by Sarah Mason
“Oh. Was that all there was to it?” says Emma with obvious disappointment.
“Yes. It was. You know how these things can get exaggerated.”
“Well, what about the time you were caught letting men into the office late at night to drink from Joe's booze cupboard? Was that exaggerated too?” Emma is making Holly sound as though she's some slapper who picks men up off the street.
“They were a few old university friends who were visiting for the weekend,” says Holly through gritted teeth. I don't like the nasty glint in Emma's eye.
“Really, that's not what I heard. I heard that—”
In the meantime I have wolfed down the rest of my tartlet and put my knife and fork together with a loud clatter. “Gosh! Well that was delicious,” I babble at Charlotte before Emma can go any further. “You must give me the recipe for it.”
“Of course!” Charlotte smiles, suitably distracted.
“I mean right now. Do you have it in the kitchen?”
Charlotte looks at me in mystification. “Em, yes. If you really want it, Clemmie.”
She daintily finishes her food and then bustles off kitchen-ward for a recipe that I probably will never master nor will ever feel the inclination to, especially after a day at Mr. Trevesky's café.
Holly and I help to clear the plates and take them through to the kitchen.
“Did you listen to Emma out there?” demands Holly under her breath so Charlotte can't hear. “If it wasn't the day she should have been getting married I'd have stabbed her with the cheese knife. God, I wish I'd read a few more Agatha Christies. I'd finish her off in no time.”
“I wouldn't hold out too much hope of getting Emma to help you with ‘High Society,'” I murmur.
“And that's the least of my problems,” groans Holly.
I grimace slightly. “We'll deliver her safely to France and then everything will get better. It has to really.”
Charlotte has been busy rooting around in a recipe folder while we've been talking (does she keep them here? How domestic is that?) and she presses the recipe on me before I can object.
The next course is pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. Sam comes and sits between Holly and me while Charlotte sits up at the other end of the table with Emma and my parents, where my father will rein in the conversation if it gets out of hand.
“So have you sorted out the final arrangements for France yet, Holly?” asks Sam quietly, his eyes carefully watching Charlotte.
Holly's fork pauses midway to her mouth. “Well, there's been a slight hitch . . .” she says carefully.
This time my fork pauses midway to my mouth. “What sort of hitch?” I ask.
“I've been talking to Joe today. He's pretty cross about things . . .”
“So?” I demand. “So?”
“Holly needs to go back to work next week, Clemmie,” interjects Sam calmly, and he has absolutely no problems in getting his fork up to his mouth.
I look in horror at him and then Holly. “You're going to leave me with Emma?”
“Mum and Dad are going too.”
“Much use they'll be if Charlie swings through the window with a knife between his teeth.”
“Well, I wouldn't be that much use either.”
“But you're leaving me at the mercy of her rather unfortunate personality disorder,” I hiss.
“I'll go to France with you,” says Sam.
Holly looks at him in absolute delight. We still haven't managed to eat anything but Sam has nearly finished his plate.
“Would you, Sam?” The gratitude in her voice can't be disguised. “I'd feel so awful just leaving them to it.”
“So you should feel awful. You can't make poor Sam take time off work.”
“Well, I do own the firm, Clemmie. It'll be good for them to do without me for a while and we're only talking a couple of days, aren't we?” Holly nods energetically at this. “Besides, it has been worrying me what you would do if that Martin character turned up. I don't like the idea of you out there by yourself, Clemmie.”
“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you.”
“Oh yes, and what would you do? Stab him with a hair slide?” Actually I know how hopeless I would be if I were faced with Martin Connelly and that's exactly what I would do.
“I have taken a self-defense course,” I say haughtily.
“Well, I might just come along in case your hair slide plan doesn't work,” says Sam dryly.
I secretly quite like it when men come over all protective about me but I cannot betray my feminist principles. Still, it has been worrying me what I would do if Martin turned up, especially since I can't remember any of my self-defense course. I would feel happier if Sam—a healthy, young, virile man—is with us, but I don't see why Holly should be let off the hook this easily.
“But you got us into this mess, Holly.”
“I know, I'm sorry, but I think I might lose my job if I don't get back to the paper and make amends.”
“What are you all talking about down there?” calls Charlotte from the other end of the table.
“The village cricket match tomorrow,” calls back Sam.
“Super! I love cricket!”
“Barney is playing.”
Charlotte turns wide eyes of surprise on to our brother. “You play cricket, Barney?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he says modestly. Well, it's certainly unique, there's no doubting that.
The spotlight now safely off us and on to Barney and his cricket, the three of us turn back to the subject in hand.
“What will you tell Charlotte?” I whisper.
“Something along the lines of the truth. But not.”
“So a lie, then?”
“Er, yes. Pretty much.”
“Do you think that's fair?”
“I don't think you can lecture me about lies, sardine girl. Holly has told me all about your part in this debacle.”
I glare at Holly. “Please don't start calling me that.”
“Why? It might catch on.”
