Johnny’s Third piece
Charlie, Pete and Gordy (that’s me) grew up together during the swinging sixties in Manchester with Beatlemania in full force just up and road, and Cilla too. Rarely did we miss a United match – George Best was our hero, lots of hair – Bobby Charlton not so much.
It was at the football that I met Audrey, she a trainee nurse and me still at teaching college. “How’s Aud, Gord?” the boys would say each time we met. Luckily with time, the joke began to wear a bit thin.
And that’s how it all started. You see Charlie and Pete did the football pools each week – lots did – a shilling a line – Zetters, Littlewoods – always full of hope. So I joined in. Eight draws in a line and it could be a bonanza. Life-changing. All innocent enough, but gambling took a hold – horses, dogs, casinos (even Bingo) as well as the pools. Fun to start with but quickly it became an obsession.
I married Audrey and then the twins arrived – Nancy and Maud – Gord, Aud and Maud – we hadn’t thought that one through. Teaching and nursing kept us going, but there wasn’t much left to go round by the end of the week.
By 1967 we were at our wits end, on our uppers with money drained away – down the plug-hole.
“Liverpool next Saturday, Gord,” Pete said. “I’m going with Charlie, do you want to come?” He was always persuasive. “No,” he went on, “Not the football – Aintree – The Grand National.” So with money taken from the housekeeping and more still from the Post Office, off we went a few days later.
The racecourse was shrouded in mist and drizzle. After a few beers we half-watched the early races and got ready for the big one. A visit to the urinals was called for, rarely the high point of a major sporting occasion and this was no exception. I was doing quite well when I was shoved in the back by what I took to be a drunken race-goer. Through beery breath, he spluttered “Stick it on an outsider – favourites never win the National.”
So I zipped up, rejoined Charlie and Pete waiting outside and I looked up at the list of runners and plumped for number 38, my age, perhaps as good a way to make a selection as any. So onto number 38 went a month’s housekeeping and the remains of my Post Office savings – £80, a vast sum, at odds of 100/1.
I never saw my horse. They all ran past us once but no sign of number 38. Then came the pile up on the second circuit, a right melee at the fence after Bechers – horses and jockeys all over the place until, at long last, one horse popped through out of the mist on its own. Such was its lead, there was no catching him: number 38 crossed the finishing line far ahead of his rivals.
Back at home that evening and watching the Eurovision Song Contest on television, Aud was angry despite such good fortune – disillusioned and close to despair. Where would it ever end?
So I didn’t have the courage to tell her I’d had a flutter on Sandie Shaw too.
From Simon Brett:A nicely shaped story of a time I remember well. I recollect exactly where I was when I heard about Foinavon’s Grand National win – in Oxford, walking past the Porter’s Lodge at my college, Wadham. I liked the set-up of the story – Gordy and his mates, all slightly feckless and immature – and how marriage should make one grown-up and responsible but doesn’t always work that way. The build-up to the race, with the fog, was well done and the person who triggered the action, the unknown man in the Gents, came appropriately from left field. The only point I wasn’t clear about was the ending. Why was Audrey still miserable after his big win? And why didn’t Gordy tell her about his subsequent win on Sandie Shaw? Was it that Audrey disapproved of gambling?
I thought this was lovely, captured the spirit of the sixties and so many nostalgic references. With a warm-hearted family tone. Nice twist, or maybe a bonus extra, at the end. And I’m better educated about gents’ urinals!