Forever Is Over (115 page)

“
Should you not go and give your wife a hand?
”
I asked.
“
She
’
ll be fine!
”
Jim replied.

“
Can you not just nip over to the other bookies to check the other
prices?
”

“
It
’
s not worth the energy for a tenner bet, Dad!
”

“
I think I
’
ve forgotten to lock my car, be a good lad and run over to
the bus station for me and check it, will you?
”

“
Piss off!
”

Five minutes before the race start
ed, as the horses were heading
across Epsom Downs to the starting point of the 217
th
Derby, I was in
a blind panic. I had a grand total of
£
10 on Dushyantor to win at 9-2.
One thing I knew for certain, was that if my horse won, Kiffer would
not be accepting a
£
55 downpayment on a debt of six grand! It had just
been impossible to get the bet on wit
h Jim following my every move.
I felt like I was slowly suffocating. The grains of sand in my egg timer
were dropping fast. I could hardly breathe and not just because the
fumes from a hundred gamblers fags were polluting the air.

“£
10 each way on Shaamit at twelves!
”
Jim was saying,
“
if this comes
in, I
’
ll buy the pints during the England game!
”

I felt faint. The blood drained from my face like someone had pulled
a plug out of my neck.

“
I need the toilet, Jim.
”

Jim took a proper look at me and realised I would go undetected in
a milk bath.

“
Are you OK, Dad? You look awful!
”

“
I
’
m OK.
”

“
Do you want me to come with you?
”

“
NO!
”
I said rather too forcefully,
“
what are you going to do? Wipe
my
arse?
”

“
Catch you if you faint.
”

“
I
’
ll be fine.
”

I headed towards the toilets. I thought I was going to vomit,
everything was swirling. I entered the cubicle, which, in a bookmakers,
is never the most salubrious of locations. Gamblers have a poor aim or
are always in too much of a rush to line their shot up. There was urine
all over the seat and the stale aroma of a hundred previous craps, some of
which still graced the porcelain. Luckily, there was a window in there.
A half opened window. A window, just about big enough for me to
squeeze out of. I opened the window as wide as it could possibly open,
pushed myself up on to the window sill
and squeezed myself through. This measure was done
from
desperation rather than calculation. I did not even consider what was
on the other side, which turned out to be a four foot drop to a muddy
puddle and I fell like Humpty Dumpty into the middle of it, belly
flopping into a three inch pool of mud. T
here was no time for self-pity
though, so I picked myself up and ran through Ormskirk towards the
nearest alternative bookies, looking like an overfed swamp creature. I
tried to sprint but its hard to run when you are a fifty something, fat
waster, caked in mud. I waddled
across looking like a rhino and moving
like a penguin. With two minutes to spare, I pushed opened the door of Ladbills. Everyone gets paranoid at times, thinks other people are
staring at them, but this was not paranoia. It was impossible not to
stare at me, my whole front, from my forehead to my shoes, was caked
in mud.

“
Shit!
”
someone said,
“
Augustus Gloops escaped from the factory!
”

             
I disregarded the comments, picke
d up a betting slip and a pen
and wrote out,

             
‘
2.25 EPSOM -
£
990 WIN - DUSHYANTOR
’
.

Typically, there was a queue. All three staff members were serving
clueless punters. Everyone else in the queue stepped back and let
me through. Managing to ignore my impression of a mask free bog
snorkeller, the three staff members busied themselves with the idiots at
the counter. The first one was a twice a year female punter, who probably
only bet on the Derby and the Grand National, she was asking Vera how to complete her slip. Secondly, Graham was helping old Ernie,
a doddery ninety something who punted in copper, to count out his
pennies and then Suzy was trying to find a price on a horse for
‘
Mardy
Martin
’
, an idiotic regular punter who would argue a horse with a dick
the size of Gibraltar was a mare. Martin was arguing some no hoper
should be priced at 250-1 rather than 200-1, which was immaterial as in
five minutes it would no doubt finish last.

“
This is fucking ridiculous!
”
I said to the Zander, the South African
punter stood next to me, looking almost as twitchy as me,
“
it
’
s Derby
Day, they should take more staff on! Martin, if you want to give me
your two quid, mate, if that bloody donkey wins, I
’
ll give you the
£
500
myself!
”

Martin uttered something under his breath. I could see on the
screens that the first horses were being led into the stalls, I dug my
muddied wedge of notes from out my pocket, just as old Ernie shuffled
away from the counter, clutching his betting slip in his withered old
hand. I strode to the counter, about ten of the horses were in the stalls.
I pushed my betting slip and money across the polished counter towards
Graham.

