I Own the Racecourse! (15 page)

Andy stared at it. ‘I dunno,' he said.

‘Well, of course,' said the man, smiling still more widely, ‘I wouldn't expect an important bloke like you to waste your valuable time for
nothing.
I'd have to make
that
up to you, wouldn't I. Two dollars? Is that fair?' Andy was astonished to see a note in the man's other hand, and to find package and note thrust firmly into his own hands. He went on staring. ‘It's worth that to me,' the man was saying, ‘if it's worth it to you, to see that the little mare gets a fair chance. Only I wouldn't mention it to anyone, if I were you. There's those that might like to see her lose. Good night to you. We'll get on our way.'

The two men hurried down the stairs and into a car that was waiting in the street below. Though they were in such a hurry, the car didn't drive off at once. Andy saw that it was black and shining. Then he knew who the men must be.

‘The evil fellers!' he muttered. ‘Those ones that take bread from kids!' He went loping down the stairs, past the coloured lights of the hotel, and across the street to the open gate of the racecourse.

The grandstand rose before him, dressed in its lights. The band was playing, the same mixed lot in their dark blue uniforms with various trimmings, marching forward along the track. The crowd on the rails craned after them, listening and staring. Andy had no time to listen. He turned his eyes away from the lights to the shadows by the gate, looking for the tall, quiet form of Bert Hammond.

Bert was there. Andy thrust the package and the two-dollar note at him urgently. ‘Two fellers gave me this for Fair Lady. They're in a big black car. What'll I do?'

‘Where's the car?' snapped Bert.

‘That one—see, it's turning round—it's going up the hill. Are they bad men, Mr Hammond?'

‘Got the number,' said Bert with satisfaction, fishing with his free hand for a pencil and scribbling on the package that was meant for Fair Lady. Then he looked at Andy, and his square mouth stretched into a smile. ‘Bad men, all right. You know what, son? You'll make a pretty good owner after all, I shouldn't wonder. You did the right thing that time.'

Warm little trickles of relief and pleasure flowed through Andy's body. He chuckled happily and stared at the track. Then—his mouth fell open in frozen horror.

The band had turned and was marching away down the track, swinging proudly to the rhythm of their own music while their instruments shone under the floodlights: two very short men, two very old men, some with red stripes and some with gold braid; but all with patches of white paint and strips of wrinkled scum clinging to the seats of their navy-blue trousers.

Andy turned and went running away.

‘You understand, I had to tell 'em,' said Bert Hammond, his jaw square and stern. ‘The row—I never saw such a to-do. Talk of the police, and all.' He pressed a hand against his forehead. ‘I told Marsden the whole thing—couldn't do different.'

He was talking, not to Andy, but to Andy's four friends. Andy himself was sunk in shame and misery, and had taken to haunting lonely lanes and avoiding people's eyes. His friends had found him that dreadful night running down a dark street and moaning softly to himself. Full of alarm, they ran after him.

‘Andy! Andy, old boy, what's up? Come on, boy, tell us what it is.'

‘The band,' moaned Andy. ‘Their pants—the paint—I done it. Gee, I should've asked Bert.'

They got the story out of him bit by bit, and none of them felt like laughing. They were horrified, but they had to try to comfort Andy.

‘Never mind, old boy, don't you worry. A bit of paint? Dry-cleaning'll take that off.'

They even tried to make a joke of it, though they knew it was really a crisis. The white paint on the band's trousers was a sort of earthquake rocking Andy's frail castle. They could see that he wasn't worried about this, but they couldn't make him laugh either. He was simply horrified at what he had done to the band. They kept him with them in the workshop for over two hours, and when he was calmer they took him home.

He didn't help with the sweeping in the morning, but crept miserably to Bert Hammond's front gate and waited there until Bert came out. ‘Gee, I'm sorry, Mr Hammond,' he whispered. ‘Gee, I never meant it to be like that. I'll always ask you after this, so you can put me straight.'

‘You mightn't have much chance, son,' said Bert, trying to warn him for his own sake. ‘I'll do my best for you, but the Committee won't be pleased. There'll be a row.'

