Bruno Reed is his name, but everyone in Smalltown calls him ‘Runner’ because that is what he was.
In the Waiting Room Café his was the reserved table by the kitchen door, furthest from the entrance, complete with a wall mounted telephone exclusively his, and above the kitchen door a convex mirror, which allowed Runner to see all who came and went. He was, and remains, a good man in what can be a brutal business. He was trusted by punters, be they a fisherman, shopkeeper, a cook or a housewife. That he survived so long surprised many, but The Man knew his worth.
Smalltown, despite its history, dating back 3,000 years, if the archaeologists are to be believed, doesn’t attract many visitors. It lays at the centre of a long drained marsh, of which only the midges remain.
Smalltown's ‘Main Street’ is just short of two miles long, one end close to the sea; the source of its wealth and longevity. Having said that, the 19th century narrow gauge railway across the marsh is beginning to attract visitors. Look a little closer and you can see the reed beds which enabled the town’s pre-historic founders to lay a trackway across the marsh and construct the first homes.
The medieval priory still stands, forgotten by Henry VIII and now a royal peculiar. The town’s museum is a treasure trove and is free, yet it is the world’s first narrow-gauge electric trains which visitors want to see and ride, affectionally known as ‘hippos’ because of their colour.
Of the town’s main pastime, gambling, nothing is said.
Few troubled Runner, who collected the tabs until 12 noon, after which no more bets could be placed. His own runners gave him the bets they collected from the factories and along Main Street, all of which he laid off to The Man. That was the deal. He never lost and punters rarely won big. They still talk about Joe Makepiece and his £900 five race rollover ten years ago.
At the end of each day The Man sent down two of his men to collect what there was after the Runner had settled what wins there were and taken his share. Only once, when he was 22, and still new to the game, did someone try to take him. The 17 year-old, who died holding the hilt of the knife Runner had thrust into his heart, looked at Runner and said ‘I didn’t mean to’. Runner had a reputation to make and he made it that day. ‘Self defence’ was the verdict and Runner had The Man to thank for that. It also helped that he came back from The War with the Military Cross.
Fifty-five and retired a week, Runner has time on his hands and can now write his novel, using the notebooks he’s filled and, after 33 years, he has quite a collection. Now there’s just him and Mary, the kids having gone.
He knew the time had come when The Man invited them to dinner and gave him a typewriter, saying ‘Happy Birthday Bruno’.
Comments
Post a Comment