She sighed, leaning back against the open door. They’d both made a mess of the lurve thing, really, hadn’t they? She because she’d got Andrew, and Clara because she hadn’t got Ewan. Maybe they should both have moved away from Ampney Crucis years ago – but Clara was busy climbing the Makings Paper corporate ladder, while Jasmine had been blissfully happy simply to be here with Benny.
Feeling the tears once again rising unbidden behind her eyes, Jasmine swallowed quickly. It must be the Old Ampney ale that was causing all this depressive introspection. What she needed, she decided, trying to work out where the darkness of the sky and the blackness of the sea actually met, was a rollicking, heady, just-for-fun affair. Oh well, after she’d broken off her engagement, of course. A girl had to retain some standards.
There were still a few night sounds: the rushing of the surf, the distant voices of home-going Ampney-Crucians, the shrill giggling of teenagers somewhere up by the beer garden of the Crumpled Horn. Had she ever giggled shrilly as a teenager? She feared she probably hadn’t. Andrew had never been given to sudden lunges of passion in shadowy places. It was one of the many things she’d missed out on. Maybe she should start catching up? It would be a bit complicated, of course, having her first grown-up taste of self-employment andrejuvenating herself into an adolescent at the same time, but she was sure, if she put her mind to it, she’d manage it somehow.
Still, she thought, grabbing hold of the handrail and pulling herself to her feet, first things first. Before she started to enjoy herself at any level, she’d really have to speak to her father about whether the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza was simply a nasty rumour intended solely to put a dampener on her new career, or a glass-and-chromium reality.
Tugging closed the beach hut’s warped wooden doors, she paused. Had she heard something? Someone? Holding her breath, she listened again. Yes – there were definitely footsteps plodding slowly down the cliff steps. One set? Two? It was difficult to tell. Her palms were suddenly sticky, and for the first time since she’d left home, she questioned the wisdom of living in the hut with doors which only held together with a sort of hook-and-eye contraption and one rusty bolt.
While Ampney Crucis was way down the list of Dorset’s crime hot spots, nevertheless, there were enough people who knew that she lived here alone, who knew she’d taken over Benny’s pitch, and who would therefore be aware that she’d pocketed substantial winnings that evening.
Damn! Sod! Damn! She fumbled with the fastener. Why hadn’t she taken Clara up on her offer of driving into Bournemouth and depositing the takings in the night safe? She held the doors together, her hands shaking. The bolt wouldn’t shoot home. She rattled at it again, her anxiety making her even more clumsy than usual.
‘Jasmine! It’s me!’
She jumped at the voice echoing from the other side of the scarlet panels, then felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by a wave of anger. Andrew? What the hell did he want at gone midnight?
Wriggling the bolt free and pushing the door open again, she peered out into the sultry darkness. ‘God – you scared me. I was just going to bed.’
Andrew, outlined against the black sky, looked slightly encouraged by the statement. ‘I saw your lights on down here. I thought I ought to check on you.’
‘Why?’ She pulled the door open wide enough for him to step inside the beach hut. With both of them in there it was very crowded. She was pressed up against the chiffonier. ‘I don’t need looking after.’
Andrew, who was in danger of being garrotted by the washing line, ducked under it. ‘Don’t you? I beg to differ.’
Jasmine wrinkled her nose. Why did Andrew always have to sound so pompous? Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Maybe she had; maybe she’d simply chosen to ignore it as part of the comfort thing.
‘Jasmine?’ He’d manage to extricate himself from the towels draped on the line and was looking round at the clutter with some exasperation. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Not really. It’s late and I’m tired and I don’t think there’s anything to say. Not tonight, anyway.’ She pressed even closer to the chiffonier. ‘Did my parents send you?’
‘What?’
Jasmine narrowed her eyes. Andrew looked – what? Shifty? Worried? Whatever it was, it passed immediately and he’d regained his equilibrium within a split second.
‘Your parents? No, of course not. I’ve been in the Crumpled Horn with the blokes from the dealership. Quiz night. We beat the Old Speckled Hen.’
‘To a pulp? How cruel.’
Andrew, who obviously didn’t see the funny side, frowned. ‘There were crowds of holidaymakers coming in right on last orders. They’d been to the stadium. I remembered it was your first night as a . . .’ He looked embarrassed and trailed off.
