I Own the Racecourse! (9 page)

‘Eh?' said Andy. ‘What are you going for? Aren't you coming in to watch? Hey, Joe—aren't you coming in?'

‘No, I'm not,' said Joe sternly. ‘Come
on
, Andy.'

Andy turned away from them with a movement of resignation. He had lost them again. None of their muttered calls seemed to reach him, so they retreated to the corner of the street and watched from there for a minute or two. After that, since nothing seemed to be happening, they went away.

Matt was shaking his head in an astonished way. ‘Old Andy—would you believe it! What's come over him?'

They walked on for several yards, leaning forward to climb the hill. Then Mike said, ‘He's bought a racecourse.'

Terry curled his lip. ‘He's wasted his money, then. He'll soon find out what the trainers think of him racing strays.'

‘I don't know what his mother'd say,' said Joe, worrying. ‘If only there was some way to get to him . . .' He glanced at Mike; but Mike was staring at the sky, and his face was closed. Joe frowned. Suddenly he said, ‘I'll see you blokes later,' and turned abruptly into another street. Matt raised his eyebrows at Terry, but no one said anything.

The streets were growing dark as Joe wandered on, full of a slow, helpless anger. He was thinking, What do
they
care? Who cares about Andy Hoddel? He's only poor old Andy. He's lucky to have us, his mother says. That ought to be good enough for him, having us—he can't expect us to
do
anything for him, can he?

Then the anger faded into a hurt and disappointed feeling. ‘I would've thought you could count on Mike,' muttered Joe. He always had counted on Mike; counted on him, not only to see the same problems that Joe saw, but to work them out and come up with the right answer. And now, just at the worst moment, Mike closed up and didn't seem to care.

‘I'll have to work it out myself, that's all,' said Joe, turning into a lane so narrow that there was no footpath at all. Tall fences pressed towards him on each side, and above them rose a shadowy wilderness of back stairs, little balconies behind rotting blinds, lights glowing through coloured curtains, the dark masses of roofs and chimneys and, drawn sharply against the tarnished sky, the sketchy outlines of television antennae. Joe saw none of it. He was trying to work things out.

The problem, it seemed to him, was to make Andy see what was real and what was not. Joe could see that that might be hard for someone like Andy. Easy enough to know that a house was real, or a loaf of bread, for instance; but what about things like atoms, or Mount Everest, or war? A lot of people never saw those things at all, but they were real, just the same. For someone like Andy, it must often be pretty hard to tell which things were real and which weren't. If someone came along and told him that he owned Beecham Park, how was Andy to know that wasn't as real as atoms? All the more reason, thought Joe, for making Andy understand. Some things were real, and you had to live with them whether you liked them or not; other things weren't and you couldn't have them even if you wanted to. If you didn't know which were which, you were just going to waste a lot of time and get in a hopeless sort of mess. That was the important thing; the question was, how to explain it to Andy? Joe went on thinking about it until he found himself at his own front gate without knowing how he came there.

Andy himself was still sitting near the track and watching the greyhounds training. In spite of them, his face had its sad, lost look. His friends had come at last, and had gone away again. He had tried to bring them into Beecham Park and show them that it was his. He didn't have the words to tell them about it: about misty mornings and horses silently running; rain-soaked mornings and the flashing wings of seagulls; warm evenings and leaping dogs. He couldn't describe the excitement of floodlit nights, or the peace inside the quiet walls on a warm afternoon. He could only try to show them. They had laughed, too; but then they had gone away. He had lost them again. He sat there sadly, watching the dogs, and it was some time before he heard voices calling softly from the gate.

‘Andy Hoddel! Hey, Hoddel!'

When he did hear, he looked to see who was calling. In the dusk he could see Charlie Willis and another boy, Ted Chance, grinning and beckoning in the gateway. Andy frowned. They were not friends of his. ‘I heard you,' he said loudly. ‘What do you want?'

‘Who said you could go in there, Hoddel? Come on over here.'

‘No one said. I just came. I'm staying.'

The two boys whispered together for a minute, then crept through the gate and came softly to Andy.

‘I never said
you
could come,' Andy pointed out. ‘You got no right.'

The boys giggled.

