his destiny — however slight. Samuel — obviously possessed by a sense of occasion as well — excelled himself at breakfast, and it was with a solid sense of well-being that Neville descended the bus and propelled himself into the day.

All was much as it had been the night before: the fair stood un-illuminated and motionless; the grandstand still loomed large, grey and empty. However, there were the beginnings of activity to be witnessed, activity that carried with it a growing sense of urgency. Amid the stalls and rides, men in lumberjack shirts and jeans could be seen hauling tarpaulin, pulling ropes, and carrying boxes; occasionally they would pass within feet of each other and share suitably cheery greetings. Across the course, others could be seen moving around the various buildings; occasionally a car would arrive in the officials’ car park. Once or twice, thundering out of the quiet, a horse would gallop by having a last work-out prior to the big race.

As he stood against the rails cradling a mug of hot coffee in his hands, an elderly gentleman in a bowler hat approached from the other side of the running rail.

‘Morning, Sir!’ he said brightly, the tone of his voice echoing the day’s importance.

‘Good morning.’

‘Just walking the course, you know; checking it out. Going’s a little on the soft side of good, wouldn’t you say?’

Neville watched the man dig the heel of his boot into the turf, testing to see how easily the ground gave way.

‘Presumably the rain,’ Neville suggested.

‘And just in time too! Last week it would have been bone hard; terrible, really. Watering every night; didn’t make the slightest damn difference! Still,’ he examined at his boot again, ‘look at it now! Well, must get on. Good day, Sir; and good luck!’

Samuel joined Neville at the rails.

‘Who was that Samuel; one of the Stewards?’

‘I should think so, Sir. What did he say?’

‘”On the soft side of good” apparently.’

‘Perfect; just perfect!’

A new voice joined their conversation. A second man, who had evidently been walking just a few yards behind the Steward, now drew level with them. He nodded in greeting.

‘That’s what the Steward said.’

‘Eh?’ said the man, pausing.

‘The ground; just about right.’ Neville clarified.

‘Aye — and it’s perfect for my little beauty!’ The man gave a slight wink in their general direction.

‘You are hopeful of success today then, Sir?’ asked Samuel.

‘I am. But don’t judge our chances by the bookies. They don’t think my little girl’s got any chance in this kind of going. They think she needs to hear her hooves rattle. But mark my words, she’ll prove ‘em wrong!’

‘Who was that?’ Neville asked once the man had resumed walking and was out of earshot.

‘Harry Simpson,’ said Samuel, ‘or “Happy” Harry, as he’s known. Local trainer. Doesn’t have a big stable, but he’s got one going in the race after the Derby; Second Visit I believe.’

‘How do you know so much; I didn’t realise you were into racing?’

‘I’m not, Sir. But as we were coming here, I thought I’d do a little homework; research if you will.’

‘Any “hot tips” then?’

Samuel laughed.

‘Ah, that might be asking a little too much!’

For the rest of the morning Neville wandered about the course observing as magically — like a photograph — the scene developed before his eyes. And with the visual changes came the additional sounds and smells that accompanied them. The rides in the fun fair were tested, lights flashed, music boomed out; then the hot dog and burger stands were prepared, with smoke rising from the early fries cooked as reward for the hard-working men. Across the course, the tannoy blared out “One, Two; One, Two; Testing, Testing”, and the huge television screen panned through an image of Tattenham Corner. Pulleys clanked as the number boards rattled up and down, finally raised with the names of the jockeys in the first race slotted into place; even the “Stewards’ Enquiry” and “Weighed In” flags were run up and down.

The crowds began arriving early too, staking their claim for a place near the running rail or up in the Grandstand, marking out their territories and always leaving Granny or Granddad on guard while the rest of the family went exploring. Samuel had set up a couple of chairs in front of the bus near the rail, effectively sealing off a very small area as if it were a private enclosure. Neville had been a little surprised that they had not stayed in a hotel overnight and then taken one of the better spots in the Grandstand. Now however, with the atmosphere building, he was pleased to be at the heart of things, and near people whose earthy attitude to the day seemed to make it even more real.

