Kidder, that's my horse

 

Pop and crisps.  

Saturday was like all others. We did everything the same. Through fear of ruining the winning streak. I still don’t know how I do it. I can’t explain a lot of things. 

My granddad never said a word. A subtle head nod, and dart of his eyes. I’d catapult myself up, floating to the top of the kitchen counter. Perch on my knees and gesture to retrieve one red packet of crisps. The ‘pop’, as he called it, cascaded like a waterfall into a tall bottomless glass. They appeared with a crack, three ice cubes every time. They could have encouraged the luck.  

My grandparents' bungalow was a pirate ship. Sometimes the garden overflowed hot lava. I’d jump from moss covered rockery to a treasure island. My feet couldn’t touch the ground. They’d burn up in sticky flames. Some weeks, the greenhouse was an Anderson shelter, protecting me from falling bombs. The noise would shake my brain. I would hop from joist to joist as if they were steely blades. I had to outrun the sharks in the ocean loft.    

It was the days when stories of war were shared, each word spoken with humorous, heroic nobility. A little mist filled intense serenity in cold, rain-soaked winter fields.   

    “Desiccated milk.” Grandad would announce, only taking his eyes off the TV to trace his finger down race fixtures of his folded newspaper. “That’s all we had.” 

My mum, his daughter, would nod to herself in agreement and sip her milky lukewarm tea, served in a China cup with matching saucer. They weren’t like royalty or well to do, they just ‘did things properly’, as they’d say. 

She, the woman, would insist on showing us slide shows with the curtains drawn, stabbing her finger impatiently on a cabled clicker. The machine rotated and clunked on to the next slide. The boring black and white clouded images of early courtship. The skirts over knees and cardigans covering chests. Discreet, respectable handholding. A tunnel of tainted love to their past. Stills of simplicity, where the sun shone razor blades through industrial smog.

    “I felt his knee press between my thighs.” She would say, embarrassed every time. “I knew then I’d have to marry him.”  

She wasn’t joking. I didn’t call her grandma or any other wrinkled alternative. That first innocent flesh contact locked my Grandad into a fake marriage of stifled happiness. She was the cordial host when we arrived. She would spout hatred when we left. We only went to see Grandad. He was the captain of the pirate ship. Mum had nothing but goodness in her heart for him and resentment for she, the woman. The family referred to her as either all shit or all sugar.  

I’d have second helpings of crisps, always acting surprised. I knew I’d be invited. I’d cut the lawn before the race, even if it was raining. He’d tuck a folded fiver in my pocket, a small percentage of the winnings. It was all the money in the world to me. I wouldn’t spend it, anyway. He gave it to me, after all. It always made me smile to see him happy. I’d dig my fingers into the foiled corners of the crisp packet, pinching out the last living grain of salt. 

    “Kidder,” Grandad would say, interrupting the racing commentary, “Jurassic August, that’s my horse.” 

The routine was this: I had to flatten out my empty crisp packet, press it down three times. Push it deep down into the carpet. I’d swig the last mouthful of my 'pop' before it refilled again. I would crunch on the melting ice cubes and sit on my chilly hands. I focused on the horse’s legs running. Simple as that.  

The volume on the race commentary increased. Grandad’s foot would tap like a machine gun firing. 

My eyes tight closed: “Jurassic August.” I’d say aloud, “Jurassic August.” I’d repeat with a whisper.  

Grandad would smirk, biting down on the red biro between his front teeth. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. My mum would offer her focused acceptance. She had to; it was part of the ritual. The room would always become suddenly warm. 

She, the woman would huff in the corner armchair, whilst rifling loudly through a handful of slides. No one would talk to her. She’d talk to herself. She may as well have not been present. We all pretended she wasn’t. 

I sometimes felt guilty when the horses would fall. Grandad had the answer. He’d say: 

    “They love it. The horses keep running. They want to get up, fight on and run, even when the jockey falls.” 

I knew when he got his calculator out, strapped to his small green notebook with a perished elastic band around it. This was the big one. He’d explain with his red biro still in his mouth the betting odds, how probability worked and what the decimal odds were. He’d never reveal how much he won. He didn’t want to add unnecessary pressure.  

“He’s mine, kidder. He’s got a red hat on. Make sure he doesn’t run like a pig.” He’d say, pointing, the biro swirling between his lips.

I followed his finger and stared straight at the TV. I never blink. The image, my thoughts fade into knowing. 

Red hat, Jurassic August. Red hat, Jurassic August. 

No one can tell me any different. I know and that’s enough.  

I'd stare until the end. I’ve already seen what was due to arrive. I didn’t hear the commentary. I couldn’t hear the cheering. I only ever felt his slipper tapping. She, the woman, would try to distract me with her opinion of the weatherman.  

    “He just lies. He gets it all wrong.” She’d say over and over until she had wells of tears in her venomous eyes. 

My mum ignored her, too. Believing she wasn’t there. 

Red hat, Jurassic August. Red hat, Jurassic August. 

    “What number is he?” I asked frantically.   

    “He’s number,” Grandad paused, plotted down the racing listings. “He’s number,” He flicked the paper over, “Seven. Number seven.” He said confidently, scratching his head. 

I closed my eyes. I felt this was it. Nothing but silence now. I pictured the white horse, jockey with a red hat.  

    “Red hat, Jurassic August. Red hat, Jurassic August. Number seven. Red hat, Jurassic August. Run faster than a pig. Run. Run. Run.” I said.

Grandad sat forward in his seat, clutching on his paper. His thumb flicking the pen lid up, snapping it back down. Lifting it up and back down again. His foot tapping harder, trembling the floor. 

    “Kidder, make him win.” 

I still don’t, to this day know how much he won. Everyone refuses to tell me. It was enough that his heart exploded. He hit the floor with his notebook still clutched in his hand. I couldn’t bring him back, as hard as I tried. I shivered with exhaustion and had to be dragged from his side. 

The last win meant she, the woman, could travel. Good riddance, the bitch.  

I can still do it as an adult. Although, I keep it to myself now. Last Saturday I bet on the pale-faced underdog with pillows for fists. They said he moved like a moose. Round 7, he knocked out the lineal champion with a sledgehammer left hook. They described it as the biggest shock in boxing history.  

It’s never a shock to me.   

I can’t say how.  

I just know how it always ends.  

Until next time...

Do Good Things