Jumping to Conclusions (13 page)

'Why?'

' 'Cause we beat 'em up in the playground. They said Mum was on drugs. They said she looks like a hippie.'

Charlie thought that maybe Tyler and Nathan had a point. 'You shouldn't really be in here, though, should you? And is your brother – er, Ezekiel – here too?'

'Somewhere. Sorry.' The child grinned gappily. 'Jemima calls us Levi and Zeke. Cool, huh?'

Who? Ah, yes ... Jemima. The grunge granny from the bookshop who was renting the vicarage flat. Charlie nodded. No point in not putting in a bid. 'I've heard she's really pretty.'

'God, no! She's old! I mean – as olds go I s'pose she's all right. She's working in the Munchy Bar 'til her shop's ready, and brings us crisps and Coke and stuff every night. She wears glasses.'

Charlie quite liked women who wore glasses. They always reminded him of the matron at his prep school, who had had enormous bosoms and incredible legs, and about whom everyone had fantasised. Working in the Munchy Bar was a definite no-no, though. With his current starvation regime he was giving the place a wide berth. Just the aroma of bacon and eggs would have him drooling. He'd have to wait until the bookshop opened to give her the once-over.

'Mega!' Levi grinned suddenly. 'Zeke's okay!'

The second Hutchinson twin emerged unscathed from the clock arch. 'They think we've cut through the pub car park,' he panted at his brother. 'Thick as planks – Oh, hello, Mr Somerset.'

Charlie repeated the no trespassing speech, and again began to feel extremely old. Just when had he started to become responsible? Bloody hell! Was he growing up at last?

The Hutchinson twins, promising never to run through Peapods again and looking slightly crestfallen, started to walk away across the cobbles just as Drew emerged from the office. They darted a look in his direction and then, immediately forgetting Charlie's warning, took to their heels.

'It's okay, I've read them the riot act,' Charlie started, then looked at Drew. 'What's up?'

'I've let Alister go.'

Charlie blinked. Sacking your assistant trainer at this stage of the season was a major disaster. 'Why? What's he done?'

'Nothing.' Drew exhaled. His face was grey. 'Well, nothing wrong, poor bugger. Ferdy Thornton's offered him a job – far more than I'm paying. Alister didn't want to leave, but he's got a family to support. He asked me if I could match Ferdy's salary – I couldn't.' Drew stared across the yard. 'We've parted on good terms, thank God. I don't blame him.'

Charlie, who had never, not even at Radley, hugged another man, really wanted to hug Drew. 'Shit. I'm so sorry. Is there anything at all I can do?'

'Start learning how to train.' Drew shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 'You might need to know how. I certainly can't afford a replacement.'

'No problem. I need to look to my future anyway ...'

'I'm beginning to think I haven't got one.'

'If you want to tell Maddy, she's taken Poppy Scarlet to feed the ducks.' Charlie decided that it wasn't the best moment to inform Drew of Vincent's arrival on the Peapods payroll.

'I don't want to talk to her yet. I can't tell her.' Drew started to walk away across the yard. 'I'm going to the Cat and Fiddle for intravenous Glenfiddich. You might have to start evening stables without me.'

The air of gloom deepened. Charlie looked up at the flax-flower blue of the sky, hazy with the heat still rolling from the Downs, and wondered whether praying would help. He wasn't too hot on praying except when he was racing. Maybe he should ask Gillian if there was a set formula for making requests to God. Niggling away in the back of his mind was the stentorian voice of his religious education master: '... and remember, when you ask God for favours, that no is an answer, too ...'

Charlie looked across the yard, wondering if he could join Drew in the pub and pretend that Diet Coke was gin, and frowned. There was a crowd at the end of the drive. Not more bloody kids! He started to walk up the yard towards them and suddenly grinned. That was better. Maybe God was being receptive after all.

A crowd of schoolgirls were hanging around Peapods' gate. They often did, of course. Pony-mad kids were part of racing life. But these weren't children from the village school. These were leggy, pretty, fresh-faced. Hopefully they weren't just interested in Peapods' equine residents. A doting teenage fan club would do his ego no harm at all, and would fill in the time while Tina was away. And they'd be absolutely ideal to take his mind off the slender and fragile forbidden fruit of Gillian Hutchinson.

One of the schoolgirls smiled at him. 'Charlie?'

'Yeah?'

