A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018. Judy Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ much do you want to bet, missus?’

      Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’

      ‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

      Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’

      Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.

      Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.

      The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.

      ‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.

      Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.

      ‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’

      Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.

      ‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’

      Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’

      The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’

      Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.

      Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’

      Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.

      ‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’

      She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.

      Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.

      She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.

      Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.

      ‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.

       Chapter Six

      Dublin city blurred outside the windows: clusters of shops, then houses, then roads passed by. Evie was in a taxi, and the driver was turning corners, making her lurch to the sides in her seat. She was rummaging in the bottom of her bag: the new handbag was huge and her few possessions were hiding in undiscovered corners. Her fingers touched the folded envelope in which her winning cheque was hidden. It was empty now that she had deposited the fifty thousand euros at her bank. She could feel the thudding of her heart, pulsing in her throat, beneath the folds of the new coat.

      She rummaged again and found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her. It was unblemished and filled her hand. She would phone Brendan and tell him her plans. She would tell him it was only for a few days. She would phone Sheldon Lodge, apologise for any trouble. She squinted at the phone, touching the screen, and pushed the buttons on the side. The screen stayed blank. Evie squeezed the sides again more firmly. Nothing happened. She banged the phone on her handbag twice, and then pressed the square thing on the back above the word Samsung. The taxi slowed down. The screen remained blank.

      ‘Smart phone, my arse.’ She cursed to herself.

      As the taxi-driver turned round and asked for the fare, Evie stared up at a modern building with glass windows looming in front of her. She read the words ‘Dublin Airport’ and felt a shiver clutch at her body.

      Brendan was in a queue. Three people were in front of him. He could hear Maura’s voice at the reception desk, the familiar tone of chirpy flirtation she used with all her clients, as she called them, and he gave a little cough. He leaned to one side of the queue, waving for her attention. In front was a little man in a mac, bent over, a cap squashed down on his head between pink ears. Over his head Brendan saw a woman’s bony back, her pale hair pulled in a knot. As she turned slightly, he could see the huge swell of her belly and the small child she held to her chest. At the front of the queue there was a young man, a skinhead with tattooed arms. He was arguing at the desk. Brendan rocked forwards and backwards on his heels.

      ‘Dr Palmer can’t see you today, Mr Lawn. Not even with your bowels being so critical, as you say. Not without an appointment.’

      ‘But СКАЧАТЬ