Out of the Goldfish Bowl
Jack Coates
"I remember my father: a great family man. He worked night shift at the pit and collected betting slips during the day. It was the late twenties and I was eleven years old. Street betting was illegal in those days and now and then my father would find himself in trouble with the law. It never deterred him and it was business as usual when the smoke cleared. Most of all, I remember the day when he took me to Sedgefield races. My mother-a powerful, forthright generous woman gave me two shillings. I recall hugging and kissing her with euphoric gratitude [I should have done it more often] while selfishly contemplating the wealth of goodies two shillings would buy. The journey from Durham to Sedgefield was full of joyful anticipation as I examined my silver coin again and again. You have no idea the pleasure two shillings could buy in those days.
"It was a fair walk to the racecourse where my father paid five shillings while I was bundled over the turn-style. We had arrived; and I was quite unprepared for the pace of life going on around us, men selling tips, screaming the merits of their invaluable information. A stall selling hot pies was a great temptation, while those hot dogs with mustard made my mouth water. We were on the course itself; among the throng milling around the bookmakers stands. Men huddled intently, looking for bargain bets, while one bookmaker called, 'I'll lay six der your der vee' That's how it sounded to my ears. Although I knew, being familiar with racing odds, he was calling six to four the field. A small gathering of value punters almost knocked him off his stand in the rush to accept his offer, I escaped the stampede with minor injuries. My father invested a whole sovereign at those odds [two days wages at the pit]. With the assistance of my prayer to Jesus the horse duly obliged.
We chose a banked-up mound as a vantage point to see the race; I watched the event in awesome wonder as the jockeys, in pursuit of the leader urged their mounts for a final effort. Whips cracking. Divots flying. Amidst a creaking of leather as the horses panted, puffed, snorted and broke wind under the strain of near exhaustion. This was another world and my first emergence from the sheltered goldfish bowl in which I lived. I was intrigued with the method operated by the bookmakers, bundles of pound notes so nimbly handled. Big white five pound notes, two weeks wages for a pitman, exchanged hands as though they were coupons; it was an irreverence, an insult to their value. I had only seen two maybe three in my life, they were much too valuable to be common currency in a mining village; Money seemed to slosh around like bathwater. Maybe they printed their own on this planet everybody it seemed was walking about with a fistful of money; where did it come from? The people where I lived treated money with respect, with reverence there was so little of it.
The feature race was about to begin the horses were going to the post; money was changing hands as if the end of the meeting meant the end of the world. The bookmakers couldn't collect it fast enough and there were just four runners, a steeplechase over three miles plus; Two hundred sovereigns to the winner, sixty to the second and thirty to the third according to the official race card.
At least my finances were under control two shillings on Bath Chap, the six to four favourite, it would bring a return of five shillings. My father agreed to integrate my money with his own wager; he always backed the favourite, even if it only had three legs. We watched the race from our vantage point, 'They're off' the crowd called in unison. At the very first fence there were loud agonizing painful groans from the punters; Bath Chap had fallen. I couldn't join in the cries of dismay my throat was dry; I could only feel the agony. Undeterred the rider remounted and set off in passionate pursuit of the other three who were so far in front the jockey of Bath Chap needed binoculars to see them and a magic carpet to catch up. Even so I urged them on with all my spiritual powers but that power lacked strength however I attracted some response from above. On the final circuit two of the front three horses came a cropper, one fell and brought down the other. Bath Chap continued in vain pursuit, only two fell but there appeared to be riderless horses running loose in herds. The jockey on the leader stole a peep over his shoulder but all he could see behind him was grass. The race was being run in deafening silence until the second last fence; then Jesus, the man I was praying to for help took hold of the reins. The leader refused at that fence and deposited his rider over the top, while the horse decided it had had enough and trotted back up the course to meet Bath Chap. There was no collision although the scene was set for one, the crowd in the meantime had broken the silence, and I could hear my own heart thumping. Bath Chap was cheered all the way to the winning post accompanied by the loose horse, who I'm sure acknowledged the applause equally as much as the winner.
I felt my fathers arm around my shoulders giving me an assuring squeeze. 'We are going to celebrate with a cup of tea and a hot pie' he said laughing.
Celebrate we did, never again in my lifetime did a pie taste so delicious, or a cup of tea so good. Nor did I ever recapture that intoxicating feeling of pleasure without conscience; one of Gandhi's seven social sins.
