That at least wouldn't be a problem. 'I haven't got a lover.'
'Really?' The green eyes widened. 'We'll have to remedy that! Does that mean you're taking the flat?'
Before Jemima could answer, the radio got all excited. 'There are some developments here at Liverpool! It seems as though they've cleared the last of the protesters away from Bechers, so we may have a start very soon, eh, John?'
'Yes!' John at last broke through and seemed determined to get his fair share of air-time. 'It looks like they'll be off at any moment – although the jockeys have been circling at the tape for some considerable time now – and unlike the heatwave in the south, we seem to have got a typical north-west gale blowing. Everyone is very cold. The delay could have unsettled a lot of preparations ...'
'As long as it doesn't unsettle Dragon Slayer or darling Charlie.' Gillian refilled the glasses, lit another cigarette, and hitched the floaty silver dress above her slender knees as she perched on the desk. 'So, where were we? Oh, yes – you'll be taking the flat?'
'No – well, not no exactly. But we haven't discussed rent or the deposit, and I haven't seen it and you really don't know anything about me.'
'And they're off! The Grand National is underway at last! Several slow starters but they're heading for the Melling Road for the first time and ...'
Gillian's eyes were glazed as she sucked feverishly on her cigarette. Jemima, who didn't want to listen, stared through the summerhouse window and wondered if planning to open her own bookshop was possibly not the brightest idea she'd ever had. She'd been employed as a bookseller for eleven years at Bookworms in Oxford, and no one had expected them to close so abruptly. Maybe she should have sunk her savings into something safer, something more high-tech and millennium-friendly, like mobile phones or computer software.
'And there's a faller! Two – no three – down at that one! All horses up on their feet! Two jockeys still on the ground! They're heading for Valentine's now ... and the leaders are up and over! All over! No, there's another faller! Dragon Slayer and Charlie Somerset have gone at Valentine's! The favourite is out of the National!'
'Fuck it,' said Gillian.
Half an hour later Jemima felt as if Jeremy Paxman had invaded her soul. Gillian Hutchinson had left no corner of her life undisturbed.
She'd completely understood that Jemima couldn't stay on in Oxford under the circumstances – or – heaven forbid – doss-down in Vincent's mangy bedsit. She'd dismissed Jemima's fears about her venture and declared that opening the bookshop in Milton St John was the best thing that had happened to the village for years. In fact, she announced, Milton St John in general was exactly what Jemima needed to shake off the cobwebs of her previous existence.
Jemima, on her part, was delighted with the low rent, loved the description of the flat, was scared rigid at the thought of Leviticus and Ezekiel – not to mention the Vicar – and found herself warming to Gillian more with every minute. She still couldn't quite believe that she'd told Gillian all about the party-thing. She'd never mentioned a word of it to anyone else. Still, Gillian, being a vicar's wife, was bound to be ultra discreet, wasn't she?
'Come on then.' Gillian once again linked her arm through Jemima's. 'Let me show you the flat. It's really sweet. I'm sure you'll love it.'
'But won't Mr Hutchinson want to interview me too?' Jemima queried as they climbed the vicarage stairs. The house was centuries old; homely, untidy, and exquisite. 'Surely he'll need to be assured that I'm suitable?'
'Goodness,' Gillian puffed at the top of the third flight of stairs, 'he already knows that you are. We've discussed you endlessly since we got your letter. It'll be you he's worried about – and now you've told me about what happened in Oxford I'm sure you'll be well able to hold your own with the twins. Nobody's actually bitten them before. It might do them good. Here we are ...'
Gillian unlocked a battered oak door and ushered Jemima into the flat. Large leaded windows looked down on the village street from one side, and the tiny church and sprawling shrubbery from the other. All around, the chalky Downs dipped and rose like a petrified ocean and just faintly, in the distance, unseen cars swished in the searing heat. The rooms were pale and airy beneath vast sloping ceilings, and Jemima knew she had found her new home.
'Oh, goody,' Gillian said, looking at Jemima's face. 'You can't imagine how grateful I am. When do you want to move in? You do like it, don't you?'