‘Will I have to buy new pants with stripes on 'em? I got no money, see.'

‘You can't buy 'em, then, can you? I reckon the Committee'll look after that side of it.'

‘They're the ones that get the money,' said Andy, working it out. ‘That's fair, I reckon.'

‘The Committee won't think it's very fair,' said Bert sharply. ‘I got to warn you, boy, there'll be a row. It wasn't the Committee that smothered those benches with old paint.'

‘Gee, I know that, Mr Hammond. Not
their
fault those seats was all black and rusty.
I'm
the owner, I got to look after them.' This point of view silenced Bert for a moment. Andy whispered, ‘But I never meant—the band—the pants…' He slunk quickly away.

Bert was not really surprised that his warning had failed to get through. He was worried about Andy, and glad to see Andy's four friends when they came to ask, rather nervously, what was likely to happen.

‘You understand, I had no choice but to tell 'em,' he said. ‘The Committee's meeting tomorrow night. They'll have the whole story from Marsden.'

The boys were silent for a moment, awed by the thought of a number of expensively dressed gentlemen in bowler hats sitting round a table and discussing Andy Hoddel, the rival owner of their racecourse. Mike said, ‘Where do they meet?'

‘Committee Room down there,' said Bert absently, waving towards the grandstand at Beecham Park. ‘Poor kid…I blame the men for leading him on, but it's mostly my fault…Still and all, there wasn't much anyone could do. He's got this idea so firm in his head you can't get it out, and you don't know the harm you might do trying.'

‘We know,' agreed Joe heartily. ‘Well—if only his mother doesn't have to hear, that's the best we can look for now.'

‘I'll do my best for him,' Bert promised. ‘That business with Fair Lady ought to help.' He told them about it. ‘Saved a bit of a rumpus, that did; they can't help but be pleased about that. I'll do my best with it.' His eyes slid away, looking downhill and across the racecourse. ‘I've been with it for a long time…'

The boys crept away. They were shaken to realize that other people—Bert Hammond, the men who worked in the grounds, Marsden the Secretary—were being drawn into Andy's troubles. They were glad that Bert was going to do his best; and secretly, unreasonably, they were full of a new hope.

‘Those crooks that were trying to dope the horse,' said Terry tensely; ‘I bet that makes a big difference!'

Matt's eyes danced. ‘He said so himself—it can't help but make a difference! My sainted aunt—fancy old Andy nabbing them!'

‘All the same,' said Joe, looking sideways at Mike, ‘you were wrong. He doesn't really own the place. If he did, we wouldn't be wondering what's going to happen. It
couldn't
crash.'

‘Couldn't it?' retorted Mike. ‘We used to have a big garden in front of our place, but they took it off us to make the street wider. There's my uncle, too. He's a tanner, and they made him shift his business because people didn't like the smell. He owned his yard and sheds all right, but they made him shift out, all the same.'

Terry curled his lip. ‘You mean Andy owns Beecham Park, but not the band's trousers.'

Matt gave a snort of laughter. Suddenly they were all leaning against the wall and laughing till it hurt.

‘I wish I'd seen them!'

‘Poor old Andy!'

‘Marching along—
oomp-ah, oomp-ah…
'

‘…and all that white paint on their pants!'

They were still there, leaning weakly against the wall, when Andy found them. They took him up to the traffic lights to buy him a drink. He followed quietly, but they thought he seemed less miserable than he had been; and once they heard his voice from behind.

‘It'll be all right. Dry-cleaning'll take that off.'

Matt choked a little.

As they reached the busier streets they began to realize that other people were laughing too.

‘How are you, boss? Doing any more painting?' said a man outside Blessings.

‘Don't worry, mate, we'll stand up for you,' called the men outside the hotel.

Andy turned pink and chuckled faintly.

The next evening, with Andy safely at home, the others wandered out restlessly to look at Beecham Park where the Committee was meeting. There were one or two cars in the grounds, and a dim light shone from a room under the big stand.