“
What
’
s this?
”
Graham asked surveying my dirty notes.

“
That would be legal tender, Graham.
”

“
Where in? Trampsville? We
’
ll never get these banked.
”

“
Of course you bloody would!
”

“
Well, I
’
m not accepting them!
”

“
Graham! The race is about to fucking start!
”

“
No need to speak to me like that, Charlie!
”

I had lost it. I may as well have passed this moron a loaded revolver
and asked him to shoot me.

“
Yes there fucking is! I need this bet on!
”

I am sure even God would hav
e had to use all his powers not
to
swear at Graham, he was, and I am s
ure still is, a pompous prick.

             
“
Well take it somewhere else and see if they
’
ll accept it!
”

“
I can
’
t, the race is about to start!
”

“
Well, you should have got here earlier then, Charlie, shouldn
’
t
you? They haven
’
t changed the time of the race. You could have come
here any time this week, but you come in two minutes before the start,
stinking to high heaven and then kick off because we won
’
t accept your
money that looks like its been stored up your arse! Piss off, Charlie, I
’
ve
real customers to serve!
”

I snatched my cash and betting slip back off him and moved away
from the counter as the stalls opened and the Derby began. I felt like
Graham was my very own Judas, I had asked him three times to put
my bet on and each time he had denied me. I hoped Graham
’
s bowels
would all spill out at Akeldama too!

Seething, I walked straight out of Ladbills, still cursing to myself
and walked the seventy five yards up to Stanleys. I went in and started
to push through the crowds to get to Jim, but when they saw the state
I was in, they parted like they were the Red Sea and I was Moses. I
went and stood right next to Jim, but he was too embroiled in the race
to notice my unkempt appearance.

“
Bloody Shammit
’
s lost this already!
”
he moaned,
“
it
’
s about eighteen
horses back!
”

“
What about Dushyantor?
”
I asked.

“
I think that
’
s one of the two behind it!
”

The cloud of dejection that felt like it
had been about two feet above
my head, pissing urine and faeces on to
my already filthy body seemed
to move off and be replaced by Johnny Nash, merrily singing,
“
I Can
See Clearly Now
”
into my ears! Maybe I had this all wrong, maybe the
devil was trying to encourage me to back Dushyantor and God had sent
Jim and pompous Graham to stop me losing everything.

Counting your blessings is like counting sheep, just when you
’
ve
counted them, they jump over the fence and disappear. As the horses
rounded Tattenham corner, into the final s
traight, some of the horses at
the front, decided they were knackered and some of the ones at the back,
decided they fancied the idea of a sprint downhill, so the complexion
of the race changed in the blink of an eye and of the eight horses that
still had a chance, Dushyantor and Shaamit were two of them. With
a couple of furlongs left, Michael Hills and Shammit made me eat
my pre-race words about tractors, as t
hey shot off like Champion the
Wonder Horse in pursuit of a thief. Jim clenched his fist.

“
I
’
ve won this Dad! I
’
ve won this!
”
he was saying.

There was only one horse that coul
d steal the crown from Shaamit
now and that was Dushyantor. The race suddenly seemed to almost stop
and advance
d
frame by frame.
Pat Edd
ery had angled Dushyantor onto
the outside of the rest of the weary pack and was making a desperate
lunge for Shaamit. After three furlongs downhill, the last half furlong at Epsom is back uphill, and a pretty steep uphill climb it is too, so stride
by stride, Dushyantor was closing in.

“
Go on SHAAMIT!
”
yelled Jim.

“
Shift your bloody arse, SHAAMIT!
”
I yelled twice as loud as
Jim, his head jerked momentarily aw
ay from the screen and towards
me, in bewilderment, as he knew I had backed Dushyantor. Little did
Jim know that if Dushyantor won, I would feel like I
’
d lost five grand
and an escape route, but if Shaamit won, I had a second ch
ance. I kept
expecting Dushyantor
’
s nose to elongate like Pinocchios and flash past
the winning post a nostril hair ahead of Shaamit, but it did not happen,
despite tiring as it headed back uphill, Shaamit clung on gamely to
become the 1996 Derby winner. Jim was ecstatic, he had not only found
the Derby winner, but by finding me had saved my life, temporarily at least, not that he knew that.