Lots of Love (47 page)

‘We
must
follow them!’ Pheely shrieked, turning back to Ellen. ‘Get your car keys.’

‘The battery’s flat.’ Ellen closed her eyes and tried to visualise the sea, instead seeing Spurs’ angry face as he drove away.

‘Don’t lie!’ Pheely found the keys and frogmarched her to the car.

With Hamlet and Snorkel play-fighting happily in the back of the jeep, Ellen tried and failed to start the engine. ‘I meant to replace it in Cornwall.’ She sank back in her seat. ‘It really isn’t going anywhere.’

‘We’ll take the moped. The dogs can stay here.’ Pheely leaped out again. ‘You put them in the kitchen while I bring the bike round.’

‘I thought it was broken . . .’ Ellen’s words died on her lips as Pheely sped towards the Lodge cottage, flip-flops slapping. She looked like she was running for her life.

The weekenders in the Corner House were having a barbecue, sending great clouds of hickory-chip smoke across the lane as Pheely dived towards her magic gate. Mungo Jerry was singing ‘In the Summertime’ on a reedy stereo.

Ellen pressed her head to the steering-wheel, using every iron girder of her willpower to breathe life into the car’s battery and make it start. If it did, then she, Snorkel and a kidnapped Great Dane were going to drive to Cornwall to escape and breathe the sea.

But the engine just groaned. So did Ellen when she heard the spluttering of a frail moped engine.

When two scruffy women – one paint-stained, the other clay-encrusted – set off through Oddlode at a whining putter on an ailing moped, a few heads appeared over garden walls and hedges to watch in amazement. Pheely was wearing an ancient khaki army helmet and goggles, and had equipped Ellen with Dilly’s riding helmet for safety, the pink hat-silk flapping like a camisole strapped to a tortoise.

The ancient Vespa, which Pheely called Pompeii because it was an Italian death-trap, wasn’t capable of speeds over fifteen miles an hour.

‘I didn’t see Godspell in the car, so they’ll have picked her up from somewhere on the way – we might not be far behind,’ Pheely yelled over her shoulder. ‘I suggest we try to catch up with them without arousing their suspicions so that we can spy rather than intercept.’

Ellen thought that the likelihood of them staying inconspicuous on the noisy moped in sleepy Upper Springlode was unlikely, but the chin-strap of Dilly’s helmet was so tight that she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. It took all of her concentration to stay aboard as Pheely careered unsteadily around the hairpin turns, bouncing on and off the verges and gathering large amounts of greenery in their wake. Trailing cow parsley and willowherb like a small, unstable carnival float, they laboured up the steep hill towards the ridge.

‘Pompeii’s not feeling herself,’ Pheely shouted, as they started moving more slowly than their cloud of midge outriders. ‘I think you might have to get off and walk.’

Ellen was only too glad to oblige, feeling far safer on her own two feet than on Pheely’s bald tyres. She pulled off her helmet and wondered why on earth she had agreed to this.

‘I’ll see you at the top.’ Pheely revved the engine and puttered away.

Although sorely tempted to start running fast in the opposite direction, Ellen set off behind her at a brisk jog and, to her surprise, found herself catching the frail moped within seconds, then keeping pace. Pheely, her chin set determinedly, took this opportunity to brief her like a training coach with a runner.

‘We’ll check the car park of the Plough first,’ she called. ‘If the Bellings’ Land Rover is there, we can probably sneak in and get a couple of drinks, then spy from the other side of the beer garden without them knowing we’re there. It’s very wooded around the stream so lots of good places to hide – all the local adulterers take their mistresses there.’ She winked at Ellen as the moped racketed over potholes. ‘If they’re at Rory’s cottage, it won’t be so easy.’

‘I thought you wanted to fetch Dilly home?’

‘I can’t do that – she’s seventeen and she’d just tell me to go to hell.’ The moped was coughing and belching alarmingly. ‘But I have to look after her. We’ll be her guardian angels for the night. It might even be quite fun. That doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.’ She cast Ellen a reprimanding look and almost mowed down a panic-stricken pheasant.

