I Own the Racecourse! (10 page)

‘The other part. He really
believes
he owns Beecham Park, and he's getting in deeper all the time. He's got to come out of it. He'll just have to wake up to himself.'

‘Why will he have to?' said Mike.

‘Because it's not real, of course. How can he go on getting wrapped up in something that's not real?'

‘Real?' said Mike. ‘What's real? The trainers speak to him in the street, and let him lead their dogs, and call him the owner. That's real, isn't it? He goes into the course whenever he wants to and nobody stops him. That's real. He took a bunch of strays to greyhound training and put on a race of his own. Wasn't that real?'

‘Come off it!' snorted Joe. ‘I don't know what's biting you, O'Day. It seems as if you don't care what happens. Andy—Mrs Hoddel—after all this time—You don't think it's
right,
do you? What's going to happen in the end?'

Mike blazed back. ‘I don't
know,
see? I'm not like some people that always know what's right and what's going to happen! I just don't know.'

Matt stared in astonishment from one to the other. The blazing row seemed to be happening after all. Even Terry, carefully saying nothing, still had that bitter twist to his mouth. ‘I wish someone would tell me the score…' Matt was beginning, when he was interrupted by voices from behind.

‘O'Day! Hey, Mooney! Wait a sec!'

All four swung round to look. The Willis boys and Ted Chance were hurrying up the hill, calling as they came.

‘Hang on a bit, you jokers! We want to ask you something.'

Andy's four friends stood and waited. The newcomers came up, breathing heavily. Greg started talking even before he reached them.

‘Wanted to ask you something. What was that down at Beecham Park, all those strays the other night? Charlie reckons you were there. That Andy Hoddel, the soft one, was acting as if he owned the place, and nobody booted him out or anything.' He grinned expectantly.

Andy's friends shifted a little, standing together. The blazing row seemed to be over. Terry said, ‘If Charlie was there he'd have seen as much as we did. Didn't he?'

‘Yeah—but what's the strength of it? You ought to know, Hoddel's always hanging round after you lot. Did he just barge in? What's he doing exercising greyhounds in the park?'

‘He's got a lot of friends,' said Mike. ‘A lot of people like Andy. He's a decent sort. Doesn't poke his nose into other people's business.'

‘He's got too much sense,' added Terry.

‘Trainers and blokes like that trust him,' explained Matt.

‘He's a good sort all right,' said Joe. ‘He'd be sure to have a lot of friends.'

‘Bound to,' agreed Mike. They nodded earnestly at each other. ‘I'd be sorry for anyone who upset Andy Hoddel.'

The Willis boys and Ted Chance shifted their feet. ‘Who's upsetting him?' They strolled past towards the school. ‘Just thought you might know something…'

‘Windbags,' muttered Terry. Andy's friends strode on in a body. The Willis boys would never have guessed that anything divided them.

Neither was Andy troubled by such an upsetting idea. It was sad that his friends didn't like his racecourse, but he scarcely had time even to remember that. The week-end was coming round, and he had heard from Bert Hammond that the trotters were racing on Friday night as well as Saturday. It had come into Andy's head to go down on Saturday morning and help the men clean up. The thought of it made him a little shy, for he didn't want to be a nuisance; but he thought that, with two lots of sweeping to be done, the men wouldn't mind if the owner helped.

‘They could do with some help, I reckon,' muttered Andy hopefully.

He woke early on Saturday morning and, borrowing an old broom of his mother's from the back yard, went down to the lower gate of Beecham Park. The streets were still very quiet, but near the course they were littered with papers and rubbish. Andy chuckled at this sign of the crowds who had milled about last night.

The gate was still padlocked, but there was no barbed wire on top. He slid his broom over the gate and let it fall inside, then climbed over himself. The wide course was empty. There was a good deal of litter in front of the big stand, but this was not where Andy had seen the men sweeping. He picked up his broom and walked round, past the garden where his onion-weed bloomed, to the farther side of the grounds. He passed long rows of closed windows where people collected tote winnings on race nights, and two shuttered stalls, and the cluster of small red stands that the bookmakers used, until he reached the one low grandstand on this side of the course. The ground on this side rose towards the hill behind, and the grandstand was only a long roof covering rows of wooden benches that rose one behind the other on the sloping ground. Below the rails that edged the track, the rising ground had been cut away so that the track itself remained level. Andy paused beside the rails to look down at the track below. Then he turned and looked the other way.

