I Own the Racecourse! by Patricia Wrightson Page B

storm-water channel by a little bridge near the willows and reached the stretch of green that swept down to the arches of the railway, and through them, and beyond. Each of the arches made a tunnel of shadow and in front of one, bright against the darkness, Terry O’Day was giving Matt Pasan some serious batting practice.
    They had put up the wicket they had made out of timber from the storm-water channel. Terry was fielding as well as bowling, doing both with silent intensity, his face flushed with heat. Matt, who would not have needed this practice if he could have borrowed some of Terry’s intensity, was relaxing at the wicket between balls. It was Matt who saw Andy wandering over the grass, looking about in a vaguely hopeful way.
    â€˜There’s old Andy!’ shouted Matt. ‘He’ll field.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ grunted Terry, and bowled a slow one. Matt hit it towards the solid, spiky-haired figure corning slowly from the bridge. It fell with a thud that made Andy jump, and rolled quickly on towards the channel.
    Andy looked to see who was playing, then trotted after the ball as a matter of course. He threw it, not very accurately, and chuckled with approval as Terry swept down and gathered it up.
    Matt shouted, ‘Thanks, boy. Watch this one!’
    Time was important to Andy only moment by moment. Golden Boy was not in sight, but Terry and Matt were. He stayed, contentedly fielding balls and glad to share in the game. The sun dropped behind a ridge, edging with gold the clustering rooftops and sending long, shapeless shadows across the park. Suddenly, through the dark tunnel of a railway arch, came a man leading a greyhound.
    Andy, who was bringing the ball back from the channel, saw them at once. He stood and watched as the man and dog came on past Matt at the wicket; then he loped towards them. As he was still holding the ball, Matt and Terry waited uncertainly.
    â€˜Hullo,’ said Andy, smiling his warm smile and fixing his round blue eyes on the greyhound. ‘That’s Golden Boy, isn’t it?’
    â€˜That’s him,’ said the man gruffly, walking on. He was short and broad, with heavy brows. He held the dog’s leash in a strong, aware grip, very much in control. The sleek, tawny dog wore a muzzle on its pointed snout and looked at Andy with dark, cold eyes.
    â€˜You’re Wilf Thomas, I know,’ said Andy.
    â€˜That’s me,’ said the man. He walked on and Andy followed a few steps behind, talking to his back.
    â€˜Golden Boy goes to Beecham Park. That’s my racecourse. We don’t want no strays there, mister. They just get in the way. We gotta have the real dogs.’
    The man stopped. He looked at Andy with a half-smile—that made his face pleasanter. ‘Oh. So you’re the owner.’
    Andy chuckled with delight. ‘That’s me.’
    â€˜Bert Hammond told me to look out for you. Here—want to lead him for a bit?’
    Andy hesitated, chuckling and turning pink. ‘He can’t do no harm, can he? He’s got that thing on his head. Will he go steady?’
    â€˜He’ll be all right. I’ll have an eye on him.’ Wilf Thomas was holding out the leash. Andy discovered that he still had the cricket ball.
    â€˜I forgot,’ he said in great surprise, and turned to look for his friends. They were a few feet away, watching intently. Matt’s mouth had dropped open a little, and Terry was frowning at the greyhound. ‘Here’s your ball,’ said Andy. ‘Thanks for the game. I gotta go.’
    He took the leash, twisting it twice round his hand as Wilf Thomas showed him. Wilf spoke to the dog, and they went away over the grass towards the bridge. The dog walked ahead, its long legs moving lightly. Andy’s whole mind was fixed on the dog as he followed it. The man walked beside him with a hand ready to take the leash if necessary. They went over the bridge and out of the park.