Guardian angels with dirty faces, thought Ellen, as sweat started to run down her forehead, dislodging the paint splatters. She tried to imagine how she would have felt at being pursued by her mother and a friend on a moped when she and Richard had started drinking in the pubs of Taunton. However much Jennifer Jamieson had disapproved of Ellen’s boyfriends, she’d never followed in their wake to spy on them.

As she dropped back to run behind the moped and let a car come past in the opposite direction, she felt more and more stupid for agreeing to this, and increasingly certain that there was something Pheely wasn’t telling her. That Pheely hated and mistrusted Spurs wasn’t in doubt, and she’d made it clear there were things he’d done that could never be spoken about. And that Dilly intended to ‘lose the big V’ tonight played on Ellen’s mind like non-stop, discordant jazz. She was both jealous and worried sick, but she still needed to know more before she set up skulking surveillance on the double date.

Muscles now heavy with lactic acid, she battled to catch up with the moped once more.

‘Is Spurs Dilly’s father?’ She had to ask.

Pheely zigzagged the moped precariously across the road, almost taking out Ellen’s tired legs. ‘No! Dear God! Whatever makes you say that?’ To Ellen’s surprise, she started to hoot with laughter.

Having lost their running rhythm, Ellen’s legs were going dead, her chest was burning and her steering less controlled as she stumbled after the whooping Pheely.

‘What’s so funny?’ she panted, tripping over a loosening lace.

‘You have no idea how much better that makes me feel! Imagine if she was out on a hot date with her father!’

This was a bit far-fetched even for Oddlode and, lightheaded from running, Ellen started to laugh too. They meandered up the hill like two spiked Wacky Racers, terrifying the sheep in the fields to either side, who bleated noisily as runner and rider clipped alternate hedges and gathered hawthorn-blossom dandruff until they resembled sheep themselves.

Just before the turning to Upper Springlode, the moped engine cut out.

Ellen collapsed, panting, on the verge while Pheely tried to start it again. ‘It’s always bloody doing this – should start again in a tick. I think it overheats.’

But even after several minutes, the engine refused to fire.

‘When did you last put petrol in it?’ asked Ellen.

‘I don’t know – about a month ago? I don’t use it much.’

Standing up, Ellen gripped the handlebars and rocked the little bike, listening to the tank. A few drips of fuel swirled around inside.

‘Damn.’ Pheely clambered off again and propped it up on its rest, scanning the lane above and below. ‘The nearest petrol station is at least five miles away. We’ll just have to hope somebody comes along with a jerry-can.’

‘I can run on to the village,’ Ellen suggested.

‘Or we could stash the bike behind a gateway and walk to the pub.’ Pheely looked around fretfully for a handy opening in the high hedges. ‘I know this must seem silly, but I just need to know she’s okay. She is terribly innocent for seventeen.’

Ellen thought about the big V and looked away guiltily.

‘Wonderful! Look! A car’s coming!’ Pheely leaped into the lane and started to wave her arms at the big offroader roaring up the hill towards them. Then her arms dropped hurriedly to her sides as she recognised the muddy blue Land Rover. It was too late to hide.

‘Oh, no.’ Ellen groaned, and pulled down a shirt cuff to wipe the sweat from her face.

Coming up the lane towards them was Spurs, his silver eyes widening in surprise, a furious-looking Dilly glaring out of the fly-specked windscreen beside him. Silhouetted between the two, Godspell Gates’s head carried on bobbing as she listened to her personal stereo.

‘What are you doing here?’ Dilly wailed at her mother, when Spurs pulled up on the verge.

‘Just out for a run,’ Pheely said breezily, battling not to give away how mortified she was. ‘A run out of petrol, as it transpires. Hello, Godspell. Spurs.’ She averted her gaze as she spat out his name as if it were snake venom.

‘Need help?’ He got out, glancing at Ellen, who was trying hard to blend into a hedge.

‘Not unless you have a can of petrol,’ Pheely snapped. ‘You always had one handy at one time, as I recall.’