No wonder it took so many men to sweep this side of the grounds. Somebody must clean up the other side too, but the litter was far worse here. Andy looked at it in awe. The asphalt was covered with crumpled newspapers, torn programmes, cigarette packets, orange peel, apple cores, bus tickets, and every kind of rubbish that people can drop. Beginning just where he happened to be standing. Andy began to sweep.

Soon he had swept together a small heap of rubbish that his worn, soft broom could hardly move. He left it there and swept more rubbish towards it. He had built quite a mound of litter when he heard a noise of padlocks and bolts. He paused, waiting, until a man in overalls came in sight from behind one of the stalls. When he saw Andy he stood still for a moment, then came slowly towards him.

‘How did you get in here?' asked the man sternly.

‘Climbed in,' said Andy, flapping his broom at the ground. ‘You could do with a hand, I reckon.'

The man looked at the heap of rubbish, and back at Andy. ‘That's all well and good, but where do you get the idea you can come climbing in here when you like?'

Andy chuckled. ‘'Course I can. It's mine. I bought it.' His blue eyes looked kindly and directly at the man, not blaming him for his mistake. ‘I won't bother you, mister. I just came to help.'

‘Oh…' said the man. He looked at Andy in a troubled way, then turned and went back to the stall. Andy went on sweeping.

Three more men came out from behind the stall. Two of them had large brooms, very different from Andy's, and the third had a shovel and a large bin. Andy watched them begin to work. The brooms were broad, with short, hard bristles, rather like large scrubbing brushes on handles. The men pushed them along in a strong, competent way, clearing the ground section by section, building up mounds that the man with the shovel lifted into his bin. Andy went back to his own haphazard method, sweeping very hard and raising a cloud of dust.

More men arrived with brooms or shovels. There were fleeting glances at Andy, thoughtful, inquisitive or amused. Whenever he happened to catch one of these glances he nodded and smiled. The glance turned into a friendly nod, a teasing grin or a sober stare. Most of the time Andy just kept on working, careful to keep out of the way. His heap of litter had grown so big that he looked at it helplessly, not sure what to do about it.

The man who had arrived first, the only one who had spoken to him so far, saw this and shouted, ‘George!' A man with a shovel looked up, then came over to Andy. He was small, brown and wrinkled, with bright, quick eyes. He grinned and began to shovel up the rubbish. Andy watched.

‘It's the people who come to the races makes this mess,
I
know,' he said.

‘Makes you wonder, don't it?' said the man.

‘There was a lot of 'em last night.'

‘Were you here? Saw Magic Moment get beaten, did you?'

‘No,' said Andy. He felt a need to explain this, so he added, ‘I might come tonight. I can come whenever I like. I don't have to pay.'

‘So I hear,' said the man. ‘They make
me
fork out every time, but I reckon you're different.' Seeing that one or two of the giant brooms were working nearer, he shouted, ‘Watch it, you blokes! You'll have the owner tipped in with the garbage if you don't mind out.'

The men grinned. Andy chuckled and took his old broom to a safer place at one side of the sweepers. He worked on contentedly; and now the men spoke to him when they came near.

‘Bit of an honour, having the owner down.'

‘Thanks for the help, boss.'

‘See you at the gate tonight. They tell me you're coming down to look the place over.'

‘Watch it, Fred, this is the owner we've got here.'

‘Yeah, Bert Hammond was saying.'

They spoke kindly, welcoming him. Andy smiled and swept all the harder, always careful to keep out of the way; but inwardly he was swelling with delight and happiness. After a while he noticed that the sweepers were standing and resting on their brooms. The bins were being carted away. The work was finished.

Andy followed the men who were drifting away behind the stall. There was a little room where they were stacking their brooms and shovels. Andy stacked his broom with the others and went out through an open door in the wall. The man who had arrived first stood by, waiting to lock the door when everyone had gone.

