Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  'In the garden with Poppy Scarlet and the dogs. I'll just log off now then, shall I? Right – I'll take that as a yes.' Holly was still smiling as he belted out of the office and the door crashed shut behind him.

  The four dogs – all acquired when he and Maddy had visited the animal sanctuary to adopt a kitten and had returned home with them plus six maladjusted cats – greeted Drew in the dim coolness of the hall with massed thumped tails and damp noses. He patted wriggling bodies indiscriminately, pushing his way through them and out into the garden.

  Whatever other delights Maddy Beckett had brought into Drew's life during the eighteen months they had lived together, and there had been many, she had transformed the Peapods garden beyond recognition. Gone were the manicured lawns, the regimented borders, the angular concrete paths of his wife Caroline's régime. The garden now tumbled with flowers, and shrubs clambered haphazardly over arches and pergolas. Wild flowers flourished beneath the chestnut trees, a canopied swing stood among rustic benches, and a fountain played down stepping-stones into the shallowest of pools, carefully covered with netting to prevent Poppy rolling in.

  It was cool and green and vibrant all at the same time. It was also very hard work, and extremely time-consuming, and as Maddy had gone back to running Shadows, her cleaning agency in the village, they'd decided to advertise the post of gardener/handyman in the local paper. Drew wasn't completely sure that they could afford one.

  He stood for a second at the top of the steps and watched Maddy sitting cross-legged beneath the willow tree, tickling Poppy Scarlet's tummy, giggling with their daughter. He loved them both with painful intensity. The financial problems apart, he had never been so happy. And now, he grinned, every word of the e-mail imprinted in his memory, his personal happiness would be complete.

  Two years previously, miserably married, Drew had moved from his small stable in Jersey to try his hand at breaking into British racing big time. Caroline, his elegant ice-cold wife, had remained in the Channel Islands to run her own business, only visiting Milton St John when her schedule allowed. Drew, lonely and confused about everything except his ambition to become a top-notch trainer, had been drawn to Maddy's chaotic and unself-conscious warmth. She'd lived in the cottage opposite Peapods, and Caroline had employed her as a cleaner. He and Maddy had seemed destined to bump into each other at every village function.

  Friendship had developed into love, and love had led – eventually and after much moral anguish – to an affair that had shocked them both with its intensity. Neither of them had been prepared for the outcome.

  He beamed happily at the memories as he leapt down the steps.

  Maddy still wasn't aware of him. Her unruly auburn curls fell forward, curtaining her face. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt over her leggings again, still agonising, Drew knew, about the post-pregnancy weight that simply refused to go away. Drew told her every morning that she had never looked more beautiful, and every morning she wrinkled her nose in reply and said, 'Oh, yeah? I always thought I was fat before – but now I'm obese! And don't you dare go on about Rubens – I look like the Michelin Man with a bad hair-do! You're mad, Drew Fitzgerald, or short-sighted, or both!' And then they laughed and cuddled and tumbled back on to the bed. They did a lot of that.

  Drew crossed the lawn accompanied by the dogs.

  'Oh, brilliant! You're back earlier than I thought you'd be. Have you got time for a drink before lunch? It's nearly ready. Have you seen Holly? She's sorted everything out so it's safe for you to go back into the office.' Maddy scrambled to her feet, expertly tucking ten-month-old Poppy under her arm, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him thoroughly. 'What did Kath say?'

  'The expurgated version?' Drew grinned, kissing her back.

  'Of course. I don't want Poppy picking up any of Kath's more colourful phrases just yet.'

  'Roughly translated, that she'll keep an eye open for useful horses. Oh, and that if Charlie comes within a mile of Lancing Grange she'll kill him.'

  'Fairly mild then.' Maddy took Drew's hand and led him back to the shade of the chestnuts. 'Anyway you're looking pretty smug. Can you see yourself leading in a National winner already and putting a smile back on the bank manager's face? Or is it simply because Holly's rescued you from another black hole?'

  'A bit of both.' Drew lifted Poppy from Maddy's arms and kissed his daughter's chubby face. She gurgled delightedly, grabbing a handful of his hair, already struggling to be put down. 'But mainly something else.'

