An Accumulation

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.