Alice looked stunned. “You never said.”
“I don’t tell you everything, Granny,” Danny pointed out gently. “Anyway, I looked like an utter tosser. Not my proudest moment.” He winked at Jules. “Hope they take the shots from my good side this time. Else it’ll look like a horror show.”
“I really don’t think a nude calendar is the way to go,” Jules said hastily, but nobody was listening to her. They were all far too excited and busy squabbling over which villagers could be utilised for which month, and no matter how many times Jules tried to call the meeting back to order they all carried on.
“If we charged ten pounds a copy and sold one to every household in the village, and maybe even in the next few villages too, we could make thousands,” Richard was saying, his financial brain clearly overruling his sensible one. “Would Summer pose, Dan? That would be a real coup. We’d sell thousands if she was in it.”
Summer, the girlfriend of Danny’s brother Jake, had once been a lads’-mag favourite. But given that Summer was about to become embroiled in a huge court battle with her footballer ex-fiancé, Jules was sure that the model had far more important matters to think about.
Hang on! What on earth was she doing even considering practicalities like this? It was a ridiculous idea. There was no way that St Wenn’s was making a nude calendar. No way at all.
“That’s enough!” She thumped the table with her fist to get their attention. “I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. We are not making a nude calendar, Sheila. I surprised you even suggested it!”
“It’s a good idea. The WI thought so too, which means there can’t be any problem with it.” Sheila looked mutinous. To Jules’s horror, several other PCC members were nodding. “It made lots of money.”
“I don’t care how much money it made! We’re not doing it!”
“With all due respect, Vicar, shouldn’t that be put to the vote? You’re not in sole charge here,” pointed out Big Rog. “All in favour of the Polwenna Bay calendar, raise your hands.”
Cursing whatever idiot had decided to make the Church of England’s PCCs democratic, Jules watched with a growing sense of dread as one by one the group raised their hands.
“Et tu, Brute?” she said to Danny.
He gave her a cheeky grin. “Come on, Jules. It sounds as though the situation is pretty dire – and this could be fun. We need to raise as much cash as we can, remember?”
“So it’s unanimous then!” Sheila beamed at them all, her face bright with triumph. “The Polwenna Bay calendar is going ahead! The people of this village will save the church from Ashley Carstairs and his ilk.”
By taking their clothes off? Personally Jules thought it was more likely that any people with sense would pay for her parishioners to keep their kit on, but she bit her lip. After all, democracy was democracy no matter what her misgivings.
Jules only hoped that the bishop didn’t get wind of this and, even more importantly, that nobody expected her to pose!
Chapter 4
Mo Tremaine watched the brake lights of her vet’s four-by-four flicker at the yard gate before the Range Rover swung right, heading away from the equestrian centre and taking with it the remnants of her dreams of a career in three-day eventing.
She sank onto the mounting block and placed her head in her hands. Mo was beyond fed up. Even the bright sunshine and cloudless blue sky of yet another beautiful summer’s morning couldn’t lift her spirits. If anything, the gorgeous weather made her feel even worse because these were perfect conditions for Gatcombe Park’s Festival of British Eventing, which was where she and her top horses, The Bandmaster and Mr Dandy, were supposed to have headed today. The heavy rain of the week before had made the going soft but Mo knew that the sunshine of the last few days would rescue Princess Anne’s parkland from becoming a mud pit as the best and bravest riders on the planet put their horses around the cross-country course. Mr Dandy loved soft going, so the conditions would have been ideal for him; Mo had every faith that he would have carried her into the top three, making her longlisting for the next Olympics a tangible possibility rather than just a dream.
Alas, today’s visit from the vet had shattered those dreams. Not long ago, Mr Dandy – who’d jumped around some of the biggest three-star courses in the sport – had been clowning about in his field, slipped and come hobbling to the gate on three legs, with his off hind dangling horribly. For a sickening moment Mo had thought that the leg was broken, a situation that would mean curtains for any horse. Fortunately, closer investigation and an expensive callout visit from Lucas Madding, Mo’s vet, had revealed that the bone wasn’t actually damaged. Nevertheless, Mr Dandy had sustained a deep flexor-tendon injury that would require at least two months’ solid box rest. This meant that he was out of action for the eventing season – and since Ella St Milton had recently taken The Bandmaster away, Mo was left without any three-star horses. According to the vet’s assessment today, Mr Dandy still needed some time out.
