almost felt doubt when the pennies described their arc and began to fall, but there was not time for doubt to crystallise before the controller called: ‘And it’s tails again!’
The reaction struck Grant hard in the stomach. For a moment he felt as though he would faint across his winnings. Then he leaned forward and began cramming the notes into his pockets.
He did not think of throwing a tip to the controllers, and they apparently had not noticed his win, for they demanded nothing. He pushed through the crowd, holding his hands on the money in his jacket pockets, almost staggered outside into the dining room, the rear yard, the lane among the shadows of the loiterers, even more ghostly now that his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, and then he was in the street.
His whole body sang with the exultation of his soul. He had won almost two hundred pounds. His seventeen pounds ten had become two hundred pounds.
The words ‘two hundred pounds’ kept on being repeated in his mind. ‘Two hundred pounds.Two hundred pounds.Two HUNDRED pounds. Unbelievable. TWO HUNDRED POUNDS!’
And he had his wages cheque intact in his pocket.
He had never had so much money in his life before, andnow he could feel it swelling his pockets, making his clothes bulge, rustling when he walked.
He had to get somewhere where he could count it, look at it.
He never remembered the time he spent going back to his hotel room except for the moment when he fumbled for his key, and that was only because he had to rummage among the notes that jammed his pockets.
In his room he emptied the money out on to the floor and carefully counted it, laying the notes out on the floor in order of denomination. Then he took out his pay cheque and laid it alongside them.
Two hundred pounds in notes and a cheque for one hundred and forty pounds.Three hundred and forty pounds and tomorrow he would be in Sydney.
He looked into the mirror and saw his face, young and still taut, sweat-streaked; and his eyes glittering with the stimulus of winning money; his straight hair rumpled where he had been running his fingers through it.
‘Grant,’ he said to his image, ‘you’re a clever lad.’
He flung himself on his back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, tingling with the joy of it all.
For the first time in a long while he thought about Robyn, and laughed at himself for supposing that two hundredpounds would make her any more accessible. Robyn of the long blonde hair, bound in plaits around her head. Robyn, confident and assured and remote. Robyn as he had last seen her a year ago, a week before he left for Tiboonda, standing at the gate in front of her home with the light behind her, making her hair shine.
Robyn, who had shown singularly little interest in John Grant. But, ah God! she was a lovely girl.
Could he not now, at this moment, put through a long-distance call to her, telling her he was coming home, that he was rich? But then Robyn was more used to money than he, and might not be so impressed at the idea of three hundred and forty pounds.
He laughed and leaped up and began to undress, and then stopped, stunned by the enormity of a thought.
If he had let his bet stand…and if tails had been thrown just once more…he would never have had to return to Tiboonda. He would have won four hundred pounds. Four hundred pounds and his wages cheque would have paid off the Education Department bond and left him enough to live on while he sought work in Sydney.
One twist of the coins. Five seconds of time and he would have been saved a whole year in Tiboonda. Would have been…could still be…
He sat down on the bed and looked at the money. It was wonderful, but what did it offer apart from a few glorious weeks in Sydney. He could have that anyway, with his wages. And if he lost the whole two hundred pounds he would be no worse off than if he had lost the original twenty-two pounds ten.
But if he won, tomorrow he would be in Sydney to stay.
He argued
The reaction struck Grant hard in the stomach. For a moment he felt as though he would faint across his winnings. Then he leaned forward and began cramming the notes into his pockets.
He did not think of throwing a tip to the controllers, and they apparently had not noticed his win, for they demanded nothing. He pushed through the crowd, holding his hands on the money in his jacket pockets, almost staggered outside into the dining room, the rear yard, the lane among the shadows of the loiterers, even more ghostly now that his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, and then he was in the street.
His whole body sang with the exultation of his soul. He had won almost two hundred pounds. His seventeen pounds ten had become two hundred pounds.
The words ‘two hundred pounds’ kept on being repeated in his mind. ‘Two hundred pounds.Two hundred pounds.Two HUNDRED pounds. Unbelievable. TWO HUNDRED POUNDS!’
And he had his wages cheque intact in his pocket.
He had never had so much money in his life before, andnow he could feel it swelling his pockets, making his clothes bulge, rustling when he walked.
He had to get somewhere where he could count it, look at it.
He never remembered the time he spent going back to his hotel room except for the moment when he fumbled for his key, and that was only because he had to rummage among the notes that jammed his pockets.
In his room he emptied the money out on to the floor and carefully counted it, laying the notes out on the floor in order of denomination. Then he took out his pay cheque and laid it alongside them.
Two hundred pounds in notes and a cheque for one hundred and forty pounds.Three hundred and forty pounds and tomorrow he would be in Sydney.
He looked into the mirror and saw his face, young and still taut, sweat-streaked; and his eyes glittering with the stimulus of winning money; his straight hair rumpled where he had been running his fingers through it.
‘Grant,’ he said to his image, ‘you’re a clever lad.’
He flung himself on his back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, tingling with the joy of it all.
For the first time in a long while he thought about Robyn, and laughed at himself for supposing that two hundredpounds would make her any more accessible. Robyn of the long blonde hair, bound in plaits around her head. Robyn, confident and assured and remote. Robyn as he had last seen her a year ago, a week before he left for Tiboonda, standing at the gate in front of her home with the light behind her, making her hair shine.
Robyn, who had shown singularly little interest in John Grant. But, ah God! she was a lovely girl.
Could he not now, at this moment, put through a long-distance call to her, telling her he was coming home, that he was rich? But then Robyn was more used to money than he, and might not be so impressed at the idea of three hundred and forty pounds.
He laughed and leaped up and began to undress, and then stopped, stunned by the enormity of a thought.
If he had let his bet stand…and if tails had been thrown just once more…he would never have had to return to Tiboonda. He would have won four hundred pounds. Four hundred pounds and his wages cheque would have paid off the Education Department bond and left him enough to live on while he sought work in Sydney.
One twist of the coins. Five seconds of time and he would have been saved a whole year in Tiboonda. Would have been…could still be…
He sat down on the bed and looked at the money. It was wonderful, but what did it offer apart from a few glorious weeks in Sydney. He could have that anyway, with his wages. And if he lost the whole two hundred pounds he would be no worse off than if he had lost the original twenty-two pounds ten.
But if he won, tomorrow he would be in Sydney to stay.
He argued
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