"Look At That Girl"

The air over Romford Stadium has the first real bite of autumn in it. The September warmth has slipped away and the evenings now carry a damp edge; the kind that settles on coat sleeves and hair. Under the floodlights, the mist hangs low over the greyhound track.

The noise is the same as ever: the bark of the tannoy, the shouts from the bookmakers’ pitches, the mutter around the tote, the sudden roar when the traps fly open. Cigarette smoke drifts up to the roof in slow, stubborn curls and merges with the mist.

Vic stands with his back to the rail, a folded race card in his hand. He’s been at the warehouse all week, unloading crates in the chill mornings, so the evening feels mild to him. He is biding his time between races, half listening to the conversations going on around him.

“That’s Harris’s girl,” someone behind him says. “Knows the dogs better than half the blokes here.”

Vic looks up and watches the woman they are talking about.

She stands at the edge of the tote queue in a dark skirt and a neat wool cardigan, sleeves pushed up just enough to show she means business. Her hair is pinned back against the damp. She has a pencil behind her ear and a small notebook in her hand.

Vic is not the only man stealing glances at her as she steps back from her father’s pitch and smoothes a loose lock of hair back in place with the flat of her hand. A few lads near the public bar are singing, “Look At That Girl!” half mocking and half admiring, their voices off-key, too loud and far too pleased with themselves.

She ignores them. Mostly. Vic sees the flicker in her expression: annoyance at first, then something like amusement. She doesn’t blush. She doesn’t look down. She finishes what she’s saying to Harris, then steps out of the queue and walks straight past the lads.

One of them calls, “Give us a smile, love!”

She stops and turns to look him up and down. “You want a smile or a tip?”

He blinks. “Tip, then.”

“Trap four, next race,” she says. “If he keeps his feet.”

She walks on before he can answer, heading toward the rail. The crowd shifts around her: men in flat caps, women in headscarves, boys trying to look older than they are. She finds a gap near where Vic is standing.

He folds and refolds his race card; not fidgeting exactly, more like he’s giving his hands something to do while his mind works and weighs up whether to speak.

The tannoy announces the runners for the next race.

“Trap four, is it?” he says at last, quietly enough so that she understands his question is meant for her.

She studies him for a moment. His jacket’s worn at the cuffs, but brushed and pressed neatly. His hair is in a natural wave, not slick with Brylcreem. He stands easy; not crowding her, not showing off. A steady sort of bloke.

“If he breaks clean,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “If he stumbles, he’ll be swallowed.”

“You work for Harris?”

She nods. “Doreen.”

“Vic.”

They stand side by side, facing the track. The handlers in white coats move briskly, loading the dogs into the traps. The damp air gives the floodlights a golden halo.

“You from round here?” he asks.

“Rush Green,” she says. “You?”

“Mawneys.”

She nods, as if that explains something.

The hare zips past. The traps bang open and the dogs explode out in a blur of muscle and colour. The crowd shouts its encouragement and curses.

Vic follows the race attentively, his eyes sharply focused as they turn the bend. He spots the blue jacket of trap four, running tight against the rail.

“Go on,” Doreen urges.

The dog breaks clear at the second bend, holds the line and crosses first by half a length. The roar goes up, then breaks into laughter and groans. The lads at the bar slap each other on the back. One of them looks over at Doreen, eyes wide.

She lifts a hand in a small, almost lazy salute.

Vic lets out a breath. “You were right.”

“Sometimes I am.”

“You always bet on your own tips?”

“Not always,” she says. “Sometimes I just watch.”

He nods thoughtfully as he studies her profile. She isn’t smiling, not exactly, but there’s a lightness in her face now.

 “You like it here?” he asks. “Working for him.”

“It’s better than the factory,” she says. “I’m outside. I’m moving. I’m not stuck at a bench all day.” She glances at him. “You?”

“Warehouse,” he says without complaint. “Boxes in, boxes out. Nothing much too look at.”

“But you look anyway,” she says. “You were staring at the tote a good ten minutes.”

He laughs, caught. “I was staring at you, if I’m honest.”

“I know,” she says without coyness. “Everyone does. It’s the job.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes,” she says. “Depends who’s looking and what they think they see.”

He ponders that and doesn’t rush to respond.

The tannoy makes another announcement. The lads by the bar start singing again, their voices muffled by the crowd.

Vic clears his throat. “Do you ever go to the pictures?” he asks, catching himself by surprise.

“Sometimes,” she says. “If I’m not here. Why?”

“They’ve got Mogambo on at the Odeon,” he says. “Thought… if you weren’t working one night…”

She turns her head to look at him properly, weighing him up the same way she weighed the odds on trap four.

“Oh,” she says lightly. “So you’re Clark Gable, are you?”

He flushes. “No, I just meant...”

“And I’m Ava Gardner?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A tiny smile, quick and bright as a match strike. “Never catch her standing in the damp at Romford dogs.”

He laughs, relieved. “I would’ve asked someone else if I’d known it’d get me in trouble.”

“It’s not trouble,” she says. “Just funny. Men round here don’t usually compare themselves to film stars.”

“I wasn’t...”

“I know,” she says, softening her tone. “But it’s still funny.”

She looks back toward the track, but her smile lingers. The kind of smile that isn’t for the crowd, or for Harris, or for the lads at the bar. It’s for Vic, though he does his best to conceal that he knows it.

The next set of dogs is being paraded. The air smells of tobacco, beer and damp fur. Someone nearby is talking about the Queen’s Commonwealth tour; someone else about West Ham’s chances this season.

“I’m off Wednesday,” she declares. “Harris doesn’t need me then. If you’re at the flicks by six, I might be there too.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Then we’ll see.”

She steps away, back toward the tote, pencil and notebook already poised. Harris calls her name; she turns and gives him all her attention.

Vic watches her go, then turns back to the track as the hare starts up again. The crowd buzzes with expectation. The air grows cooler and the mist thickens under the lights. But Wednesday is close enough to touch and that is more than he had when the evening began.