Friday,
late afternoon, in the middle of winter—I’m standing looking through the
counter grill at a room littered with slips of paper, cigarette packets, and
sweet wrappers. Pinned to the wall are newspaper pages covered with lists of
‘orses and dogs, the times they ran and the weights and odds at which they were
expected to carry. The air is still smudged with smoke and probably smells
fowl, but I’m so used to it I don’t notice. I’m leaning on the counter checking
the day’s takings. This is my second year as settler-manager of the Roman Road
betting shop, or Turf Accountants, to give it it’s proper name. I guess I’m
getting a little bored with the end-of–week routine, ‘cause I’ve had to count
the stacks three times.
Jacky
the payout girl has done her bit and is just cleaning down the results board,
spreading bleedin’ chalk dust everywhere. The last race at Chepstow came and
went an hour ago, and as far as I’m concerned any straggler who wants to get
paid-out is going to have to wait till tomorrow. I’ve gathered me side money.
Ten pounds I snagged when Hunter’s Dawn went from 6/1 to 7/1, thirty seconds
after some silly sod had taken an early price, but failed to watch while I put
his bet through the timer. Another four pounds came from the screwed up winning
ticket that got tossed before the stewards’ enquiry had turned over the result
of the 12.30 at Brighton. I even had a winning drunk stuff a quid in my hand
because he’d picked Black Bear based
on the colour of my jumper. All in all, not a bad day really.
Once
I’ve got the cash counted, I can bundle it and get it to the head office over
at Aldgate East . I’ve never been too keen walking through the backstreets of
the East End with me pocket stuffed, but what can you do? I can’t send Jacky
and management are way too tight to send anyone over to pick it up.
I’m
finally slipping a blue rubber band over the wad of fivers when the bell rings
and in ‘e comes. To be ‘onest I didn’t even look up— ‘e must have been wearing
brothel creepers cause he crossed the floor without making a sound.
I
was considering telling him we were closed when I ‘eard the metallic tap on the
counter. I ‘ate it when the punters do that, bang their money to get my
attention.
It
was then that I noticed that the thing making the annoying noise was not coin
of the realm but the tip of a double-barreled shogun.
“Ello
Sunshine, I’m here to screw wiv your day. That is, unless you feel inclined to
make a contribution to The Poor Widows fund.” His voice was ‘ard, ‘ard as
concrete and ‘is smile was worth absolutely nuffin’.
I
‘eard a thunk to my left and turned to see Jacky slumped in an ‘eap on the
floor. Funny what goes through your mind, I remember thinking, ‘she’ll be
pissed off getter her trousers and new top all dirtied up.’
I
looked back at our visitor. Even if the bloke ‘adn’t been 6’2” and built like a
brick shit-house, there was absolutely no way I was going to be ‘eroic over
someone else’s money. It seemed like a god idea not to speak, just incase ‘e
didn’t like the tone of my voice. I just slid the wad of fivers over to him as
smoovly as I could.
“Sensible
boy,” ‘e said. “Now the rest.”
I
reached into the till and pulled out all the remaining notes. I nudged them
forward so that they sat next to the fives.
Without
taking his eyes off me, and holding the shotgun with one hand, reached out with
the other and pocketed the money. “Gambling,” he said as if addressing the
empty room behind him, “is a mugs game.” And with that he walked quietly to the
door. Looking over ‘is shoulder he cocked ‘is ‘ead and gave me a look as if to
say, “Don’t be a pratt and make me come back.”
There
are, I suppose, many things I could have done, should ‘ave done, once I’d
counted to ten. I should have picked Jacky up, dusted her down, and made sure
she was OK. I should have phoned the law, and I should ‘ave let the office know
that they weren’t going to be getting their takings. And because I’m a good
employee and model citizen, I did all of those things—but not before I’d
completed one small task. I reached for the top shelf where we keep the teapot.
No, I wasn’t going to make myself a nice cup of soothing tea! Instead, I
removed the lid and ‘eld it just below the countertop, then I scooped from the
till all of the 50p pieces and dropped them into the teapot’s belly They made a
satisfying clanking as about 2o quids worth of coins joined the rest of my
side-money. Then I replaced the lid and carefully secured the pot back on its
shelf.
Now,
you might be wondering ‘ow I could do such a thing at a time like that. ‘owever,
it seems to me, that I’d been the one who’d put up with all the aggravation,
and was about to be further inconvenienced by ‘aving to stay and do overtime, that I had no chance of being compensated
for. My bosses ‘ave never shown any consideration for my ‘ealth and well being,
so I consider myself fully justified in making sure that I receive some small
remuneration for the danger I’d ‘ad to face. Let us say then, shall we, that I
‘ave claimed a little something towards my own Poor Widows fund?
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