  'She walked again,' Maddy said, curling her feet beneath her beside Drew. 'Two steps before falling flat on her face. Mum said I didn't walk until I was nearly eighteen months so she must get it from your side of the family.'

  'Child prodigies to a man,' Drew nodded. 'She'll be writing Shakespeare and playing Chopin before her first birthday. Hey, look at her ...'

  Using Drew's jeans as a lever, Poppy Scarlet hauled herself upright, wobbled unsteadily on her plump legs, took two paces forward, then sat down with a thump on her well-Pampered bottom. Drew and Maddy exchanged proud smiles, as they had done every day since her birth. Poppy, basking in her captive audience, promptly repeated the performance.

  'So, why the Cheshire Cat grin?' Maddy asked. 'Has Kath made you an offer you can't refuse, or is it the something else?'

  'Kath threw down a wager – but that isn't important at the moment. Not,' he pulled Maddy against him, 'as important as this other piece of news.'

  Poppy crawled furiously towards her parents and clambered between them. Maddy kissed the dark, downy head. 'Go on then. What news?'

  'I've had an e-mail from Caroline. From Jersey. The lawyers have sorted everything out to her satisfaction and given her the dates.' Drew beamed, unable to contain his excitement. 'The decree nisi will be through in June. The absolute twelve weeks later. I'll be divorced by September. We can get married straight away, Mad. Married at last! Won't that be incredible?'

  Chapter Five

  Two pairs of gooseberry-coloured eyes stared out from beneath straight red fringes. Jemima, in the middle of folding her T-shirts into drawers and putting her long skirts on hangers, stopped and glanced towards the doorway. The stares didn't waver.

  'Hi!' Her voice squeaked alarmingly. 'I mean, hello. I'm Jemima. I guess you're Leviticus and Ezekiel?'

  'Ten out of ten.' The right-hand twin scowled.

  Whoops, Jemima thought, wrong pitch. She tried again. 'How am I supposed to tell you apart?'

  'You're not.' The twins spoke together.

  Jemima shrugged. 'Okay. Suit yourselves. Whenever I see you, I'll just yell "Oi, you!" and that'll cover you both.'

  There was the merest flicker of matching smiles. The left-hand twin scuffed the carpet. 'We're not supposed to be up here. Mum said the flat was private now. Mum said we was to leave you in peace. Mum said we was to meet you properly at tea-time.'

  His brother joined in the scuffing. 'We just wanted to have a look at you first. Do you mind wearing glasses?'

  'No. Why?'

  The twins stopped scuffing. The right-hand one spoke. 'There's a boy in our class – he wears glasses. Some of the kids called him specky-four-eyes.'

  Jemima winced. She'd had much the same treatment at primary school. Younger and older children accepted differences without question, but at the cocky pre-teen stage children could be brutal. Along with a boy with extensive dental bracework who had been naturally called Metalmouth, and three very overweight pupils, she'd formed a sort of outsiders' club. They were still in touch with each other. 'But you don't call him names, surely?'

  'Nah, course not. Glasses are cool. We beat up everyone who bad-mouthed him. He's everybody's best friend now.'

  Nice kids, Jemima thought. Maybe they weren't as scary as she'd first thought. The left-hand twin gave a sudden cherubic smile. 'You're running the bookshop, aren't you?'

  Safer ground. 'When it opens. Do you like reading?'

  The twins exchanged glances. 'Nah. Well, Lost Diaries is okay. And Colour Jets. Tel
ly's better.'

  Slamming shut the wardrobe door, Jemima picked up a bundle of towels and headed towards the bathroom. 'Maybe you'll change your mind when the shop opens. You'll have to come and tell me which books I should stock.'

  'Might do.'

  Jemima turned away and grinned. So far so good. She paused again at the bathroom door. 'I have got one problem – your names.'

  'We told you. We answer to each other's.'

  'No, not that.' Jemima turned on the water and raised her voice. 'I mean Leviticus and Ezekiel – they're one heck of a mouthful. What do people usually call you?'

  The left-hand twin wrinkled his nose. 'Bastard, mostly.'

  'No – not always,' his brother corrected quickly. 'Bronwyn Pugh sometimes says "them little buggers".'