“Yes, that's exactly why,” I reply tersely and start to eat my now-cold pasta.
“Ooh,” says Holly suddenly. “You're all going to have a wonderful time. I quite wish I was coming with you.”
God, if looks could kill.
The next day dawns beautifully sunny for Barney's debut and I wander downstairs in my dressing gown. Norman is still nestled in his beanbag by the Aga and by the look of him has probably been there all night. How he has managed to escape the attention of my father thus far I simply do not know. My mother has probably been draping tea towels over him or something.
I help myself to cereal from the packet on the table and then munch away, trying desperately to wake up. My mother drifts into focus.
“Darling, Holly told me that Sam is coming with us to France now instead of her. Is that right?”
I'm still incapable of opening my mouth and so just nod.
“Won't that be fun?”
It's quite lucky that I can't open my mouth because otherwise I would tell her exactly what I think of the entire situation.
“Now, what are you going to pack? Holly says we're flying down to Nice and that these people live somewhere in Provence. Isn't that lucky? I'm so glad they live in the south. It must be simply boiling down there. And I've just spoken to that charming Sir Christopher McKellan on the telephone and he is absolutely insisting that he pays for all our flights. Even Sam. He says it's the least he can do for us having had Emma to stay down here. What a nice man.”
I make grumbling noises at her. It really is far too early to be talking about things like this.
“Your father and I might stay an extra day or so while we're out there. Would you be able to stay too? After all, I have left Matt in charge of Calamity Jane for the week and Barney has promised faithfully to look after Morgan and Norman.”
This brings a wry smile to my face. Norman is used to beanbags by the Aga and sardines
fed to him in the bath. Staying at my brother's is going to be a short, sharp shock to his system. Norman probably won't want to even go near the kitchen there.
“I simply must get down to the shops before we go and buy some sardines for Norman.” She doesn't pause for a reply to any of these questions but simply sweeps off muttering about thank you notes to Charlotte and the such like.
Emma elects to stay at home for a rest while we all trundle down to the village green to watch Barney play. My mother says she has packed a picnic but Holly and I don't hold out great hopes for this. She is certainly carrying a picnic basket but this doesn't usually count for much. She simply sweeps anything she can lay her hands on between two slices of bread and calls it a sandwich. When any of us siblings were given a packed lunch for our school trips we tried to shove as much breakfast down us as possible and then went hungry. At least today Holly and I have stolen a march because we both have cereal bars shoved up our sleeves.
I have sort of forgiven Holly for leaving me to take Emma to France, mainly because I can't be arsed to hold it against her and we're having a very nice speculative gossip about who Barney's secret amour might be. We know she will be present at the match today.
The sun is shining after a wet night and the hedgerows smell gorgeous as we thump down the hill toward the village. Most of the residents are already gathered around the green. I don't think this is from any altruistic interest in the village community spirit but simply because this way they feel safer knowing that they can duck any balls heading their way.
My mother picks up Morgan lest he gets trampled underfoot and waves madly at a few people. She is hopelessly overdressed as usual and is wearing a garish wraparound skirt with a frilly white blouse and huge hat. We spot Sam and Charlotte over in the far corner and start to make our way toward them, dodging through various groups of people. This is a slow business because they all want to say hello to Holly and gossip with my mother. My mother absolutely adores chatting to the locals now but I remember it was difficult when we first moved here due to their strong accents and their propensity to throw in the local rhetorical catchphrase of “Look-see?” at the end of every sentence. My mother kept thinking they were pointing something out to her and spent the entire time turning around to look.
They are both already gossiping so my father and I give up and leave them behind.
“So,” I whisper to my father, “you know this girl that Barney is interested in?”
“I am absolutely not telling you, Clemmie.”
“I'm really good at secrets.”
My father gives me a sardonic look. “Clemmie, we both know that you would squeal at the slightest provocation.”
“Okay, okay. But how did you guess?”
“Some things are obvious.”
Er, not to me. “Do I like her?”
“Clemmie, I am not playing those does-her-name-begin-with-D games with you.”
“Does it?”
“I'm not playing.”
“But is she here?”
My father lets his eyes sweep around the perimeter of the green. “Yes,” he finally answers. “And that's all I'm telling you.” And with this he marches off Sam-ward.
My eyes follow his route. So she's here. Who on earth can she be? For all the fuss that Barney is making she must be some sort of goddess. Goddesses, both external and internal, are surprisingly thin on the ground in the village so surely she should stick out like a nun in a nightclub.
Talking of nuns, Catherine Fothersby looms in front of me. An apparition in pale blue cashmere.
“Good afternoon, Clemmie.”
“Oh, hello, Catherine. How are you?”
“I'm helping Mummy with the teas afterward.” That's not what I asked but anyway. “Matt tells me that Barney is playing?”
“Hmm. Yes. Loosely speaking.”
“Matt is captaining today.”
“Thank God for that. At least he'll put Barney a long way away.”
“Well, I hope he won't let the team down,” she says primly.
