I Own the Racecourse! (12 page)

Mike and Joe walked with him in silence to his own street. Andy went dreamily, full of warm content. He had gone boldly into his racecourse when it was alive, and it had been quite wonderful. His friends had gone with him and seen it all. Now they knew.

‘See you,' he said, nodding good night, and went loping away in the dark behind a wall of parked cars.

Mike turned on Joe. ‘Well?' he said sternly.

‘Well, what?' said Joe, almost choking with anger and despair. When Mike didn't answer he burst out angrily. ‘I nearly had him till you came along, pulling his leg like the rest of them. I hope you're satisfied, that's all. I nearly had him talking sense.'

‘Your
sort of sense,' said Mike in the same cold, precise tone that Terry used when he was angry. ‘It seems to hurt pretty bad. I didn't like that, Mooney. I didn't think you'd do that to Andy.'

‘Do what? Try and get him out of a mess, do you mean? That's one thing
you're
not doing, anyhow, O'Day.
You
don't have to blame yourself.'

‘I haven't seen anything I
can
do—or you either. What's the
good
of upsetting him like that? What's the use of you telling him one thing when the whole of that mob down there keep showing him you're wrong?'

‘I'm
not
wrong. So they can't be showing him, can they?'

‘Haven't you got a brain in your head, Joe Mooney? You're so sure that you know everything and poor old Andy's just a lunatic. Can't you shift out of your own light and have another look? Can't you see that
Andy Hoddel owns Beecham Park
?'

Mike turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Joe staring after him in the dark.

Now it seemed to Joe that the whole world had gone crazy and he was the only sane person left. He and Mike O'Day were the two people Andy trusted most, the two who had looked after him for years. Now, when Joe was doing his best to pull Andy out of this mess, what happened? Andy looked at him as if he were a murderer or something—and Mike O'Day backed him up. Everyone was backing Andy up. The trotting drivers, the dog trainers, the cleaners, the men on the turnstiles, the woman in the stall, and even Mike himself, all of them had slipped away out of reality, into Andy Hoddel's dream. Moodily, Joe kept out of their way, staying at home or wandering by himself. They were all mad, and only Joe himself had any sense.

‘Or else
I'm
mad,' muttered Joe, kicking at the fence. There were one or two times when he wasn't sure which it was; but it didn't seem to make any difference.

And now that Joe had given up the whole problem in a sullen, defeated way, now that he no longer went hunting for Andy to keep an eye on him, Andy often came looking for Joe. Andy could tell that his friends had quarrelled, and that the quarrel was something to do with him. He knew how people felt when they were moody and miserable, though he wasn't very clear about the quarrel itself. Joe had been telling him something upsetting and rather frightening when Mike had come along; and Mike could see that it was all right about Beecham Park. Andy was glad of Mike, but still…‘Poor Joe. Poor old Joe.' Andy wanted Joe to know that they were still friends; that it didn't matter about owning Beecham Park, it was all right.

‘Where you going, Joe?' he would call, spotting the lonely figure with slumped shoulders and pursuing it heavily into some lane. ‘Can I come? Wait on, Joe.' Or he would just appear and follow silently, the usual step or two behind. Since Joe had always been the most patient of Andy's friends, he could not shake off this friendly pursuit. The very core of his hurt was that Mike had accused him of cruelty. He could never be deliberately cruel to Andy. So it happened that for several days Joe spent a good deal of time alone with Andy, and was forced to notice small, peculiar things.

There were the men who were always sitting in a row on the long step outside the bar of the hotel. They always shifted and looked more alive when Andy came by. ‘Hul-
lo
, it's the owner himself. How y' going, mate?' ‘Good on you, mate, you show 'em!' ‘I've bought the place meself a dozen times, but they never give it to me!'

Andy would nod and chuckle as he passed, then steal a glance at Joe to see if he minded.

There was the time in Ma Eaton's shop, when a strange man came in and greeted Andy warmly. ‘'Afternoon, boss.'

Ma Eaton gave Andy a long, sad look full of pity and enjoyment. ‘Poor, poor boy,' she whispered to the stranger. ‘Tragic.'

Andy rolled his head from side to side in an idiot fashion, stomped out of the shop and waited on the pavement. The man looked straight at Ma Eaton from under heavy brows.

‘Don't you worry about him, sweetheart,' he said strongly. ‘He's got a lot of friends, that kid has. Good blokes, most of them, even if they are a bit rough. They'll see he's all right.'

