that it was taking my life nowhere, getting more and more pissed off. Not quite like I used to, I thought. While she parked the car now I tried to picture the pair of them heading off to the dogs, but all I got was a picture of the old man and me.
Once the car was parked, me and Katy made our way down to the track.
I wasn’t there for the outing, or for old times’ sake. It was Tubs I was after, I hadn’t been able to get hold of him all day. I’d spent the afternoon trying to pin a name to the Name who'd sent the pig-sticker note, but the Lloyd’s bureaucracy wasn’t too cooperative and I’d got pretty much nowhere. At home I'd rung Bill; there was no news there either. He said not to come over, tha he had my mobile number, if anything happened on the K and R he’d call. That’s when Katy'd breezed out of her room saying she was on her way to join Tubs at the dogs. I’d grabbed my coat.
The Stow. Walthamstow Stadium. For the first twenty years of my life, the centre of the world.
When the old man and me used to come here we hardly ever went through the public entrance, it was nearly always the side gate, before the crowd moved in. While he set up his stand I’d go round to the kiosk and get us some soup or something, whatever they had. Everyone knew Bob Collier. I was his son, so they knew me too. Dad and me. The olden days.
Now I shuffled forward in the queue with Katy, the turnstile ticked over.
Inside, the stand was filling up fast. Katy saw some friends, she went off to join them, and I wandered down to the rails, trackside, where the bookies had their stands. After my bust-up with Dad I didn’t come back to the Stow for almost a year. And when I did come back it wasn’t a regular thing, maybe once every couple of months, it just wasn’t the same any more. Dad was down on the rails, I couldn’t hang round down there, so I ended up sitting way back in the stand. Each year my connection with the dogs got weaker. Even when I went home occasionally to see Mum it was the one subject that never came up. Dog talk, seeing as how things were between Dad and me, was taboo.
But even though my connection with the dogs got weaker, somehow it never quite broke. There were no more Monday nights at the Gallon, but of a Friday night, every few months, I’d find myself back at the Stow. I’d get my programme, do a half-arsed study of the form, then have a few beers and a bet. Strange, really, how I seemed to need that. Something in the blood I guess.
Now I stood there with the punters, glancing from my programme up to the changing odds.
Fair Island, the four dog, was in the red everywhere; it was pretty much two-to-one the rest. But Swordplay was being offered at fours by Abes Watson, the bookie Tubs was pencilling for.
‘Twenty on Swordplay.’
Tubs looked up sharply. Abes took my money and scratched me a ticket. ‘What the fuck you doing here,’ Tubs said quietly, pencilling my bet in the ledger.
I told him I was backing a winner. He gave me a look, and I turned the ticket through my fingers.‘Have you had any luck, Tubs?’
He didn’t answer, he looked over my shoulder at the punters just behind.
I told him I’d have to see him later anyway. ‘Collect my winnings,’ I said, but Tubs didn’t smile.
A punter reached past me, pushed fifty quid up at Abes. I drifted back into the crowd, then eased out of the crush and up onto the terraces.
The dogs were being led out. The steward was in his hunting kit up front, the kennel lads with the dogs just behind. Swordplay was a fawn bitch, shallow in the chest, she had loser written all over her.
In my pocket I fingered the betting slip. Dad used a pile of betting slips just like this one to teach me how to count. I wasn’t even at school then, I couldn’t have been five years old. He’d spread them out on the floor in the kitchen while he sat up at the table studying the form. I had to make them into stacks, then he’d call out instructions getting
Once the car was parked, me and Katy made our way down to the track.
I wasn’t there for the outing, or for old times’ sake. It was Tubs I was after, I hadn’t been able to get hold of him all day. I’d spent the afternoon trying to pin a name to the Name who'd sent the pig-sticker note, but the Lloyd’s bureaucracy wasn’t too cooperative and I’d got pretty much nowhere. At home I'd rung Bill; there was no news there either. He said not to come over, tha he had my mobile number, if anything happened on the K and R he’d call. That’s when Katy'd breezed out of her room saying she was on her way to join Tubs at the dogs. I’d grabbed my coat.
The Stow. Walthamstow Stadium. For the first twenty years of my life, the centre of the world.
When the old man and me used to come here we hardly ever went through the public entrance, it was nearly always the side gate, before the crowd moved in. While he set up his stand I’d go round to the kiosk and get us some soup or something, whatever they had. Everyone knew Bob Collier. I was his son, so they knew me too. Dad and me. The olden days.
Now I shuffled forward in the queue with Katy, the turnstile ticked over.
Inside, the stand was filling up fast. Katy saw some friends, she went off to join them, and I wandered down to the rails, trackside, where the bookies had their stands. After my bust-up with Dad I didn’t come back to the Stow for almost a year. And when I did come back it wasn’t a regular thing, maybe once every couple of months, it just wasn’t the same any more. Dad was down on the rails, I couldn’t hang round down there, so I ended up sitting way back in the stand. Each year my connection with the dogs got weaker. Even when I went home occasionally to see Mum it was the one subject that never came up. Dog talk, seeing as how things were between Dad and me, was taboo.
But even though my connection with the dogs got weaker, somehow it never quite broke. There were no more Monday nights at the Gallon, but of a Friday night, every few months, I’d find myself back at the Stow. I’d get my programme, do a half-arsed study of the form, then have a few beers and a bet. Strange, really, how I seemed to need that. Something in the blood I guess.
Now I stood there with the punters, glancing from my programme up to the changing odds.
Fair Island, the four dog, was in the red everywhere; it was pretty much two-to-one the rest. But Swordplay was being offered at fours by Abes Watson, the bookie Tubs was pencilling for.
‘Twenty on Swordplay.’
Tubs looked up sharply. Abes took my money and scratched me a ticket. ‘What the fuck you doing here,’ Tubs said quietly, pencilling my bet in the ledger.
I told him I was backing a winner. He gave me a look, and I turned the ticket through my fingers.‘Have you had any luck, Tubs?’
He didn’t answer, he looked over my shoulder at the punters just behind.
I told him I’d have to see him later anyway. ‘Collect my winnings,’ I said, but Tubs didn’t smile.
A punter reached past me, pushed fifty quid up at Abes. I drifted back into the crowd, then eased out of the crush and up onto the terraces.
The dogs were being led out. The steward was in his hunting kit up front, the kennel lads with the dogs just behind. Swordplay was a fawn bitch, shallow in the chest, she had loser written all over her.
In my pocket I fingered the betting slip. Dad used a pile of betting slips just like this one to teach me how to count. I wasn’t even at school then, I couldn’t have been five years old. He’d spread them out on the floor in the kitchen while he sat up at the table studying the form. I had to make them into stacks, then he’d call out instructions getting
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