After lunch, Neville went off in search of a race card. He had decided it was time to get serious — and for that a list of the day’s runners was needed. He found a man in a small booth selling the day’s official programmes.

‘How much are they?’

‘Quid, mate.’

‘Thanks.’

Neville went to his wallet to retrieve some cash only to find it was strangely full, and that the reason for its increased size was it now contained a large number of fifty-pound notes. Instinctively he checked his watch. The small display read zero.

‘Quid, mate, please,’ the man in the booth said, still holding out the small booklet.

‘Sorry,’ Neville smiled apologetically, found a pound coin in his pocket, and took the race card.

Once away from the booth, he located a quiet spot and checked his wallet again. It seemed impossible, but there were eight bundles of fifty pound notes, each bundle with a little wrapper on which “£1000” was inscribed. In addition, there were some loose notes. He replaced his wallet in his button-down trouser pocket and contemplated the situation.

All he had in the world — apart from his clothes and things on the bus — was represented by what he had in his back pocket. Everything. He was free to do with it as he would. There could be no come-back if he lost every single penny on the first race; there would simply be nothing more after that. The responsibility — and it was a responsibility — was suddenly quite daunting. If he lost everything, he knew he would not be able to rely on Samuel to work some kind of miracle; perhaps there might be no more miracles. And what did this imply about what followed today, or what happened tomorrow? Did it mean that he had no further use for money? That, somehow, his fate was sealed? Or was what happened on this one day key to his future?

He contemplated this last thought then rejected it. Money was not the answer. Even if he lost it all, it meant nothing — or at least not as much as he had once imagined. As he stood and thought, he felt a tug at his arm.

‘’Scuse me, Guv.’

Neville looked round. A man, perhaps in his late fifties (though it was difficult to tell) stood at his side. He was shabbily dressed in a torn jacket and with the souls of his shoes hanging from their uppers by a literal thread. The man was not particularly clean, and his fingers were stained with nicotine. But it was none of this which stunned Neville as much as the man’s resemblance to his Uncle Freddie.

‘Guv; ya couldn’t spare an ol’ hand a Sov’, could ya Guv?’ Not getting any response, the man lowered his demands. ‘Or a few bob even. Just a few bob, God bless ya, Guv.’

As he stood looking at the man, he thought of Freddie’s maxim about what you could afford to lose. He knew this man was not Freddie, but none the less it seemed he had a chance to give him a break; if he wasn’t his Uncle, that didn’t really seem to matter. Neville thought about the next day, and he thought (all in a fraction of a second) about Mita and about how he didn’t have a clue what was going to happen to him. Much was unanswerable and out of his control; almost everything, but not this.

He pulled his wallet from its pocket and opened it. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, pulled out one of the wads and handed it to the man.

‘Here. It’s a bit more than a few bob, I know; but that’s just your luck, isn’t it?’

The man stared at the twenty fifty-pound notes now lying flat in his dirty left hand, then looked up at Neville. His fingers gradually closed round the money until it was scarcely visible in his fist. Slowly he extended his right hand.

‘By God, Guv, ya must be some fuckin’ angel or somethin’; but, by Christ, I thank ya; by Christ I do...’

Neville smiled and shook the hand offered him.

‘This ain’t no joke, is it Guv?’

‘No joke; no. Let’s just say you remind me of someone, OK?’

‘Whatever ya say, Guv. God bless ya. Jesus Christ!’

By now, tears had begun to well in the man’s eyes and he relinquished Neville’s hand in order to brush his grubby cuff across his face.

‘I’m sorry, but I should go now.’

And with a final smile, Neville placed his hand on the man’s arm and then left him. After he had gone thirty yards or so, he looked back over his shoulder. The man was standing in the same place, staring down at his still closed fist.

‘There you are, Sir.’

Neville turned to find Samuel now beside him.

‘Hello, Samuel.’

Samuel looked at the scruffy beggar.

‘I saw that, Sir; and may I say what a magnanimous gesture it was.’

They began walking back towards the bus.