If the world of three-day eventing was a game of snakes and ladders, then Morwenna Tremaine had just slid down the biggest python on the board. It didn’t matter that she was talented and brave and had started to make her name in the sport. Without a top horse, sponsorship and a tonne of money, Mo was right back at the bottom of the heap.
And likely to stay there too.
This could happen to anyone, of course, and Mo accepted that. Top riders were only as good as their top horses, and the nature of three-day eventing was such that only those with endless funds at their disposal stood a realistic chance of reaching the highest levels of the sport. Injuries and bad luck were all part of the game; even top eventers like Mary King hit low points when their world-class horses were unexpectedly out of the running or sponsors withdrew their support. To succeed you needed hefty sponsorship or a syndicate to back you; it was that simple. Even Zara Phillips didn’t own her all own horses and had to woo sponsors. Mo tried to be fair-minded about this. She liked Zara enormously and was a big fan – but, even so, she suspected Mrs Tindall’s granny had a much deeper handbag than Alice Tremaine! The Tremaines weren’t a horsey family either. Although they were proud of Mo, they were all a bit mystified by anything equestrian rather than marine.
After losing her mother, Mo had turned all her attention to the then vicar’s pony, a fat grey with a wall eye, snapping teeth and a malicious buck, who went by the name of Bubbles. Quite a few nasty nips and many crashing falls later, Mo had learned that Bubbles was actually short for Beelzebub – because, the vicar had told her with a grin, the pony was an utter devil to ride. Mo hadn’t cared though. She’d persevered with Satan’s steed until she’d learned to stick on, developing a seat like glue and the confidence that came with knowing that nothing else she ever sat on could possibly be as evil as Bubbles. She rode everything she could, from donkeys to gypsy cobs to the problem horses at the local stables that nobody else would go near. Soon everybody in the local horse fraternity knew that Morwenna Tremaine had the magic touch. To her grandmother’s dismay, Mo left school at sixteen and went to work for a local event rider, learning everything she could about producing good horses, before setting up her own yard where she took in liveries, gave lessons and broke and schooled horses. On top of this, she cleaned holiday cottages and even endured several seasons at Harbour Plaice, the Polwenna Bay chippy.
Even years on, the smell of frying fish still turned Mo’s stomach.
No wonder I’m always tired, Mo thought. She was so good at juggling all these areas of her life that when the bank repossessed her equestrian centre, as was seeming increasingly likely, she could probably join the circus. If the worst happened she’d have to look at working for somebody else. Spiky and often awkward when faced with people she didn’t have time for, Mo didn’t relish this idea at all – but it was starting to look as though she didn’t have much choice.
Maybe it was time to throw in the towel and admit that her eventing dream was over?
Mo inhal
ed slowly, trying desperately to surf the tidal wave of panic breaking over her at the very thought of giving up. She just had to have faith; that was all. Something would come up, and with any luck Mr Dandy would be sound by the autumn and she could bring him back to fitness. Maybe she could even do some pony trekking for holidaymakers. Bubbles, fat and growing ever more malevolent with age out in the paddock, could bloody well earn his keep for once. Besides, some of her youngsters would be fine just pootling along the Cornish lanes. The tourists would love it and she could charge a fortune.
She brightened. See, there were always options; you just needed to look for them.
It was half past ten now on a Monday morning. To beat the heat and the flies, Mo had been up since five and had already ridden three of her youngsters and mucked out the stables. The vet had been to check that his patient, Mr Dandy, was happily entertained by a turnip on a string and his stable football, and her eleven o’clock lesson had been cancelled. It was time for a change of scene to shake off the doldrums. She was ravenous too and a pasty wouldn’t go amiss. She’d wander into the village, buy a couple of steak and onion ones from Patsy Penhalligan and see if Summer was about for lunch and a natter. Summer would put everything in perspective; she always did. Having her best friend back in the village was wonderful and Mo was determined to make the most of it. They had a lot of catching up and, in Mo’s case, making up to do.
