Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  JUMPING TO

  CONCLUSIONS

  Christina Jones

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471308987

  Copyright © Christina Jones 1999

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Susan Watt and all at HarperCollins with very grateful thanks.

  To Sarah Molloy, my agent, for actions above and beyond the call of duty.

  To Jane Wood and Selina Walker for all their help and friendship.

  To everyone at Blackwells who employed me as a bookseller – I knew it would pay off one day.

  To my cousins, Jill and Glen Hutchinson, for becoming pillars of Milton St John society.

  To my mate, Tina Maloret in Jersey, who always wanted to be a fictional wicked lady.

  To Lucinda Walker for her help with the chocolate croissants and for being a star.

  CONTENTS

  April

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  May

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  June

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  July

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  August

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  September

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  October

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  November

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  December

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  March

  Chapter 37

  April

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  For my eternal butterfly-chasers with undying love: Katie and Jeremy, Boris and Jemima, Allie and Trev, Dominic and Moz, Vinnie and Jack and Miranda. And especially for Sebastian, who simply broke my heart

  April

  Chapter One

  On what had to be the hottest April afternoon on record, Jemima flicked the Beetle's indicator to leave the A34, and was almost immediately plunged into a maze of high-banked Berkshire roads. The faded three-legged signpost, lurching drunkenly amidst a tangle of burgeoning honeysuckle, suggested that Milton St John, Upton Poges and – yes, Tiptoe for heaven's sake, were now within her reach. Not for the first time as Floss chugged sluggishly through the heat haze, Jemima questioned her sanity.

  Still beggars couldn't be choosers, and if she didn't make this move, she'd definitely be the former. Nearly homeless, completely jobless, and practically penniless, the choice was definitely Hobson's.

  She'd had to leave Oxford after the hoo-ha over the party-thing. No question. No one could hang around after something like that. Even if her landlord hadn't slapped on an eviction notice, she'd have had to leave. And as she'd intended living in Milton St John from July anyway, the knock-on effect had just precipitated events.

  It'd be okay, she told herself, edging Floss in the direction of the village. It would all be just fine. This would tide her over until the shop opened. Give her a breathing space. She'd found somewhere else to live – almost. And she had a new job – practically. And if the two things could just marry nicely together then there wouldn't be a problem, would there?

  Immediately after the party débâcle, Jemima had donned dark glasses, convinced that everyone in Oxford knew, and bagged a table in Littlewoods cafeteria which was the last place Petra would go – so she knew she'd be safe. Buying a coffee with what remained of her small change, she'd scoured The Newbury Weekly News, confident of finding short-term work and accommodation before the summer opening of her bookshop in Milton St John. She'd felt, having hit rock bottom, there was only one way to go. Ten minutes later she wasn't convinced. She had never wanted to read the words Norland Nanny again. Neither was she particularly keen on Cosy Companion, or Housekeeper Handyman. Hotels all seemed to want honours degrees, and was she really cut out for a Genteel Gentleman Seeking Similar Soulmate?

  Jemima had pushed the newspaper away across the mock woodgrain Formica and tried to avoid the eye of the table-clearer by draining her empty coffee cup for the umpteenth time. Maybe she'd opt out completely and become a New Age Traveller for three months; Floss wouldn't look out of place in a convoy of ancient and dilapidated vehicles. Or perhaps she'd get a job swabbing decks on a cruise liner. Or maybe she could be a chalet maid at Butlins for the summer season ... She had sighed heavily. It was pretty galling to discover at almost thirty that you weren't actually qualified to do anything except sell books.

  The table-clearer had been hovering menacingly with a clutched J-cloth by this time, and Jemima had grabbed at the paper again in self-defence. Then she'd seen it. Tucked away at the foot of the column and rendered almost illegible by coffee dribbles.

  Self-contained one bed furnished flat in vicarage. Suitable professional person. Non smoker. Downland views. Charming Berkshire village. Apply St Saviours, Milton St John ...

  Much to the table-clearer's amazement, Jemima had punched the air. Milton St John! Hallelujah! Milton St John! It must have been meant! The euphoria lasted all of thirty seconds. Yes, but – a vicarage? Wouldn't she be struck down by a thunderbolt? Regular church-going had never been at the top of her must-do list. Perhaps it wouldn't matter ... Perhaps God would turn a blind eye.

  Deciding not to probe her religious conscience any further, she'd flashed a smile at the lady in the overall and natty hat, belted out into Cornmarket Street, and scribbled a letter to the Vicarage in a quiet corner of W H Smith.

  Stunned at the speed with which Mrs Hutchinson – the Vicar's wife with the flat to let – had responded to her application, Jemima was pretty sure that there was something doubtful about the whole thing. Surely clergymen were supposed to be unworldly? Why on earth would they want to let out part of their Vicarage? And why – when she must have been besieged by replies from people bursting with the right qualifications like regular employment and hefty savings accounts – had the Vicar's wife invited Jemima who had neither, to view the flat?