She was pretty. Very. Olive-skinned. Long black hair in a single plait. The blue-and-white striped dress, yanked up to mid-thigh by an elasticated money belt, indicated that she'd come straight from the convent's highly-priced classroom.

'Don't you remember me?'

He shook his head. The gang of girls with her were giggling shrilly. She didn't look like a giggler, though. How old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen at a push? Going on thirty. 'Sorry. Should I?'

'You taught me to ride. Years ago. When you were with Mr Pettigrove. I've been away at boarding school. I'm back to do A-levels at St Hilda's. You haven't changed at all.'

She had, though, Charlie thought, whoever she was. He'd taught quite a few of the village children to ride when he'd first arrived in Milton St John ten years earlier. She might just be seventeen, then. 'Sorry – I really don't remember your name.'

'Lucinda.' She smiled at him, turning away, tossing the plait across her shoulder. 'Lucinda Cox. It's nice to see you again.'

'And you.' Charlie beamed, although the name meant nothing to him. Presumably she was old enough to drink? It was worth a try. 'Look, I've finished here. Do you fancy a drink in the Cat and Fiddle? Talk over old times ...'

'Why not?'

The giggling group got louder. Lucinda stared at them with disdain.

God, Charlie thought, they must teach sang-froid at St Hilda's. She smelled of soap and youth and fresh air, he noticed as he got closer. So different to Tina Maloret's unpronounceable French perfume and American cosmetics.

Lucinda Cox, Charlie decided, could be exactly what he needed.

There was something wrong. He wasn't in his own bed. The sheets felt soft against his skin, and they smelled of fresh air. Everything smelled of fresh air, actually. There was no sour, stale stench. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he was dreaming. And if he wasn't, then the noises were wrong too. There weren't any. No repetitive bass of rap music, no screaming children, no warring couples. Was he ill? In a coma? Dead?

Vincent opened his eyes. The sun, just hazy through the flowery curtains, cast a golden glow across a small well-polished oak wardrobe and matching dressing table. The bed, also oak, was flanked by twin bedside tables with brass lamps. There was a carpet on the floor. It was neat and clean and homely. Homely ... His new home ... Vincent rolled over on the deep feather pillows and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Last night he'd had the best meal he'd ever had in his life: sitting in Peapods' kitchen, with Drew Fitzgerald – Vincent still couldn't quite believe that part – while Maddy heaped his plate over and over again. Then they'd taken their cups of coffee outside under the chestnut trees and Maddy – who was absolutely gorgeous – had explained how she'd planned the garden, and started to develop it, and how she'd like him to continue with it – but only if he felt it was right, him being such an expert ...

Vincent groaned and pulled the sweet-smelling sheet over his face at the memory. They were so
nice.
It seemed the worst kind of deception. He'd almost confessed all at that point. Almost, but not quite. He knew what he was going to do, and the long-term end would surely justify the short-term means. He wouldn't be taking money from Drew and Maddy under false pretences. He'd get the hang of gardening if it killed him.

He'd then endured an excruciating hour being shown round rockeries and shrubberies and perennial borders. He'd nodded and smiled and told Maddy that everything she'd done so far was just perfect and he'd be delighted to carry on with her schemes. There had been one particularly horrendous moment when she'd got very technical over various types of clematis. Vincent, who'd thought that they were a kind of small orange, made some remark about not seeing much of them except around Christmas. Maddy had looked at him in amazement, and said he must be thinking of some evergreen hardy varieties she hadn't heard of, and please, please could he get her some?

Possibly even more difficult had been Drew's twilight trip round the stables. Vincent, who had to pretend total ignorance of all things equine, had almost immediately blown his cover by being able to quote Dock of the Bay's racing form, chapter and verse. This time it was Drew who had looked at him in surprise.

'Er – I – um – looked it up,' Vincent had muttered. 'I thought I – er – ought to know a bit about it...'

Fortunately Drew had nodded and accepted it without further question. In fact, Vincent reckoned, if he wasn't much mistaken, Drew had had a fair bit to drink even before the wine they'd had with supper, not to mention the whisky afterwards. He liked that. He liked a man who enjoyed a drink.