‘Go on. You can say it. It won’t contaminate you. A bookie. Try it. B-o-o-k-i-e.’
‘You’ve changed, Jasmine, do you know that? There’s an air of flippancy about you. Something of the dark side.’
‘God – now you sound like Ann Widdecombe – or Pink Floyd. Or maybe even–’
‘My point proved, I think.’ Andrew looked smug. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I remembered that you would be working as a – er – as well, your grandfather’s replacement – and I thought I’d see how it went.’
‘What the hell for?’ Jasmine felt truculent. She was tired and longed for a shower and to crawl into the downy feather bed which had served her grandparents well for the entirety of their married life. ‘As I recall, the last time the subject was raised, you chucked the Levy Board licence at me, told me to stop snivelling, and stormed off out of here before I got tear stains all over your Fred Perry.’
‘Yes, well, maybe I was a little hasty. I should have been more sympathetic, I realise that with hindsight.’ Andrew shrugged. ‘And despite our previous disagreements on the subject, I do care about what happens to you. If you’re determined to see this thing through, then I suppose I should be supportive. We’re engaged, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Are we?’ Jasmine stared at her grandparents’ wedding photo on top of the chiffonier. Would she and Andrew ever stand, dusted with rose petals, beneath the lich-gate of St Edith’s, looking that besotted? Somehow she doubted it.
‘Of course we are.’ Andrew looked a little affronted. You’re still wearing the ring.’
Jasmine stared at the diamond chip on her wedding finger. ‘Only because I’ve eaten too many doughnuts recently and can’t get it off.’
Andrew sort of smiled. It tweaked at the corners of his mouth but got no further. Jasmine really didn’t care whether he thought she was joking or not. She was sure he’d only sneaked up on her hoping to find her sobbing into her Horlicks after making a complete dog’s breakfast of her first night. Or maybe her parents had suggested that he should visit her and find out if she’d already capitulated beneath the threat of the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza. Whatever the reason for his visit, she just wanted to cut it short.
Andrew obviously wasn’t taking the hint. The smile moved up a fraction to somewhere just short of jaunty.
‘So, you’re not going to offer me a drink or anything?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Sorry. Clara and I finished up the Old Ampney about an hour ago. So, if you don’t mind – ’
‘Jesus Christ!’ His eyes were suddenly riveted on the folding door separating the two rooms.
‘What? What’s the matter?’ Jasmine levered herself off the chiffonier and sucked in her breath to negotiate Benny’s fireside chair.
Andrew remained rooted to the spot, slack-jawed, gazing into the bedroom. Clara had left the lamp on. The night’s takings were still tumbled across the poppy and daisy duvet.
Jasmine bit back a grin of triumph. ‘Oh, goodness! I’d forgotten to put away my small change. Is that what shocked you? The sight of so much money.’ She pushed past him and, pulling open the drawer of the bedside cabinet, scooped the notes and coins inside and slammed it shut. ‘Don’t worry, Andrew.
I promise not to spend it all at once.’
‘Jasmine . . .’ His voice was almost awe-struck. ‘Please, please stop talking like Clara. Please start being yourself again. And please tell me you’re not intending to keep all that cash in here.’
‘Of course I am. I’ll bank it on Monday.’
‘You’re going to keep it in here? For two days? There must be – ’
‘Two thousand three hundred and forty-two pounds exactly.’ Jasmine sighed. ‘And yes, it’s my takings from tonight. Less my float. Not a bad profit. Now, would you mind very much just clearing off? I really want to go to bed.’
‘We could go together.’
Jasmine whimpered. Please, no. She flapped her hands. ‘Not a good idea. You can’t ignore me for weeks then come breezing back in here expecting to snatch up your conjugals at the drop of a hat.’
‘Jas . . . Darling . . .’ He moved towards her, his progress only slightly impeded by the bulk of the furniture. ‘I’ve missed you so much. I hated falling out. And you really need someone here to keep an eye on all that cash.’
Casting a frantic look around her, knowing there was nowhere to go, Jasmine toyed with the idea of leaping across the bed like a demented trampoline artist and triple-somersaulting out of the window. It would never work. She’d never get her eleven and a half stones off the ground.