“Absolutely. It's all about the taking part, isn't it?”
She narrows her eyes at me as though she's not quite sure if I'm taking the piss and I gladly take my leave and move on to Charlotte and Sam. “Hello!” I say. “Thank you for a lovely meal last night.”
Charlotte smiles and tells me I'm welcome. My mother and Holly manage to make it over to us at last.
“Hello, Charlotte. Hello, Sam. Isn't this just too, too exciting? One of our boys playing cricket. I do hope he knows how to play.”
She puts Morgan down, who immediately flops at her feet, and enthusiastically joins in a very disjointed smattering of applause that starts up as the two teams run on to the pitch.
I sigh to myself. This is what I hate about cricket. How on earth am I supposed to know which side is which? They all look the bloody same in their whites. I manage to pick out Barney and my heart swells slightly with pride. My father manages to stop my mother from waving and shouting “Coo-eee!” at him.
“You'd think the other team would at least be wearing a different colored top,” I grumble to Sam. “How are we supposed to know who is who? I can barely recognize anyone from this distance.”
“Well, one team bats and the other team bowls and fields.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Sam tries again. “So only two members of the other team are on the pitch. The ones who are batting.”
“That seems hardly fair,” I object. “All those men against two.”
“Think of it as just the bowler against the batsman.”
“Oh. Okay. Can Barney play cricket?” I ask hopefully.
Sam frowns. “Well, we played a bit at school but then he got that cricket ball in the eye and after that they always made him go further and further out. He was fielding in the woods by the end.”
“But he knows the rules?”
“I suppose, but you know Barney and rules. They've never really got along. I don't really know why he wants to play for the village team. He's never shown the slightest amount of interest before.”
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally. So Barney really hasn't said anything to Sam about this girl.
Unfortunately ruddy Charlotte seems to have been reared on a diet of cricket and we get non-stop jabber from her about leg-overs and balls under which my mother says all sounds fabulously vulgar. Barney has been put out to field and already I can see him chatting to some onlookers at the perimeter. I really hope he will concentrate.
Holly's mobile starts ringing mid-bowl, which attracts a few nasty looks from the cricket lovers, and she wanders off to answer it. With any luck it might be James.
I turn my attention back to the cricket but she suddenly appears next to me looking white-faced.
“Everything okay?” I ask in concern.
She looks at me dazedly. “It's Martin Connelly.”
“What about him?”
“He's on his way down here.”
Chapter Fifteen
I stare at Holly aghast. “Where? I mean, how?” I ask in confusion.
“I don't know. That was Ruth on the phone. She's on the Sunday shift today and apparently she was walking to work when this bloke fell into step with her and asked if Holly Colshannon worked at the Gazette and wasn't she the daughter of that stage actress . . .”
“But how on earth did he find that out?”
“I don't know. He must have done a bit of research himself.”
“Maybe he went to the library and looked up your old stories on microfiche. Our mother might have been mentioned there.”
“It doesn't bloody matter how he did it, he just asked Ruth if I lived in a village in Cornwall and she helpfully filled in the name for him.”
“She didn't!”
“She bloody did.”
“Oh my God.” I close my eyes briefly and really wish there was somewhere I could sit down. “Didn't Joe tell people not to talk to anyone suspicious? Didn'
t she see him when he came into the office?”
“I know, I know. She said he was so friendly and nice that she thought he was a fan of our mother's. He just asked the one question and then ran off, and because she wasn't at work and looking for someone suspicious, she answered automatically.”
Sam, who has been looking at us quite suspiciously himself, comes over. “Is everything okay?”
“Martin Connelly is coming down,” I blurt out. “He found out the name of the village and he's coming down.”
“When? When did this happen?”
“About half an hour ago,” replies Holly.
I look at Sam admiringly. No hows or whys for him. How eminently practical he is.
“Come on,” he says after a moment. “We need to get back to Emma.”
He smoothly gathers my parents from the crowd and then goes to speak to Charlotte, who nods understandingly. He's probably told her that Clemmie is a complete fruitcake and he's just going to pop off and have her committed immediately. We all start up the hill toward home.
“Why is Martin so desperate to find Emma?” asks Sam as he strides away. God, do we have to walk so fast? I know that a convicted felon is after us, but still. “He must realize that her father knows who he is now.”
“I don't know,” I puff. “What's he going to do though, Sam?” This thought has been playing on my mind. Maybe he's so furious that he's coming down expressly to kill me. My mind lingers unpleasantly on this picture for a moment. No, no, don't be so self-centered, Clemmie. Of course not. He'll kill Holly first.
“I don't know,” he mutters. “I'm thinking.”
I leave him to think for a whole minute.
“Any ideas?” I venture.
“Still thinking.”
He's obviously gone into Pooh Bear mode, so I drop back to join my parents who are a good fifty meters behind. “What's Holly doing?” I ask. She is another fifty meters behind us and talking on her mobile.
“Calling James,” answers my mother. “Maybe he'll know what to do.”
