I Own the Racecourse! by Patricia Wrightson Page A

you could come,’ Andy pointed out. ‘You got no right.’
    The boys giggled.
    â€˜Aw, come on, Andy, be a sport—fetch the dogs again!’
    â€˜Fetch ’em, boy. We want to see ’em race again.’
    Andy knew that wheedling, teasing tone. ‘You seen,’ he said sourly. ‘You get out of here.’
    â€˜I said you wouldn’t be game,’ whispered Charlie. ‘I’ll give you two cents.’
    â€˜You get out of here!’ shouted Andy, his face dark. ‘It’s not your place. What do I want your two cents for? Get out.’
    â€˜Sh!’ The two boys giggled uncertainly and peered into the dusk.
    â€˜Get off my racecourse!’ roared Andy. ‘I’ll have them set the greyhounds on you!’
    â€˜Put a sock in it, can’t you?’ said Charlie anxiously. Ted Chance tugged at his sleeve. They moved silently back to the gate and disappeared.
    After a while Andy stood up and went home.

7
Meet the Owner
    Andy’s disappointment was gone by next morning. It was a pity that his friends didn’t seem to like his racecourse, but they were still the people he admired and trusted. He didn’t expect always to understand them. After school he went off contentedly to weed the garden inside the high walls.
    He was proud of his garden. There was always a lot of oxalis, and Andy worked hard at getting rid of it because he knew oxalis was a pest; but the onion-weed he liked, and cultivated as carefully as the flowers. It grew so tall, taller than most of the formal plants, and he liked the way the long, hollow stems curved with the weight of their delicate white flowers. He was pleased with his onion-weed and was carefully leaning a long stem against a hydrangea for support when he saw Bert Hammond coming with the hose. Andy gave him a wide and welcoming smile.
    â€˜Here’s a big one,’ he said, proudly displaying the onion-weed. ‘See the flowers.’
    Bert Hammond nodded in a companionable way. Andy’s gardening seemed reasonable enough to him. If anyone liked weeds as well as phlox, then weeds were as good as phlox and a lot easier to grow. People didn’t come to Beecham Park to admire the phlox. As far as Bert could see, an unconventional display in the garden did nobody any harm. Racing was a different matter. That was the serious business of Beecham Park, and an unconventional display on the track mattered very much.
    â€˜Reckon I’ll have to lock that bottom gate when the dogs are training,’ said Bert heavily. ‘Too many strays altogether. There was a whole mob got in last night.’
    Andy looked a little self-conscious and bent over the garden. ‘Here’s another big one,’ he said, gently disentangling another long stalk from the choking growth of phlox and raising it among the shrubs. Bert glanced at the onion-weed, but his mouth remained uncompromisingly square.
    â€˜Trainers don’t like a pack of mongrels in the way,’ he pointed out. ‘Bad for business. A racecourse is for racing-dogs. They’ll go to another course. We won’t get any dogs.’
    Andy was alarmed. ‘They gotta come here! You tell ’em, Mr Hammond. We don’t want no strays here, getting in the way. We’ll keep ’em out. You tell the trainers!’
    Bert Hammond’s mouth relaxed at last. ‘That’s how it is, is it? All right, boy. Don’t you want to tell ’em yourself?’
    â€˜I don’t know ’em that well,’ mumbled Andy shyly.
    â€˜You’ll find Wilf Thomas walking Golden Boy in the park any afternoon. I’ll tell him to look out for you.’
    Andy stared at the wall, absorbing this information. A warm, satisfied look spread over his face. Bert went on hosing the bed, and he too was satisfied.
    On the following afternoon Andy did not go to the racecourse, but walked past its walls and down to the open park. He crossed the