If she couldn’t do athletic stunt woman, she was pretty sure she could pull off simpering and girlie. ‘Well – er – actually, I’ve got a terrible headache . . .’
‘Poor baby . . .’ Andrew reached out and practically tugged her across the top of the Lloyd Loom ottoman. ‘Let me kiss it better.’
Jasmine, muttering a strangled oath into the recesses of his polo shirt, tried to push him away. Andrew, damn him, was clinging to her like a limpet on superglue. After a few seconds of futile and embarrassing struggling, she gave up the fight.
‘There,’ Andrew said in what he patently thought was a sexy whisper. ‘Isn’t it lovely to be back together again?’
Jasmine clenched her teeth and groaned, ‘Yeah. Lovely . . .’
In the pink and pearly light of an Ampney Crucis morning. Andrew really didn’t look his best. With his mouth wide open and his hair lank, and most of the poppy and daisy duvet clutched to his groin, he really was an unprepossessing sight.
Jasmine, furious with herself for being such a pushover, edged away from him and slid her feet to the floorboards. They were warm beneath her skin, and the mingled scents of desiccated seaweed and salt and hot sand rose through the cracks to greet her. As quietly as possible, she pulled on her discarded T-shirt to cover her nakedness, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
Bugger!’
The ottoman, as always, caught her unawares. Pulling an agonised face she glimpsed back into the bedroom. Apart from a little burst of staccato snorting and a twitch of the poppies and daisies, Andrew continued to sleep soundly.
Deciding it was far kinder to allow him a prolonged Sunday morning lie-in, Jasmine quietly rinsed out one mug and filled it with a tea bag, a dollop of milk and two sugars. Then, setting the kettle to boil on the gas ring, she unbolted the double doors and hooked them back against the flaking wooden walls. The longer Andrew slept, the better. She really didn’t want a rerun of the previous night’s one-sided display of unbridled passion. Money, she’d decided, must be one heck of an aphrodisiac. Andrew had almost indulged in foreplay.
The veranda was already warm from the morning sun, which scattered sequins across the sea, and slightly gritty beneath her bare feet. Settling down in one of the canvas chairs to wait while the kettle boiled, Jasmine watched as Ampney Crucis slowly unfurled.
Other beach-hut residents, those who simply used their chalets for daytime use, were arriving with portable barbecues and cool bags and bathing costumes and the Sunday papers. Jasmine waved along the row as they opened their doors and switched on their radios. Everyone waved back, shouting greetings about it being another scorcher, and this being the life. Jasmine nodded and returned the greetings, albeit sotto voce so as not to disturb Andrew.
Shifting her gaze to the cliff path, she watched lazily as the holidaymakers, fortified by a full English inclusive of fried slice, began to emerge from the road behind the Crumpled Horn, strolling from their B&Bs, carrying enough paraphernalia to see Ranulph Fiennes through at least two more expeditions. The village still attracted families not brave enough or rich enough to attempt flights to Orlando or Majorca. The women, all of a type, had white cardigans, and tight holiday perms, and sunburned foreheads, while their menfolk sported replica football shirts in stiff nylon, and uniform baggy shorts. Jasmine smiled as small children in neon-bright beachwear scampered down the wobbling wooden steps to the beach, just as their parents and grandparents had before them. Just as she had throughout her childhood.
These annual visitors were more than happy with Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar and the Crow’s Nest Caff and the ice-cream kiosk, all of which were waking and stretching and putting out their canopies and tables and chairs. The Crow’s Nest also did a fine line in buckets and spades, Lilos and risqué postcards. It suited the unsophisticated Ampney Crucis holidaymakers – and Jasmine – down to the ground.
Hearing the kettle rattling its lid with impatient hisses, Jasmine hauled herself to her feet, and made tea as silently as possible. Andrew, thankfully, was still sleeping, undisturbed by the early morning noises, and she shuffled back to the veranda with her mug. The sun caught on the facets of her engagement ring, shooting tiny iridescent stars across her finger. She twisted it, thinking how pretty it looked. Was this going to be enough? Walking in Benny’s shoes, married to Andrew, living in Ampney Crucis until it was her turn to be interred in St Edith’s churchyard?