Leaving the horses grazing happily and Mr Dandy headbutting his turnip, Mo set off for Polwenna. As usual she didn’t bother to pull a brush through her hair or change out of her yard clothes. After all, the villagers were used to her looking like a scarecrow.
In an attempt to cheer herself up, Mo took the path through Fernside. Here the birds were all singing their little heads off in the leafy canopy high above, and the cow parsley was foaming in the hedges like waves breaking over rocky shores. These were her woods now – they had been ever since Ashley Carstairs had so unexpectedly signed them over to her – and Mo still struggled to get her head around this. It didn’t make any sense. He’d wanted this slice of land so badly, had fought her every step of the way. When she’d challenged him, he’d even gloated that he always got what he wanted. So why give Fernside away?
Unless he hadn’t been talking about the woods…
Oh! It was so frustrating! Not having the answers was driving her crazy. Mo stamped her feet on the path in an attempt to trample the annoying feelings that had been making her insides do macramé ever since she’d kissed him. It had been an amazing kiss, the kind that had made her bones melt, but surely it hadn’t merited thousands of pounds’ worth of prime development land? What weird game was he playing? And what would his next move be in this long-drawn-out game of social chess?
It doesn’t matter why he gave you the woods, Mo told herself firmly. Just be glad he did and that Fernside isn’t in danger now. It was a beautiful place and, as much as Ashley made her blood bubble with irritation, walking through Fernside and knowing no harm would come to the place made Mo a little more inclined to think pleasant thoughts about him. The sprinkles of sunshine that fell through the trees and danced across the path, the throaty calls of a wood pigeon and the glimpses of the shy creatures that scuttled away at her approaching footfalls were all safe from Ashley’s diggers. He’d just have to walk to his house like most other people in the village. It wasn’t as if it would kill him.
Cornwall in August was always busy and on such a beautiful morning Polwenna Bay was teeming with visitors. The beach was freckled with towels and stripy windbreaks, small boats laden with sightseers put-putted in and out of the harbour, and the gift-shop tills were ringing merrily. Some villagers moaned about the seasonal invasion of holidaymakers – or “blooming emmets”, as they were often referred to – but Mo had always enjoyed the buzz of energy about the village in high season. There was something about seeing the amazed expressions on visitors’ faces when they saw the pretty harbour for the first time that made Mo take stock too and see the familiar scene through their eyes, falling in love with it all over again.
She turned left at the bridge and headed away from the sea and into the heart of the village, following the mouth-watering smell of pasties. Several villagers called out and waved to her from their shops, including that mad hippy, Silver Starr. Just thinking about her ridiculous tarot reading set Mo’s teeth on edge. The Lovers indeed. As if she had time for love. It just went to show what a giant fake the woman was.
“Morning, Mo!” called Reverend Jules, waving from outside Patsy’s Pasties. Mo waved back.
“I know they’re bad for me.” Jules gestured to the sweating paper bag in her hand and grinned ruefully. “I just can’t resist though.”
“Me neither,” Mo agreed, joining her. The delicious aroma of pastry and gravy was enough to make her drool. Like a Dickensian orphan she peered through the steamy window at the rows and rows of golden pasties, and her stomach rumbled. As usual Mo hadn’t bothered with breakfast, as she’d been out of bed and in the saddle as soon as dawn broke, and now she was ravenous.
“You’re so slim you could eat pasties all day long,” the vicar said enviously. She glanced down at her own rather more generous proportions. “I ought to be munching on a carrot or something.”
“Plenty of those up at mine if you really want one,” said Mo, “although you’ll have to fight Mr Dandy for them. Anyway, you’ve lost weight, haven’t you?”
