‘Let’s go round to the paddock,’ said Lorna. ‘I want to pick a winner.’
‘Everyone’s looking at you,’ whispered Hood. ‘They’re saying, “Who’s that fantastic chick?” ’
She laughed. ‘You’re dreaming.’ But she looked down at her new boots in prim admiration. He had never seen her so happy, and he imagined a life with her: a safe monotony, without incident, surrendering to Deptford, the pub, the bed, the child, the dog track, the weekend in Brighton. He wanted more, but he was tempted by less, and he sometimes felt this, passing the window of a south London parlour and envying the people inside having tea with their elbows on the table. He could save her that way; he saw in her the sad ageing of every lost soul — and it was true loss, since she had no notion of how she had been widowed. But what kept him from pushing the reverie further was not that it was a retreat from the life he had planned for himself but that underlying this obvious feeling was a smaller one: pity, the feeblest mimicry of love.
He followed her behind the grandstand to the paddock. Here it was damp, enclosed and yet open to the sky. It was divided by a sturdy metal fence. On the other side was a small shed; a few over-bright bulbs inside the shed lighted patches of grass where they stood. The rest of the lights were aimed at the closed doors of thirty numbered stalls built against the brick embankment of the railway line. These narrow cupboards rattled with the whimpering of the dogs locked inside — their wails carried, as they had from the traps, and Hood was alarmed by their frantic pawings on the wooden doors. The paddock was empty, but the cries of the dogs, and the dampness, the spiked fence and the spotlights that showed nothing but locked doors, gave it the appearance of a tortuous jail compound. Hood wanted to go. Lorna said, ‘Wait — here they come.’
Shivering, blinking and scratching at their numbered vests, the dogs were dragged into the shed by the kennel maids, who wore velvet riding caps and jodhpurs. Then a bowler-hatted man in brown gaiters — the starter — checked their collars and tried their vests to see they were securely fastened. Men, a dozen or more, had gathered at the fence to watch this simple ceremony, and they conferred in whispers, singling out particular dogs with cautious nods.
‘Number Two looks like he wants a kip,’ said Lorna. ‘But that Number Three’s a lively one. Got a strong back.’ She opened her programme. ‘Lucky Gold — nice name.’
Hood leaned to her ear. ‘Who are these apes hanging on the fence?’
‘Villains,’ said Lorna, confidentially. ‘It’s a crooked sport — attracts all the villains, like Ron and them fuckers. But my father told me what to look out for. Right here, before the race, you can spot the slow ones.’
‘That mutt looks like he’s limping.’
‘The villains step on their toes — their paws, like. That one’s probably been mashed. Or they give them a drink of water. Sometimes — straight — they put chewing gum up their arses. Anything to slow them up. But Number Three, Lucky Gold, he looks a fast one, he does. He’s going to win.’
‘All this poncing about,’ a man clutching the fence said loudly. ‘That clot’s just wasting time — they could have been around the track by now.’
‘Cheap,’ said another man, ‘filthy cheap —’
As he spoke there was a rumbling above the paddock, an approaching train. The warning was brief; the train thundered by a moment later, flashing across the arches overhead, a rapid intrusion of banging wheels drowning the voices and the dogs’ whimpers. The yellow windows blurred and lengthened to a ribbon by the speed. The paddock shook and the eyes of the dogs being led out bulged in fear over the muzzles. For seconds the paddock was darkened by the loud clatter.
The men left as the kennel maids filed out with the dogs, and Hood went with Lorna to the front of the grandstand, to a window with the sign Win and Place.
‘How much are you betting?’
She said, ‘A pound on Number Three to place.’
‘A pound to place? But you said he’s going to win!’
‘Who knows?’
‘Put your money where your mouth is,’ said Hood. ‘Play to win — why hedge?’
‘Because I might lose the lot, nitwit.’
‘If you’re worried about losing you shouldn’t be betting.’
‘It’s just a flutter,’ she said. ‘Bit of fun. Little gamble.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said, and she seemed amazed by how serious he had become. He growled, ‘If it ain’t risky, sweetheart, it ain’t gambling.’
‘The big villain,’ she said.
He snatched her money and stepped past her to the window. ‘Five pounds on Number Three — to win.’ He took the tickets and handed them to her: ‘Now watch that bitch run.’
He put his arm around her and kissed her. They walked arm in arm to an empty place on the grandstand steps. It was to be a long race, over five-hundred metres, so the traps were across the stadium from the finishing line. But even at that distance the dogs’ howls were loud, and they carried from the far side — long anxious wails from the barred traps. The lights went off and only the track shone, a sugary yellow; the rabbit started its circuit and the wire sang again. The traps banged open.
It was not clear until the dogs passed them which one was ahead, but at the turn they saw the number four dog baulk and the white vest of Number Three flash to the front.
‘He’s in the lead!’ said Lorna.
The pack darted after him, the lean dogs sprinting beautifully, low to the ground, almost horizontal in a silent chase, like gaunt racing wolves liquefying with the speed. Their names were absurd — Kelowna Gem, Tawny Perch, Aerial Miss, Star Beyond — but for half a minute their names mattered, and Lucky Gold jostled with the blue-vested number two dog, Act On, for first place. They had circled the stadium once and were now leaping around the last curve. Hood saw the second dog slowing and Lucky Gold’s slender head shoot across the finish line in a burst of light as the photo was taken.
Lorna screamed delightedly. Hood said, ‘You’re rolling in it,’ and helped her collect her winnings at the pay-out window.
After that win of nearly thirty pounds, they bet in the same way on the next two races, going behind to the paddock and choosing the liveliest dog before placing the bet. But both dogs lost; one was fast away but finished fourth, the other came in second. Lorna said, ‘I told you we should have got place tickets.’
‘Forget it,’ said Hood. ‘You’re still in the money. Let’s go up there and you can buy me a drink.’
‘We can’t go there — you need a blue programme for that enclosure. They’ll chuck us out.’
The first-class enclosure was just above them, a lighted ledge. They were at the margin of the track, away from the men crowding the bookies.
‘There’s your friend,’ said Lorna.
Hood was looking at the twinkling lights on the far side. It was a pleasing circus, a fine way of playing at risk. He said, ‘Who?’
‘Willy Rutter.’ Seeing Hood squint she added, ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know him. He’s up there.’ She frowned and pointed to a man leaning against that high window. ‘Look at him — he thinks he’s big. He’s looking at you.’
Hood said, ‘I see him.’
The dark-haired man, bulked at the glass, was gesturing, motioning in a friendly way. The light behind him blackened his face and showed how his hair was fluffed at his ears. But even so, in these dim features, Hood could see how mistakenly he had characterized the man. He had imagined a thug and had given him a heavy jaw and fangs and an ape’s shoulders. This was a smaller creature than he had pictured in his mind, a man who looked like a car salesman, waving with sham geniality. The man turned aside to face the light and Hood saw a smile on his pouchy face.