THE EXCHANGE VISIT
by RICHARD BANKS
“Good
evening, Michael. How are you today?” His lean figure loomed over me as we
shook hands.
“I’m very well, Ganook,” I said,
remembering to speak clearly and not too quickly. “I hope you haven’t been
waiting long? I was held-up in traffic.”
“Held-up,” he repeated. His face
registering a mixture of puzzlement and alarm.
“No, not that kind of hold-up.” I
hastened to reassure him that my misfortune consisted only in being delayed by
slow-moving traffic.
“Oh yes, the cars. So many cars and
people,” he said wistfully. The hustle and bustle of city life was clearly not
to his liking.
“Shall we go in,” I suggested.
His attention shifted from the busy
road to the main entrance and the neon sign above it depicting a greyhound in
full flight. “So this is Walthamstow Stadium where Mr Johnstone lost his shirt
last week, perhaps we will find it.”
I was about to explain that Mr
Johnstone had not literally lost his shirt when I noticed a twinkle in Ganook’s
eyes; for once the joke was on me. We made our way through the turnstiles and
into the floodlit interior. The parade for the first race was just beginning.
Ganook studied each dog with keen
interest. I explained that I would be backing the red and blue dogs throughout
the evening, He looked surprised. “Not the white?” He asked.
“No,” I said. “This track favours the
red and blue dogs in the inside traps. Over the last three months, £1 win bets
on them would have yielded an average return per race of £2.35 – that’s better
than you get on the stock market these days. Money for old rope.
He looked at me quizzically, possibly
considering the ramifications of the old rope.
“It will all become clear,” I said
encouragingly. “We had better place our bets for the first race.”
I took him down to one of the trackside bookies and showed him how it was done. The odds for both red and blue
dogs were 10-1 against. “We’ll be off to a good start if either of these come
in,” I said, and come in they did, last and second from last. Nonetheless, I was
not unduly discouraged, the statistics were in my favour and there were still
seven races to go.
As soon as the bookies were open for
business again I placed my bet for the second race. I returned to where Ganook
was standing to find him looking intently at the pre-race parade.
“The blue dog looks useful,” I
observed.
“Blue dog, Michael, are you sure?” He
seemed unimpressed by my selection.
“Which one do you fancy?” I
asked.
“The white dog,” he said as though no
other choice was remotely feasible.
I endeavoured to put him right. “The
white dog has the disadvantage of racing in lane four. The win/start ratio
for that lane is something in the region of 1 – 11, hardly worth bothering
with. Best to stick with the reds and blues.”
He politely thanked me for my advice
and set-off to make his first bet of the evening. He looked a forlorn figure.
It couldn’t have been easy for him, seven thousand miles from home and in an
environment very different from what he used to. To be honest, he wasn’t what
we were expecting. When the school signed-up to the Anglo-American Teacher
Exchange Scheme we thought we would be paired with a school in California, at
least that was our first choice. The fact that our three area preferences were
disregarded in favour of Alaska came as a profound shock. Somehow the prospect
of a six-month secondment to a small village only 200 km from the Arctic circle
seemed less than appealing.
Of course it wasn’t Ganook’s fault and
when he arrived several weeks later, we did our best to make him welcome.
However, it soon became evident that Ganook was as unsuited to north-east
London as I would have been in the frozen wilderness of Alaska. For a start
English was not his first language and his uncertain comprehension of the
spoken word, especially the north London vernacular of the pupils, resulted in
frequent misunderstandings. His inability to find his way about the urban
landscape was another difficulty which once resulted in the school football
team arriving in Southend when they were due to play a match in a neighbouring
borough. All in all, he was the proverbial fish out of water, a ponderous,
middle-aged Inuit who was clearly missing his family.
After a protracted negotiation with
Honest Joe, the betting man’s friend – his description not mine – Ganook
returned and we watched the race together. For the second time that evening, the
white dog romped home well ahead of the field. The third, fourth and fifth
races came and went without any success for the red and blue dogs. I was now
£50 down and feeling distinctly anxious. I might have been young, single and
devil may care – at least I liked to think so – but I still had to pay the rent
the next day. I decided that the only way I was likely to do so and continue
eating for the rest of the week was to double-up on my bets – after all my
system was statistically proven. The red and blue greyhounds in the sixth and
seventh races seemed curiously unimpressed by statistics and finished no better
than third. I was now a further £40 adrift. It was all too much and in a fit of
pique, I hurled my betting slip and programme to the ground in disgust. “This is
the last time I go racing!” I exclaimed bitterly. I aimed a kick at a passing
pigeon and missed.
Ganook looked at me with surprise,
“what is wrong, Michael?”
I explained my predicament with as much
patience as I could muster.
“Don’t worry, Michael,” he said, “have
some of my money.” He pulled a thick wad of banknotes from the hip pocket of
his jacket.
“Where did you get that from?”
Ganook again looked surprised, “from
Honest Joe, the betting man’s friend.”
“Oh!” I said, “so you won, then.”
“Yes, Michael. I won £60 on the second
race, £40 on the third, £50 on the fourth and fifth and £60 on the sixth.”
“What about the seventh?” I asked.
He frowned heavily. “Honest Joe say
come here no more, five wins too much.”
It was all rather too much for me. “But
how on earth did you manage to pick five straight winners? that’s incredible.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It is
not difficult. I grow up with dogs. On the tundra no dogs, no travel: no
travel, no survive. When dogs are that important you know them better than your
best friend. Look at the black dog.” The parade for the final race had just
begun. “See how he walks, the angle of the head, the eager look in his eyes...”
“So you think it’s going to win?” I
interrupted.
“Not just me, Michael. Look at the
other dogs, they think so too.”
“Ganook,” I said, “lend me a hundred
pounds, I think it’s time I paid Honest Joe another visit.”
I deposited Ganook’s money and the little that was left of my own with Honest Joe who seemed very pleased to see me. He was noticeably less pleased when ten minutes later I returned to collect the seven hundred pounds I had won.
*****
It would be no exaggeration to say that
Ganook’s remaining five months at the school were an outstanding success. His
popularity among the teaching staff was second to none and he was at the centre
of our frequent social outings to various greyhound tracks in the south-east.
Of course, he was still prone to the occasional gaff like the time he
misdirected the school cross-country race through a local garden centre, but
such things paled into insignificance when compared to the diverse wealth of
expertise that he brought to the school. At least that’s what we told the
organisers of the teacher exchange scheme when we tried to extend his period of
secondment. Unfortunately, Ganook would have none of it and not even the offer
of a Deputy Headship was enough to induce him to stay.
On the day of his departure, I drove him
to Heathrow in my new Porsche. We had wanted to charter a private jet to take
him home but he insisted on using his economy class return ticket. I wished him
well and said that I would miss him. I never spoke a truer word.
Copyright Richard Banks
