A Funny Thing Happened...

by Caroline Anderson

  She stood up and went over to him so he didn’t have to come into the barn in his beautifully polished shoes. ‘Hi, yourself. You look dressed for work.’

  He grinned ruefully. ‘I am. I’m just on my way back. I thought I’d call in and say goodbye.’

  She ought just to say goodbye back and let him go. She didn’t have time to stop—

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Have you got time?’

  She smiled. ‘I can make time.’

  They went into the kitchen to be greeted ecstatically by the dogs. Sam was, anyway. They just wagged at her and grinned. Sam was the special person.

  She knew just how they felt. If it wasn’t so disgraceful she’d roll over on her back and wiggle so he’d tickle her tummy—

  The phone rang in the nick of time, and she went into the parlour and picked it up. It was Mrs Stockdale, ringing to say that Owen was home and had his arm in plaster, and to thank her for putting the tractor out of the way and dealing with the men.

  ‘My pleasure. Give him my best wishes and tell him I hope he’s soon more comfortable,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t misconstrue her neighbourly concern, and went back to Sam.

  ‘Owen’s mother—he’s out of hospital now.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  She shook her head. ‘Of course, you don’t know. His tractor turned over last night in the ditch and he broke his arm. It’s quite tricky to see there by the gate, and with the snow I suppose he just misjudged it—’

  ‘So who’s doing the water?’

  She shrugged, and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Jemima, you can’t manage on your own.’

  ‘I shall have to. You’re going back to work—and anyway, it won’t be for long. Now it’s Monday they’ll get the power sorted out—’

  ‘They’ve been working on it all weekend. There’s no telling how long it could take. What if it’s three days?’

  Her shoulders sagged with despair before she could stop them, and Sam shook his head, pushed past her and went out.

  ‘Sam?’ She followed him, stomping into her boots and tugging on her coat as she went up the yard. ‘Sam, wait! What’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re an idiot is what’s wrong!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘A stubborn, foolhardy, independent little streak of nonsense with sawdust for brains.’

  She stopped dead, hands on her hips. ‘Well, thanks a bunch!’ she yelled after him. ‘It’s nice to know who your friends are in a crisis! I’m glad you’re going. You’ve done nothing but criticise—’

  He opened the door of his car, pulled out the leather sports bag and slammed the door.

  Her jaw sagged, and he flipped her mouth shut with his finger as he came back past.

  She spun on her heel and ran after him. ‘Sam? What are you doing?’

  He shouldered open the kitchen door and headed for the stairs, ripping off his tie as he went. ‘I’m helping you, you little idiot! What the hell do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Well, maybe I don’t need your help!’ she yelled up the stairs after him. ‘Maybe I can manage without you, you bossy, autocratic, jumped-up little city boy!’

  There was an ominous silence, then he appeared in view, dressed only in a shirt undone all down the front, a pair of skimpy briefs and his socks, and sat down on the top step.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ he said softly.

  Her shoulders drooped. ‘No,’ she croaked, her throat betraying her, raw with emotion and all the yelling. ‘No, of course I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Well, then, make the tea, and I’ll be down in a minute.’

  He stood up and turned round, and she watched him go and wondered how she’d ever thought his body was soft. He was solid muscle, sleek and sinuous and graceful, with a soft scattering of hair over his chest and down those long, powerful legs.

  It made her ache with longing.

  She went back into the kitchen, poured out some breakfast cereal and munched it while she waited for him. He wasn’t long. He’d put on his jeans and a thick rugby shirt, and she busied herself pouring the tea so she didn’t pour herself into his arms.

  ‘Here,’ she said, feeling small and ungracious and confused, and he took the tea out of her hand, put it down and hugged her.

  ‘I would have coped,’ she mumbled into his shoulder, and he squeezed her.

  ‘I know. Maybe I want to be here. Maybe I don’t want to go back to my job and I was just looking for an excuse to escape.’

  She tipped back her head and looked up at him. ‘Really?’

  His grin was boyish and mischievous and a little wry. ‘Don’t you worry about my motives. I’ll deal with them.’

  She smiled, and he patted her shoulder and let her go, to her disappointment. She rather liked being held by him.

  He picked up his tea and sat down in his chair, shoving Noodle off onto the floor, and stretched out his legs with a sigh. ‘So, Owen’s broken his arm, eh?’

  Was that a smirk? She eyed him thoughtfully. It looked suspiciously like it.

  ‘Yes, he has, and it’s a disaster for them. He could be out of action for weeks and his father hasn’t been well,’ she said accusingly.

  He arched a brow. ‘You’re very defensive all of a sudden.’

  ‘You were smirking.’

  ‘I was not.’

  ‘You looked pleased.’

  He met her eyes. ‘Maybe I’m pleased that I’ve got a genuine excuse to spend more time with you.’

  His honesty stopped her in her tracks. She swallowed. ‘Why would you want to spend time with me?’

  He laughed. ‘Because for some reason I can’t quite fathom, I like you, you aggravating little wench.’