Mo didn’t mean to sound surprised but because it was hot today Jules had swapped her usual baggy jeans and hoody combo for stripy board shorts and a white tee shirt. She was still very curvy but now that she wasn’t shrouded in fabric it was clear that quite a few pounds had fallen away. The legs poking shyly from beneath the shorts were surprisingly shapely and toned. Even the hair that Kursa Penwarren had shorn off was starting to grow now, so that it framed Jules’s sweet face with loose curls. The magenta dye job was still shocking but at least it was only at the ends of Jules’s locks now; the natural colour that had begun to emerge was a rich brown that reminded Mo of chestnuts in the autumn.
Mo loved horses above all, and never thought twice about what she was doing with her own tangled mane, even though she spent hours pulling and plaiting Mr Dandy’s. Nonetheless, even she could see when a woman was making changes to her appearance.
“You’ve started to grow your hair too,” she added slowly. “It suits you.”
The vicar looked pleased and her face turned pink. “Thanks! To be honest I’m just too scared to visit Kursa again, so this seemed easier. My waistbands are certainly getting looser though. It must be all the walking up and down hills that I do here, or maybe Danny’s boot camp.”
As she mentioned Danny’s name Jules grew even pinker. Interesting, thought Mo. Maybe Tara wasn’t as wide of the mark as we all thought she was? Could it be that the vicar had a crush on Dan? Not that this sort of thing was anything new. Although Mo knew that her five brothers farted and squabbled and hogged the bathroom like girls, all her friends had always fancied them like crazy. So Mo was used to reactions like this. Quite frankly, she was over it. Look how things had turned out with Jake and that nut job Ella St Milton.
Interfering in Jake’s love life like that hadn’t been Mo’s finest hour.
Danny, though – unlike sunny Zak or easy-going Jake – had anger issues and was hard work these days. Mo loved him dearly, but like most people in the village she was giving her brother a fairly wide berth; his moods and volatile temper weren’t easy to live with. In that respect she did have some reluctant sympathy for Tara, who had taken the brunt of it when he was first home from the hospital. Not that this excused her sister-in-law at all for walking away. Still, Mo guessed that it probably helped if you had God on your side, as Jules did.
“Well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep at it,” Mo advised. “You’re looking great.”
Jules beamed. “Thanks.”
Leaving the vicar munching her pasty, Mo went into the shop and purchased a couple of
her own. When she stepped out again she was surprised to find the other woman still outside, waiting for her.
Shoving her pasty back into the bag and swallowing her mouthful hastily, Jules said, “I was just wondering, Mo – and you can say no if you want to, of course – if anyone’s asked you about posing?”
Mo stared at her. “Posing?”
“For our calendar? You’d look great. You could pose behind some hay bales or something. Nothing would show and it’s for a great cause, to raise money for the church. You don’t have to say yes. In fact, of course you don’t want to. No, of course not. It’s a silly idea. Forget I even mentioned it.” The words came tumbling out of Jules’s mouth in a torrent and her face was no longer pink but the same crimson as the jaunty buckets outside Dragon Gifts.
Mo was totally bemused. “What are you rabbiting on about? What calendar?”
“It’s to raise money to save the church,” Jules explained uncomfortably. “We’re asking people to pose for it and we’re hoping to sell loads. Have you seen the film Calendar Girls? It’s that sort of thing. It’s, err… well, it’s a naked calendar. People without their clothes on – but all in good taste, of course.”
“Jules, I live in Cornwall, not on the moon,” said Mo patiently. “Our local hunt did something pretty similar actually and it went down a treat. Lots of fit young farriers and jockeys with their kit off were always going to be a hit. But people from our village? Seriously? The Pollards in the buff? Kursa Penwarren with her boobs out? Big Eddie with a fish box over his tackle?” She shuddered. “You’ll raise more money making people pay not to have to see it.”
Jules groaned. “I know, I know. It’s a mad idea but the PCC overruled me. I’m dreading whom they might ask. Why do you think I’m asking you? Will you do it, Mo? Please? Will you pose naked for us?”
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2 Page 4
