Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings

He passed Ruby the registration booklet. She opened it. Little Buttercup. Black bitch … When she was born, where, the names of her parents, the size of the litter. Physical description. Tiny details. Times of her races, places. Swaffham – the latest entry.

‘Sixth.’

‘She’s got a race lined up at Hackney on Thursday. You’d better have a chat with the racing manager, though. He’s not happy with this bitch. Did Don tell you she’s in the E grade? Her actual running time at 525 yards was 30.40 on her last night out.’

Ruby verified this in the booklet. It wasn’t a good time.

‘Just the same,’ he added, noting her expression, ‘there’s nothing wrong with her physically. The toe’s no problem. You’ve obviously got a good eye. She’s a fine-looking bitch.’

Suddenly, at last, she remembered. A month ago, Hackney Wick, the traps were loaded. Six dogs. The hare, starting, the squeal of it. Some dogs, barking, whining. And then. She remembered it. Her trap. Number six. A tail, sticking out through the bars at the front.

‘She turned around!’ Ruby said. ‘In the trap. She turned around in the trap, and I thought …’ Ruby had thought, That’s only logical. She turned around because that’s the direction the hare’s coming from. And Don was furious. He said… and I said … and he said … and I said, ‘But she’s a fine-looking bitch.’

Stan was staring at her, nervously.

‘Sorry,’ she said, almost laughing with relief, ‘I just thought of something.’

‘Don didn’t say what you were planning to do with her.’

‘I don’t know. He said she had a couple of races lined up.’

‘One race on Thursday.’

Ruby was thinking now, planning. ‘I’d better get a licence.’

He stared at her blankly. ‘She’s not your only dog?’

‘My first.’ She liked this idea. She’d been sloppy, before, admittedly.

‘Have you got kennels?’

‘No.’ She said this with great certainty, as though only saying it this way would mean it didn’t matter.

‘You won’t get a licence then. Not without proper kennels. Anyway, when the racing manager at Hackney finds out Don isn’t training her any more, he’ll drop her from the card. If she doesn’t get a place in her next race, he’ll drop her for the season anyway.’

Ruby stared at the dog. The dog’s expression was docile but furtive.

‘You,’ she said, with sudden fondness.

The dog licked her lips. Her whiskers stuck out of her cheeks – silver against her black fur – like needles in a pincushion.

After a while Ruby said, ‘There’s no law against being too keen.’

‘There should be, though.’

Stan leaned against the table. ‘You could run her at an independent track and you wouldn’t even need a licence. Swaffham’s a permit track. You could run her there for fifty quid. Or you could even breed from her.’

‘I could,’ she said. ‘I could, but I don’t want to.’ She was making decisions now. She could make them. ‘I want to run her at Hackney.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can run her on Thursday.’

‘He’ll drop her if he finds out Don’s sold her.’

‘What if she got a place?’

He laughed. ‘She won’t.’

‘But what if she did?’

‘He’ll drop her anyway.’

‘She deserves a chance.’

Stan thought about this, looked unconvinced, but said, ‘If I come down on the day, and anyone asks, you can say you’re with me.’

Ruby smiled. ‘I’ve got plans for her.’

Stan stuck his hands deep into his pockets. ‘You’ll find out soon enough she’s got plans of her own.’

Vincent scowled at the dog. ‘Where did that come from?’

Ruby closed the door behind her and unclipped Buttercup’s lead from her collar.

‘She’s a bitch. I just bought her.’

‘Why?’

She sat down. ‘I don’t know.’

He stared at the dog as she walked around the room, sniffing furniture and poking her nose into corners.

‘Black’s a good colour. She matches everything,’ he said.

‘Yeah. I really needed to hear that.’

‘I made dinner.’

‘I thought you’d be gone.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

He went into the kitchen and dished up the food he’d prepared.

‘Don’t give any to the dog.’

‘I wasn’t planning to.’