was, however, relatively old for a dad, especially in those days, and to be honest I wish he had been a bit younger. Having said that, I’m only a couple of years ahead of him now where my own son is concerned and if my wife and I are lucky enough to pop out another little sprog or sprogette any time soon, I will more likely than not be almost exactly the same age to our second child as my dad was to me.
But Dad was also older in his ways. He was a proud guy from a proud time who met my mum at a dance. Dancing was the speed-dating of its era, something we might want to learn from today.
Mum still says, ‘You can tell all you need to know about a man if you dance with him—proper dancing that is.’ And as the dance halls have disappeared while divorce rates have gone up, it looks like she may well have a point—she usually does.
Whatever Dad did on the dance floor that night, he obviously did it very much to my mum’s liking, as from that day onwards, right up until now, some thirty years after he passed away, my mum’s heart is still the sole property of one Mr Martin Joseph Evans.
My sister and I were once stupid enough to ask Mum if she had ever considered remarrying. She looked at us as if we had lost our minds—brilliant, beautiful and hilarious all at the same time.
Martin Joseph was a straight up and down suit-and-tie man for the majority of his waking hours. He was also a handsome bugger with a permanent tan which Mum insisted he received as a reward for serving with the RAF in Egypt during the war. I believed her—it was a cool story.
Dad worked hard every day except Sunday, leaving at the same time every morning and always arriving home at the same time every evening—a quarter past five, more than a minute or two after that and Mum would start getting worried whilst Dad’s tea would start getting cold.
He played snooker once a week, where he apparently enjoyed a pint and a half of bitter, but other than that, unless he had a secret life none of us knew about, that was him.
Except, of course, for the gee-gees.
Ah, now, there you have him. Dad loved the horses.
There’s a famous phrase that goes something like: when you want to know who wins on the horses you need to bear something in mind: the bookmakers have several paying-in windows but only one paying-out window. That should tell you all you need to know about where most of the money goes.
Not that this should have concerned Dad as he was indeed a bookie; he was the enemy and his betting story is the strangest I’ve ever heard. My dad’s entire bookmaking career both started and finished before I was born.
He set up his ‘bookies’ shop in the fifties with a pal of his, and by all accounts, particularly their own, they did pretty swift business—as most bookmakers do.
Warrington was a typical working-class town in those days, and many an honest man’s one and only indulgence was a flutter on the nags once or twice a week. Dad and his partner were happy to facilitate such flights of fancy—until, that is, one day when the frost came down.
This was no normal frost, however, but an almighty frost—a frost that would last not for days or weeks but for months. Four months, to be precise. All racing came to a halt and consequently all wagering. It was the steeplechase season, the favoured genre of the northern man, but the race courses fell silent, the jumps remained unchallenged, the stands stood empty.
Every morning, day in day out, bookies and punters alike, would wake up and draw back the curtains, hoping and praying for a break in the weather, but for weeks on end to no avail.
Eventually, when the break did come, the respective members of both parties could not wait to get back to the business of backing. With news of a change in the weather rumoured the night before, there was a palpable excitement in the air. The horses would soon be free to commence battle once again—as would the punters and the bookies.
Dad, eager to return to business, was up and out the next morning way before dawn; his shop would be the first in town to open that day. The early bird catches the worm, as they say, but little did Dad know this worm had ideas of his own.
There was a man, you see, a man who liked to bet, an honest man, a working-class man, the type of man of whom I have already made mention. This particular man used to walk the three miles or so to work every day. He worked in a factory making soap powder. It wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but since the war it was all he’d ever known; it was a wage and for him that was enough.
He would pass Dad’s betting shop every morning on his way to work, but it would never be open as it was too early and although he bet with Dad at the weekends, during the week he always placed his bets at the next betting shop on his journey, just before his work.
However, this morning, Dad’s shop, as I said, was the first to open in town that day.
The man, not unlike the horses, was chomping at the bit to get back into the action, so when he saw Dad’s shop with the blinds up and the open sign hung on the door, he had no hesitation in entering.
‘Morning, Martin.’
‘Morning, Fred.’
‘Am I the first?’
‘You are indeed and a pleasure to do some midweek business with you at last.’
‘Well, what an honour. Let’s have a look then, shall we?’
‘Please go ahead.’
And with that, good old Fred started to study the form from racing pages Dad had pinned to the walls of his establishment half an hour previously.
Fred mused for a while, casting his eye over the various ‘opportunities’, before finally plumping for a choice. He placed his usual style of bet. It was a forecast—that’s the way Fred always betted, and lots of people used to bet that way. The chances of winning were next to nothing but it was a lot of excitement for very little risk, not dissimilar from how the lottery is today. However, if a forecast did come in, there would be no need for any more shifts at the soap factory, that’s for sure.
And that is exactly what happened. The frost had thawed, the horses had been saddled, Britain was racing again and Fred went and picked a string of winners.
The bet wiped Dad out. He was the only bookie I have ever heard of that was taken to the cleaners by a punter.
The win was so huge, he couldn’t afford to pay Fred straight off, but he was a man of his word and vowed to return him every penny that was owed. Unlike his partner, who would have nothing to do with the whole affair. He reasoned that Dad should never have taken on such a bet without first laying it off, something he himself would have insisted upon doing.
Why hadn’t Dad done this? In truth, who knows?
Maybe it was because he didn’t have the time to do so with business being so brisk and all—on the first day back after the longest forced break in jump racing since the war. Maybe he was too excited and had simply forgotten. But maybe it was also because he took a chance.
Maybe he took a chance that the odds were massively stacked in his favour and massively stacked against Fred, and as a man who knew his maths well and his racing odds even better, he thought it was a risk worth taking—a safe bet, if you like. But as we all know, there is no such thing.
From that day onwards Dad’s
