Nothing to Lose (38 page)

The floodlights sliced silver paths through the December darkness, and despite several thermal layers, Jasmine was frozen both inside and out. Allan and Roger, used to years of working in this weather, were almost invisible on either side of her, snuggled into sheepskin coats and balaclavas, but for Jasmine, her first winter as a bookie-proper had come as an awful shock to the system. She almost wished that just for tonight she could be one of the red-jacketed Tote ladies, cosy and sheltered behind their Perspex windows.

Several people, their faces purple and their hands blue, thrust notes at her, and mumbled their selections through rigidly clenched teeth. Jasmine uncurled her fingers enough to take their money and hiss, ‘Eleven pounds to five, twenty three’ to Muriel, who was now employed as her permanent writer-upper.

Having worked for forty-odd years on the fruit and veg stall in Ampney Crucis market, Muriel, a crony of Peg’s, was well used to inclement weather. Dressed in a velveteen pixie hood, donkey jacket, zip-up ankle booties and fingerless mittens, Muriel still looked just as likely to dole out five pounds of King Edward’s as the winnings on the last race.

Clara, who was definitely a warm-weather person, had made all sorts of excuses not to turn out and keep the ledger as soon as the temperatures started to dip. Anyway, Jasmine reckoned, Clara and Ewan – since the engagement had been like damn Siamese twins. It was almost impossible to spot the join. Still, at least it must mean that Ewan had stopped his Brittany thing – which must also mean that Brittany and Seb were reunited. She sighed and pushed her thoughts away from that path. It was lovely enough that Clara, proudly displaying a very ostentatious opal and jet engagement ring, was talking about a definite Easter wedding and a hoped-for next-Christmas baby.

The greyhounds started to parade for the seventh race. Jasmine looked at them with intense pity. They’d just been dragged, without warning, from the sumptuous luxury of the centrally heated kennels into the freezing night. Poor things. Even though she knew that they were all loved and well cared for, tonight they appeared more shivery and undernourished than ever, with their knees knocking and their tails uniformly down.

The punters, at least, seemed to be having a good time. The Six-Packs had gone down really well, with coaches disgorging people from all over Dorset and beyond every Saturday night. In the illuminated eating area, behind the glass stand, Jasmine watched them all now tucking into their chicken and chips and downing their Old Ampney ale as the heating roared at blast-furnace level. She fervently wished that she could join them.

Gilbert, who, harnessed with Eddie Deebley, had made a more-than-passable job of providing meals for the many visitors, was reeling off the list of runners over the tannoy. Jasmine knew that he was wearing, as were Bunny, and Gorf – who had been promoted from security to starter a Santa Claus hat. Peg had tried to persuade Jasmine into one too, but after the fiasco with the hard hat, which would haunt her for ever, she’d resolutely refused.

‘You lose most of your body heat through your head,’ Peg had warned. ‘You could get frost bite in your brain.’

Jasmine had said she’d risk it.

Peg was bouncing around, looking very festive in a red velvet get-up trimmed with swansdown, plus, naturally, the ubiquitous Santa hat. Several fir trees, ablaze with flashing fairy lights, were dotted about the stadium, all seriously overloading the mains circuit, and the music echoing from the tannoy in between races had been changed to a perpetual loop of
Doris Sings Christmas.
For Jasmine, the night’s twenty-third rendition of ‘Little Donkey’ was just beginning to pall.

The greyhounds were in the traps now, and Gorf had raised his green flag. Bunny, his Santa hat touching his forest of eyebrows, was poised with the hare. Three more races and that would be it until after the New Year. Jasmine sighed. No more racing until she’d got through potentially the two worst days of her life – her first Christmas without Benny and New Year’s Eve at Frobisher Palace.

The roar as the dogs sped free was frozen solid, a zillion droplets of breath instantly crystallised in the crisp night air. Jasmine watched as the greyhounds scurried round the first bend, close together as if for mutual warmth, and bounded on into the straight. Everyone was standing up behind the glass panels, their meals abandoned, soundlessly cheering on their favourites. The stalwarts, too hooked or too drunk, or both, to notice the cold, were yelling from the rails. The six-packs had certainly improved the fortunes of the Benny Clegg Stadium. Jasmine just wished that Peg would stop heaping her hopes on their staging the Platinum Trophy too. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

The screams, as the greyhounds completed their far-side circuit and rounded the last bend before the finishing post, grew louder and more frenzied. Jasmine did mental calculations and hoped that Love-A-Dove, the six dog, would win. It didn’t.