Ma Eaton sniffed and closed her mouth into a thin line.

On another day they met a woman leading a greyhound, and Andy spoke to her with confidence. ‘That's Pretty Sal,
I
know. Can I take her a little way?'

The woman, who was short and dark and wearing slacks, handed him the leash at once and walked on beside him. After a minute she said kindly, ‘ You don't want to get messing about with horses and dogs for a while yet. You want to grow up a bit first. Why don't you give it up, eh? Later on you can get a job in the stables or kennels, and learn properly. Then you can get yourself something.'

Andy laughed in astonishment. ‘Gee, I don't have to waste all that time, I got it now! I don't reckon you know much about Beecham Park.'

‘Don't you, now?' said the woman, laughing herself and shaking her head. She let Andy hold the greyhound's leash until they reached the corner of the street.

‘Who was
she
?' asked Joe when she had gone. He thought she was a sensible woman.

‘I don't know her,' said Andy. ‘Pretty Sal, that's the one I know.'

After all, thought Joe, the woman had had no better luck with Andy than Joe himself. She was just another stranger who knew about Andy Hoddel.

A surprising number of people seemed to recognize him in the street. Some of them would just stare at him curiously, but a lot of them smiled or spoke. After a while Joe began to notice a special twinkle in the smiles and a special good humour in the voices. The people who lived in these crowded terraces, the women who hung out their washing in back yards like damp little wells, the men in shabby jackets who caught early buses in the morning and crowded into the hotel in the evening, were glad that Andy Hoddel had bought Beecham Park Trotting Course for three dollars. It was as if a happy chuckle ran through all the twisting streets.

Andy didn't notice this particularly. He was simply pleased to find the world so friendly, and would chuckle happily in reply. Then he would make excuses to Joe, in case he minded.

‘See, they know I'm the owner. That's all it is.'

But Joe's sullen anger was pierced again by anxiety. Andy was certainly famous. At this rate, Mrs Hoddel couldn't help hearing the story soon.

Would that be a bad thing, or a good one? Should Joe go on worrying about it, hoping that it wouldn't happen? Or should he go himself and tell her the story at once? He found himself wishing he could talk it over with Mike—and thinking that perhaps Mike had been right all the time. Perhaps, in a queer sort of way, Andy really did own Beecham Park. Mike had certainly been right about one thing: Joe no longer knew what he ought to do.

On Saturday night Joe walked down Blunt Street and stared moodily at the crowd of racegoers. The big stand, shadowy within its outline of lights, rose against the sky, and Joe knew that Andy would not come looking for him tonight. He would be somewhere round Beecham Park, probably on the cliff above it. Joe stared for a while and then turned away, deciding that he might as well go home. He took a few steps up the hill—and found himself face to face with Mike, Terry and Matt. They stared at each other for a minute in silence; then Joe moved forward to pass, and the other three stood aside. Joe took five or six steps and suddenly turned back. The others were still standing against the scaly brick wall, watching him. Joe strode down and stood face to face with Mike.

‘All right, all right,' he said, choking angrily. ‘You were right. I don't know what to do. Everybody knows him, everybody—they all talk to him—they all call him the owner. Maybe he is,
I
don't know—but his mother's got to hear about it soon, if you're interested.
I
don't know what to say to his mother, and I s'pose
you
don't care.'

Mike said, ‘Steady on, boy,' in the same tone that Joe often used to Andy. Terry was frowning and Matt shuffled his feet, full of concern. It was so good to see them there, all three of them, just the same as ever, that Joe's anger went off in a rush and he had nothing left to say.

‘Don't strip your gears,' said Mike kindly. ‘We all care,
you
know that. Tell us what's been going on.'

They strolled very slowly down towards the racecourse, and Joe told them as well as he could.

‘Who was the bloke who shut Ma Eaton up?' demanded Terry, smiling fiercely.

‘Some chap. I don't know. I hardly know any of 'em.' He looked at Mike. ‘Hadn't we better tell Mrs Hoddel?'

‘If only you wouldn't race around
doing
things,' said Mike; but he said it in a friendly, teasing way. ‘You said yourself you don't know whether to tell her or not; so why tell her? Everybody can't know everything
all
the time. This is one of the times when we don't know.'

‘Someone's
going to tell her for sure; and then what?'

