Torn (26 page)

Jessica did smile then. ‘It was surprise, not horror. I wasn't expecting jokes.'

‘From a sour old curmudgeon like me?'

‘I didn't mean … Look, I'm really grateful for your help last night. You've been kind.' She disengaged her eyes from his and made a vague sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘It's so beautiful here.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You're a lucky man. Sasha's a lucky little girl.'

The previous moment of good humour was instantly switched off. He frowned, and with a sinking feeling Jessica recalled that the man had lost his wife and the child her mother in a horrific accident. And a new by-pass might soon be cut through his land, less than half a mile from the house. Still, some people had to live with even greater tragedy, un-softened by the cushion of wealth. Some lived with illness and poverty, some lived in sink estates amidst crime and graffiti, some had low-flying jumbo jets roaring over their heads, every few minutes. She had no need to apologise but still found herself saying, ‘I can appreciate why you don't want the road here.'

‘You probably don't believe me, but I can appreciate why you don't want it on your side of the hill. But at least you're only renting. You can easily move.'

‘Perhaps. But not necessarily so easy for the other residents of Northwell.'

‘Many are renting, like you,' he simply said. ‘I'm going in for something to eat. Have you had breakfast?'

Was he inviting her to come in to eat with him, or simply being polite?

‘I have, thanks. I was wondering whether to look in on Danny. See if he's OK.'

James Warwick had been looking out over the field of sheep, but his eyes turned towards her questioningly.

‘I had Nigel look in on him a couple of times overnight. And I've already checked on him this morning. Sleeping like a baby. Apart from a bit of shiner I'm sure he's fine. But … by all means. You already know your way. I did leave a note for him, but he doesn't seem to take any notice of my notes. If you wake him tell him he's got the night off. Tell him Nigel's coming in again. And with a bit of luck we might finish tonight.'

Chapter Sixteen

‘Jessica! There you are!' Gilda said, when she returned to the kitchen. ‘I thought we could use what's left of the morning to have a conference about Sasha's party. I am so grateful you've offered to help. Then we can have a bit of lunch. Mrs Dowdeswell has made a delicious cheese pie. And there are some gingerbread biscuits she made with the children yesterday.'

‘What about James' Land Rover? Doesn't he want me to drive him down to the cinema car park this morning?'

‘Don't you worry. I can drive him into town any time. Now … where are you up to with Sasha's party?'

‘Where am
I
 …?'

With hardly more than a fortnight till the party, no invitations had been sent, no entertainment booked – and Gilda was quite sure there had to be an entertainer – nor had any plans been made for decoration, food, or games. The child's father was apparently leaving the whole thing to his mother to arrange. And his mother …

Jessica had no experience whatsoever of throwing a children's party beyond accompanying Rory to a few, and had not thought twice about it since she was first asked to help. She'd simply supposed she was expected to go along early on the day, help lay the table, dish out jelly and ice-cream, and perhaps assist in the supervision of their games. Now it seemed that her agreement to help had been taken as an agreement to organise the whole event.

Feeling shell-shocked and cornered Jessica followed her friend into the dining room. The long refectory table was large enough to seat twenty children, Gilda told her, and games could be organised in the nearby playroom.
Goodie!
Jessica thought, unable to summon the words to say there had been a misunderstanding. After lunch she drove home with Rory, all the while berating herself for her inability to tell the woman where to get off. The rest of the afternoon was spent fielding his demands for attention, while scanning the internet. By the evening emails had been sent to a list of entertainers, balloon suppliers, and party caterers. A close deadline always sharpens up your act, she thought. Just as well!

The next morning, however, the Yellow Pages was open on the floor, and Jessica was scribbling phone numbers onto the back of an envelope. She could get the food catered, she could fill the farmhouse with balloons, and there was a supplier in Cheltenham, at the more exclusive end of the market, who could provide the full range of tasteful party accessories. Paper cloths, napkins, cups, party bags, bunting could all be themed by colour and design, and, for an additional cost, the child's name incorporated in those designs. But Jess had failed to find an entertainer who was free on that particular afternoon.

