Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  Delighted, he left Suzanna swapping notes with Patrick and went off to the collecting ring to look at the runners in the next race before placing a bet. Not that he had a clue what he was looking for, but it made it more interesting than just sticking a pin on a name in the form guide.

  Damien wasn’t quite sure of the point of the point-to-point.

  For a start, it was cold enough to freeze your tits off, but no one but him seemed to care. He couldn’t drink much because he’d given Rick the day off and he was driving. Plus he was looking after Star. He’d castigated Nicole often enough for being drunk in charge. He could hardly be a hypocrite.

  Anastasia had pleaded with him to go to the point-to-point, because her friend Emily was going, and a message had been got to him from Emily’s parents to join them for a drink. When he’d got dressed, he had some image in his head of horse-racing being dressy – he’d seen Ascot and the Gold Cup on the telly – but now he realized that his champagne suede jacket and cream linen trousers were laughably wrong. Basically, pretty much everyone was in green. Green wax, green tweed, green cord, green wool, green wellies, green hats. And the essential accessory was a dog, preferably something small and rough-haired or a Labrador. Damien knew he should have had one of James Liddiard’s puppies. Once again, he felt a bit of a knob, shining out in his best bib and tucker while everyone else looked as if they’d put on whatever they’d found on the floor that morning.

  Compounding his discomfort was the fact that he loathed gambling. None of the people here seemed to have a clue how it could ruin your life. He remembered finding his mother crying in their kitchen, when his dad had lost a week’s wages on a dead cert. Her wages. Not his. His dad didn’t work. He could remember having to fetch him from the bookies. The stench of fags you could smell ten yards from the door. The way no one looked away from the screens when you walked in, until the race was over and they went to collect their winnings. Or not, as was usually the case.

  Anastasia seemed to bump into people she knew from school every few steps. He’d been invited for a drink from the boot of one car already: a plastic beaker of lukewarm coffee. Everyone had seemed very friendly on the surface, but the trouble was Damien wasn’t really sure how to engage in conversation with any of them. He had no straight answer for any normal question. He didn’t want to discuss his marital status, his business, his plans, his prospects. As a result, he came across as shifty and evasive. For the life of him he couldn’t think of a safe topic of conversation.

  He didn’t belong and that was the end of it.

  He’d belonged in the tower block he’d grown up in all right. The grim, grey monstrosity on the outskirts of Bristol had threatened to imprison him for all of his life, the very walls taunting him that there was no way out. He’d been crap at school because the school was crap. You could have been a budding Shakespeare or Michelangelo and you’d never know because no one was interested in whether you could write or draw. They weren’t even interested in whether you could breathe. The day he’d left those school gates, with their razor-wire topped spikes and peeling paint, he’d sworn to find a way out. A means of escape for him and his mum. He loved his mother and hated his father in equal proportion. He’d put his mother on a pedestal and his father in the gutter, if he could.

  And he’d done it. He’d done it because he had nothing to lose. Slowly, gradually, bit by bit, he’d built his little empire. And he’d become somebody. A face. Tables appeared from nowhere in restaurants. Bottles of champagne materialized. He had respect.

  In Bristol, anyway. Here, less than fifty miles away, he was nothing. People smiled, but their eyes looked straight through him. They asked questions, but they cared not a jot for the answer. To them, his address said it all. Common as muck. Never mind that he had enough cash in the bank to buy most of them out ten times over.

  He was roused out of his self-pity by Anastasia shouting with glee. She’d found Emily and her parents, picnicking out of the back of their Discovery. The Davenports were quite clearly the real thing. Sarah hadn’t a scrap of make-up; her mousy hair was shoved back in an Alice band; she was wearing jeans, wellies and a fleece. Tom was red-faced and jovial and similarly attired. They were obviously both quite happy with the fact that they looked dreadful. Everything was scruffy: them, the car, the pair of Jack Russells, the picnic. They greeted virtually everyone who walked past, most of them stopping for a chat or a drink or a cold sausage.