'I love it.' Jemima was still doing lightning fiscal calculations. She had just enough money saved for the deposit. As long as Gillian was right about the amount of temporary work in the village, she should be able to afford the rent until the bookshop got going. She looked at the glorious view again and decided that she'd sell her soul if necessary.
'Does a twelve-month lease sound right?' Gillian asked vaguely. 'I'm sorry that I'm not more business like. We've never let the flat before. It used to belong to the boys' Nanny and went with the job – but she's retired and –'
'Twelve months sounds perfect,' Jemima said, wondering if the Nanny had been pensioned off suffering from nervous exhaustion. Having had very little contact with children, and not being sure that she even liked them, she was still a littlle daunted by the sound of Leviticus and Ezekiel. 'You can always get rid of me, if I'm not a suitable tenant.'
'The boys'll do that,' Gillian said happily. 'Now, are you sure we've covered everything?'
'Yes – except I'm not a regular church-goer. And I do tend to lapse into "Oh, God!" and "Jesus!" occasionally.'
'If that's all you come out with after spending time with the twins you'll deserve to be canonised. Shall we say you'll move at the end of the month? The first of May sounds like a good day for starting afresh, doesn't it?'
It did. That would give her four weeks. Just enough time to work out her eviction notice in Oxford. Jemima had nodded again, trekked down the twisting staircases, was kissed fondly by Gillian, and found herself once more on Milton St John's sun-baked main street. Gleeful shrieks echoed from the village green and people were chatting animatedly outside the Cat and Fiddle and the Village Stores. A ginger cat washed itself leisurely on the vicarage wall.
Jemima took another look at her empty shop, visualising the shelves crammed with colourful jackets, the window displays, the comfy chairs and low tables for the browsers, and was beaming as she unlocked Floss's door. The air of brooding unreality had completely vanished and Milton St John had become far more Thrush Green than Midwich Cuckoos. She only hoped she'd feel the same way about it after May Day.
Chapter Two
This had been, without doubt, the worst day of his entire career, Charlie Somerset thought as he pushed the Aston Martin to its limits along the M6. Tearing away from Liverpool in the April dusk, wanting to put as many miles between him and the humiliation as possible, the speedometer was flickering at 120.
Running away? He'd never run away from anything in his life – except maybe one or two irate husbands. What the hell was the matter with him? So, he'd fallen – so what? All jump jockeys fell – it was par for the course. Half the jockeys in the Grand National had been unseated at sometime during that afternoon's four and a half miles. The fact that his horse, Dragon Slayer, was reputed to have superglue on his hooves; had never so much as stumbled in his glittering seven-year career; and had been red-hot favourite to win Aintree's Blue Riband, merely seemed to compound his felony in the eyes of the race-going public. The gamblers of the nation were baying for his blood.
He braked sharply behind a BMW dawdling at 90 in the outside lane and irritably flashed his lights. And it hadn't been only the punters, Charlie thought miserably. Torquemada and Medusa had been waiting for him afterwards.
Kath Seaward, Dragon Slayer's trainer, had been skin-strippingly scathing in her criticism. Almost worse was the reaction from Tina Maloret, the horse's owner. She'd looked at him disdainfully, as though he'd sailed from Dragon Slayer's saddle at Valentine's simply to embarrass her. Tina Maloret, with her yard-long legs whi
ch had so recently wrapped themselves sinuously round him; and her collagen-enhanced lips which regularly attached themselves to various parts of his body with more suction than a Dyson vacuum cleaner, had glared at him with contempt in her eyes.
He groaned at the memory, finally intimidating the BMW into taking refuge in the centre lane.
Tina had been banking on basking in the limelight this afternoon; counting on it to accelerate her catwalk career. 'Supermodel Wins National!' She had probably already written her own press release. He groaned again, this time more loudly because the Aintree bruises were beginning to make their presence felt, and the year-old injury to his leg, sustained in a crashing fall at Newbury, had decided to come out in sympathy.
Sympathy had been in pretty short supply today, Charlie thought, switching on the radio. What he needed now was a refreshing blast of Aerosmith to cheer him up.