Friday had been chosen, not just because it fell on Sasha's birthday, but with the children taken care of at nursery school, it would give Gilda and Jessica time in the morning to prepare without their interference. It would also allow the adults the weekend to recover. She phoned Gilda. The party had to be that Friday, or at the very latest Saturday or Sunday. Sasha's godfather had already arranged to come that weekend to join in the celebrations. In desperation Jessica tried again for the Saturday or Sunday, but the message was the same from all the local entertainers who either had an internet presence or ads in the directories, ‘You've left it too late, we're all booked up till April for Fridays and weekends.'

She phoned Gilda again. Yes. There had to be an entertainer. All the friends' parties Sasha ever attended had entertainers, but Gilda didn't mind what type – as if the type of entertainer was the problem. Jessica had tried magicians, balloon sculptors, clowns, and puppet shows. There wasn't anything else listed. She racked her brains. Was there anyone she knew who could do a bit of conjuring or card tricks? Think, think! Children were easily satisfied. Or were they? Perhaps she should just get a new DVD, something no one had seen? No. That was no answer. Anything which was available to her would be available to the rest of the world. Nothing she could get hold of would be sufficiently exclusive. Then it came to her. A juggler! Sheila had said something about students and ‘new-agers' busking in town. Jess had only ever seen one busker, sat on the pavement outside Boots, thumping out complicated rhythms on a tambour. But there was a juggler, a very good juggler, Sheila had said so. And Jessica knew who would know him.

It felt strange to be going to the farm specifically to see Danny, with no sense of constraint or self-exposure.

‘I have to see Danny,' she said straight away to Gilda. ‘I think he might know a juggler.'

‘Ask James. He'll know where the lad is supposed to be.'

‘I've got to see Danny!' she said to a surprised James, when he'd been summoned from his study.

‘He is bound to know a juggler!' Gilda interpreted, as if this was explanation enough. A bemused James said Danny should be with the sheep.

The walk was longer than she expected. The sheep had been moved to the field on the southern slope of Spine Hill. When she spotted him she was not at all sure what was going on. She was still some distance away but could see Kit lying on the ground next to Danny, head on her paws, and Danny stooping over a ewe. He hooked one arm under the animal's neck, as the other hand reached below her to grab her hind leg. Suddenly he had turned her over and to her evident surprise the ewe found herself sitting on the ground, leaning back against him. He bent over her and seemed to be looking at one of her fore-feet.

Kit noticed Jessica first. She raised her head and watched her approach, then looked towards Danny as if in some unspoken communication. Danny glanced first at the dog then squinted up, apparently unsurprised to see Jessica walking towards them. He bent his head again and carried on inspecting the ewe's foot. Using a penknife he began to scrape out the mud and grit and bits of twig from between the digits. With the blade of his knife he pared away a small amount of the horny wall at the toe of the hoof. Kit sat up straight and wagged her tail, eyes bright with enthusiastic welcome.

‘You must have got your strength back to turn the ewe so easily. She's a big girl!' Jess said, as an opening gambit.

‘There's, like, a knack to it. It's not strength.' There was a silence which lengthened as he continued scraping at the ewe's foot. The ball, it seemed, was back in Jessica's court.

‘The dog seems better trained than the first time I met her, when she jumped all over me with big muddy paws.'

‘Yeah? She's learning.' Danny spoke without looking up. He continued with the job in hand.

‘So … what are you doing?'

‘Checking her feet are healthy, cleaning them, trimming them so the surface she walks on is flat … though you have to be really careful about that or you can do more harm than good.'

Jessica looked around at the rest of the flock. They remained placidly unperturbed by the manhandling their sister was receiving. ‘How do you know which is which? Which ewe you've done?' He didn't respond, his concentration entirely focused on the job. ‘I've just noticed. You're left handed … Danny.'

‘What?' He glanced up for only the second time. She saw the bruises had developed to their most dramatic – livid mauves, purples blacks and blues.

