‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but the police are still likely to talk to you because you had seven horses in Bill Burton’s yard.’
He smiled, leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘I know nothing.’
Here was a member of the House of Lords, the highest court in the land, intent on obstructing justice. But honesty and integrity have never been prerequisites to remaining in the House of Lords. A criminal conviction and prison sentence of twelve months or more results in expulsion from the House of Commons, but their Lordships remain immune to such inconveniences and can return to Her Majesty’s Parliament on release from any length of stay in Her prisons. And they do, often.
Even a conviction for high treason does not disqualify members, save actually during their imprisonment. In the past this was not a problem as there was little chance of a return from the block and the axe.
And then there was the case of the 7th Earl of Lucan. A coroner’s jury established that he had indeed battered his children’s nanny to death with a length of lead piping in 1974 before disappearing for good. Even when, twenty-five years later in 1999, the High Court made a ruling that, body or not, Lord Lucan was officially dead, his son and heir could not sit in the House as it was deemed by their Lordships that there was no ‘definite proof’ that his father would not suddenly walk out of the jungle and claim his rightful place on the red leather benches.
However, the House does have some standards. Undischarged bankrupts cannot take their seats.
Clearly, to a Lord, being broke is a greater crime than being a murderer.
Lord Enstone and I finished our lunch mostly in silence and I was content to pass again through the revolving time-portal and back to the present.
I walked down Victoria Street towards my flat, stopping twice on the journey. First, I went into an office equipment store to buy a new telephone answering machine. My trusty old one had served me well but had been overtaken by the electronics revolution. I decided on a fancy replacement that came complete with a vast number of megabytes in its digital memory, and one that could also tell me the dates and times when my messages were received. And, secondly, I popped into a betting shop.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. I hadn’t been in a betting shop for years, not since the law prevented them having any decent chairs or televisions, or any creature comforts like a coffee machine or a lavatory. Nothing that could persuade the itinerant gambler to linger.
Now we lived in more enlightened times when gambling was not seen as some shifty addiction of the low-life and was even to be encouraged in the form of the National Lottery, to ‘provide for good causes’. That some of the ‘good causes’ were a touch suspect and others were simply an excuse for underfunding in the public services did not seem to deter the millions whose hopes each week far exceeded their true expectations. A few big winners gave the multitude faith, so much so that nearly a fifth of the population was seriously relying on winning the lottery to provide for their old age.
In spite of the change in the law, one would hardly describe the interior of this particular establishment as plush. The floor was covered in bare linoleum that had seen better days especially around the high traffic areas near the door and the betting window. There were a few stools and a counter that stretched down one side of the room at hip height, its surface covered with the detritus of past decision making, screwed up betting slips and scattered copies of newspapers.
Above the counter were pinned the pages from the
On the other side of the shop were notice boards with brightly coloured posters extolling the benefits of wagering on the coming weekend’s Premiership football matches with the odds for each game written large with a black felt-tip pen. A table with a coin-operated coffee machine sat in one corner with the all-important betting window in the other.
Business on the Tuesday afternoon after Cheltenham was slow, with just three others in the shop determined to take on the might of the bookmaker. Save for a few grunts during the actual running of a race, not a sound was uttered as they circled around one another from counter to betting window, then to a stool to watch their selections on a TV, and then back to the counter for deliberation on the next event. Race timings are so staggered to provide a contest from one venue or another every five minutes. And so it went on like a ballet, but without the grace.
I was the odd man out. First, I was in a suit and tie rather than the apparent uniform dress of extra-large replica football shirt hanging out over an extra-extra-large belly held in place by super-extra-large blue denim jeans with off-white training shoes beneath. Secondly, I was not gambling on every event, in fact I wasn’t gambling on any of them. And, thirdly, I was talking. ‘Well ridden,’ I said to the second screen from the left as the jockey got up in the last stride to win by a short head.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked a man as he sidestepped around me to the betting window.
‘Not working for my wife, are you?’ he replied.
‘No.’
But he wasn’t listening, he was busy counting out a wad of notes to hand over.
‘I know you,’ said one of the other two, the one in the Manchester United shirt. ‘You’re Sid Halley. Got any tips?’
Why did punters always believe that jockeys, or ex-jockeys, made good tipsters?
‘Keep your money in your pocket,’ I said.
‘You’re no bloody good,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you in here?’
‘Furthering my education,’ I replied, smiling back.
‘Come off it, all jockeys are punters, stands to reason, they control the results.’
‘What about the horses?’
‘They’d run round in circles without a driver.’
‘Do you really believe that jockeys control the results?’
‘Sure they do. If I lose, I always blame the jockey. I have to admit though that I won more on you than I lost.’
I suppose it was a compliment, of sorts.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Gerry. Gerry Noble.’ He offered his hand and I shook it firmly.
‘Shame you had to give up,’ Gerry said. He glanced down at my left hand then up at my face.
‘One of those things,’ I said.
‘Bloody shame.’
I agreed with him, but life moves on.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Not your fault.’
‘Yeah, but I’m sorry all the same.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ I meant it. ‘Tell me, do you ever gamble on the internet?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, ‘but not often. Too bloody complicated, never can understand all that exchanges stuff. Much easier to give the man my ready cash,’ he nodded to the window in the corner, ‘and then, win or lose, at least I know where I stand. Don’t fancy using credit cards. I’d get into trouble too quick and too deep.’
‘Do you come here every day?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said. ‘I work an early shift, start at four in the morning, finished by twelve. Then I come here for a few hours on my way home.’
‘Do you win?’
‘You mean overall?’
‘Whatever?’
‘I suppose, if I was honest, I have to say I lose on the whole. Not much and some days I win big.’ He smiled. ‘And the wins give me such a high that I forget the losses.’
‘But don’t you hate to lose?’
‘It’s cheaper than cocaine.’
I stayed for a couple more races and helped Gerry cheer home a long-priced winner on which he had heavily invested.
‘See what I mean!’ he shouted, giving me a high five. ‘Bloody marvellous!’
He grinned from ear to ear and I could see what he meant by a ‘high’. I used to have that feeling, too,
