Graham Swift - Last Orders

And like the fool I was I chose the teddy bear, the big yellow teddy bear. What would I want with that? Except to show the world it was my lucky day, our lucky day, and I was the lucky lady. He didn't smile, he didn't even look pleased. He just looked at me as I smiled and held the teddy bear, as if there was something he didn't understand. And now, when I remember it, I know I never hugged him, like you do, for winning a prize. I just hugged that teddy bear, laughing. I thought, Which way now? Back to the shore or on to the end of the Jetty? Maybe it should've been the shore. All the wrong choices, and him having just made three shots count. But you don't go on the Jetty just to walk half-way and then turn round again, teddy bear or no teddy bear, you don't go on without going to the end, it's what you do. And just for the time it took to walk to the end of that Jetty I felt, everything is still possible, everything is still floating, the water lapping and slapping beneath us, and I didn't notice, or care if I did, that the smile he'd put on his face now was like the smile on one of those ducks. It was only when we got to the end that I thought, This isn't true, it's only a picture, a seaside postcard, and maybe that's what he was thinking. How could I laugh and smile and act like life was a holiday? My whole stupid idea of going to Margate. The breeze was flipping my skirt. Men were eyeing me. Lucky teddy bear. I thought, Just to be free again, with just the breeze and the night and the sea and the men looking. Having your pick. As if this was your starting point once more. LambethVauxhall.

There was a strap rubbing on one of my shoes, my new shoes, so I gave him the teddy bear while I stooped down to fiddle. Maybe I just wanted to hide my face. And I think even as I handed it to him I knew what he was going to do. There he was for a moment, a grown man, on the end of a pier, holding a teddy bear, a man on the end of a pier. He looked at it for an instant like he didn't know why he was holding it, like he didn't know what it had to do with him. Then he stepped nearer the railings. And then there wasn't any teddy bear, there was just Jack. Goodbye Jack.

But I didn't put my coat on and go down to Billy Hill's. 'George, I've got a thick 'un for you.' Where I'd look a fool slapping down a thousand cash, even if they took it. Where I'd lose all credit for being a canny punter. 'So what's the game, Raysy? Looks like you've gone and won already.' And where I might be tempted to say, any case, to declare to the assembled company, all the gluttons for punishment and two-quid no-hopers, 'This is for Jack, I'm doing this for Jack. You know, Jack Dodds, it's to save his skin.' You'd have to be a fool to back a horse called Miracle Worker, you'd have to be a fool to own and train one. You'd have to be a bookie's bosom pal. Still, if Lucky Johnson here has a fancy.

I picked up the phone there and then, third ciggy on the go, and dialled a number where I knew they'd take a four-figure punt, no questions asked, even from the likes of me. Where they'd say, 'What's the asking?' And I'd say, 'A thousand, to win, tax paid.' And they'd take down my credit-card number and read me back the details without so much as a wobble in the voice, Miracle Worker, thinking, There's one born every minute, there must be harder ways of making dough.

Thirty-three to one.

But it's different if you know. And if it don't come in, which it will, then Jack'll get his money back. I'll foot the bill for this bet, recoup it on another. Jack'll get his thousand back, and that's my conscience squared. Price of a camper.

'All placed, Mr Johnson. Thank you for calling.'

And it has to be in my name, it can't be in Jack's. Because supposing. Just supposing.

Then I put Jack's thousand in a spot I use, behind a cupboard. I aint carrying a grand in cash around with me more than I can help. And I put on my coat and shoved my cigs in my pocket and looked around the room before I left like I hadn't ever looked at it before. It looked about the loneliest room on earth.

And you're flogging the family home an' all

I walked in the direction of the Coach, thinking, If I'm so sure, I could pop in the turfie's anyway and put on a bet of my own, or pick out a combination to cover my loss. Which wouldn't be logical, if I fcnow, and it'd be tempting fate, either way. This isn't my day, it's Jack's day. You've got to keep it simple. Though it aint.

Or I should go and see him, now, tell him. Maybe that's why I'm legging it along this street like there's somewhere I ought to be going. 53 bus to St Thomas's, Westminster Bridge. Tell him what his money's riding on, tell him that the bet's on me, either way. Least I can do, Jack. Except I don't want to have to look him in the eye, or have him look me in the eye. And if he's got any sense, he'll tune in on his earphones, on his radio, that's one thing he can still do. Racing from Doncaster. And he'll know, because he will, he'll know too.

So I slipped into the Coach. Quiet for a Friday. Bernie says, in his just-between-you-and-me voice, bringing me my pint, 'What's the news on Jack?' I say, 'I went in last night, I'll go again this evening. It's just a matter of time, Bern.' Looking at Slattery's clock. Quarter past two. And Bernie shakes his head, like what's happening to Jack is something that ought not to be possible, like it's a miracle working the opposite way. I say, 'You having one too, Bern?

Have one on me. Fetch me a sandwich while you're at it. Ham, no mustard.' And up on its shelf, high up at the end of the bar, Bernie's telly's all set up and switched on, the screen angled and the sound pitched just right, so that any Joe sitting at the bar can keep his eye and ear on what's showing, without having to move an inch to order a drink. Racing from Doncaster. Lincoln Handicap meeting.

Bernie brings my sandwich and sees me looking at the screen and says, 'One or two on, I suppose?' And I say, 'No, as a matter of fact, I haven't. It don't seem right somehow, does it? What with.' Bernie nods, approving. 'But there must be one or two you'd fancy, any case?' he says. I say, 'Be telling, wouldn't it?' biting my sandwich. Bernie smiles, like he knew I'd say that. He pours his drink, nodding at the TV. 'And I suppose you'd be there, wouldn't you? If it wasn't for.' And I say, 'Yep.' Like Jack should've thought.

Cheltenham too, Gold Cup, then Doncaster, first of the flat.

He says, 'Cheers, Ray,' lifting his glass. 'Good health all round.' I say, 'Good health.' He says, 'Sound up high enough for you?' I nod and he waddles off, tea-towel over his shoulder, like he does when he knows conversation's not what's required. But he can see me sitting there, eyes glued to the screen, more than you'd think necessary for a man who hasn't got a bet on. He can see me lighting snout after snout and knocking it back, quicker than usual. Steady drinker is Ray, slow and steady. 'Make the next one a short, Bernie. That's a long short.'

'Caning it a bit, aren't we, Raysy?'

But when the three-five comes on I'm not thinking like a punter, a chancer, needing a slug of courage. I'm thinking like a jockey. I'm thinking like I'm the jockey and I don't have no choice. Some feller called Irons, never heard of him, Gary Irons. Heavy name for a jockey. I'm thinking what does a jockey do saddled with a horse called Miracle Worker? And a name like Irons. I'm sitting on a bar-stool in the Coach but I'm being like a jockey, my toes up on the top rung, my knees braced and squeezing, arse wanting to lift. All I need is the whip. I watch him come out of the paddock, deep chest, sheepskin noseband, and head up to the start and I see in the way he rides out the way he'll ride back, I see the way he takes the turf and hits full gallop quickly, long, clean strides, a stayer, a finisher, and I think, It's this horse's day, it's this jockey's day. Any old irons. It's Jack's day. And then it's only seeing what you saw already, seeing what you knew in your head, it's only letting the horse make the race for you. I watch him run like he's never run before and never will again, or not at these odds, hold the midfield, find the gap, move up to make his challenge like he's dispensing with preliminaries, and with four in front and maybe three lengths in it, kick forward and take them all as if there's a spare gear in him and he could do with another furlong to really find his pace.