A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018. Judy Leigh

grunted. ‘They’ll be off soon and there is a particular hot horse I need to back. Are you with me?’

      Evie wondered if she was being unwise. They turned the corner into a dim street where the brick buildings had started to crumble. They stopped at a little shop with dark windows and a creaking door that had probably once been green and, before that, painted yellow – Evie could see patches of it showing through the faded green.

      The betting shop was fluorescent bright inside and smelled of dust and sweat; it was a furtive gamblers’ lair, sheltering little men on stools huddled over newspapers. At the far corner was a counter where two men were whispering and exchanging money. The place was full of people eyeing her suspiciously. She was thinking about walking out again when someone spoke.

      ‘Ah, Memphis. Good day to you,’ called the man behind the counter.

      Evie watched her smiling companion; so then, Anaconda Man was called Memphis.

      ‘Hello there, brother.’

      Memphis looked unlike the man at the counter: she assumed their fraternity was based on the betting.

      ‘I’d like to introduce my fair companion. She is a crime author. Her name is …’

      ‘Agatha,’ said Evie, holding out her hand and deciding that lies were the safest way forward.

      She pulled the red beret down on one side, and glanced over the top of her sunglasses. She would make an excuse in a minute and leave. Memphis raised his arm, holding out money.

      ‘I want to place a bet on the one-thirty. Twenty each way on number fifteen, El Niño.’ Memphis shared the newspaper he had just picked up with Evie. ‘There you are – El Niño – he’s a good hot horse for you, and no mistake, if you want to make some fast money.’

      She studied the newspaper. A name in print and the number four caught her attention at once. She looked at the door; she could stay for a few minutes more. Evie bit her lip and thought.

      ‘I want to bet on number four – Lucky Jim,’ she announced.

      The counter man smiled, his lips a thin U-shape. ‘Rank outsider, lady.’ Two men behind her guffawed.

      ‘A hundred to one,’ agreed Memphis. ‘But who are we to stop a lady having a little flutter? After all, you’re seeking your fortune.’

      ‘Be quick,’ grimaced Counterman. ‘Betting closes soon.’

      Evie reached into her new bag and pulled out a roll of notes, withdrawn from the bank as contingency earlier. Money just sitting in the bank, doing nothing, which would cover her spending spree with plenty left over. Her hand shook: she remembered selling their home, the place she had lived with Jim and Brendan, then just with Jim, for so many years, and tried to recall her husband’s face.

      ‘My bet for number four – Lucky Jim.’

      Counterman counted silently, Memphis watching every movement.

      ‘How much do you want to bet, missus?’

      Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’

      ‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

      Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’

      Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.

      Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.

      The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.

      ‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.

      Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.

      ‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’

      Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.

      ‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’

      Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’

      The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’

      Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.

      Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’

      Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.

      ‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’

      She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.

      Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.

      She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.

      Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.

      ‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.