  Tom pumped Damien’s hand enthusiastically. Sarah thrust an empty ice-cream tub full of curling Marmite sandwiches at him.

  ‘We’ve heard all about Star from Emily. They’re the greatest chums. Star must come over and ride.’

  ‘She’d love that.’ Damien thought it would be rude not to take a sandwich, and discreetly picked out the dog hairs.

  ‘Poo?’ bellowed Tom, and Damien looked at him, startled. Tom held up a bottle of champagne by way of explanation.

  ‘Only Tesco, but it’s good stuff. I’m not a champagne snob, are you?’

  Damien, who only ever drank Dom Perignon, denied that he was. One day he’d get to grips with it all, he thought wearily.

  ‘So,’ said Tom heartily, ‘what’s your line of business?’

  Damien desperately wanted to say ‘tarts’, just for the look on Tom’s face, but managed to stop himself.

  ‘I’m in the restaurant trade. I’m hoping to open locally soon.’

  ‘Not the Honeycote Arms?’ ventured Tom. ‘Thought that was the Liddiards’ lot.’

  Damien just smiled and popped the rest of the sandwich in his mouth to stop himself giving too much away, tempting though it was. He thought about the flyer he’d found on his windscreen. Just over two weeks until the grand opening of the Honeycote Arms. He’d wait until they were up and running before he knocked them off their feet. It was a bit like that game where you piled up little wooden bricks – he was going to pull out the key brick, the one at the very bottom, and watch the whole lot come tumbling down. Then he wouldn’t feel the need to prove himself to these people: he’d have the respect he craved.

  At the collecting ring, Keith was trying to explain to Ginny how to choose a horse, and failing.

  ‘Actually,’ he admitted, ‘I haven’t got much of a clue myself. I think it’s probably a bit of a lottery.’

  Ginny laughed, and referred to her form guide, then examined each horse carefully, admiring their gleaming flanks, the proud arched necks, the flared nostrils as they champed, quite literally, at the bit, ready for action. The jockeys on board looked impassive, which no doubt belied the nerves they must be feeling. To Ginny, the prospect looked horrific: hurling yourself round a race course at full pelt, leaping over jumps that brooked no argument – physically exhausting and mentally terrifying. Why would anyone want to do it?

  As she didn’t know what to look for in a potential winner, and the form was gobbledegook, it was going to be either the colour of the jockey’s silks or the name of the horse that determined her choice. Maroon and grey hoops, pink with white spots, emerald green – nothing seemed to catch her attention or hold an omen.

  Keith pointed a finger at Merry Divorcee.

  ‘That one did well last time out, over similar ground.’

  Ginny thought that, although she wasn’t quite a divorcee yet, the name was pretty appropriate. She pulled a tenner out of her purse.

  ‘Ten pounds to win,’ she said quite definitely.

  Barney was going to put his money on What’s Your Poison. He thought that was a nicely ironic choice for a future landlord. He’d put five quid on it. What’s more, he thought, if it won then the Honeycote Arms would be a success. He was pushing his way through the crowds of punters crowding round the tote when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘You the new landlord at the Honeycote Arms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  An incredibly rough and work-worn hand thrust itself into his.

  ‘Jonty Hobday. I wondered if you were looking for kitchen staff?’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, yes.’ Barney was bemused. This was turning into quite a recruitment drive. Jonty, it emerged, was the local farrier. He had a foxy, freckly face and the haircut that seemed to be de rigueur at the moment: a number-two crop all over. Years of working outside should have left their mark, but his face was surprisingly youthful – only his hands gave away the fact that he was the wrong side of thirty-five.

  He’d been hit hard by the foot-and-mouth crisis the year before last. Determined not to let it get the better of him, and with a young wife and two children to support, he’d taken himself off to evening classes and got himself a City and Guilds in catering, then got work in pubs locally for experience. He’d long had an interest in food and had entertained friends for years with his gastronomic feasts. His barbecues were legendary.