She sipped her tea, watching a sand castle take shape at the bottom of the steps, knowing that it would be crumbled within the hour by the gentle swell of the incoming tide. Yes, she knew, was definitely the answer to the first and third questions. And the second? She sighed. Possibly. Probably. After all, what other choice did she have?
Chapter Seven
Ready?’ April screwed up her eyes against the fierce glare of the afternoon sun, and peered into the grey misty distance of Bixford’s municipal park. ‘Shall I let him go?’
Jix, who was perched on a second-hand mountain bike purloined from Joel and Rusty upstairs at number 51, was merely a blurred outline against the lavatera bushes, owing to the heat haze and low-hanging industrial smog. However, as far as April could see, he was nodding.
‘Was that a yes?’
She clutched more tightly at Cair Paravel’s collar. The greyhound was already squirming himself into a frenzy of excitement.
‘Yes!’ Jix’s shout echoed above the screams of the roller-bladers and the Can-Can tinkle of the ice-cream van as it Formula One’d round the park’s perimeter. ‘Yes! Let him go! Three-two-one! Now!’
Giving Cair Paravel’s blue brindled head an encouraging pat and uttering a prayer to the god of greyhound racing, April let go of the collar. In a whirl of long legs and rotor-blade tail, Cair Paravel shot across the scorched grass like an Exocet missile. Jix, pedalling like fury, and with one of Beatrice-Eugenie’s teddy bears trailing from the bicycle’s rear spokes, disappeared round a bend in the shrubbery. Within seconds, Cair Paravel had also vanished from view, leaving only puffs of dust and debris in his wake. April, beaming with maternal pride, clapped her hands and ran to catch up with them.
Summer in the city, she reckoned, was definitely nothing to sing about. The air was clogged and festering, and despite her charity shop cut-off denims and a skimpy T-shirt, the sweat was trickling uncomfortably between her breasts. She’d long ago discarded Daff’s sandals, and her bare feet were slippery and dirty from the grass.
Turning the shrubbery corner, forcing her way between a drooping flowering currant and a scrubby lilac, April ground to a halt. ‘Oh, sod it!’
Jix, the bike discarded at the edge of a bed of wilting Busy Lizzies and cigare
tte ends, looked at her and shrugged.
‘Maybe we haven’t explained it to him properly?’
‘We can’t make it any clearer, surely?’ April gave a piercing whistle. ‘Cairey! Stop! Now!’
Cair Paravel, having completely ignored Jix and the training bike, was belting away towards the kiddies’ play area. With its unpleasant concrete blocks and water-pipe tunnels, April always thought it looked a bit like a land-reclamation site. However, Beatrice-Eugenie, unused to other more elegant child-friendly playgrounds, loved it. The council had tried to prevent infant fatalities by laying thick layers of bark chippings beneath the more obvious hazards. Cair Paravel was now yomping his way through this with relish.
April whistled again. The greyhound changed gear, slowed, and looked over his shoulder. Then executing a perfect circle, he lolloped happily back towards them, tongue lolling, eyes smiling. When he reached them, he stood on his hind legs and gave both April and Jix slobbery kisses before dropping to all fours and turning his attention to the teddy bear.
Exasperated, April looked down at Cair Paravel, who fleetingly returned her gaze with an apologetic one of his own, and thumped his tail. Sprawled on the grass, with the captured teddy bear beneath his tapering front paws, he was washing it delicately.
April sighed. ‘He still thinks it’s a puppy. He runs like the wind, he’s a natural star, yet he’s got no killer instinct whatsoever. He won’t chase the hare.’
‘P’raps it’s because it doesn’t look like a hare.’
‘Don’t make excuses for him.’ April dropped to her knees beside the dog and kissed the top of his head. ‘He doesn’t chase anything. He didn’t chase you or the bike, did he? He just ran because he likes running, but not in the right direction. And even when he does come in contact with the teddy – ’
‘He mothers it.’ Jix fondled Cair Paravel’s silky ears. ‘It could explain why Mr Reynolds was so keen to get rid of him. What use is a greyhound that won’t chase?’
None at all, April thought. But she’d never say so. Not in Cair Paravel’s hearing at least. ‘He’ll just have to stay a pet, then, won’t he? He’s good at that. I just thought if I could race him, he may be able to add a bit to the chocolate tin under the bed.’
Nothing to Lose Page 7