‘We can get round to the back of that,' said Mike.

They went down to the park, and worked quietly round the lower wall of the racecourse until they found an open gate. They slipped quietly through it, and along one side of the stand where another lighted window was partly open. They sat in a silent row underneath it, leaning against the wall. A rumble of men's voices came through the window.

‘No good,' whispered Joe. ‘Can't hear.'

They would have left, but a late-coming car kept them frozen while the beam of its headlights fumbled past them and reached across the grounds. By the time the driver had disappeared through a door in the front of the stand, an outbreak of louder voices was coming through the window. The boys sat and listened to the phrases they could hear.

‘…find it very difficult to believe…'

‘Never heard such nonsense!'

‘Disgraceful lack of control…not the Committee's responsibility.'

Someone banged with something, and a single voice spoke quietly on; but tempers seemed to be rising in the room, and it was not long before loud voices broke out again.

‘Ridiculous story!'

‘We shall be a laughing-stock!'

‘Public opinion…very strong feelings among the men…nasty incident avoided…Fair Lady…'

Then one voice, very loud: ‘Are you suggesting that this Committee should be held to
ransom?
'

More banging, and a call: ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Difficult matter…undesirable publicity…further consideration…'

There was silence for a moment, and then a general rumbling of voices. Mike tugged at the sleeve nearest him. ‘I think they're coming out,' he whispered.

The four listeners drifted quietly off to the park, where they paused and looked at each other rather wildly.

‘But what did they
decide
?' cried Matt. ‘As far as I can see, they just gave up and went home.'

‘They've got to find a way to keep it dark,' said Terry. ‘They don't want a row with the men, and stories in the papers and all that.'

‘That's something,' said Joe moodily. ‘No more do we.'

They walked home in silence; and as they separated Mike said, ‘They've still got to find a way to make Andy
believe
he isn't the owner. They haven't even started yet.' Then he grinned. ‘Rocked them a bit, didn't it?—finding out that someone else owned their racecourse.'

It did seem that the Committee's meeting had made very little difference. The incident of the band's trousers began to fade in importance, even to Andy's friends. Andy himself was recovering rapidly. ‘I made a mistake, see,' he said to Joe. ‘I got to be in it for years yet. Then I'll know.' On the day after that, he invited his friends to come down and watch the greyhounds training, just as if nothing had happened.

‘I'd rather watch from the top of the cliff,' said Joe quickly. ‘You can see more from up there.'

They went to the cliff and sat on the rocks. Men and dogs moved about below as casually as they always did on a training night. It was early, and at first the mechanical hare was not moving; but in a moment the high, mechanical whine came up to the cliff, and the small bobbing shape went swinging round the course, gathering speed as it approached the barrier where some of the dogs waited. As it swung past, the barrier doors opened and three greyhounds sprang after it. The hare raced ahead, bobbing bravely—until suddenly it paused and seemed to consider. The whining sound increased, but the hare moved sedately, with teasing slowness, for a yard or two while the dogs hurled themselves at it. Then, with the sudden speed of a bullet, it shot away to the other side of the track while the dogs yelped with bewilderment. They had lost it. The hare dropped back to its normal racing speed while three men ran out on the track to collect the bewildered dogs.

Andy was laughing joyously. ‘Did you see him go? They lost him! He nearly caught 'em up from behind.' He laughed and laughed.

Now again the hare came past the barrier, and four more dogs leapt after it. The hare swung ahead—and again, at the same spot, it paused, went slowly while the dogs caught up, then shot off at amazing speed half-way round the track. Then it stopped. Andy lay back against the rock and laughed helplessly.

‘There's something wrong,' said Mike, frowning.

‘Notice how the whine goes up when she slows down?' said Terry. ‘They put on more power, trying to get her through the slow bit, and when she comes through she's going like a rocket till they get her slowed down again. There's something wrong with the rail at that place where she slows down.'

‘Eh?' said Andy, still chuckling. ‘Not there, there isn't. I tightened those nuts myself. With my spanners, I did it.' They were staring at him.