Was that her father on the phone? Surely not? She’d never heard that coquettish tone in her mother’s voice before. Intrigued now, Jasmine noisily thumped down the last few stairs but by the time she’d reached the kitchen, Yvonne was staring out at the swimming pool and the phone was back on the wall.
‘I’ll he going now, then.’ It seemed a ludicrous parting shot. ‘Who was on the phone?’
‘No one.’ Yvonne didn’t turn round. ‘Just the pool man. ’
Jasmine blinked. The pool man, who was grubby, and reeked of chlorine, and had a perpetual cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, seemed an unlikely target for on-line seduction.
Yvonne’s shoulders tensed. ‘It doesn’t need to be like this, Jasmine. You know it doesn’t.’
‘It does. I’m really happy in the beach hut – and at the stadium – and I should have moved out years ago. Anyway, if I stay away maybe one day things will be all right.’
‘If you stopped sullying the family name, maybe they would.’
‘Which family name would that be? Clayton? That’s not my name. I’m a Clegg – and proud of it. No, really, Mum, I’m sorry, but I think it’s for the best. Tell Dad I came round, won’t you? I’ll have to catch him some other time. Oh – and, by the way, who’s sleeping in the spare room?’
Yvonne gave a sort of sniffy laugh. ‘Goodness! You’re a real little Miss Marple, aren’t you? Your dad is, actually.’
Jasmine’s mouth fell open. ‘Dad? Why?’
Yvonne turned round then, her eyes wide, her lips down-turned. ‘Because he snores, that’s why. He flatly refuses to do anything about it. Won’t see the doctor, won’t take any of the remedies I’ve suggested – so it was the only way I could get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘But he’s always snored.’
‘Not like this, he hasn’t. And it’s getting worse. Like trying to sleep with a pneumatic drill. Betty at the salon has had a hell of a job debagging my eyes. She thinks I’m a star to have put up with it for so long. Now, sorry to shoo you out but – Oh, bloody hell!’ Yvonne’s head suddenly whizzed round like the child’s in The Exorcist. ‘That sodding cat! It’ll poo on the patio! Scram, you scraggy bugger! If I catch you I’ll – ’
Jasmine watched as Yvonne sprinted out of the kitchen door and away across the crew-cut lawn in pursuit of the tabby from two doors down. It was, she knew, no contest. The tabby picked its way daintily across the flagstones, strolled through the herbaceous border and disappeared through a convenient gap in the fence. Yvonne, her arms windmilling wildly, watched, scowling, as it squeezed its tabby plus fours through the larch-lap panels.
Seizing the moment, Jasmine picked up the phone and dialled 1471. She hadn’t heard it ring, so maybe her mother had dialled out. No – she listened to the nasal voice – there had been a call ten minutes ago . . . Withheld number . . . She replaced the phone, pursing her lips, cogs whirring. The pool man would have no reason to withhold his number, would he? And Yvonne’s voice had been purring and sensual. And her father was sleeping in the spare room . . .
As she watched her mother undulate back across the lawn towards the house, Jasmine’s heart plummeted. It made sense ... It all added up. Yvonne was having an affair.
‘So that’s twenty-five pounds, and your stake makes thirty.’ Jasmine managed to smile at the youth proudly waving his winning ticket in front of her. Then she nudged Clara.
‘Thirty quid! Number two-three-eight.’
‘Uh? Oh, yeah. Right.’ Clara dreamily doled out the allotted notes.
The favourite – one of Bess Higgins’s graders – had just won the third race of the evening. Favourites had also won the first two. With ten races still to go and a queue of winning punters to pay out, Jasmine was well aware that if the trend continued it would result in a substantial loss. And Clara had been told about Ewan’s return, but not about Brittany Frobisher, and was being about as much use as a tissue-paper umbrella, and all the time the only thing Jasmine could think about was her mother – and who? Not the pool man, that was for sure. Possibly one of her father’s council chums, or a mutual mate from the golf club. Whoever it was, it was disgusting.
Paying out the winners with about a quarter of her brain, Jasmine mulled over the other possibilities. There didn’t seem to be any. Philip may not be perfect – but neither was Yvonne – and anyway, it was always other people’s parents who had affairs, whose grandparents died . . .