  With her thoughts miles away and her brain filled with the gauzy beauty of the downlands, Jemima brought Floss to a jerky halt at another overgrown junction. Although she had visited Milton St John four times previously to view the shop, she'd always approached the village from the main Upton Poges road. This time, coming in from the Lambourn end, she'd almost missed the turning. Which, she thought as she peered through the windscreen, was hardly surprising.

  'Milton St John,' she said firmly to herself, 'here we come. And even if the Hutchinsons are Satanists, or Moon Children of the Sun, or Born Agains with hairy legs and
acoustic guitars, I'll just join in with gusto. Anything for a roof over my head.'

  Milton St John was at its most beautiful. The large houses swathed in Virginia creeper; the cottages with their overblown gardens; the fat brown stream curling closely beside the curve of the High Street; and all of it sheltered from the glare of the sun by a colonnade of horse chestnut trees.

  Jemima stopped Floss on the lay-by outside the empty bookshop and felt a flutter of excitement mingled with pride. It was hers. Almost. The papers had been signed, the lease paid for, and the solicitors would soon hand over the keys. The shopfitters had finished, and the decorators were in. The publishers' reps had been to see her in Oxford, the suppliers had all been contacted, and the initial orders were placed. It wouldn't be long now before the signwriter inscribed 'Jemima Carlisle – Books' in gold lettering on the dark green fascia. She had considered having something witty like Bookends, or Between the Lines, or even Page Turners, but eventually decided against it. It was a bookshop and it was hers. That was all it needed to say.

  Locking Floss, she walked past the Cat and Fiddle, the Village Stores, and Maureen's Munchy Bar, and headed towards St Saviour's Church. There was a duck pond too, which she hadn't noticed on her earlier visits, and a small school, and a playing field. Everything in Milton St John appeared to be arranged along either side of the winding, dust-grey road. The Vicarage, on the opposite side of the street to the church, was almost totally obscured by bushes and looked slightly sinister in the throbbing heat.

  'I knew it,' Jemima muttered to herself. 'They're going to be weirdos. They're probably only advertising because they want a fresh supply of sacrificial virgins for their orgies. Well, that counts me out.'

  The sun burned Jemima's back through her loose linen interview jacket. Her ankle length paisley skirt wrapped itself limply against her legs, and perspiration was gathering beneath her spectacles, making the bridge of her nose itch. No wind stirred the pastel froth of the gardens or disturbed the embryo leaves on the trees. Milton St John slumbered. There was no traffic, no children, no sound. Despite the heat, Jemima shivered and wished she hadn't reread The Midwich Cuckoos quite so recently.

  St Saviour's Vicarage reverberated to a rather fruity Westminster chime as Jemima tugged on the bell-rope. She just knew that the door was going to be hurled open by a seven-foot monster with a bolt through his neck. She tugged again. The chimes echoed on for ever. Trickles of sweat snaked down her backbone.

  'Can I help you?' a voice eventually echoed from behind a wildly overgrown lilac bush. 'If you're the van driver collecting the clothes for the jumble sale, they're all in the – oh ...'

  No monster, no neck bolt, and no – as far as Jemima could see – acoustic guitar. Gillian Hutchinson was slender, pale-skinned, and wearing a silver-grey dress in some diaphanous material. True, she didn't look like a proper vicar's wife – no brogues, no tweeds, no twin-set – but Jemima's spirits edged up a little.

  'I've – um – come about the flat ...’

  'Good heavens! Is it that time already? Have you been waiting long? Sorry, I was listening to the National build-up on the radio.' She smiled at Jemima's frown. 'The National. The Grand National... ?'

  Of course. Jemima smiled back. No wonder Milton St John was deserted. Everyone breathing would be glued to the Grand National.

  Gillian smiled even more. 'You poor thing – you must be baked to a crisp. So unseasonable! More like July. Come in and have something long and cool. I'm Gillian Hutchinson and I'm really sorry –' the laugh was gentle, but I can't for the life of me remember your name.'

  'Jemima Carlisle.'

  'Jemima! Of course!' Gillian Hutchinson linked her arm through Jemima's and started to lead her through the very welcome shade of a shrubbery at the side of the Vicarage. 'I was in the summerhouse – that's why I didn't hear the bell. When can you move in?'

  'What?'

  'Oh, I'm useless at this sort of thing. I know you're supposed to ask me questions, and I'm supposed to say there are dozens of other people interested in the flat, but there aren't of course, and – she surveyed Jemima with pale green eyes, 'you'll be doing me a huge favour if you say yes.'

  The sacrificial virgins were beginning to surface again. Or was it drugs? Jemima's imagination powered into overdrive as she squinted at Gillian. Surely her eyes shouldn't be that bright? Her pupils that dilated? That was it! Drugs. She peered anxiously at the glorious borders in the back garden. All those tall glossy plants? Were they ... ? She wished she'd taken more notice of the drugs scene at the Oxford parties she'd attended. Having smoked a spliff once and been very sick, she didn't feel qualified to make an informed judgement.

  'The summerhouse,' Gillian announced, tossing back her very un-vicar's wife fair hair. 'My bolt hole. Grab a pew. Sorry. Both very poor jokes under the circs. Glen would have a purple fit.'