‘He reminded me of my Uncle Freddie. The poor bugger never really had a lucky break; I guess I was just trying to even the score a bit. And I don’t need all this anyway.’

He felt Samuel’s hand once again on his shoulder.

‘Maybe so, Sir, but shall we see if we can find the winner of the first race in order to get your little donation back?’

Once on the bus, they settled in their chairs and began to study the form for the first race of the day. After a short while, Neville had narrowed his choice down to two; Thunderer, and Hard in Places. Samuel, having stated his intention to put a small wager on Dunmail, offered to take Neville’s bet for him.

‘It’s OK Samuel; I’ll manage. See you back here in a few minutes?’

The two men walked together to the bookmakers but were then quickly separated. Neville had decided on Hard in Places. Checking a few of the bookies’ boards, his horse was generally quoted at four to one. However, one chap — an elderly man, in a rather dated tweed suit, and sporting the name “Dick Springs” — was offering nine to two. Neville walked over to him and pulled a wad from his wallet.

‘Can I have a thousand on Hard in Places, please.’

Neville expected to be turned away or told that the amount was too great. Instead, Dick took the money, muttered “Four and a half grand to one, Hard in Places; ticket four one eight” to his clerk, and handed Neville an oblong card with “Dick Springs — 418” printed boldly in green. He then crossed out the nine to two offer and changed it to five to one. This was unusual. Neville would have expected the price of the horse to shorten having laid such a large bet on it. As he made his way back to the bus he checked the other bookies; sure enough, all were now offering Hard in Places at five to one.

Samuel was already back when Neville returned. He thought about describing what had happened, but decided that it might be best to wait for the outcome of the race first.

Having watched the horses gallop past on their way to the five furlong start, Neville waited with mounting excitement for the race. They could see nothing from where they were apart from a few hundred yards of the track immediately in front of them, and even so, given the angle from which they would be watching the majority of the race, they were reliant on the racecourse commentator for a description of the action.

Within minutes “They’re Off!” was called to great cheers. Hard in Places was apparently quite well away at the start, but soon faded from the commentary. Dunmail took up the lead at about half way and, as they sped by, Neville could see that a challenge was being thrown down by another of the runners. This turned out to be Thunderer who, having collared Dunmail in the final furlong, went on to win by two lengths; Dunmail was second, Hard in Places seventh.

‘Any good, Sir?’ asked Samuel.

‘Afraid not. Did you back yours to win?’

‘Each way,’ Samuel smiled, ‘so I should make a little bit of a profit.’

The second race followed a similar pattern to the first. Neville was torn once again between a choice of two and, having made his choice — Wood Kits — went off to the bookmakers. Again, Dick Springs was offering the best odds on his horse, and again, as soon as he had placed his bet, the odds on Wood Kits lengthened. However, with Samuel also putting money on Wood Kits, Neville felt a little more hopeful of his chances; but this time the horse made no show at all, and trailed in last.

Samuel was philosophical, but Neville was beginning to lose his “it doesn’t really matter” attitude.

The third race was the one before the Derby. This time the winner looked clear cut to Neville, and, for the first time that day, his choice — True Mischief — was favourite. When Dick Springs was once again offering the best odds and, having placed the bet, the horse’s odds lengthened to such an extent that it ceased being favourite, Neville assumed the worst.

For a while however, it appeared that things were going to change. In a muddling race, the field bunched as they came past the bus. Neville could see True Mischief‘s jockey flashing his whip, attempting to drive the horse through a gap on the rails. As they came towards the finish, the commentator suddenly announced True Mischief‘s arrival on the scene and, by the time they reached the line, its apparent victory.

Neville’s excitement was short lived however. First the “Stewards’ Enquiry” flag was raised; then the board containing the numbers of the first three horses was lowered. On the giant television screen, the replay of the race showed True Mischief barging two other animals out of the way as it forced its way through on the rails. The could only be one possible outcome; the horse was disqualified.

After three races, Neville had now lost three thousand pounds, and his wallet felt decidedly thinner. He had also lost much of his good humour, and the philosophy he had possessed before racing began — and which had permitted him to give some of his money away — was now being put to the test.

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