James Kelman - A Chancer

•••

Once he had washed and shaved he put on the fresh shirt and his old suit. Taking the jacket off again he began peeling a couple of potatoes but stopped, he went into the front room and put on the television and lay down on the settee with his head on an arm of it. Mrs Brady lived in the room and kitchen on the landing directly above. Tammas had known her most of his life; she had been acquainted with his mother and friends with his grandmother. She rarely left the house; she would be sitting watching television, or reading maybe. Margaret did her shopping quite a lot; and Tammas too, on occasion — even collecting her pension a couple of times last winter.

Going into the lobby he opened the outside door but closed it immediately and went ben the kitchen. The potatoes lying on the draining board at the sink. His cigarettes lay on the floor next to the settee in the living room. Three of them remained. He smoked part of one then nipped it and shoved it back in the packet, and walked to the front door. He left the door on the latch before going upstairs. When Mrs Brady answered his flapping of the letter box he said: Eh Mrs Brady I was wondering if you had a ten pence bit by any chance — the electricity’s away and that. . He sniffed.

She nodded. I think so, wait a wee minute. Then she closed over the door. Back she came with her purse and she opened it in such a way that he could look inside also. I’ve got a couple, she said, and she took them out and gave them to him. Here’s another yin as well Tammas.

Probably one would be enough, he said. He made to return the other two.

Are you sure? Take them, just in case.

Well okay. Thanks. I’ll hand them back in tomorrow.

Och there’s no rush: she shook her head. As soon as you like, it doesnt matter.

Well. . thanks.

Mrs Brady smiled: And where is it the night?

He shrugged.

The dancing?

Maybe, maybe. He grinned, turned away, about to go downstairs.

And how’s your grannie?

O fine, fine.

You tell her I was asking for her. I would go up and see her if I could.

Okay Mrs Brady.

Mind and tell her now.

I will.

•••

The conductor was standing waiting for the money. Tammas passed it to him and was returned half. The conductor nodded very slightly, not looking at him, not giving him a ticket, before moving on down the aisle. Tammas stared out the window, keeping the money enclosed in the palm of his hand. The night could yet turn into something although in another way he would have preferred the actual ticket. Having this extra bit of dough was a bit of a nuisance. It left him twopence short of the minimum tote bet. Better to have had nothing but the sixty quid he was giving himself. He stuck the change into his trouser pocket. Out of this sixty he was keeping forty for his nap. The dog in question was running in the fourth and it was out of Trap 1. It was a good dog, a fast dog, and he fancied it very strongly. The other twenty quid was just for playing about with on forecasts and small single bets.

The bus was crowded; it had been standing room only downstairs. On arrival at Shawfield Stadium he sat on until everybody else had left; he strode down to the rearmost seat and from there back to the front, peering down into the corners of the floor but nothing at all was lying except a few empty beer cans and other assorted litter. The conductor was reaching to change the destination screen while listening to something the driver was saying; they both glanced at him as he came down the stairs.

He walked on past the vendors of the Greyhound Adviser , on up to the entrance where an elderly woman was sitting on a wooden stool, selling pens and pencils. He paid his money at the turnstile and was returned a programme.

Out on the track the handlers were walking the dogs for the first race. Numbers flickered slowly on the totalisator board, few bets ever being struck in earnest for this race; it usually consisted of dogs new to the track or dogs returning after injury. Form rarely existed on it. Tammas leaned on a stanchion studying the programme. Of the twenty quid he was allowing five on this race; he decided to stick it onto Trap 3. The handlers began leading the dogs into the traps and he was aware of the loose change in his pocket. An additional twopence and he had an actual bet. The hooter sounded. The hare trundled off round the rail. Some cheers from the punters. Dog 3 got beat. While the handlers were out capturing them after the finish he wandered off, his gaze to the ground. He reached the wall dividing the track from the enclosure and stared about. The busfare home was not essential. It was not a bad evening, mild. The busfare would give him a bet. Coupled with the cash returned him by the conductor he had enough for a twenty pence bet on the tote, twice the minimum. He could stick the whole lot on a dog. Or split it two way, 10 on the 2nd race and 10 on the 3rd. Or keep the 20 pence for the nap he had chosen; it would be racing in the 4th. Or a forecast, a 10 pence reverse forecast. Or even a place-only bet of 20 pence. No need even to dig out a winner, just one to finish in the first two. It was a safety first bet, that was the thing about it. And if it came up and he had the same sort of bet on the 3rd, then he might end up with something for the 4th, to stick down on his nap. The place-only bet was correct, it was the correct thing to do. And so what if the dog actually won the race instead of just running second, it would not matter, the point was to get a return, to keep getting returns. It made no difference whether it won or was second, just so long as it was placed and he could go up to the pay-out window and be given a return for his money.

He was standing amongst the small crowd directly beneath the row of bookies, checking the form for the race, studying times and weights and distances. Yet it would not matter. The dog he decided on would either be placed or not. Which dog did not make any difference. He glanced at the list again. Nothing striking about the names of the five runners. More punters had arrived and he watched them busying about the line, trying to pick off the best price about their selections. And the vet was now on the track checking the dogs. He gazed back at the punters and the bookies but there was nothing catching the interest, nothing of note. He turned and strode off towards the tote windows and joined one of the queues. There was a woman in front of him, smoking rapidly and continually glancing behind to see if the dogs were about to start racing.

He was going to back Trap 4. The dog coming out of Trap 4, this was the one. The woman left the window clutching her tote receipts.

Tammas sniffed. Trap 4 twenty pence a place, he said to the girl. She stamped out the numbers, took his money and gave him the receipt.

Trap 4.

On examining the form he saw that this dog out of the fourth trap had a good chance after all. He was glad he had gone for it. According to the form notes it had been off the course injured for some time but was now back and expected to do okay. He remembered he still had £15 out of the £20 playing about with money and decided to stick it all on. In fact he felt like sticking the other £40 he was keeping for the nap down on it as well. But no, that was wrong, that was the wrong way. The forty had to be for the nap. The quick route to going skint usually lay in changing your mind at the last minute.

The hooter. Tammas thrust the programme into his back pocket and pulled the half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, he struck a match to light it, was exhaling smoke when the traps crashed open.

He kept silent throughout the race but began nodding as the favourite came wide round the last bend to run on past dog 4 up the home straight, with this dog 4 just managing to hang on for second place from the fast finishing Trap 1.