‘Bit of a bugger, that one,’ Clara was raking through the depleted contents of the leather satchel as the last winning ticket had been handed in. ‘Let’s hope the next one isn’t a favourite. Is that why you’re looking terminally pissed off?’
Jasmine nodded. She couldn’t tell anyone about her suspicions regarding Yvonne. Especially not Clara. Clara would think it was hootingly funny. Clara’s mother had had gentlemen callers for as long as Ampney Crucis could remember, and as a child Clara had had so many courtesy uncles that at Christmas their house had resembled Hamleys.
‘Yeah, that and not being able to find out anything about the Merry Plaza Shopping Centre. Peg was not best pleased. She’s itching to go ahead with the Frobishers.’
‘So what’s happening now? About this rebuild and the platinum thing?’
Jasmine scrubbed at the runners from the previous race with her duster, and laboriously chalked up the next six. She wished she knew. She wished she could think straight. The stadium was jammed noisily with holidaymakers, and the greyhounds were filling the hot evening air with their yelps of excitement. With the tannoy playing a selection from Doris’s Greatest Hits, and the scent of frying onions wafting from Gilbert’s snack stand, it was reminiscent of a fairground.
She reined in her thoughts. ‘Oh, I reckon Peg’ll go ahead anyway. That’s what everyone else wants to do. They all think Dad’s bluffing.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘I haven’t got a clue. Probably, knowing him. And Mum was pretty poisonous this afternoon so they’re probably in it together.’ She stopped. They actually probably weren’t. Like they weren’t sharing the same bed any more. She couldn’t think about it. ‘Have you seen Ewan yet?’
Clara shook her head. ‘I thought he might be here.’
That would explain the skimpy white strappy dress, then, Jasmine thought. And the Jimmy Choos. Not to mention the knockout waft of something bank-breakingly pungent.
‘He probably will be later. He was sorting out the electrics at Peg’s – you know how dodgy she is about practical things. Apparently all the fuses keep blowing and Ewan doesn’t want to be fried in his bed – Oh, come on! Don’t go gooey-eyed on me. That was not a sexy remark. And anyway, you’re supposed to hate him more than any man who ever lived.’
‘I didn’t actually say that.’ Clara managed to look a bit embarrassed. ‘Did I?’
‘That and much, much more.’ Jasmine took a rush of bets on the one dog, Fickle Finger, and marked it down to evens on the blackboard. ‘Like having his extremities shrunk and wearing them as a trophy necklace, I seem to recall.’
Clara shrugged. ‘Maybe. But that was then. I’ve grown up a lot – and apart from that he’s amazing in bed and my sex life has been so boring recently that I may just forgive him.’
‘Christ. Whatever happened to feminine solidarity, the rules of which I believe we set down in the playground, regarding men who dump on you?’
‘It all flies out the window when there’s a drop-dead gorgeous man around, I’m afraid. As you’ll discover.
Despite her brain-churning, Jasmine giggled. Hardly. Andrew was still paying her infrequent visits at the beach hut, which meant those nights were filled with fumbling, rapid lovemaking and a lot of post-coital snoring – his, not hers. The engagement was still on, just. She somehow could never visualise the wedding, though. She’d wondered if it was some sort of premonition – like poor Princess Diana had had when she’d said so publicly that she could never see herself becoming Queen of England. Was that all there was g
oing to be for her and Andrew? Rigid, uncomfortable encounters – with no tulle and confetti at the end of it?
The greyhounds were being led out for the next pre-race parade, leaving no more time for speculation. The holidaymakers had shoved their way to the front of the rickety stands to get a better look, and several last-minute punters were crowding round her and Roger and Allan, pushing fivers at them like there was no tomorrow.
‘You’re going to be buggered if Fickle Finger wins,’ Clara said laconically. ‘This could be your worst night ever.’
Jasmine knew. But so far it had been a wonderful summer. She’d had nights when she’d pocketed a small fortune, others when she’d only just broken even, but at least the weather had been fine, and the stadium had been full. There were going to be plenty of nights in the future when the rain would be dripping morosely from the corrugated iron roofing, and the wind would howl in from the sea, and she wouldn’t take a single bet. She’d been around Benny long enough to know that it wasn’t going to be roses all the way.
The handlers were easing the dogs into the traps, and Bunny, all a quiver with excitement, was poised with the hare. Then the whole shebang began again. The hare rattled away, the traps shot open, the dogs streaked sideways round the sandy track, and the Ampney Crucis air was filled with excited yells.