‘Aw, come on, Andy, be a sport—fetch the dogs again!'

‘Fetch 'em, boy. We want to see 'em race again.'

Andy knew that wheedling, teasing tone. ‘You seen,' he said sourly. ‘You get out of here.'

‘I
said
you wouldn't be game,' whispered Charlie. ‘I'll give you two cents.'

‘You get out of here!' shouted Andy, his face dark. ‘It's not your place. What do I want your two cents for? Get out.'

‘Sh!' The two boys giggled uncertainly and peered into the dusk.

‘Get off my racecourse!' roared Andy. ‘I'll have them set the greyhounds on you!'

‘Put a sock in it, can't you?' said Charlie anxiously. Ted Chance tugged at his sleeve. They moved silently back to the gate and disappeared.

After a while Andy stood up and went home.

Andy's disappointment was gone by next morning. It was a pity that his friends didn't seem to like his racecourse, but they were still the people he admired and trusted. He didn't expect always to understand them. After school he went off contentedly to weed the garden inside the high walls.

He was proud of his garden. There was always a lot of oxalis, and Andy worked hard at getting rid of it because he knew oxalis was a pest; but the onion-weed he liked, and cultivated as carefully as the flowers. It grew so tall, taller than most of the formal plants, and he liked the way the long, hollow stems curved with the weight of their delicate white flowers. He was pleased with his onion-weed and was carefully leaning a long stem against a hydrangea for support when he saw Bert Hammond coming with the hose. Andy gave him a wide and welcoming smile.

‘Here's a big one,' he said, proudly displaying the onion-weed. ‘See the flowers.'

Bert Hammond nodded in a companionable way. Andy's gardening seemed reasonable enough to him. If anyone liked weeds as well as phlox, then weeds were as good as phlox and a lot easier to grow. People didn't come to Beecham Park to admire the phlox. As far as Bert could see, an unconventional display in the garden did nobody any harm. Racing was a different matter. That was the serious business of Beecham Park, and an unconventional display on the track mattered very much.

‘Reckon I'll have to lock that bottom gate when the dogs are training,' said Bert heavily. ‘Too many strays altogether. There was a whole mob got in last night.'

Andy looked a little self-conscious and bent over the garden. ‘Here's another big one,' he said, gently disentangling another long stalk from the choking growth of phlox and raising it among the shrubs. Bert glanced at the onion-weed, but his mouth remained uncompromisingly square.

‘Trainers don't like a pack of mongrels in the way,' he pointed out. ‘Bad for business. A racecourse is for racing-dogs. They'll go to another course. We won't get any dogs.'

Andy was alarmed. ‘They gotta come here! You tell 'em, Mr Hammond. We don't want no strays here, getting in the way. We'll keep 'em out. You tell the trainers!'

Bert Hammond's mouth relaxed at last. ‘That's how it is, is it? All right, boy. Don't you want to tell 'em yourself?'

‘I don't know 'em that well,' mumbled Andy shyly.

‘You'll find Wilf Thomas walking Golden Boy in the park any afternoon. I'll tell him to look out for you.'

Andy stared at the wall, absorbing this information. A warm, satisfied look spread over his face. Bert went on hosing the bed, and he too was satisfied.

On the following afternoon Andy did not go to the racecourse, but walked past its walls and down to the open park. He crossed the storm-water channel by a little bridge near the willows and reached the stretch of green that swept down to the arches of the railway, and through them, and beyond. Each of the arches made a tunnel of shadow and in front of one, bright against the darkness, Terry O'Day was giving Matt Pasan some serious batting practice.

They had put up the wicket they had made out of timber from the storm-water channel. Terry was fielding as well as bowling, doing both with silent intensity, his face flushed with heat. Matt, who would not have needed this practice if he could have borrowed some of Terry's intensity, was relaxing at the wicket between balls. It was Matt who saw Andy wandering over the grass, looking about in a vaguely hopeful way.

‘There's old Andy!' shouted Matt. ‘He'll field.'

‘Maybe,' grunted Terry, and bowled a slow one. Matt hit it towards the solid, spiky-haired figure corning slowly from the bridge. It fell with a thud that made Andy jump, and rolled quickly on towards the channel.