‘Simply The Best,’ muttered Muriel, blowing on her fingers. ‘Five to one. Bollocks.’

‘So, what about Christmas, pet?’ Peg, with her Santa hat now at a rakish angle, was doling out treble measures of single malt in the fiery warmth of her new office. ‘Have you decided yet?’

The greyhound meeting was over, the coach parties had left, and the floodlights were out. Gilbert, Gorf and Bunny were clearing up. Everyone else had gone home.

‘I’ve tried not to think about it.’ Jasmine rolled the Glenmorangie round her tongue. ‘Clara and Ewan have asked me to go to them, but if I’m honest, I’d rather stay in the hut on my own.’

Peg didn’t immediately insist that Jasmine shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Day. Peg understood. ‘Might be for the best, pet. Nasty time, Christmas, for memories. And with Clara and young Ewan being so happy it could get a bit wearing. What about your mum and dad?’

‘Not even in the frame. I mean, even when I lived at home, I always spent Christmas Eve night and all of Christmas Day with Grandpa . . She stared into her glass, willing the tears not to fall. ‘We had little routines, silly traditions, you know . . .’

Peg leaned across and patted her hand. ‘I know. And Andrew?’

Jasmine sighed. ‘We’ve never had Christmas Day together, so I don’t see why we should start now. I mean, Andrew always just used to see me on Christmas night at Grandpa’s for an hour or so, because he liked to spend the day with his family. He hasn’t suggested that I go to his parents’ this year or anything awful. Or even that he comes to me in the hut. He did say some time ago that maybe we should both go to Mum and Dad’s – but that was before they looked likely to be the next candidates on the
Jerry Springer Show.’
She took another gulp of whisky. ‘I really think I’ll stay in the hut with the telly and get very drunk and eat myself silly and just be glad when it’s all over.’

‘Sounds a good plan to me. And we’ll have the lovely swanky do at the Frobishers to look forward to, won’t we?’

Jasmine tried to look enthusiastic. ‘We will. And what about you? Are you having Christmas Day with Ewan and Clara?’

‘I am, pet. Clara’s promised to do a full vegetarian roast just for Ewan. I’m pleased that they’ve got engaged. I’m still angry with him for not marrying her in the first place. It’s all so messy – the divorcing Katrina business.’

‘And expensive.’

‘That too,’ Peg agreed. ‘Look, maybe you should come along to Clara’s on Christmas night or something – just so that you won’t have to spend the whole day alone.’

‘Maybe.’ Jasmine downed the rest of her Glenmorangie in silence. There were only two people she wanted to spend Christmas with and, of course, they were both out of the question. Benny was dead and Sebastian wasn’t.

She’d had a Christmas card from Sebastian. It was very pale, a solitary log cabin beside a frozen lake all surrounded by snow drifts. He’d written, ‘This is the nearest thing I could find to a beach hut in splendid isolation by the sea. Not a patch on the real thing. I hope your Christmas is all that you want it to be and more. I won’t insult you by suggesting you relive your happy memories – it’s far too soon. I’ll be thinking of you. Love, Seb.’

She’d lingered on the word ‘love’ and then decided that unless he’d put yours sincerely, there weren’t many other card-signing options open to him. He’d also sent her six doughnuts looking like plum puddings, complete with dripping glazed icing and a sugar-crafted holly sprig on top.

Peg yawned noisily. ‘Oh, excuse me, pet. I must be getting old. I used to be able to take running the stadium and a few whiskies and the mayhem of Christmas all in my stride. Once we’ve got the Frobisher Platinum out of the way I think I’ll loosen the reins a little – hand over more responsibility to you and Ewan . . . Oh, don’t look like that. I’m not retiring. It’s just that you’ve done so much already to make this place successful, and I can see that you younger ones have the clout and guts to keep my dreams – yes, and your grandpa’s dreams – alive. We’re all knocking on – me, Roger, Allan, Gilbert – and we may still have the enthusiasm but we haven’t got the get-up-and-go.’

‘You’ll be here for ever.’ Jasmine felt drowsy now, the Glenmorangie and the warmth of the office wrapping her in a cosy blanket.

‘We’re none of us here for ever, pet. But the stadium, hopefully, will be. That’s why I’m looking to the next generation. Ewan will have children, you’ll marry someone – ’

‘Andrew.’

Peg exhaled. ‘If you say so. Although I thought you were going to break off the engagement some time back?’ ‘I was. I kept trying to find the right moment. There wasn’t one.’

