Nothing to Lose Read Free Page B

holiday. I can’t bear to think of you having to cope with it all on your own.’
    ‘Well, I did, so maybe it was a good thing that you weren’t here. Mum and Dad and Andrew were useless, so I had to just get on with it. Anyway, could we not talk about it any more, please?’
    ‘Yeah, sure. Sorry. So, it’s a pint of Old Ampney and a packet of smoky bacon?’
    ‘Make it half a pint. I want to keep a clear head. I’m going to meet Peg at the greyhound stadium later for my initiation.’
    ‘Bloody hell!’ Clara forced her way through the inquisitive audience of children who were now three-deep on the veranda. ‘She’ll have you doing sugar-sweet smiles and singing “The Deadwood Stage” complete with whip noises and thigh slapping. I know – I’ve seen her do it in Sainsbury’s. I’d better make it a treble whisky at least.’
    Laughing, Jasmine watched Clara disappear towards the prom road and the Crumpled Horn, and then looked proudly at the chiffonier now firmly wedged at the back of the hut. The place was possibly a mite overcrowded, but at least she now had everything she needed to call it home. It’d be fine for the summer months. The winter, with the notorious Dorset gales swooshing in from the English Channel, coupled with plunging temperatures, could be another matter altogether, but she’d deal with that when it arose. Right now, she thought, as she delved into one of the dozens of cardboard boxes she’d brought from her grandfather’s house, she was relishing her newfound independence.
    ‘Bugger off!’ Clara, balancing a tray of beer and crisps, climbed back on to the veranda and glared at the children. The show’s over. Go and watch Punch and Judy. Although, on second thoughts, this is probably funnier.’
    ‘There!’ Jasmine stood back to admire her handiwork. The chiffonier was now adorned with various pieces of her inheritance – two Staffordshire highwayman figurines, a walnut carriage clock which had stopped five years before, and a pair of slightly verdigrised brass candlesticks. She’d also added her grandparents’ wedding photograph in a silver frame. ‘How does that look?’
    ‘Like it belongs in a mausoleum.’ Clara shook her head. ‘You can’t be serious about this, Jas, can you?’
    ‘Deadly serious. Never more serious about anything in my life. Now, where’s the beer?’
    Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium was possibly a bit of an overstatement. An oval sand track surrounded by dirty and disintegrating white railings, enclosed by three tiers of rickety stands, with a snack bar at one end and a Portaloo at the other, it probably wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good night out at the dogs. However, Jasmine, who had grown up there, standing on a box beside Benny as he set prices, took bets, and hopefully didn’t pay out too much too often, absolutely adored it.
    She lingered for a moment in the evening shadows, looking at the deserted track, biting back the tears. It was the first time she’d been here since her grandfather’s death, and she could see him everywhere, hear his voice barking the odds, feel the comforting touch of his worn tweed jacket as she’d snuggled against him on cold nights when the wind came straight off the sea.
    The bookmakers’ pitches, three of them, were permanently sited at the foot of the stands. Greyhound racing at Ampney Crucis was very far removed from the bright lights and glamour of the big stadiums. The site had been in the Dunstable family for generations, and Peg was fiercely proud that it was one of the few surviving independent tracks in the country.
    God knew, Jasmine thought, trailing her fingers along the wobbling rails, how it had survived at all. With meetings three times a week, all year round – solely for the Dorset locals in winter and with the addition of the bemused Ampney Crucis holidaymakers in the high season – they somehow seemed to manage to scrape a living. Quite a good living really, she supposed, if Benny’s