Anyway – he eased himself up in the bed, luxuriating in the softness – there were loads of things to do today. Maddy was going to show him the shed where the equipment was kept, and the greenhouse with the cuttings and seedlings, and the files with the maintenance history of the house. She'd like him to sort out the walled garden, she'd said. Just to break him in gently. He thought he'd cope okay. He had brought some books. One of them was bound to cover walled gardens. And a walled garden sounded almost urban. It was sure to be concrete. So, at least today's gardening wouldn't hurl too many hazards his way. And then there was Jemima ...

Vincent sat on the edge of the bed. He could hear birds now, and the rattle of hooves on the cobbles. The stable lads were shouting, but it was cheerful, not aggressive. Even the swearing sounded chummy. He pinched himself. He, Vincent Carlisle, was
living
in a racing yard!

Now, where had he been? Ah, yes ... Jemima. He pulled his threadbare dressing gown round him and walked into the kitchen. The cottage's four rooms were tiny, but compared to his bedsit they were palatial. And one day soon, Vincent thought cheerfully, slopping water into the kettle, he'd have a house again. A huge house, the sort of house which he deserved. Somewhere he could be proud of, and somewhere Jemima would be able to call home.

He carried his cup of tea to the window. Horses were being led out of boxes, the dogs weaving in and out of the skittering legs, while bleary-eyed stable lads were getting instructions from an equally bleary-eyed Drew Fitzgerald. Vincent chuckled. That was a hangover and a half if ever he'd seen one!

The horses clattered sideways, blowing frothily, tossing their heads. Vincent's eyes misted. He'd never seen anything more beautiful. He gulped his tea. It didn't matter what Jemima said when she found out that he was here; it didn't matter that he'd make a better concert pianist than a gardener. He was due a change of fortune, wasn't he? And this – unseen behind the flowery curtains he raised a teacup salute to Drew's first lot – was definitely it.

After a quick shower – Maddy, bless her, had not only stocked his larder but his bathroom too – Vincent dressed. Fortunately most of his clothes looked ideal for gardening. He'd brought very few with him. He'd brought very little of anything, actually, apart from the books, having made the journey from his bedsit to Milton St John by bus, which had involved four different changes. It was sheer luck, Vincent thought, that all his worldly goods divided neatly into three carrier bags. Anymore and the transport situation would have been insurmountable.

Most of the stuff he'd been left with after his company had gone into receivership had been hocked for gambling stakes months before. And of course Rosemary had taken any of the furniture that remained after the bailiff's final visit. He hadn't begrudged her it. It wasn't much to show for all those years of marriage, after all. She'd stuck with him for far longer than he'd expected. He had loved Rosemary very much. He still did. Love, unlike hate, Vincent found, had a habit of hanging on.

He bent down to tie his shoes but couldn't quite see the laces. Bugger. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Rosemary would never come back. He knew that. He had hurt her too many times. It was far too late to make amends to Rosemary – but Jemima ... Oh, yes, he'd make everything wonderful for Jemima.

He had her letter in his pocket. It had arrived at his bedsit just after he'd got the Peapods job but he hadn't actually received it until three days later because Greg downstairs, who wasn't very bright and couldn't read, accosted the postman in the lobby each morning and thought all the letters were for him. If you were expecting a giro or anything, you had to get up really early to beat Greg. The bedsit residents raided Greg's room twice a week to retrieve their mail.

Anyway, he thought, closing his front door behind him and breathing in the horsy air, he'd go and see Jemima at the Munchy Bar this afternoon. It would be preferable to calling at her flat. He knew Jemima. However furious she was, she'd never blow her top in front of other people. It would be far safer to tell her his news in a crowded cafe rather than in the privacy of her flat where he might not be able to supply all the answers. And, he reckoned, digging his hands into the pockets of his corduroys, she'd surely see that it was all for the best. They'd be living close again, after all this time. They could be like a proper father and daughter. He sighed. He'd been a lousy husband. He only hoped it wasn't too late to make up for his paternal shortcomings.

.. and that's it, really,' Maddy said, trying to keep the dogs from burrowing excitedly in the borders and failing. 'You're lucky we've had such a hot spell – it's kept the weeds down. They go mad after rain, don't they?'

'Completely berserk,' Vincent agreed, peering again at the walled garden. It looked very weedy to him. All those things sprouting out of the bricks and up between the gravel. He'd be able to get rid of those. And roses? Roses, Vincent knew, had thorns. There was a big thorny thing growing up one wall with frothy bushes underneath. He'd cope with that first.