Peg stood up and kissed her. The papery skin smelled of loose powder and rouge. The swansdown was moulting. ‘Just don’t marry the wrong man, pet. You’ve taken some brave decisions since Benny died. You’ve ignored your parents and damn Andrew, and flown in the face of convention by taking on more here than most people would have ever thought possible. You’ve carried on the true Benny Clegg tradition and you’re a successful bookie. Don’t throw all that away by marrying Andrew because you think that not doing so would hurt him.’

‘I don’t think it would,’ Jasmine sighed. ‘It’s just that we’ve always been together. And I know he really hates me being a bookie. But he likes the money I’m making and – ’

Peg pulled away and held up her hands. ‘Jasmine, pet, listen to yourself.’

‘I can’t finish with him at Christmas!’

‘Why not?’ Peg was gathering her bags and coat and scarves together. ‘Most people are at each other’s throats over the festive season. At least you and Andrew will have a good reason. Now, do you want Bunny to see you home?’

Jasmine shook her head. ‘No thanks. The last time he did that, I then had to walk home with him because someone had been reading Harry Potter to him and he thought that there were bad wizards lurking in St Edith’s graveyard.’

The next morning the gale was still howling and the sky was still slate grey. Jasmine, snuggled beneath the poppies and daisies, could hear the sea tugging restlessly at the shingle and the occasional angry squawk of a gull as a gust of wind blew it off course.

She looked at Sebastian’s Christmas card on her bedside table. She loved him. And because she loved him, she couldn’t carry on being engaged to Andrew. It wasn’t right. Not, of course, that she thought by breaking off her engagement Seb would then immediately be hammering at her door with Tiffany diamonds and a life-promise. That may well be the Mills and Boon denouement she always read with such satisfaction, but she was well aware that it simply wouldn’t happen in real life.

Jasmine punched her pillow. In real life, she’d finish with Andrew, and stay friends with Seb; but at nearly thirty and not prepared to take second best, not to mention being no great shakes in the beauty stakes, she’d spend the rest of her life single and sinking slowly into eccentricity. It was quite a pleasant prospect, really. She’d manage alone, being a bookie, and loving Sebastian Gillespie in the same distant and hopeless way that she’d once loved the Bay City Rollers.

Everyone had been telling her for ages that she and Andrew were wasting their time – she knew it and so did he. It just needed one of them to be brave enough to make the first and final move. And, of course, Peg had been absolutely right about Andrew last night. It made her sad, though, she thought, looking at the school photo of her and Andrew and Ewan and Clara. It should have worked out. For all four of them.

She pushed back the duvet and shivered. The shutters and door all rattled alarmingly in the wind, and the slats in the floorboards now emitted irregular icy blasts round her ankles. It may not be the lap of luxury, she thought, scuttling out into the kitchen to put on the kettle and ignite the heaters, but she truly never wanted to live anywhere else. And if she had to live here alone for the rest of her life then things weren’t all bad.

The radio burbled comfortably in the background as she washed and dressed in as many layers as she could squeeze into. Four days until Christmas. She’d bought her presents in a one-off blast in Bournemouth some weeks ago, and they were all piled behind the sofa, wrapped and ready. Most of them she would dole out at Peg’s traditional party at the Crumpled Horn on Christmas Eve, but the golfing sweater for her father and the diet cook book for her mother would prove the perfect excuse for calling now and explaining about her plans for a solitary Christmas.

Crunching toast and strawberry jam, and warming to her theme, Jasmine convinced herself that Sunday morning would be the ideal time to catch both her parents at home. She hadn’t seen them for ages, although Andrew still called in regularly to the Chewton Estate house and kept her updated on the matrimonial developments. There had been no indication that either of them was about to decamp with an extra-marital lover, so she assumed that it had all been a lot of fuss over nothing. Maybe her father had been dallying with the decrepit Moira Cook, and maybe her mother had taken a lover to score points. Jasmine sighed. She’d never know, and even if they had, it all seemed to be over now.

Dragging Benny’s waxed jacket from its hook behind the door, she stuffed Yvonne and Philip’s Christmas presents into a carrier bag, then turned down the heaters and switched off the radio. Gloves . . . She’d need gloves for the trek across the village. Fumbling deep into the pockets of Benny’s jacket she came up with a fistful of sweet wrappers and several scrumpled up tissues. So where had she left her gloves? She stared down at her hands. There was something wrong. Something missing.