http://www.amazon.co.uk/Seven-Stories-Hills-Miller-Walters-ebook/dp/B008FIBX82
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Here's an extract from the first story:
Left the Building
It wasn’t so long ago that if you worked in a betting shop,
you finished early in the winter. This
was before the betting shop owners got too greedy, and the punters got too
desperate. Now it’s a 12 hour day free
for all, with all lights flashing and an opportunity to bet on anything that
can move.
For those that work behind the counter, the headaches have
multiplied in response to this cacophony.
But even in the days of closing half an hour after the last horse race,
there were moments of frustration.
Pauline was having one of those moments one day towards the close of the
1980s; in fact, she was having one of those decades. The television screens showed the horses
lining up at the start of the final race for the day. Just three punters remained in the shop, each
with a betting slip in their hand, ready to will on their chosen horse. One till had been cashed up and Pauline had
begun to empty the coin tray of the second.
She had a nice neat stack of ten pence pieces which represented one
pound, and was working on another when the door bounced open. Blown in by the winter gusts was a familiar
Welsh rugby shirt, personed by a wild-eyed, red cheeked whirlwind. Pauline knocked her ten pence stack across the
pile of off-slip pads. She looked over
at the manager for support. He put his
red settling pen down, stood up and stretched to his full height. “Now then, Ivan. I hope you’re not after a bet on this race. They’ll be off in a minute.”
“Oh, but I know what I want to back. Let me see now.” He began to pull a tangle of paper out of his
jeans pocket. Some pieces were betting
slips, covered in his vague scrawl.
Others were ten and twenty pound notes, shoved in with little regard for
its value. “I got it all written out
ready.”
Pauline rolled her eyes and put her hands on her substantial
hips. The horses were getting ready for
the off. She took the final off-slip of
the day and waved it in front of his face.
“They’re going, Ivan. It’s only
furlongs, not miles.”
“Bessie’s Boy!
Bessie’s Boy! Here’s a
twenty! Go on, put it me on!”
Pauline glanced at the manager, who was writing the bet out
for him. Soft. Too young for the job.
“Paying tax, Ivan?”
“Not until I win.”
The bet was written, rung through and the off-slip passed
through the camera within seconds. Ivan
took himself off to the front of the small group watching the screen, furtively
donning a pair of wonky spectacles.
Pauline sighed heavily as she resumed counting the ten pence coins.
“It’s got to stop, that.
He does it at least twice a week and it’s no good for my nerves. He shouldn’t be leaving it that late.”
“I know duck, but he spends a lot of money. He’s good for my figures. Do you want to go and mash and I’ll watch the
counter?”
“Go on then, we’ll have a quick brew before we go. I’ll go out and sweep up while the kettle
boils.” Pauline set the kettle going and
went out into the shop with a battered grey long handled brush and
dustpan. She picked up a few tab ends
and scrunched up slips, moving methodically around the punters. None of them acknowledged her existence. Suddenly, Ivan took a step back and threw his
fist into the air. “Come on Bessie’s
Boy! Come on Bess!” he yelled out with the
lung strength of a stallion. Pauline
just happened to be sweeping around his feet at that moment, and her toes, clad
in open sandals, took the brunt of his size 9s.
“Hooligan!” She
bellowed in his ear, dropping the dustpan and brush and hopping around in a
small circle. This small demonstration
of agony went ignored by the culprit, who was by now scuppering any chance of
anyone being able to hear the race commentary.
When it came to a close, there was no doubting that Ivan’s horse had
won. The other punters drifted away
towards the door, one of them dropping his crumpled up losing slip onto the
floor. Pauline limped back to the
counter and tipped her dustpan into the bin, before dedicating herself to
making tea. The manager paid Ivan out
while she seethed and stirred the sugar in with equal vigour. When she heard the jangle of keys locking the
door, she deigned to come out of the kitchenette and finish cashing up.
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