  ‘Oh.’ She coloured, a warm glow suffusing her cheeks as she digested his words. She didn’t know what else to say, so she buried her nose in her mug and hid the smile of pleasure that wouldn’t go away. He liked her!

  She quite forgot that she didn’t want him to. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter any more...

  He worked like a demon, striding up and down the yard along the path of ash they’d laid, carrying bucket after bucket without a murmur. Then he mucked out, barrowing the soiled straw away to the muck trailer and piling it in until it was full.

  He paused with a full barrow behind Daisy, whose udder Jemima was gently massaging. ‘The trailer’s full. Where shall I put it now?’

  She opened her mouth to reply, just as Daisy’s tail lifted. The warning was on the tip of her tongue when Daisy coughed, and a vile green jetstream hit Sam right in the chest.

  He yelled and leapt back, plucking fruitlessly at the rugby shirt, and an expression of horrified incredulity spread over his face. ‘Ah, no, it’s inside my shirt!’

  She tried. She really did try not to laugh, but it was too much. She doubled over, clutching her sides and wheezing while Sam spluttered and stamped round and brought down curses on the heads of all the cattle.

  Finally he ground to a halt and she looked up, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘You’d better go and change,’ she suggested, trying desperately to subdue her mirth.

  ‘Into what? This is my last shirt—apart from my work shirts, and I’m not using them. No, if I change another one of them will take up the challenge. I might as well finish off first.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded tersely, and her respect for him edged up another notch. Wow. ‘So, where do I put the straw I’m taking out?’ he asked again, strategically placing himself in the centre of the barn, away from all the tails.

  ‘Oh—round the corner. I’ll show you. Are you sure you want to go on?’

  He shot her a fulminating glance, grabbed the barrow and followed her in grim-lipped silence.

  ‘Here, please,’ she told him, pointing at a steaming heap from which the snow had cleared. ‘When it’s rotted down I sell it.’

  ‘Smells pretty rotten already from where I’m standing,’ he grumbled, and she looked at the evil spreading stain on his shirt-fro
nt and had to stifle another smile.

  tom sorry. There wasn’t time to warn you. It was just because she coughed—‘

  ‘I did notice,’ he said drily, and began forking muck like a madman.

  To get away? To finish and get changed? Or just to burn off frustration? Who could tell?

  Sam was not in the best of moods. His nose was immediately above what had to be probably his least favourite smell in the world right now, and he had another problem. As the vile goop dried, it stuck all the hairs on his chest together, so that every swing of his arms or movement of his shoulders pulled the hairs out.

  He’d heard of women having their legs waxed, and even swimmers having their chests done, but it was only now that he began to get an inkling of what that might involve.

  He was suddenly very glad that he wasn’t either a woman or a swimmer!

  ‘Sam, could you get that down for me, please?’ Jemima asked, pointing to a high shelf in the back of the barn. ‘The old one’s run out.’

  There was a big pot of something called Stockholm Tar, and the way his luck was going he thought it quite likely he would tip it on his head. He reached up carefully, and let out a little yelp.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he growled, and winced again.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’

  He looked down into her upturned face, filled with concern, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see her laugh.

  ‘My chest hairs are all stuck together. When I stretch, they pull. They pull out. It hurts.’

  He didn’t see her laugh, but he heard her—well, a quickly stifled snigger, anyway. His eyes flew open. ‘Do you want this or not?’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, please—if you can manage it without doing yourself an injury.’

  ‘You just want to see me suffer,’ he muttered, and, pulling his lips into a tight line to stop the protest escaping, he reached up, grabbed the pot and handed it to her.

  ‘So brave,’ she murmured, fluttering her lashes, and he had a crazy urge to dump her in the water trough. Instead he dusted off his hands, went back to his barrow and carefully and gingerly finished off the mucking out.

  She came to help him, and the moment it was finished she turned to him and grinned. ‘Right, let’s go and see how bald you are.’

  ‘Sadist,’ he growled at her, and followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Take off the shirt.’

  ‘You are kidding. It’s stuck to me.’

  She studied him from all sides, then nodded. ‘You’re right. We’ll wet you.’ And without any further ado, she grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the cold water in the sink and started dolloping it all over him.

  ‘Could we do this with warm water?’ he said through clenched teeth, and she relented and poured the kettle into the bowl. It was too hot, then, of course, but he wasn’t going to say-another word. Instead he stood there in grim-lipped silence while she peeled the shirt away from his body inch by inch, and then finally he was able to pull it over his head.

  ‘I’ll wash it,’ she offered, and he dropped the soggy article into her outstretched hand and looked down at his chest.

  ‘I think I need a wash,’ he said drily.

  ‘Mmm. Perhaps a visit to your grandparents?’

  ‘Good idea. Want another bath?’

  ‘I’d love another bath.’

  ‘Let’s go for lunch.’

  She grinned. ‘What a good idea. Mary always makes the most wonderful soup.’ She paused. ‘I think we ought to clean you up a bit more, though, first. Here, you do the front; I’ll do the sides where you can’t see.’

  It seemed like a good idea, before he put anything else on, and by the time they’d finished he felt a little more human.