‘You're left handed.'

‘Am I?' It was an odd answer, but he qualified it. ‘Sometimes. Not always. I use both. Depends what I'm doing. And … I know the sheep. I know which one I've done.'

‘They all look the same to me.'

‘That's because you don't work with them. Anyway they're tagged,' he added, before beginning to cough.

‘Where's the cough come from?'

‘How should I know? Sash I expect. She had a cold last week.'

Caught from Rory no doubt. He straightened slowly and blew his nose. The dog watched him then pushed her muzzle against his thigh. He laid his hand briefly over her head and she licked it.

‘It's Sasha's birthday in a fortnight.' Jessica said. ‘I've been landed the job of organising the party. Gilda wants an entertainer but I can't find anyone who's not booked up. Sheila Jordan says there's a juggler who busks in town.'

‘Owen.' Danny nodded. ‘He's good.'

‘Could you ask him?' she said to the top of Danny's head. He'd stooped to study another of the ewe's feet. She noticed that his thick, tow-coloured hair had grown longer. ‘He'd be well paid for a half hour's juggle. Or you could just give me his number.'

Danny half laughed. ‘Phone number? Don't think he's got a phone.'

‘Address then?'

‘Or a permanent address.'

The responsibility for inviting a grimy, possibly smelly juggler to perform in Gilda's beautiful home, in front of her precious grandchild, would be Jessica's. And that the tale would be taken back to the homes of all Sasha's little friends, she was certain. As children's parties were an important element in the complicated structure of one-upmanship amongst the mothers and carers, Gilda was hardly likely to welcome the notoriety this scheme might bring. But just now Owen was Jessica's only option. Surely all she had to do was make sure he was spruced up.

‘Has he got clothes he could change into … like a special outfit he performs in?'

‘Oh yeah, he's got this totally cool velvet coat and a shiny yellow shirt. And a jester's hat … shoes to match, with bells even. He wore the full rig during Warford's Arts Festival last autumn.' All this was directed more to the ewe than to Jessica, as he continued the examination of her feet. Jess did not recall an Arts Festival in Warford, but it must have happened shortly after she arrived in the neighbourhood. Presumably there'd been far too much going on in her own head to notice a juggling jester wandering the streets.

‘That sounds wonderful, and these clothes would be clean?'

‘Can't guarantee clean, but he doesn't wear the outfit often. Carries it round with him in a bag, along with his clubs and stuff.'

So almost certainly in need of an iron. ‘If I booked him through you, would he be reliable? Would he turn up?'

‘I'd make sure he did. I wouldn't want to let Sash down.' Scrape scrape. Why couldn't he stop doing that for a minute and look at her?

‘And if he came, could he have a shower in your caravan?'

Danny glanced up momentarily, but didn't straighten. ‘What makes you think there's a shower in my caravan?' He started to cough, this time holding his hand against his side as if it hurt him, but continued what he was doing as soon as the cough abated.

‘Danny, why are you acting like this?'

‘Like what?'

‘So cold and off-hand. You don't even seem to want to look at me.'

‘I can't keep straightening up and bending down again. My ribs hurt.'

‘I'm sure they do. You probably shouldn't be doing that at all. So stand up for a few minutes and talk to me.'

‘It's not fair to keep the ewe like this any longer than I have to.' The remark was unarguable. Finished with the animal, Danny turned her back onto newly cleaned and trimmed feet. Released, she trotted off, bleating. He straightened and blew his nose again. They looked at one another for a moment without speaking. Kit joined in, looking first at Danny, then at Jessica, her eyebrow raised as if in query.

Danny said, ‘I don't know how to
be
with you.'

‘What does that mean?'

His eyes turned towards the horizon where, above the distant line of hills, the clouds lay in flattened strata, the lateral stripes varying from pink, through pale putty, to dark slate blue. Then he looked back at her, his bruised eye squinting into the low afternoon sun.

‘Well, nothing's changed, has it? It was only a few days ago when you came to tell me it's over. We're finished.'