Fickle Finger won by a mile.
It was gone midnight before Jasmine and Clara and the sadly depleted leather satchel returned to the beach hut. The mood was not carefree. There was the infidelity problem to mull over, as well as the financial deficit. And Ewan hadn’t shown up at the stadium, so Clara was sulking. Not even the pleasure of cod and chips from Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar, eaten from the paper along the cliff path walk, had managed to cheer them up.
They slouched down the cliff steps, Clara’s Jimmy Choos making the descent far more precarious than usual. Jasmine, knowing every inch of the route, stared out into the fathomless darkness, wondering if she felt sorry for her father, and deciding she didn’t.
Clara grabbed her arm, tumbling chips into the candytuft clumps. ‘There’s someone down there! Look, Jas, by your hut.’
There was. Jasmine, her eyes accustomed to the gloom, didn’t even need the faint illumination scattered from the upper rooms of the Crumpled Horn to know it was Andrew. She’d recognise that stocky outline, that cropped head, anywhere.
‘Sod it. Not tonight . . . I’m just not in the mood . . .’
Jasmine and Clara shuffled slowly along the path in front of the beach huts.
‘Jas!’ Andrew appeared from the shadows. ‘Thank God! I’ve been waiting for ages. You’ll never guess who else has shown up – Oh, hi, Clara.’
Clara sketched a smile. Then the smile radiated shooting stars into the darkness. Jasmine groaned. Ewan had just levered himself up from one of the canvas chairs on the veranda and was bearing down on Clara with all the amorous intent of Rhett Butler after a carpetbagging session.
Chapter Eleven
‘Cairey! Heel! No – stop!’ April hurled herself across the walled yard of number 51, sloshing through the weedy puddles in desperation. ‘Caireee!!!’
The greyhound, having loped across the small expanse in three easy strides, had cornered Daff, and was now crouched, snarling, ready to go for the throat. Beatrice-Eugenie, in red Wellingtons and a second-hand plastic mac, gurgled delightedly at this impromptu entertainment. Daff, who had obviously only poked her head out of the back door to sniff at the rain, huddled against the dingy brickwork and sighed resignedly.
‘Sorry.’ April tugged Cair Paravel away from Jix’s mum. ‘I didn’t know you were coming out.’
Daff gave a shrug. ‘Wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known he was going to be here. Only wanted a spot of fresh air – being cooped up inside when it’s wet fair gets on my nerves. And I wasn’t intending to venture any further afield than the doorstep, of course, even if he thought I was.’
‘I’m so sorry. We’ve just come back from our run in the park, so he’s still a bit frisky,’ April said apologetically, feeling really awful that she’d spoiled Daff’s tiny daily trip into freedom. ‘And, of course, I have to smuggle him in through the back way in case anyone sees him. I had no idea you’d be taking a breather.’
Cair Paravel had now rolled on to his back in a puddle and was laughing up at Bee, who was sitting astride him, tickling his tummy. April shook her head. Not only was he never going to chase the hare or run in a straight line or any of the things he was supposed to do, he was obviously never going to get over his intense dislike of Daff. Not that he’d ever bitten her, of course. Things had never gone that far; Cair Paravel was simply too much of a pacifist. Still gentle to the point of soppiness with all other humans and animals, Cair Paravel seemed to be hellbent on making Daff’s life a misery. To give her her due, Daff was still optimistically hoping for a reconciliation.
April and Jix had serious doubts about the way Cair Paravel had been treated by the less-than-fragrant Mr Reynolds in his previous ownership. Maybe there was some truth in the rumours circulating Bixford that Mr Reynolds was into a rather sad sort of middle-aged cross-dressing. These had confirmed their earlier suspicions – and would certainly explain Cair Paravel’s distrust of all things polyester.
‘Maybe,’ Jix had frequently said, ‘if we could get my mum to dress in cotton and silk, the problem would be solved.’
To be honest, April reckoned, as the rain dripped sadly from the bleak rooftops, getting Daff out of her man-made floral frocks and headscarves would be about as easy as convincing the sceptical British public that they were simply gagging for another Millennium Dome.