Andy looked to see who was playing, then trotted after the ball as a matter of course. He threw it, not very accurately, and chuckled with approval as Terry swept down and gathered it up.

Matt shouted, ‘Thanks, boy. Watch this one!'

Time was important to Andy only moment by moment. Golden Boy was not in sight, but Terry and Matt were. He stayed, contentedly fielding balls and glad to share in the game. The sun dropped behind a ridge, edging with gold the clustering rooftops and sending long, shapeless shadows across the park. Suddenly, through the dark tunnel of a railway arch, came a man leading a greyhound.

Andy, who was bringing the ball back from the channel, saw them at once. He stood and watched as the man and dog came on past Matt at the wicket; then he loped towards them. As he was still holding the ball, Matt and Terry waited uncertainly.

‘Hullo,' said Andy, smiling his warm smile and fixing his round blue eyes on the greyhound. ‘That's Golden Boy, isn't it?'

‘That's him,' said the man gruffly, walking on. He was short and broad, with heavy brows. He held the dog's leash in a strong, aware grip, very much in control. The sleek, tawny dog wore a muzzle on its pointed snout and looked at Andy with dark, cold eyes.

‘You're Wilf Thomas,
I
know,' said Andy.

‘That's me,' said the man. He walked on and Andy followed a few steps behind, talking to his back.

‘Golden Boy goes to Beecham Park. That's my racecourse. We don't want no strays there, mister. They just get in the way. We gotta have the real dogs.'

The man stopped. He looked at Andy with a half-smile—that made his face pleasanter. ‘Oh. So you're the owner.'

Andy chuckled with delight. ‘That's me.'

‘Bert Hammond told me to look out for you. Here—want to lead him for a bit?'

Andy hesitated, chuckling and turning pink. ‘He can't do no harm, can he? He's got that thing on his head. Will he go steady?'

‘He'll be all right. I'll have an eye on him.' Wilf Thomas was holding out the leash. Andy discovered that he still had the cricket ball.

‘I forgot,' he said in great surprise, and turned to look for his friends. They were a few feet away, watching intently. Matt's mouth had dropped open a little, and Terry was frowning at the greyhound. ‘Here's your ball,' said Andy. ‘Thanks for the game. I gotta go.'

He took the leash, twisting it twice round his hand as Wilf Thomas showed him. Wilf spoke to the dog, and they went away over the grass towards the bridge. The dog walked ahead, its long legs moving lightly. Andy's whole mind was fixed on the dog as he followed it. The man walked beside him with a hand ready to take the leash if necessary. They went over the bridge and out of the park. Peeping from the storm-water channel, Charlie and Greg Willis watched them go.

When they had disappeared, Terry O'Day began pulling up the stumps of the wicket. Matt was staring in a dazed way.

‘The owner! Did you hear that?'

‘Of course I heard. They've started pulling his leg.'

‘Didn't sound like that to me,' said Matt.

He said so again the next morning on the way to school. ‘I don't reckon that chap was pulling Andy's leg—he looked a grouchy sort to me. He wasn't even going to talk till he found out who it was. Then he said, “Oh, you're the owner,” and handed over the dog, just like that.'

The others listened, Mike distant and unmoved, Joe with a heavy frown. Neither of them said anything. Matt shot a puzzled look at each in turn.

‘I don't know what's up with you blokes lately,' he ventured. ‘Anyone'd think we'd had a blazing row about old Andy. I thought we all felt the same way.'

‘What way?' demanded Terry with a twist of his mouth.

‘Well…there's poor old Andy, lost his money, thinks he's done something wonderful, and he's going to come an awful cropper. We can't get his money back because he won't tell us who pinched it; and we can't make him give up all this rot because he won't take any notice of us, and he's getting in deeper all the time. But we
would
do something if we could, wouldn't we? We'll have another try first chance we get, so we want to know what's going on. That's right, isn't it?'

Joe said nothing, but looked at Mike. Mike shrugged. Joe flushed angrily.

‘Yes,' said Joe. ‘It
is
right—only it's not the money that matters so much.'

This seemed to reach Mike. He looked up and said, almost unwillingly, ‘What is it, then?'