  Although he might not have a great deal of official experience under his belt, Barney felt he was just right for the Honeycote Arms. He could learn a lot from Suzanna, while at the same time bringing his own enthusiasm to the table. By taking over as chef a couple of evenings a week, he’d gain valuable experience and have the opportunity to experiment himself. Mondays and Tuesdays, when the kitchens would be quiet, he could keep free for a select number of clients whose horses he would continue to shoe. And who better than a farrier to spread news of a new venture amongst the wealthy set?

  They agreed that Jonty should come up to the pub during the week to discuss terms and meet Suzanna, but it was as good as a fait accompli. They shook hands, just as the commentator excitedly announced over the loudspeaker that What’s Your Poison had romped home in first place. Even though he hadn’t managed to put his fiver on, Barney felt it was an omen. He dragged Jonty off to the beer tent and bought them each a pint to celebrate.

  He was so busy toasting himself that he didn’t hear the clerk of the course announce that What’s Your Poison had been disqualified for overuse of the whip, and that Merry Divorcee had come in first instead…

  *

  Mandy was trudging through rows and rows of cars in her wellies, sticking flyers under the windscreen wipers to announce the imminent reopening of the Honeycote Arms. The flyers had been Patrick’s idea; an idea that had been much applauded by everyone, as the point-to-point was probably attended by ninety per cent of their target clientele. But if it was Patrick’s idea, why did she have to be the one who had to spend the whole day trying not to fall over in the mud? Her father had pointed out as gently as he could that doing the PR for a small company meant you had to be hands-on. There was no one else to do it. So here she was, with two thousand A5 leaflets to get rid of.

  What was really bothering her was Suzanna. She was in the Honeycote tent now, with everyone crowding round wanting to meet her; she seemed already to have achieved goddess status by dint of being both easy on the eye and a cook. Mandy told herself repeatedly not to feel threatened. Suzanna’s husband Barney was gorgeous for a start, totally cuddly with his tousled blond hair and twinkly brown eyes. Yet Mandy was still unsettled by the amount of time Suzanna and Patrick had been spending together.

  Even more unnerving was the fact that she couldn’t bring herself to dislike Suzanna. She’d had a meeting with her the week before, to draw up a sample menu for the flyer and discuss catering for the hospitality tent. Suzanna had been so enthusiastic about it all and complimentary about everything Mandy had done – without sounding insincere – and had demanded her opinion on several issues: paint samples and curtain material, whether they should have linen or paper napkins, whether they should have background music and if so, what sort? Mandy had come away feeling that her opinion was valued, that she’d had an input – the very things her own boyfriend and father denied her. So, despite having been determined not to, Mandy had warmed to her charms. Which was why she was so worried. If even she’d been seduced, what hope did Patrick have?

  She sighed and trudged on. She was just about to put a flyer under a Mini’s wipers when the passenger got out. It was Rick. Kelly emerged from the driver’s side and watched suspiciously as Rick went to greet her. Mandy was flustered. She’d spent the past week fantasizing about bumping into him, and here he was, where she least expected him. He kissed her warmly on the cheek.

  ‘Hey. Good to see you.’

  She stammered a greeting.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene.’

  ‘You’re kidding? Beer, birds and betting? Come and have a drink with me.’

  Mandy shook her head. It was far, far too dangerous. And she didn’t like the way Kelly was looking at her.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’ve got to get rid of all of these.’

  Rick looked at the flyers askance.

  ‘You might as well dump them in the bin. That’s where they’ll end up.’

  ‘I can’t – ’

  ‘You’re too conscientious.’

  Mandy thought for a moment that he was going to offer to help, but she could see Kelly was anxious to get rid of her. He asked her to come out later instead – everyone was meeting up in Cheltenham to go clubbing. She said she’d think about it then, reluctantly, she watched him go. It took all her self-control not to run after him. Fuck the Honeycote Arms. She wasn’t anyone’s skivvy…

  She checked herself. She shouldn’t think like that. You didn’t get anywhere by thinking you were too good to get your hands dirty. Patrick would think even less of her if she bailed out. She’d finish off the car park, then go and join him and mingle.