‘See you later, mate.'

‘I'll look out for you tonight.'

Andy waved and ran off. He reached the vacant ground where the cats lived, and paused to chuckle. ‘The owner. That's who I am,
they
know.'

In the evening of that day, Andy set out for his favourite spot on the cliff. He was dreaming that perhaps he really would go to the races, as he had told the cleaners in the morning. Perhaps, tonight, he would come down from his dark perch on the cliff and plunge into all the brilliance and noise below. The thought of it made him breathe hard, as though he had been running. It was one thing to own the racecourse in a quiet way, watching it and talking to the men who worked there. It was quite another thing to go striding into the middle of it under all the lights, where crowds of people could stare at him. Andy was going to sit on the cliff and dream about it.

Cars were flowing in rivers down Blunt Street and Wattle Road, spreading over the flat ground near the course, and banking up into all the streets and lanes above. All the white-coated men were at their busiest. ‘No, no!' they shouted to flustered drivers. ‘You won't do it! Forward again…now, back…back…now, round—keep going!' Horse-floats went slowly down the hills. Buses, waddling among the lighter traffic like elephants, went down to join the herd in their own parking area. The sky was a mysterious glowing grey made up of violet, lilac and faded rose. Over the rim of Blunt Street, a neon sign that stood above the city made sharp green flashes against the glowing grey.

Andy went quietly through his little alley and down to the rocks of the cliff. He sat there, looking at the lighted stage below and the crowds that were already drifting there; and he dreamed of himself drifting among them. He didn't hear anyone coming until someone arrived beside him on the rocks.

‘Shove over,' said Joe, pushing on to the ledge.

Andy's voice was full of pleasure. ‘Hey, it's you, Joe! Plenty of room here, Joe. Did you come to watch?' The toy figures of the bandsmen marched on the track, and the music came up to them. ‘Good, isn't it?' said Andy with simple pride.

‘Not bad,' said Joe cautiously. He had waited for Andy and followed him here, away from stray dogs and silently scornful Irishmen, slipping off while the O'Day boys were finding customers for their backyard parking space. He had a difficult job to do, and he was going to watch every word with the greatest care. He sat beside Andy, quietly watching while the silent, shabby racecourse put on its hidden truth of colour and life.

‘I bet they're making a mess,' said Andy happily. ‘She was cleaned up good this morning,
I
know. I helped.' He looked sideways at Joe in the gathering dusk, to see if he were impressed. Joe shifted uneasily on the rock. ‘They got two lots to clean up this time,' Andy went on, ‘so I gave 'em a hand.'

The voice from the amplifier spoke, heralding the first race. The crowd began to wash along the rails or drain away into the stands. The band disappeared. Andy gave a cry of delight.

‘The horses! See the horses!'

The horses and silk-clad drivers went by and Andy's heart went with them, snatched away under the golden lights, whirling round the track. Joe watched with him, while the great voice sang and the signals flashed; until the race broke and fell apart into flying units, and Andy's heart returned to his body.

‘Dogs are all right,' said Andy, breathing deeply. ‘Only horses are better.'

‘Do you like the horses best?' asked Joe. ‘Best of the whole show, I mean?'

Andy thought about it. ‘I might do,' he said at last.

‘But they're not yours, are they? You don't own the horses?'

Andy shook his head solemnly. ‘They're none of 'em mine, I know most of 'em, though.'

‘But you don't own them. They're not part of
your
show. What do you like next best? The dogs?'

‘Dunno,' said Andy, sounding a little confused. ‘I reckon the dogs are pretty good.'

‘Do you own them?'

‘'Course not,' said Andy, beginning to grow impatient. ‘You know I got no dogs.'

‘So you like the horses and dogs best, but you don't own them. What else do you like, then? What's the next best?'

‘See the numbers going up,' said Andy, sliding away from these pointless and bothering questions. ‘It's a big night,
I
know. All those people, that's why it's a big night. Hey, Joe, did you ever see such a big night? I reckon there's thousands, don't you? Thousands of people.'