The Tailor's Girl by Fiona McIntosh Page B

again at his glass his whisky was finished and Alf’s tankard was dry. He felt horribly sober . . . and could still feel Edie’s arms around his neck.
    ‘Oh . . . I see,’ Alf was saying. ‘So you think if you can provide the means, then this beautiful young woman might agree to be your girl?’
    Tom raised and dropped his shoulders theatrically. ‘I want her to be more than my girl, Alf. I want to marry her.’
    ‘Cor, blimey, you’re moving fast, lad.’
    ‘Am I?’
    ‘Just like Pretty Penny,’ Alf said and winked again, clearly a habit.
    Tom stared at him, flummoxed. ‘Pretty Penny?’
    ‘Cheltenham on Saturday. She’s primed and ready to win big, though no one is rating her.’ Alf tapped his nose this time in a new conspiratorial gesture. ‘Long odds, money to be won, lad.’
    Tom’s gaze narrowed. ‘How much?’
    Alf laughed, pushed his glass forward towards the barman. ‘How long is a piece of string?’
    ‘How much if I give you half a sovereign?’
    His companion’s expression changed, eyes widening to reveal faded blue eyes that had been hooded until now. ‘That’s a lot of money to wager, lad.’
    ‘I want to win a lot of money.’
    Alf dithered, looking uncomfortable.
    ‘Come on, Alf. You said yourself she’s primed. You’re betting on Pretty Penny. I trust you.’
    Tom watched Alf stub out his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and blow the last fetid lungful of smoke into the room. The older man rubbed his chin and Tom noticed his fingers drumming on the counter. ‘The odds are fifteen to one presently.’ He smiled. ‘Odds against.’
    Tom shook his head in puzzlement.
    ‘That means the bookie will pay you your earnings plus your stake back. Fifteen to one is a huge return, odds against.’
    Tom caught on fast and was aware that anything connected with commercial gain made easy sense to him. Was this a clue to his past? ‘I’ll take thirteen to one. You take anything you can earn off the top.’
    ‘What? You’re mad, matey. You’re giving me a pile if we win.’
    ‘
If
we win. If we don’t, I’m losing a half sovereign. Besides, if she wins, I won’t be criticising the fellow who gave me the tip.’
    ‘Why don’t you go bet it yourself, take all the winnings?’
    Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t know how. I don’t think I want to learn, either. I can’t risk being seen in a betting shop by certain folk.’ He thought about Abe as he made the remark.
    Alf thought about this. ‘All right, son. Let’s do this. I’m giving you thirteen to one. Unlucky for some.’ He held out his hand again.
    ‘I’ve been lucky so far,’ Tom quipped as he dragged the coin from his inside pocket. ‘Numbers don’t frighten me.’ He dropped the half sovereign into Alf’s palm where it shone dully, depicting a man on a horse, a dragon cringing beneath his triumph. It felt prophetic. Tom knew every bump and dent in that coin. On the reverse face was the head of George V. ‘Don’t ask me again if I’m sure,’ he said, pre-empting whatever Alf was opening his mouth to say. ‘Win me a small fortune, Alf.’
    Alf whistled, spat playfully on his palm and shook Tom’s hand. ‘Deal, my boy. Back here Friday afternoon.’
    Tom nodded. ‘If you’re not here, I’ll know we lost.’
    ‘No hard feelings?’
    ‘None.’
    ‘You’re very trusting. What if I go and spend your money on beer?’
    ‘You won’t. I think I’m an excellent judge of character.’
    ‘Well . . . let’s see what Pretty Penny can do for your heartsickness, lad.’ Alf lifted a hand in farewell and left the pub.
    Tom waited another five minutes to be sure he was steady on his feet and then opened the swinging pub door into the frosty air. It made him cough it was so fresh and cold as it hit his lungs. The whisky was keeping him warm inside and he tried to ignore the tug of another memory connected to the liquor. He found himself reaching down by his side as though looking for something – a flask, maybe –