The Delegates’ Choice

He had found Ted’s Achilles heel; his underbelly; his soft spot; his weakness; his fatal Cleopatra. Pride.

‘I tell you what,’ said Israel. ‘Do you want to have a bet on it?’

‘A what?’ said Ted. ‘A bet?’

‘Yes, a bet, on you winning the Concours D’Elégance at the Mobile Meet.’

‘With you, a bet?’ said Ted.

‘Yes.’

‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘I’m good living. I don’t gamble.’

‘Oh,’ said Israel. He knew that in fact Ted did gamble; the week of the Cheltenham Gold Cup he’d talked about nothing else. Israel had had to cover for him every day. Then again, Ted also claimed he didn’t drink. And didn’t smoke. And he did. And he did.

‘I don’t gamble,’ repeated Ted. ‘Unless I know I’m going to win.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Israel.

Israel could see a glint in Ted’s eye.

‘A bet,’ Ted said to himself. ‘The van to win the…What did you call it?’

‘Concours D’Elégance.’

‘Concord De Elephants,’ repeated Ted.

‘That’s it,’ said Israel.

‘Are ye serious?’

‘Yes, absolutely I’m serious.’

Israel could see Ted thinking through the proposition. ‘Well?’ he said gingerly.

‘I tell you what, son,’ said Ted, pausing dramatically. Big pause. ‘Seeing as you’ve asked.’ Another pause. ‘You’re on.’

‘No. Really? Honestly?’

‘Yes,’ said Ted.

‘Really?’ said Israel.

‘I said yes.’

‘Great!’ said Israel. ‘How much? A couple of pounds?’

‘Couple of pounds!’ said Ted, bellowing with laughter. ‘Couple of pounds! Ach, ye’re a quare geg. No, no, no. No. If I’m going all the way over to the mainland I want to get my money’s worth out of you. We’ll do it properly. I’ll get JP to open up a book on it.’

‘JP?’

‘The bookie on Main Street. He’ll see us right.’

‘Erm.’

‘Yer bet’s definitely on now; ye’re not going to back out?’

‘No. Definitely. Absolutely,’ said Israel. ‘Game on.’

‘You don’t want to change yer mind?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ye know ye don’t back out of a bet, now?’

‘Quite.’

Ted reached a hand across. ‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Ted.

‘Five hundred pounds!’ said Israel.

‘You’re right,’ said Ted. ‘Five hundred’s not enough. One thousand says we win the…What did you call it?’

‘Concours D’Elégance. But I haven’t got one thousand pounds, Ted. The van’s not worth a thousand pounds.’

‘I thought you wanted a bet?’

‘I do, but—’

‘Aye, right, that’s typical, so it is. You’re trying to wriggle out of it now.’

‘No, I am not trying to wriggle out of it.’

‘Ach, you are, so you are. Ye’re not prepared to put your money where your mouth is. Typical Englishman.’

‘I am not trying to wriggle out of it, Ted.’

‘Well, then, are youse in, or are youse out?’

‘All right,’ said Israel, trying to suppress a grin. ‘One thousand pounds says you won’t win the Concours D’Elégance at this year’s Mobile Meet.’ He knew his money was safe.

The rest of the journey continued in silence, with Israel elated and exhausted from his negotiations and Ted already planning the few little tweaks and alterations he needed to get the van into top condition. Eventually, Ted pulled up outside the Devines’ farm, where Israel was a lodger, and Israel clambered down wearily from the van.

‘Hey!’ called Ted, as Israel was about to shut the door. ‘Did ye not forget something?’

‘No,’ said Israel, patting his pockets, patting the seat. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I think you did,’ said Ted.