  'Yeah,' a ginger head nodded. 'An' ole Bathsheba Cox told Mum we're the spawn of the devil.'

  Allowing herself to laugh in the privacy of the bathroom, Jemima was straight-faced when she walked back into the bedroom. 'Well, I'm going to call you Levi and Zeke, OK? And I can tell you apart.'

  'You can't!'

  'No one can 'cept Mum and Dad!'

  'Yes, I can. You,' she pointed to the left-hand twin, 'have got more freckles on your nose. They're kind of splodged together. And I guess you're Levi

  'Just shows you don't know everything,' he started bullishly, then sighed. 'Oh, bugger.'

  'That's that sorted, then.' Jemima smiled serenely. 'Zeke's got the splodgy nose. Now, I'm going to have a shower. See you later.'

  'S'pose so,' they muttered together, then looked at each other and nodded. 'You're okay. See ya.'

  Jemima closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, letting her breath escape slowly. She licked her forefinger and drew a line in the air. 'Round one to Jemima Carlisle.'

  Having had very little hands-on experience with the clergy, Vicar Glen was going to be the next hurdle. It was one she crashed into at tea-time.

  Looking mutinous, the twins were sitting side by side at the dining-room table when Jemima came down after her shower. Gillian, cool in something pale and floaty, and which Jemima would bet a month's salary – if she had one – came from Monsoon, looked warily at them from behind a huge willow pattern tea-pot.

  'They're sulking because I said this had to be a proper sit-to-the-table tea in your honour, rather than pizzas on laps in front of Grange Hill To be honest, they're not all that happy with sandwiches and cake. And they're miffed that you can tell the difference between them. I think they were counting on causing a fair bit of mayhem. Are you settled in up there?'

  Jemima nodded, sliding into a rather shabby but very beautiful walnut and velvet chair. 'Everything is great, thanks.' She helped herself to two doorsteps of hacked bread as Levi and Zeke pushed butter and a pot of shop jam towards her. 'Is – er – Glen – urn – Mr Hutchinson not joining us?'

  'I do hope so.' Gillian looked distracted and stirred her tea fiercely. 'I told him you were here.'

  'Dad's down the pub,' Zeke mumbled through a mouthful of bread and butter. 'He's always down the pub. We don't wait for him.'

  Jemima concentrated on her plate. If the Vicar had a drink problem it wasn't any of her concern really, was it? It might explain why Zeke and Levi were so unruly. A mother whose head was away in the land of hearts and flowers, and a father – a man of the cloth, no less – who was joined to the barmaid's apron....

  'Boys!' Gillian's laugh held a note of tension. 'You shouldn't say things like that. Whatever will Jemima think?'

  'That Daddy's always in the Cat and Fiddle – and he is – 'cepting for when he's in church.' Levi beamed jammily at Jemima across the table. 'When he does come home he's usually asleep.'

  'And he snores something dreadful, but that's only 'cause he's so old.' Zeke crammed an entire slice of bread into his mouth at one go. His following, 'Can I leave the table now, Mum?' was accordingly muffled.

  'You haven't had any cake.' Gillian was definitely twitchy.

  'Don't want cake. We'll have crisps later.' The twins slid from their chairs and smiled at Jemima. 'See ya.' A nanosecond later the dining room reverberated behind them.

  You could cut the tension with the cake knife. Wondering just what sort of set-up she'd so casually drifted into, Jemima sipped her tea and stared out through the open french doors. The walled garden shimmered in the afternoon sun. Butterflies were practising for summer by flexing their wings on the green shoots of the buddleias. It was a fragile peace.

  'Gillian! Are you in the dining room? Have I missed tea? I was – oh, damn and blast!'

  'Glen.' Gillian's smile was stretched. 'He's probably fallen over the boys' roller-blades.' She raised her voice. 'We're in here, darling! Come and say hello to Jemima.'

  With her very limited knowledge of vicars, Jemima had already conjured up a stern and severe figure in full clerical regalia. Gaunt, she decided, with a dog-collar choking a scrawny neck and cheeks criss-crossed with red-veined over-imbibing. He'd have gimlet eyes and a mouth singed by breathing hellfire and damnation. He'd probably be wearing gaiters – or was that only bishops? He'd – she stopped in mid-fantasy and gawped.