  ‘You’ve got some on your neck, still,’ she murmured, and went up on tiptoe to dab just under his chin. Then she dropped back down and ran her hands down his chest, settling them on his waist like sandpaper.

  ‘Your hands aren’t much softer yet,’ he said wryly. ‘I think I’d better give them some more attention—it’s like being touched up by a builder!’

  She dropped her hands and stepped back, laughing. ‘How on earth would you know about that?’ she chuckled, and he laughed and pulled her back.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he murmured.

  He saw the change in her eyes, saw the softening, the warmth as her arms slid round him and her hands laid against his back, saw the invitation in her eyes and on her lips, and just as his head came down there was a pounding on the door.

  ‘If that’s Owen, I’ll kill him,’ he vowed softly.

  She eased away, shushed the dogs and opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Owen. We were just talking about you. How are you?’ she said, and her voice was gentle with concern.

  Sam stifled his annoyance and his animosity. The man was hurt, and he had been a good neighbour to Jemima. There was no need to be rude—but on the other hand, he might as well know where he stood...

  He stationed himself behind Jemima, hands curled proprietorially round her shoulders, and smiled a greeting. ‘Hi, Owen. Sorry to hear about your arm. How is it?’

  Owen’s eyes tracked over his naked chest in disbelief. ‘It’ll do. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.’ His mouth tight, he turned on his heel and was going when Jemima reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Owen, stay. You aren’t interrupting anything. Have a cup of tea.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I can see you’re busy. I’ll go on. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, but I can see you are.’

  ‘He was just changing—’

  ‘Thanks for your help last night. Call if you need anything.’

  And he went, striding down the path, pride holding his shoulders square. Sam actually felt sorry for him, and it must have showed, because Jemima turned round and looked up at him and did a mild double take. ‘What, not gloating, Sam?’ she murmured.

  ‘Doesn’t seem kind. After all, it could just as easily have been me in my car turning over the other day.’ And anyway, he could have added, it’s me that’s here with you, me that nearly kissed you.

  Me that’s walking you home later.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘SO, WHAT’S this award you’ve been nominated for?’

  Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed the snow, warm colour flooding his neck. ‘How did you find out about that?’

  Jemima stopped walking and turned towards him. He looked embarrassed and very human, and she realised just how modest he was about his apparently considerable talent. ‘Mary mentioned something a while ago. She’s very proud of you.’

  He grinned wryly. ‘Evidently.’

  ‘Well?’ she prompted, when it was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate.

  ‘It’s a design award, that’s all. I may not even get it. She’s jumping the gun.’

  Jemima checked for the dogs and called them, watching as Jess streaked back across the snow towards her. ‘Nevertheless, whatever you did must be pretty good to get nominated. What did you design?’

  He kicked the snow, sending wet blobs of it flying. ‘Oh, it’s an old maltings on the South Bank. It’s stood idle for years, and the local council wanted something done to it. I followed their brief, really.’

  And there was so much more he wasn’t saying, Jemima knew. She prodded further as they walked home, but he wouldn’t give a lot, only that in addition to council offices there was a theatre and a craft centre and community hall, conference facilities, sheltered housing, a restaurant, art gallery and so on.

  ‘And you designed it all?’ she said, stunned.

  ‘Not all, and not without help, but I oversaw it all, yes.’

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed, impressed. ‘That must have been some undertaking.’

  He shrugged. ‘Pretty time-consuming, but at least I didn’t have to commute. I live there. It seemed the easiest way to make sure I was available at all times, and they wante
d some private flats to sell off to cover some of the cost, so it suited us all, really. The flats were the first part of it to be completed.’

  ‘Is it a nice place to live?’ she asked, wondering now about the man who’d been carrying water for her for days, the man who’d grown from the child she’d befriended briefly all those years ago.

  He looked around, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun, and gave a rueful smile. ‘Not in the way that this is, but I suppose it’s all right. My flat itself is lovely—it’s on the top floor and so I’ve got the roof beams. Being a maltings it’s all a bit open and vaulted, which is great in the summer but a bit odd in the winter.’

  ‘Cold, I should think. High ceilings usually are.’

  He laughed. ‘These ceilings are nearly twenty foot high—more in places. There are fans in the roof to blow the heat back down, and I’ve got a very efficient heating system to compensate, but it’s a very interesting old complex. It was fun doing it, and the flats have sold like hot cakes. It’s on the Thames, which is a plus, of course. The boats are interesting to watch, but some parts of the area are a bit hit and miss just there. It has its moments, I suppose.’

  She tried to picture it, but failed. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘You should come up.’

  ‘And leave the animals?’ she said wryly, wishing she could.

  ‘I’ve got pictures—I’ll send them to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She stared down at the ground, noting absently that they were walking in step, and wished the power would never come back on and whisk him off to his world. It sounded busy and high-powered and a little daunting.

  They arrived back at her little cottage and she tried to see it with his eyes. Not a smart move. She looked at the sagging gutter, the rotten window-frame in the bathroom, the green bits round the bottom where the rising damp was eating at the brickwork, and she imagined his bright, vaulted, newly finished flat with its hugely high ceilings.