Swearing profusely, she restarted the engine. It stalled again, refusing to cooperate, as if traumatized by its treatment. She took a deep breath and tried once more. Thankfully, it purred into life. She slammed the car into first, desperately trying to get it back on track as quickly as possible. Precious seconds were ticking by. The wheels spun round in vain, buried deep in the gravel, churning it up. She eased off the throttle, trying to gain traction, and the car eventually lurched forwards.
She rejoined the track, cheeks burning with humiliation, wanting the ground to open and swallow her up, imagining the knowing smirks of the audience, how they were telling each other that a silly little girl like her couldn’t possibly begin to handle such a powerful car.
Olivier came seventh, with a very respectable time of seventy-two seconds. Jamie found herself jumping up and down in delight. The man next to her smiled. His small son was perched on his shoulders, sporting a pair of ear defenders to protect him from the noise and a dangerous-looking ice-cream cornet that was about to drip on to his father’s neck.
‘Nice sport if you can afford it,’ the man remarked conversationally. ‘It’s all right for some, of course. Most of these cars are worth more than my bloody house is.’
‘Seriously?’ said Jamie, somewhat startled by this announcement.
‘Well, yes – when it comes to a toss-up between a Bugatti and a family home, normal people like me don’t have the luxury of being able to make the choice. Not when you’ve got the school fees to think about.’ He threw his eyes up to his son in a gesture of mock exasperation. ‘I just get my kicks out of watching. Most of these guys can afford both, of course.’
‘So – how much is one worth? On average?’ Jamie tried to sound casual.
The man shrugged. ‘A Bugatti? You wouldn’t get much change out of quarter of a million, for a decent model in reasonable nick. More, if it’s got a good history.’
Jamie tried not to look shocked. She had no idea that was what they were worth. If pressed, she’d have guessed between twenty and thirty thousand, which to her was a lot of money for what was essentially a toy. But a quarter of a million? That was a ridiculous amount of money. Immoral. Irresponsible. Outrageous.
It was also life-changing. Potentially.
She had to tell Jack. It was absolutely typical of him, to be naively harbouring something that was the answer to all their problems. Her mind raced through the implications – even if his car was worth bottom book, with his half share there’d be enough to do up Bucklebury and have change.
She couldn’t tell him now. Besides, she didn’t want to bring the matter up in front of Olivier and Lettice. She’d wait till they were alone later that evening. Then they could crack open the champagne.
Claudia hadn’t even been placed. She was going to have the ignominy of fail next to her name when the results came out. As she drove back down the return road she cringed inwardly, trying to make herself unnoticeable, thinking that if anyone commiserated with her she’d burst into tears. Back in the paddock she parked hastily, took off her helmet and scurried off towards the bar with her head down. She needed a gin and tonic – her father had promised to drive the trailer home, so she could drown her sorrows with impunity.
The bar was full to bursting. She’d just joined the queue, hoping no one would notice her, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Olivier smiling at her.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear you wiped out.’
Wiped out? What did he mean, wiped out? They weren’t fucking surfing. Claudia glared at him.
‘Sorry? Why would you be sorry?’ she demanded belligerently.
He looked a little bewildered, then shrugged. ‘Well, you know. It happens to the best of us.’
‘Oh, I see. So you’re the best, are you?’ Claudia retorted.
‘It’s just an expression.’ Olivier recoiled from her riposte, looking at her with something bordering on distaste. ‘You know, you shouldn’t take part if you can’t cope with losing,’ he told her.
Claudia realized at once that she’d been too defensive, that she was guilty of being a bad sport, which was infinitely worse than being a bad driver. And to her horror, tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes at his reproach. She blinked them back, wishing she’d remembered her shades, praying Olivier wouldn’t notice. But before she could turn away, he peered at her.
‘Listen, I’m sorry –’ he began to apologize, but she jerked away from him.
‘Get off.’
For a moment they glared at each other.
‘Fine,’ he said, shrugging. ‘See you at Sapersley, then. For the Corrigan Trophy. May the best man win.’
Claudia didn’t miss the hint of mockery in his tone. She wanted to say sorry, beg him to come and have a drink, prove to him that she wasn’t a bad loser, but the words stuck in her throat. And before she could swallow her pride, he had turned away from her and was pushing his way out of the bar. She watched him walking off towards the orchard. As he disappeared amongst the throng, she felt filled with desolation, wondering why she always had to spoil everything.
*
As he made his way back to the paddock, Olivier wondered if perhaps he’d been a little too sharp with Claudia, even if she was behaving like a spoilt brat. She was only young, and it took a lot of bottle to get up that hill; he knew as well as anyone that the stress could play havoc with your nerves. He shouldn’t have goaded her like that. It would have been far more sportsmanlike of him to have taken the time to placate rather than chastise her; he should have bought her a drink, not torn her off a strip. Besides, he’d have quite liked a chat with her, to see what made her tick and find out why a girl that looked as if she belonged on the catwalk was happier on the racetrack. He resolved to make a real effort to befriend her at Sapersley: if they were going to be rivals, they might as well be friends.