  'Glen?' Jemima searched around for somewhere to sit that wasn't awash with notebooks and typing paper and eventually perched on the edge of a deck chair. It wobbled alarmingly. 'Is that Mr Hutchinson?'

  'The Reverend Hutchinson,' Gillian corrected, sweeping reams of scribbled-on paper to the floor. 'My darling husband – for his sins. Now, where shall we start? Ooh yes, drinks.'

  As Gillian opened a well-stocked fridge and clinked white wine, soda and ice into long glasses, the radio suddenly spurted into life.

  'And it's another complete disaster!" The commentator's voice ricocheted round the make-shift office. 'It looks as though we have a major problem here, don't you agree, John? Yes! Oh, this could be catastrophic! I think there's going to be a delay to the start – if not a complete abandoning of the race -'

  The running – or not – of the Grand National was the last thing on Jemima's mind. She looked around the summerhouse in some confusion. It certainly appeared to be an office complete with word processor and fax machine, while at the same time housing all the usual garden paraphernalia – and every inch of it was buried under scribbled on papers, screwed up scraps of notepad and a million empty cigarette packets.

  'Everyone in the village has backed Dragon Slayer.' Gillian handed Jemima her glass and lounged elegandy against the fax machine. 'What's your money on?'

  'Nothing. I didn't even realise it was the Grand National today.'

  'What?' Gillian looked scandalised. 'Oh, no – listen ...’

  '... and unless they can clear the course,' the commentator had run out of clichés and was into second-guessing, 'I think it'll be another débâcle. What can you see from your end, John?'

  From the silence it was apparent that John couldn't see anything. The commentary crackled again. 'Sorry, John. Gremlins in the link line... Not our day... And back here at the start everyone is getting very nervous…’

  'Poor darlings,' Gillian purred. She raised her glass. 'Cheers. Here's to a long and happy friendship.'

  'But, don't you want to know a bit about me? And aren't I supposed to look at the flat? I mean, I know I sent references but –'

  Gillian drank half her spritzer in one go. 'And they were wonderful! God had simply answered my prayers – I knew that as soon as I read your letter. I couldn't believe it. I had no idea who was taking over the bookshop – the jungle drums had completely seized up on that one. And then – there you are! We've got so much in common! I'm a writer, you see.' Gillian scrabbled for a cigarette and inhaled joyously.

  'Oh, right.' Jemima, still sipping through enough ice cubes to sink the Titanic, was trying to keep up. At least it explained the office.

  The racing commentator was speaking in hushed tones now the way they do after a disaster. Something nasty was happening at Aintree. Jemima really didn't care. 'I don't know if I made it clear that I'm here a bit ahead of schedule. I've sunk every penny into the shop so I'll need to earn some money before it opens. I won't actually be gainfully employed until July.'

  'I gathered that. It won't be a problem. There's plenty of temp work in the village if you're not picky about what you do. The Cat and Fid
dle could do with another barmaid, and Maddy Beckett runs a cleaning firm – she's constantly on the look-out for casuals and if the worst came to the worst, you could always help me with Leviticus and Ezekiel.'

  Jemima racked her brains and wished that she'd concentrated more on her religious education classes at school. 'Er – Deuteronomy – um – Numbers – and oh, Genesis.'

  Gillian looked slightly doubtful. 'Oh, yes, well done. Now what were we talking about – ah yes, Leviticus and Ezekiel.'

  'You write religious tracts?'

  Gillian's laugh sent another wodge of papers cascading to the floor. 'Whatever gave you that idea? I write romance.'

  'But Leviticus and Ezekiel?'

  'Leviticus and Ezekiel are my sons.'

  God Almighty. Jemima spluttered through the wine. 'Oh, lovely. Er – how old are they?'

  'Twins. Eight. Strange age.' Gillian stubbed the cigarette out in a plant pot and smiled indulgently. 'They're really looking forward to you moving in with us.'

  'And yes, we have confirmation of a delay.' The radio trumpeted into life again. 'Ten minutes at least to clear the course...’

  Gillian groaned. 'Animal rights protesters I'll bet! Silly woolly green liberals! That could be the end of my fiver.'

  Jemima, whose sympathies lay entirely with the protesters, tried very hard not to think about gambling. Gambling immediately led her to thoughts of her father. At least he wouldn't be able to remortgage the family home to raise this year's stake. The house had been repossessed in January. This year, Vincent's stake would probably be a loan from someone with shifty eyes who he'd met in a pub. Someone with bad teeth and bad breath and a betting shop stoop. Someone else to come thundering on Vincent's bedsit door demanding payment.

  Her father had always convinced himself that his gambling was for his family's benefit. Vincent Carlisle had never used his own money – even when he'd had any. For years he'd been borrowing from the small building company he ran, until the coffers ran dry and the auditors moved in.

  'The flat is in the Vicarage attic,' Gillian continued, still obviously tuned in to the Aintree developments. 'And you've got your own front door, and I don't mind if you want your lover to stay over or anything – Glen and I are very broad-minded.'