"... so we can confirm that there were no fallers at the notorious Becher's Brook on the first circuit, and only three at the Canal Turn – all up on their feet. Horses and jockeys all okay. And now they're coming up to Valentine's for the first time! Barbara's Basket, the rank outsider, is still leading the field! Satchwa, King Rupert, and red-hot favourite Dragon Slayer, are tucked nicely into the middle of the chasing pack as they approach Aintree's third major challenge of the afternoon! Valentine's will sort out the men from the boys ..."
Oh, God! Not a bloody re-run! Charlie started station surfing. He certainly didn't need 5 Live's commentator to remind him ...
Satchwa had been bumping along beside them, having scrabbled amateurishly through the early fences, already tired. Charlie had eased Dragon Slayer away from the heaving flanks, feeling buoyant, and not a little smug. Dragon Slayer, over sixteen hands, almost jet black, proud and fearless, was as confident as himself, instinctively saving any real burst of energy for later when it mattered. This truly was the ride of his life. He'd never sat on a horse half so good. Mentally thanking Kath's regular jockey, Matt Garside, who had missed the ride because of injury, Charlie felt a surge of excitement. This was going to be his race. Dragon Slayer was a winner. He could feel it. He knew that all he had to do on this first circuit was sit tight and steer away from any danger.
King Rupert, chestnut and rangy, was just visible from the corner of his eye, but he wasn't a threat. Not yet, anyway. Both Charlie and Dragon Slayer knew Aintree's Grand National course well, but, confident as they were, this was still no time for complacency. King Rupert was second favourite, a Gold Cup winner and a known stayer. They'd have to look to their laurels on the run-in.
Still, so far, so good. They'd soared over the heart-stopping height of Becher's, Dragon Slayer planting his huge hooves exactly right for the take-off, the power in his bunched hindquarters leaving daylight above the brushwood, and landing with feet to spare. With only minimal encouragement from Charlie, Dragon Slayer was instantly right-legged into his stride, bowling immediately towards the Canal Turn; horse and rider in perfect harmony. No problems here. Charlie could hear horses crashing through the soft tops of the fence behind him, and the cursing of his fellow jockeys. He chuckled. He'd been lucky to get this ride on such a superb horse, he knew. And Kath Seaward was no push-over: she trained the best and expected even better.
Valentine's coming up ... Charlie concentrated even harder on keeping Dragon Slayer away from Satchwa's weaving backside, on holding his middle ground, on timing the take-off. This was his big chance after being laid-off for so long after last year's fall. This was his chance to prove to Kath Seaward that he was a natural replacement for Matt Garside in all his races until he was fit, and that he deserved his previous status of champion jockey. It was also his chance to reaffirm the belief of Drew Fitzgerald, the trainer who employed him as a stable jockey, that next year, with the right horse, they'd win at Cheltenham and Aintree. And, of course, there was Tina ...
He could see the jaunty hindquarters of Barbara's Basket – having his fifteen minutes of fame – blundering wildly across the course ahead with as much finesse as he'd smashed through the obstacles. Six – no, seven horses in front of him, all non-stayers. This was going so well... He could hear the distant halloo screams of the crowd all around him, and felt the rhythmic thud of hoof on turf. Dragon Slayer's motion was easy and assured. As long as they could take King Rupert on the run-in they were home and dry. Charlie began to relax.
'Stay out of trouble,' Kath had ordered in the parade ring. 'Keep him covered for the first circuit. No heroics. He jumps well and will want to be up with the leaders. You'll have to keep him in check and conserve your energy for the second circuit and the run-in. I expect you to keep him on his feet. He's never fallen. That's why he's favourite. Stay in the saddle and give him his head two from home. I expect you to be in the first three at the elbow. Okay?'
Charlie had agreed, the adrenaline already pumping round his veins. He'd touched his cap to Kath, and then he'd looked down at Tina, high-cheeked and beautiful, with the long red coat swishing against black boots and the black swansdown hat feathering around her blonde hair – a fashion statement on this course where nobody made them – and grinned.
She'd smiled back, the tip of her tongue protruding between her tiny teeth. 'You'd better win, darling. I can't wait to congratulate you ...'
Charlie had felt the rush of lust through his body at the memory, and in that instant, knew everything was going wrong.