On the way home, Claudia’s thunderous mood enveloped the cab of the Winnebago, hanging ominously in the air. Ray tried trickling out a few platitudes, like ‘You win some, you lose some.’ He had been rewarded with a particularly venomous scowl. He thought it best not to follow it up with ‘It’s not the winning, it’s the taking part.’
She put her feet up on the dashboard defiantly. The stroppy, troublesome teenager of years gone by had reappeared.
‘Fuck it. I might as well not bother any more.’ She thumped her fist on her leg in frustration. ‘I drove like a bloody girl.’
‘Cherub, look upon it as experience. You won’t make the same mistake again.’
‘No. I won’t. Because I’m not bloody driving again.’
Ray’s heart lurched and ended up somewhere near his lunch. This was the moment he’d been dreading. The moment when Claudia became bored and lost interest. He’d had a year’s grace; a year when he’d been able to stop worrying about her and what she was going to do with her life.
‘You can’t give up. It’s the Corrigan Trophy the week after next. This is what you’ve been working up to for weeks.’ He tried desperately to think of something that might persuade her it was worthwhile. ‘Think of Agnes. Think of all the hard work she’s put in. She’d be so disappointed.’
She glared at him, bolshy and defiant.
‘Well, if I don’t win that, that’s it. Forget it.’
Ray negotiated his entry on to the M5 extra carefully. His heart was beating so fast he couldn’t concentrate. He was going to have to get his thinking cap on. Claudia was going to win the Corrigan Trophy no matter what it cost him.
15
Jamie waited until they were alone before tackling her father about the Bugatti’s worth. She wanted his undivided attention. And she certainly didn’t want to discuss money in front of Lettice and Olivier. They’d all come back to Bucklebury for a celebration supper: only cold chicken and potato salad, but it was a merry meal, with Jack and Olivier dissecting everyone’s performance. Eventually Lettice declared herself exhausted.
‘Even more exhausting and exhilara
ting to watch than horse racing. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when that little girl came off the track. I was sure she was a goner.’
‘Don’t worry. Claudia knows exactly what she’s doing.’ Olivier’s tone was dry.
‘She’s certainly got a lot of gumption.’ Lettice prodded Jamie. ‘You should have a go. Looks as if they need more girls in the sport. Glam it up a bit.’
‘No fear,’ said Jamie.
‘You’re a daredevil on a horse,’ said Jack.
‘That’s different. A horse has got a brain.’
‘It’s exactly the same theory. Spurs and reins; throttles and brakes.’
Jamie smiled, shaking her head, not wanting to pursue the subject any further in the light of what she was going to say. Lettice finally drove off home happily, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Olivier was piling the washing-up into the sink, squirting Fairy liberally all over the plates. Ever since her jibe the other morning, he had been anxious to pull his weight. But Jamie wanted to be alone with her dad.
‘Listen, I’ll do it. You’ve had a long day. Go and have a hot bath. I bought some fantastic bubbly stuff the other day – if you’re very good I’ll let you steal a bit.’
Olivier smiled gratefully.
‘I must admit I’m knackered. My neck’s killing me. What I really need’s a good massage.’
He rolled his shoulders and twisted his head to try and relieve the tension. Jamie poked him with the washing-up brush.
‘Go on. Go and get a good night’s sleep.’
He finally went, as Jack brought in the wine glasses from the garden. There was just enough for a glass each left in the bottom of the bottle.
‘Finish it off with me?’ he asked. Normally, Jamie would refuse, but tonight she accepted.
‘Let’s go and sit down. I need to talk to you.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘No. Not at all. In fact, I think it’s good news.’
They curled up in the living room. Jamie lit the half-dozen candles on the wrought-iron candelabra by the fireplace, and the room glowed. The windows were still open. Outside, it had begun to rain gently, and the scent of damp earth that had been warmed by the summer sun wafted in from the garden.
Jack stretched his legs out luxuriously in front of him.
‘So – what’s the big secret?’
‘Dad. The Bugatti. You do know how much it’s worth?’
Jack looked at her warily.
‘Well, not exactly, no. It’s not an exact science, valuing a car like that. It depends on all sorts of things. Model, condition, specification, demand…’
‘But roughly?’ Jamie persisted.
Jack shrugged. He had that look in his eye that suggested he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
In a split second she realized that of course he knew. If anyone had their finger on the pulse of what things were worth, it was her father. The implications took her breath away. Surely he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice Bucklebury Farm for a bloody car? Then she remembered her father embracing Olivier after the hill-climb, clapping him on the back, and the look of total, utter delight on both of their faces. Of course he would. Of course he bloody would.
‘I was told,’ she said slowly, ‘that a car like that would be worth somewhere in the region of a quarter of a million.’
Jack didn’t answer at first.
