Harry Price had started in the Bookmaking
trade in the yard at the back of the Crown.
He had done so when his father had decreed that he was ready to take
over. The punters trusted him, and he
had always inspired loyal service from his runners. The coppers left him alone and business was
good.
When the 1960s came, new laws said that
Harry need no longer hide away behind a back street pub. And so, along with so many of his fellow
tradesmen, he reluctantly joined the High Street. He took on a small shop at the shabby end. Formerly a fishmongers, he could never quite
get rid of the smell – but the tiling was easy to clean and the spit and fag
ends could be removed in one sweep.
Indoor life without windows didn’t suit so well though, and Harry
nurtured a resentment. The rent, the
electric and the sweeping brushes were all a source of irritation.
One particular Saturday Harry’s habitual
scowl became more pronounced. A big chain had opened up a bookies a bit further
down the street, and to top it, Billy Jackson’s accumulator was close to coming
up. Just one more race to go – if the
favourite came in Harry was done for.
Everything he owned would belong to Billy. As the commentary started, the shop fell into
quiet. The punters all watched Harry
either with sympathy or delighted interest.
The favourite led the field. Harry
wondered if it was time to retire anyway.
The final furlong came. The favourite
won.
Harry shooed them all out of the shop and
went to lock the door. Some protested –
what about Billy’s money when he came for it?
Harry told them that Billy knew where he lived, and he set off up the
High Street. He walked into the new
bookies and flourished a neatly folded slip under the screen. He’d agreed with Billy’s predictions and had
placed the same bet – with triple the stake - with the new shop. He smiled to himself as one of his old regulars
pretended that he wasn’t there.