Dragon Slayer, totally in tune with Charlie's thoughts, gave an almost imperceptible start. The long, confident stride faltered slightly. Charlie, cursing himself for falling into the amateur's trap of letting his mind stray, tried hard to get back on course. Satchwa was thumping along just in front of him, still swerving from left to right. King Rupert and several others, as yet unseen, were gaining on him from behind.
The fragile telepathic bond with Dragon Slayer had been broken in that one second's concentration lapse. Powering down the course, the rails merely a blur, Charlie was sitting on an unguided missile. Dragon Slayer had received the wrong signals and had no idea how to interpret them.
Barbara's Basket had already bashed over Valentine's – a terrifying slow-motion scramble of horse and humanity – which miraculously didn't result in a fall. The rest of the horses in front of him were already pouring raggedly over the obstacle like a liquid rainbow. Dragon Slayer was careering towards the fence, still twitchy, knowing what he had to do, but his brain totally at odds with Charlie's.
Immediately in front of them Satchwa, already exhausted, simply didn't jump at all, and crashed through the fence. Charlie, watching all this as if in slow motion, was hurtling towards certain disaster with every speeding stride.
'Shit... shit... shit...'
He gathered Dragon Slayer up, trying to steady him, but it was far, far, too late. Wrong-footed ... Wrong-footed ... They took off awkwardly, Dragon Slayer's legs clawing frantically in mid-air. The landing was a thump of pain.
'It's okay ...' Charlie muttered with watering eyes as Dragon Slayer's huge black neck smacked him on the nose. 'We've made it. Stay on your feet... Oh, Christ!'
Charlie could feel the world slip away from him as Dragon Slayer stumbled, pecked, and then bent gracefully at the knees. Amid the crescendo screams of half a dozen other horses and riders cursing and panting around him, Charlie shot from the saddle and catapulted over Dragon Slayer's head.
Instinctively relaxing his muscles, he hit the ground. The force knocked all the breath from him with a solar-plexus punch. Whatever had happened to his body, his brain was working at fever-pitch. Seven horses ahead of him; maybe the same number with him; that still left at least twenty to hurl themselves over the top of Valentine's ... Twenty odd horses to land on top of him ... Ten tons of death.
Curling into the tightest ball, protecting his head with his arms, the noises were terrifying. The thunderous echo of the approaching cavalry charge was like a tidal roar. The shouted curses and laboured breathing were magnified a million times. Every set of crashing, slas
hing hooves landing inches away from him seemed determined to crush him.
Charlie prayed. A faller now, on the leeward side of Valentine's, and it would be all over. Half a ton of rocket-propelled racehorse would break every bone in his body. It had happened like that to his father. An amateur steeplechase at Fairyhouse had meant that Barnaby Somerset, privileged only son complete with silver spoon, had lived what was left of his life in a wheelchair. Twenty years earlier, Charlie's paternal grandfather had been luckier. He'd been thrown during a Boxing Day meet and killed outright.
Was that to be his fate, too? A million memories fast-forwarded through Charlie's brain. Was this like drowning? Past life played in a split-second of slow motion? A selective re-run of previous generations? Was this the third time that the Somerset breeding, the expensive education, the cosseted upbringing in a minor stately home, would lead to death by horse?
Riding had been in his blood at birth; handed down at conception along with the fox-red hair and the classical bone-structure. It had made no difference how much his mother had begged him to do something different – become a barrister – a doctor ... He hadn't had the brains, anyway, and he had to ride. He had to. He'd been born to ride. And if he rode to his death – then wasn't that how it had been planned?
Charlie sucked in gulps of air. It tasted of blood.
Oh, God – Dragon Slayer? Was he all right? He'd die anyway if Dragon Slayer was fatally injured. He opened one eye, dreading the sight of the huge black flanks heaving, the long legs threshing, or worse ...
Oh, thank Christ ... Nothing. There was nothing. Just grass and mud and a ton of scattered branches.
It seemed like a lifetime later, or maybe a millisecond, Charlie wasn't sure. The drumbeat echo beneath him was growing fainter as the National field charged on towards the next fence. The banshee wail of the crowd was swelling again somewhere in the stratosphere. No other fallers ... Oh, thank you, God ...
Jumping to Conclusions Page 2