‘Give or take ten grand,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But you’d have to wait for the right buyer…’
‘But if you did sell. You do realize what this could mean?’ Jamie was becoming impatient. ‘Dad – if you got your half share out of the car, we could restore Bucklebury. We’d be talking about at least a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
Jamie narrowed her eyes. ‘Why not?’
‘I can’t do it to Olivier. He can’t afford to buy me out.’
‘But the other half’s his, isn’t it? Well, his father’s, anyway. And surely Eric would buy you out? Then he could flog the lot if he wanted to.’
‘I don’t want to bring Eric into it.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s shown no interest in the car over the past fifteen years. I’d rather keep it that way.’
‘But surely he knows Olivier’s been racing it?’
Jack looked shifty. ‘No.’
‘What?’ Jamie’s jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious. That’s… criminally irresponsible.’
‘No, it isn’t. The car’s half mine. He’s obviously not interested –’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I… don’t really want to get in contact. You know the expression. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
Fury made Jamie vicious.
‘Well, maybe you should have thought twice about fucking his wife all those years ago.’
Jack recoiled as if he had been slapped. ‘What?’
‘Don’t be naive. I might only have been fifteen at the time, but I could put two and two together.’
It was a wild accusation, one she would never normally have made even if she had suspected it. But Jack’s pained expression told her that her suppositions were only too correct. Jamie ploughed on.
‘You are so unbelievably irresponsible. Though I don’t know why I’m surprised! All my life you’ve let us down. You can’t ever take life seriously, can you? Or do things straight? We’ve got a golden opportunity to save Bucklebury, but because of your disgusting behaviour, your sordid past…’
‘That’s enough!’
Jack’s voice was low, but something about his tone stopped Jamie in mid-diatribe. For a moment she was frightened. He was very pale. And trembling slightly. Whether from fear or anger she couldn’t be sure. Eventually he spoke, in a very quiet voice that had no fight in it at all.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you, Jamie. I really am.’
To her horror, she saw his mouth working up and down as if he was trying hard not to cry. But before she could say or do anything, backtrack or apologize or defend her position, he put down his glass and hurried out of the room.
Jamie slumped back in her chair with a despairing sigh. What a mess! She hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but her father was infuriating. She thought it was probably the first time anyone had given it to him straight between the eyes.
The door opened, and a tentative Olivier put his head round, sleek from his bath.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. No. Who cares?’
He came into the room.
‘I thought I heard shouting.’
Jamie fixed him with a hostile glare.
‘Yes, you did. But you needn’t worry. No one’s going to spoil your fun.’
Olivier looked wounded, not sure what he’d done to deserve such a response.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I’ve just found out that fucking car you’ve been messing about in all afternoon is worth enough to save this farm. But everyone else in this house seems to be operating on a different set of priorities to me. Evidently whizzing up a hill in pursuit of a battered old trophy is more important than saving our family home –’
‘Hold on a minute!’ Olivier felt he had the right to be indignant. ‘I don’t think you’ve got the full picture.’
‘Which bit am I missing, exactly?’ Jamie’s tone was scornful.
Olivier sighed.
‘The registration documents are in Dad’s name. He and your father may have had a gentleman’s agreement to share it, but there’s no evidence on paper to prove it. And I know Dad. He’d flog it and keep the lot for himself.’
‘No doubt he’d think it was a suitable revenge.’
Olivier frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. My dad and your mother. That summer in Cap Ferrat.’
Olivier went very quiet and thoughtful. He walked over to the drin
ks cupboard and poured himself a brandy. Then he looked over at Jamie and poured her one as well.
‘You can’t hold people’s pasts against them for ever.’ He handed her the glass. Jamie hesitated for a moment. She wasn’t a spirit drinker, but perhaps this conversation required a bit of Dutch courage.
‘Can’t I?’ She took a hefty slug, and swallowed hard. ‘My father has never given a moment’s thought to anyone else in his entire life. Except when it suited him. He’s always done exactly as he pleases. He’s never made a contingency plan. He lives for the moment, and if that doesn’t fit in with everyone else – tough luck. Which is why we’re in the situation we are now. And it just… frustrates me to think that the answer is sitting there in that garage. It’s just typical that because of his total self-indulgence, we can’t do anything about it.’
‘I think you’re being rather harsh.’
‘That’s because you haven’t had to live with it. My mother put up with it all her life. Never knowing when or if the next penny was coming in. Never being sure where he was. Never knowing if he was going to spring dinner for twelve on you, or whisk you off somewhere.’
‘Sounds rather exciting. At least life was never dull,’ said Olivier lightly.
‘I used to pray for it to be dull, I can tell you. There is such a thing as a happy medium. The Christmas we ran out of oil and nearly froze to death wasn’t much fun. Nearly having to be sent home from school because Dad hadn’t paid the fees for two terms wasn’t fun. Having to sell my pony to some fat-bottomed, rich little brat from Shrewsbury wasn’t fun. It was a bloody rollercoaster ride, I can tell you.’
Wild Oats Page 19