‘I’ll get him indoors and give him his dinner,’ April said, manfully removing her daughter from the greyhound’s inverted midriff. ‘Then I’ll bring Bee up to you for lunch before I dash off to Antonio’s, if that’s OK.’
‘Fine, sweet.’ Fortunately, Daff was never one to bear a grudge. ‘We can play rainy-day games. Jix used to love them. ’
Lucky Jix, lucky Bee, April thought as she shepherded her two damp and muddy charges inside the flat. Her own recollections of wet childhood days were far from happy.
She’d just managed to stuff the last of the Pasta Place’s leftover meat into Cair Paravel, sponged the worst of the park’s traces from Bee, and scrambled into her waitressing black skirt and white blouse, when the doorbell rang.
She looked warningly at dog and child. ‘Not a peep while Mummy answers the door – OK?’
Beatrice-Eugenie nodded diligently. Cair Paravel didn’t.
Since that awful day when Seb Gillespie had spotted them outside number 51, and then asked so many weird questions in the Copacabana – and apparently also given Jix the third degree – April had been paranoid about unexpected callers. Fortunately another of Cair Paravel’s failings was his reluctance to bark at strangers, and while this may have made him pretty useless as a guard dog, it was certainly a blessing in disguise as far as April was concerned.
She slid back the bolts, unlatched the lock, and pulled the door open.
‘You April Padgett?’ An androgynous teenager, with bleached dreadlocks dripping from beneath a fleecy hood, flashed a wide toothpaste-ad smile at her. ‘You got a greyhound?’
‘Yes I am and no I haven’t.’
The teenager scuffed its soaking trainers. ‘You sure? Belonged to Nobby Reynolds? Blue dog? Cair Paravel?’
April whimpered. Sebby was obviously hiring teenage hit men. Again she shook her head.
The teenager pursed its lips. ‘Nobby said you ’ad ’im. Debt settlement. You passed ’im on?’
‘If I didn’t have him, I couldn’t pass him on, could I?’
April’s teeth were chattering. ‘Why do you want to know anyway? Who sent you?’
‘My dad sent me.’
April blinked. Sebby was this child’s father? Never in the world! Seb was far too young. ‘Who’s your dad?’
‘Clive Outhwaite.’
Outhwaite . . . Outh
waite . . . The name seemed familiar. Was he another well-known Bixford knee-capper? Then the penny sort of clunked into place. April knew exactly where she’d heard the name before. Every night at the stadium, broadcast loudly across the Tannoy. She sucked in her breath. ‘Clive Outhwaite? Not the greyhound owner from Bixford North?’
‘Yeah!’ The Outhwaite offspring looked delighted. ‘Right, well, Nobby Reynolds –’e’s right weird by the way –’e bought Cair Paravel cheap off my dad because ’e was crap. But ’e never took ’is papers, see. Registration, vaccinations, races run – all the guff. I went round to give them to old Nobby, and ’e says that the dog belongs to you now. See?’
April saw. She saw very clearly indeed. She just wished she knew what to do with the seeing. She decided to go for the easy route. Lying through the teeth. ‘Um, well, yes – I did collect him from Nob – er – Mr Reynolds. But not for me. Oh, definitely not for me. But – er – look, to save you the bother of getting even wetter, why don’t you give me the papers and stuff and I’ll pass them on to Cair P – er – that is, to the greyhound’s new owner?’
The smile dazzled even more brightly against the gloomy day as the teenager fished beneath the voluminous recesses of the fleece. ‘Sounds good to me – and me dad’ll be chuffed to be shot of the whole business, to tell the truth. Right ’ere we go . . .’ Producing a bulky folder, the youth handed it over, then suddenly erupted in a burst of almost manic laughter. ‘ ’E’s a crap dog, mind. That’s why my dad stitched up old Nobby! ’E don’t want to run after the bloody ’are!’
‘Really? Blimey!’ Feeling completely hysterical anyway, April joined in the laughter. ‘Just as well I passed him on then, eh?’
‘Just as bloody well,’ the junior Outhwaite chuckled enormously. ‘If you’d kept ’im and thought you were going to race ’im, you’d be in serious shit! See ya! ’
Two hours later, after dishing up the last order of ravioli and chips to a traffic warden, April tucked her notebook into the waistband of her pinny, eased her feet inside her new waitressing shoes, and wearily made her way back to the Pasta Place’s kitchen.
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