having the sign there would give her the courage she needed for her first official appearance as a bookie. Now she realised that even six pints of Old Ampney probably wouldn’t provide enough Dutch pluck to get her through this ordeal.
With less than an hour to go until the start of the meeting, the greyhounds, along with the Ampney Crucis holidaymaking punters, were already arriving expectantly in the stadium. Roger and Allan, their joints set up on either side of her, had drifted away to chew the form fat with owners and trainers, and others in the know. Jasmine, who was suddenly convinced that she now knew absolutely nothing, stayed resolutely glued to her post.
It was the last Saturday of June, the evening sun was low and still warm over the sea, and the bookmaker’s licence in her name had arrived from the Levy Board on Wednesday morning. Well, it had arrived at the beach hut on Wednesday. It had been delivered to her parents address some days before, if the postmark was anything to go by. As Jasmine’s relationship with Philip and Yvonne was still frosty verging on cryogenic, Andrew had brought the fat envelope with him on one of his infrequent visits.
Jasmine sighed and sat down on the edge of a pallet, remembering. She’d ripped open the envelope, her eyes filling with tears and making the words on the official-looking forms all blurry. It was Benny’s legacy, and she’d wished so much that she hadn’t got it; she just wanted him to be alive more than anything in the world.
Andrew had been exasperated by the tears, and had clattered around the overcrowded beach hut, muttering that she should be over it by now, and that she should be pulling herself together, and eventually that she was making a laughing stock of her parents and him. Especially him. Then she’d cried some more, and Andrew had flounced out and she hadn’t seen him since.
She’d probably never see him again. Watching the holidaymakers in their shorts and T-shirts, and the Ampney Crucis residents in their dog-going best, all wandering amongst the dilapidated stands, Jasmine wondered if she cared. She’d lost Benny, and she’d alienated her parents – why not break off her engagement to Andrew and make it a disastrous personal hat trick? She’d miss him, of course. She’d got into the habit of loving him. She probably loved him in the sort of way that you loved a favourite, comfortable sweater. Not that Andrew was always comfortable: more often than not he was definitely overwashed and scratchy. But he’d always been there. And she didn’t hold out much hope of a replacement.
Andrew’s tirade, she knew, had been caused only by the apparent ignominy of the bookie-and-beach-hut part of her life. He was blissfully unaware that Benny’s money was going to be pumped back into glamorising the stadium, or that she and Peg were going to tender for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy, or even that Ewan Dunstable was due back on the scene. Andrew, like her parents, simply couldn’t believe that she’d chucked up the security of Watertite Windows, and the comfy family nest on the Chewton Estate, to become a bookmaker.
A bookmaker – like Benny . . . Jasmine took a deep breath. Benny had left her the pitch because he knew she could do it, so why on earth was she dithering around like a neurotic gnat? She’d been helping Benny for as long as she could remember; he’d always said all it took to be a successful bookie was tickets and chalk and a bit of nous. She’d listened to him chatting with Roger and Allan in the Crumpled Horn for most of her life; it was simply a matter, he’d claimed, of changing the prices, taking the mugs’ money – and winning. Simple as that. A child could do it.
Jasmine stood up, brushing down her jeans. She could do it. No, more than that – she would do it, and make a success of it. It would be easier, of course, if she had someone writing up the bets for her, the way she had for Benny, but the crowd wasn’t
With less than an hour to go until the start of the meeting, the greyhounds, along with the Ampney Crucis holidaymaking punters, were already arriving expectantly in the stadium. Roger and Allan, their joints set up on either side of her, had drifted away to chew the form fat with owners and trainers, and others in the know. Jasmine, who was suddenly convinced that she now knew absolutely nothing, stayed resolutely glued to her post.
It was the last Saturday of June, the evening sun was low and still warm over the sea, and the bookmaker’s licence in her name had arrived from the Levy Board on Wednesday morning. Well, it had arrived at the beach hut on Wednesday. It had been delivered to her parents address some days before, if the postmark was anything to go by. As Jasmine’s relationship with Philip and Yvonne was still frosty verging on cryogenic, Andrew had brought the fat envelope with him on one of his infrequent visits.
Jasmine sighed and sat down on the edge of a pallet, remembering. She’d ripped open the envelope, her eyes filling with tears and making the words on the official-looking forms all blurry. It was Benny’s legacy, and she’d wished so much that she hadn’t got it; she just wanted him to be alive more than anything in the world.
Andrew had been exasperated by the tears, and had clattered around the overcrowded beach hut, muttering that she should be over it by now, and that she should be pulling herself together, and eventually that she was making a laughing stock of her parents and him. Especially him. Then she’d cried some more, and Andrew had flounced out and she hadn’t seen him since.
She’d probably never see him again. Watching the holidaymakers in their shorts and T-shirts, and the Ampney Crucis residents in their dog-going best, all wandering amongst the dilapidated stands, Jasmine wondered if she cared. She’d lost Benny, and she’d alienated her parents – why not break off her engagement to Andrew and make it a disastrous personal hat trick? She’d miss him, of course. She’d got into the habit of loving him. She probably loved him in the sort of way that you loved a favourite, comfortable sweater. Not that Andrew was always comfortable: more often than not he was definitely overwashed and scratchy. But he’d always been there. And she didn’t hold out much hope of a replacement.
Andrew’s tirade, she knew, had been caused only by the apparent ignominy of the bookie-and-beach-hut part of her life. He was blissfully unaware that Benny’s money was going to be pumped back into glamorising the stadium, or that she and Peg were going to tender for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy, or even that Ewan Dunstable was due back on the scene. Andrew, like her parents, simply couldn’t believe that she’d chucked up the security of Watertite Windows, and the comfy family nest on the Chewton Estate, to become a bookmaker.
A bookmaker – like Benny . . . Jasmine took a deep breath. Benny had left her the pitch because he knew she could do it, so why on earth was she dithering around like a neurotic gnat? She’d been helping Benny for as long as she could remember; he’d always said all it took to be a successful bookie was tickets and chalk and a bit of nous. She’d listened to him chatting with Roger and Allan in the Crumpled Horn for most of her life; it was simply a matter, he’d claimed, of changing the prices, taking the mugs’ money – and winning. Simple as that. A child could do it.
Jasmine stood up, brushing down her jeans. She could do it. No, more than that – she would do it, and make a success of it. It would be easier, of course, if she had someone writing up the bets for her, the way she had for Benny, but the crowd wasn’t
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