James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

When the equine virus vanished — as mysteriously as it had struck — it came as an anticlimax; horse racing remained at a standstill, the ground either waterlogged or bonehard. But the dogs went on chasing the parcel of fur. Some of these nights were freezing cold and making the trek across London could be a slog, particularly knowing you might be on the return journey half an hour later. There was one night John had to go a message on behalf of his family and we arranged to meet in the track bar. If he came late I was to double up on the bet to keep his side going. Wimbledon it was, and I made the journey by rail. But I wound up getting the two stations mixed up. The one I got off at was right in the middle of nowhere and I had to walk for miles, not a taxi in sight, and I missed the first three races. But John had arrived in time and he doubled up for me.

To be honest, I could have done with a night off now and again; but I didnt broach the subject in case I hurt his feelings. Weekends were the worst — Fridays and Saturdays had come to resemble Tuesdays and Wednesdays. A lot can go on in London and it doesnt all take place at the track. A new shorthand typist had started in one of the college offices; when I brought in the mail we had reached the stage of avoiding each other’s eyes. If I asked the girl out it had to be a Sunday, if not explanations were called for. I suppose I could have arranged to meet her after racing some evening but explanations would still have been called for. The routine we were into meant leaving the track together and taking a cab, or the tube if convenient, back to the local pub; once I had swallowed a couple of pints in there I could rarely be bothered moving.

John seemed to be enjoying the life. Almost every night somebody was coming across to ask how he was doing and where he had been hiding; frequently the company was good as well, and it might have been nice hanging on for the chat, but we couldnt, the essence of the system’s success was this stopping-at-a-winner. We had to leave the track immediately; anything else would have been a risk. Systems have to be regular otherwise they arent systems. Oddly enough that side of things gave us a bit of status — in fact it isnt odd at all. In any racetrack in the country there is nobody more respected than the punter who comes to back one dog and one dog only. And whether it wins or not is fundamentally irrelevant. We told nobody about the system but those punters known to John must have become aware something was going on — as soon as we cheered home a winner we vanished.

At college and in the pub we said nothing either. A little minor hostility occurred early on, towards me. The pub regulars were seeing us go to the track and return from the track and because it was all being accomplished within an hour or so they assumed we were continually doing the money. Kennedy had acted a bit coldly, as if I was responsible for John’s welfare, or maybe he reckoned I was just tagging along for poncing purposes. It was pointless explaining anything. It was still pointless when they realized we were backing winners. Occasionally a kind of daft undertone could be sensed, as though we were wasting time and money i.e. why fork out good cash on taxi fares and entrance fee when you dont even stay to watch the whole night’s racing. It’s difficult to say exactly. One of the daftest statements I ever heard came from Kennedy on that Saturday when John turned the £10 into £1200. It was unusual to find him in the pub at all. Saturday was the night he normally went out with his wife; if they came to the local they always sat through in the lounge. But that evening he was on his stool at the bar when we entered. John was playing it very cool, knowing everybody in the district would’ve heard the news — the rest of the regulars were doing their best not to let him see he had been the main topic of conversation since opening time. I got the pints in for the three of us. Kennedy didnt speak for quite a while, but he kept on grinning and shaking his head, now and then nudging me on the ribs. At last he winked and chuckled, Yeh Jock, we all got to start backing them French horses. . Yeh, he said, we got to start backing them French horses. . He laughed at John and swivelled on the stool. Hey lads! he called, we all got to start backing them French horses now!

The laughter was loud. John reacted by raising his eyebrows and studying the gantry. The guvnor came through from the lounge to see what was what and he grinned, and after a moment he said: Alright John?

John continued to study the gantry. When the laughter subsided he muttered, Silly fucker, but it went no further than that. I think he felt sorry for Kennedy. The man had a lot of good points but he had that bad habit of playing to the gallery, no matter at whose expense — his nights were rarely complete unless John unwrapped one of his tinfoil packages. Yet John was friendlier to him than he was to anybody else in the place. I saw him do something in the lodge once which would have crushed Kennedy. He had asked one of the porters for a match and the porter cracked a joke while passing him a boxful. This porter was known to be tight with his cash but still and all, I was there when it happened, and there didnt seem any genuine malice in the remark — it had something to do with people who gamble large sums of money but neglect to spend on the petty essentials. John turned and stared at the man for several moments; then he placed the box of matches on the table unused; and he started talking to another man as though the one in question was out of the room somewhere. The atmosphere was terrible. Nobody was able to look at the guy; and eventually he left the lodge without speaking. I doubt if Kennedy could have recovered from something like that.

John left himself open to comment because he borrowed dough so indiscriminately. It was a thing about him I couldnt understand. During the bad time when he was losing he must have tapped every regular in the place, the same thing in the college — not just the lodge but the refectory, the kitchen and probably the offices as well. Once I knew him better I dug him up about it in the pub. Yeh, you’re right, he said.

The second time the method failed three nights on the trot it coincided with a general thaw, and horse racing resumed on a fairly regular basis. Unlike the other time we now had to go into the emergency fund, but again we fought back to recoup the losses. It took a while but at least we were doing it, and we were still in the game. I was happy to ignore the horses; because of the long interruption the formbook would’ve been as well chipped out the window. It was a bookie’s paradise, impossible to pick a winner. When a favourite actually did get first past the post you were expecting to see it headlined in the following morning’s ’Life . We were discussing this across at the track in company with a few people of John’s acquaintance. For the past two nights snow had been falling thickly then melting during the day. The going was officially heavy but according to the experts this was a bit of an understatement, it was like a bog — particularly on the inside. The inside of the track receives more of a pounding than the outside; and on really heavy going the dogs who favour this side often race at a disadvantage, as though they’re trying to run through porridge. In an effort to justify this the track authorities had strewn straw round the inside. But the early results were bad, and according to the punters in the bar, it was the straw to blame; contrary to expectations the dogs drawn on the inside were not simply holding their own, they were getting what amounted to a yard and a half of a start. The first three favourites all got beat without ever having been in the hunt. The same thing applied to the first three time dogs , two of whom had actually been the favourites. It was pathetic. Normally we at least got a cheer, but tonight we had hardly been able to raise a shout.