  When it started to rain she was at the top end of the field, as far as she could be from the tent. By the time she got there, she was soaked to the skin. A roar of chatter hit her as she walked in. Suzanna and Patrick were surrounded by a little crowd of sycophants all, no doubt, hoping for an invitation to the opening night. No one seemed to notice her. Everyone was royally pissed. Even her father, who had his arm round Ginny and was looking as pleased as punch…

  After his pint with Jonty, Barney went to find Suzanna and report back. She was talking to a young man with tight blond curls and a baby face. He looked about twelve, but was in fact twenty-seven.

  ‘This is Toby. He’s running a wine bar in Cheltenham but he wants a change.’

  Toby was obviously a bear of very little brain but enormous good nature. Perfect as a second-in-command, thought Barney. He could leave him in charge on the quieter days, perhaps train him up to take over one of the other pubs as they became available. He had enough experience not to be a liability, but not a threat either.

  Afterwards, he laughed with Suzanna at their apparently staffing the entire pub in a single swoop.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be our day off. I’ve done more work in two hours than I’ve done all week.’

  ‘I suppose’, said Suzanna, ‘that’s village life for you.’

  She was as high as a kite from all the attention and good wishes and congratulations she’d received. Everyone was talking about the Honeycote Arms: no one could wait for it to open, all eager for a decent place to eat that didn’t mean schlepping as far afield as Cheltenham or Stratford.

  ‘We can’t go wrong!’ she told Barney, her eyes shining.

  ‘It seems not,’ he replied, and for the first time since they’d arrived in Honeycote he began to relax.

  Sasha was doing her very best not to enjoy herself. She was gutted that her father had stood them up that morning. She was sure it was Faith kicking up an almighty fuss and he’d just given in for a quiet life. Sasha loathed Faith because she thought she was vile to her father. Sasha was very protective of her dad in her own way – even though it didn’t stop her being vile to him herself. But that was her prerogative. Faith didn’t have any right to treat Dad like a slave. Why did he put up with it?

  So she stropped round the point-to-point with Kitty, until she clocked Patrick Liddiard and her eyes lit up.

  ‘Now he’, she declared to Kitty, ‘is a top bit of knob.’

  She started to walk determinedly in his direction.

  Kitty grabbed her arm. ‘Yo
u can’t.’

  ‘Watch me.’

  Something in her sister’s expression set off alarm bells in Kitty’s head. She scrutinized her accusingly. ‘You’ve taken something, haven’t you?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ drawled Sasha. ‘You didn’t expect me to get through this bloody circus without chemical assistance, did you?’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  Sasha grinned. ‘Midge gave it to me. Told me to save it for a rainy day.’

  Kitty panicked inwardly. Her sister was a loose cannon at the best of times; even worse when bored. Add to this the prospect of her being loved up and she knew she was in for trouble. Sasha was attention-seeking, with a low boredom threshold. She’d also fallen in with a bit of a bad lot at college – thrill-seekers with a sex and drugs and rock and roll mentality, of whom Midge was the ringleader.

  Kitty wasn’t a prude, but she was a little more cautious than Sasha and felt responsible for her. She was going to have her work cut out for her this afternoon. By the look of the majority of the blokes in the beer tent, they weren’t going to turn down any offer from Sasha. Kitty sighed. She’d spent her life trailing in her sister’s wake trying to avert disaster. Today wasn’t going to be any different.

  Damien had been standing in the ice-cream queue for hours. He’d finally reached the end, and was presenting Star with a luminous lolly encrusted with multicoloured sprinkles, when he was greeted effusively by Rick. Behind him was Kelly. Damien’s heart did a somersault. He tried to find his voice.