‘Then we'll have to tell her the whole lot. She won't blame us for not knowing what to do. Only it mightn't happen. Don't you remember,' Mike went on, ‘that time Tubby Edwards was knocking off the cash from telephone booths? Everyone was talking about it, at school and everywhere, for weeks; but Mrs Edwards never knew till the police showed up at the house.'

Terry nodded. ‘And when old Cockburn was going broke, he just kept on telling people he was selling out. They all let on they believed him.'

Matt added, ‘And when everyone thought Mrs Whitlock was going to die, nobody told
her
about it.'

Joe stood still, torn by doubts. ‘Only maybe Mrs Hoddel
ought
to know. She might be able to make Andy see that he
doesn't
own Beecham Park.'

‘Maybe,' said Mike. ‘We don't know, do we? Only—do you think
anyone
could make Andy believe that?'

Joe gave a tired sigh. ‘I don't think anyone could,' he confessed. ‘Andy just knows he does. Can't blame him, the way everyone s going on.'

‘Of course you can't blame him. What would you think if you were Andy?'

They stood on the pavement, watching the busy turnstiles of Beecham Park. After a minute Mike said, ‘There's another thing, though—it's doing Andy a lot of good. He's twice as good as he was. Even if it crashes, he might still be better than he was…Only I don't think it will crash. It's too strong.'

Joe would have argued about this, for it seemed impossible that Andy's dream shouldn't come crashing about his ears sooner or later; but his eyes had just fallen on Charlie and Greg Willis, Ted Chance and two other boys standing in a group outside one of the turnstiles. At that moment Andy himself came through the turnstiles carrying two large bags of potato chips. He tore open one bag and poured crisps into the outstretched hands of the five boys.

‘That's all,' he told them. ‘You clear off now. Can't have half the kids of Appington Hill coming in without their parents are with them.'

‘Go on,' said the man on the turnstile. ‘You heard the boss. Clear off, now.' The five boys drifted away.

Andy suddenly saw his friends standing and watching him, all four of them together. His face lit up.

‘Hey, Joe—hey, Mike! You want to come in? Coming, Matt? You want to see the horses, Terry?'

‘Not tonight, boy,' said Mike gravely. ‘Too many of us.'

‘Thanks all the same, mate,' added Joe.

Andy looked a little disappointed, but nodded seriously. Mike pointed to the potato chips.

‘Two bags? I thought the rent was one bag.'

‘There's two stalls.' Andy explained. ‘I told the chap on the other one, too.'

Mike looked at Joe.

‘You win,' said Joe helplessly. ‘He does own it.'

Since Andy's friends had at last decided there was nothing they could do about him, life became more normal than it had been for weeks. Andy was deeply satisfied to find that the quarrel was over, and followed them about for a while in the old way. He was with them on Monday afternoon after school when Joe said, ‘Who's coming up to the lights? I want to see if Blessings have got any balsa.'

‘Balsa?' said Mike keenly, as they headed up Wattle Road towards the traffic lights. ‘What's that for?'

‘Model plane,' said Joe. ‘It's my birthday on Saturday, and I think I'm getting the motor. We could make the plane in your workshop by then.'

‘Got a pattern?' asked Terry.

‘Not yet. If Blessings have the balsa, they're pretty sure to have a pattern.'

‘A plane's a good idea,' said Matt with enthusiasm. ‘Plenty of room in the park for flying.'

Andy's eager voice came from behind them. ‘Will it fly, Joe? Hey, Joe! Will your plane fly?'

‘I hope so,' said Joe over his shoulder. After a minute Andy called again.

‘Gee, Joe, I'm glad about your birthday.'

‘Thanks, boy.'

At the traffic lights they waited for the green walk sign, and crossed. Blessings, the newsagents on the corner, was full of people buying evening papers. Mike, Joe, Terry and Matt went to the toyshelves to hunt for balsa and patterns. Andy stayed outside the shop and waited. Once he would simply have stared at the shop windows until the others came out; but lately he had lost the habit of waiting about. Instead he wandered round the corner, past the windows of other shops in the next street, until he reached a narrow alley that led past a row of back doors. These were the back doors of the shops in Wattle Road. Andy looked down the alley at garbage cans and boxes of rubbish that the shops had put out. Some distance along was a splash of bright colour, a large carton piled high with threads and tangles of colour. Andy went into the alley to see what the brightness was.