Spurs didn’t react. ‘The Land Rover takes diesel. Where are you trying to get to?’ He was still looking at Ellen, the pale eyes unable to tear themselves away.

She swallowed uncomfortably, clutching Dilly’s riding helmet to her chest as she tried to calm her rib-kicking heart, the goosebumps leaping to attention all over her skin. ‘The – er – pub in Springlode.’

‘The Plough?’ He feigned good-natured surprise, but there was an edge to his voice. ‘We’re going there too – I can sling the scooter in the back and we’ll give you a lift.’

Ellen wondered what he was playing at. ‘You don’t need to—’

‘That would be very kind of you, Spurs.’ Pheely cleared her throat, sounding like Boudicca accepting a lift from a passing Roman.

Lifting the moped into the Land Rover was a great deal harder than it first appeared. The little machine was hot and cumbersome, and only just fitted through the tailgate. Spurs groaned as he and Ellen manhandled it inside, watched by Pheely and Dilly on the verge and Godspell in the back seat. None offered their help.

Pheely and her daughter were having a stiff-jawed whispering argument, like two ventriloquists. Ellen couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was pretty obvious that they were livid with each other.

Taking advantage of their distraction, she whispered to Spurs, ‘I’m sorry about this.’

‘Forget it,’ he muttered, not looking at her.

‘You could have just driven past.’

‘No, I couldn’t.’ He scraped the bike against the tailgate, the last few drops of petrol leaking out of the tank all over him.

Ellen couldn’t help herself: ‘But I thought I wasn’t that hot?’

‘Ow – Jesus!’ Spurs howled, clutching his neck and dropping the weight of the moped so that Ellen was left propping it up.

‘What happened?’ She steadied the bike.

‘Pulled something, I think.’ He grimaced.

‘So I can see.’ Ellen’s eyes flashed from beneath a hundred kilos of metalwork as she looked from Dilly to Godspell.

He smiled nastily and, still wincing, helped her push the Vespa the last few feet.

‘It’s all right, we’ll sit over here! Thanks for the lift – hello, Rory.’ Pheely dashed to a far table in the garden of the Plough, covertly within eye and earshot of the one that Rory had already bagged and, from the empty glasses on it, had obviously been waiting at for some time.

‘Don’t you think we should at least buy Spurs a drink to say thanks for the lift?’ Ellen followed Pheely.

‘I haven’t got any money on me,’ she murmured.

‘Neither have I.’

They looked at one another.

‘Bugger.’

If not blown, then their cover was looking almost as windswept as the beer garden of the Plough: gathering clouds and a blustery breeze augured another downpour, despite the flirtatious sunshine. Set around one of the springs that gave the Springlodes their name, the roughly mown green acre was, as Pheely had promised, dotted with little clusters of trees that provided individual lairs for drinking parties and couples up to no good, who only broke cover to teeter into the tiny thatched stone pub and gather another round.

Sitting at the more exposed tables, which had views of the valley, tourists gritted their teeth and tried to keep salad leaves on their plates as the gale picked up. Ellen and Pheely sat conspicuously with no drinks and a filling ashtray, teeth chattering as twigs rained down on them.

‘It’s a popular spot.’ Ellen looked around.

‘Some famous American travel writer called this “the least spoilt hostelry in the Cotswolds” and they’ve been coming in droves ever since,’ Pheely grumbled, eyeing Spurs’ table as she lit yet another cigarette. ‘Dilly is on her third drink already
and
she’s smoking.’

‘So she’s having a good time.’ Ellen only wished
she
was. She fanned her shirt.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ Pheely asked.

‘Not particularly.’ Ellen craned to see Dilly’s table. As though alerted by a siren, Spurs immediately caught her eye, his expression too guarded to read.

‘You must be cold,’ said Pheely. ‘You have goosebumps.’

Ellen escaped to the beer-garden loos, which were housed in a collection of outbuildings, and was appalled at her appearance in the mirror. Her hair was so tangled from the wind and the helmet that she couldn’t even get her fingers through it, her shirt was filthy and she had paint on her face, neck, arms and hands. To cap it all, a large spot was starting to swell on her forehead like a bindi mark.