  A stunning Richard Gere lookalike in jeans and a grey sweatshirt smiled sheepishly round the dining-room door. 'Sorry about the curses. It was the roller-blades – again.'

  Jemima closed her mouth with a snap as Glen came into the room. He was probably older than Gillian by at least ten years, but simply oozed sexuality. Her mother would have curled up and died for him.

  'Hello, sweetheart,' he kissed Gillian's cheek and then extended a slim hand towards Jemima. 'And hello to you too. It's lovely to see you.'

  'It's – er – lovely to be here.' Jemima blushed, and sniffed surreptitiously for any signs of alcohol, completely bemused by his golden glory.

  Glen sat in Levi's vacated chair and helped himself liberally to bread and jam. 'I do hope you'll be happy in Milton St John. And after today, the awful meet-the-family bit, I promise you we'll leave you to your own devices. I'm sure we'll all be far too busy to get in each other's way.' He smiled fondly at his wife before nodding seriously at Jemima. 'Despite what you might hear in the village to the contrary, I'm very, very proud of Gillian having her own career, you know. She writes for lots of different magazines, and the money has – well – transformed our lives.'

  A faint blush swept into Gillian's pale cheeks. 'Glen! I don't think Jemima wants to hear about it. Anyway, we're supposed to be above things like money and material possessions. The ladies of the parish would have a fit to hear you talking like that.'

  'True.' Glen poured his tea. 'But you have to admit it is very pleasant to live comfortably instead of scrimping and saving. And I am proud of you, darling, inordinately so.' He beamed at Jemima. 'You probably won't recognise her, of course, because she writes under a pseudonym.'

  Gillian dropped her cake fork with a clatter. 'Sorry! Clumsy of me. Oh, yes – I – I write as Janey Hutchinson for the mags and for the local Am Dram group in Upton Poges.'

  'And very nicely, too.' Glen reached across and patted her hand amidst the bread and butter, as Jemima gathered the crumbs together on her plate. She hadn't got a clue what was going on. She assumed that Gillian's new-found wealth, as well as funding the Monsoon frock collection, meant that Glen could spend even longer in the Cat and Fiddle. But, assuming they had more money than the clergy were used to, why on earth should Gillian have seemed so desperate to rent the attic flat?

  Gillian, still appearing slightly flustered, paused in refilling the teacups and took a deep breath. 'So – how did it go? The meeting?'

  'Wonderfully well,' Glen nodded heartily. 'We've practically got the whole village behind us. I only wish you'd come along and lend your support, darling.'

  'I can't.' Gillian sliced cake with swift jerks. 'I'm far too busy writing. Anyway, with people like Bathsheba Cox and Bronwyn Pugh spearheading the attack you certainly don't need me.'

  'Er – shall I leave?' Jemima pushed back her chair
. 'I mean, if this is private –'

  'Oh,' Gillian sighed. 'We're so rude. I keep forgetting you know absolutely nothing about village politics. Glen has been to the Cat and Fiddle –'

  'I think the twins mentioned it.' Jemima bit her lip. 'But, I mean, everyone likes a drink – don't they? Except those who don't, I mean. At least... Well, drinking socially is fine …’

  'I'm not an alcoholic.' Glen sat back in his chair, the Richard Gere eyes creased with delight. 'What have they been telling you? That I spend all my free time in the Cat and Fiddle?'

  'Well – something like that – not, of course, that it's any of my business ...'

  'The village hall is being renovated. We're using the back room of the Cat and Fiddle as a temporary replacement.' Glen was still grinning. 'As I sit on practically every Milton St John committee, I spend half my life there.'

  'Oh. Right.' Jemima could feel the blush scorching her throat. She pushed back her chair and stood up. 'Look, I'm sure you have loads of things to talk about – and I really should try and find my feet. Would you object if I rounded up the twins and got them to give me a guided tour of the village?'

  'Not at all. Great idea,' Glen nodded round a mouthful of cake. 'You'll probably find them on the fruit machines in the Munchy Bar. And I do hope you don't think we were being greedy over the rent on the flat. I told Gillian that I thought it was somewhat excessive. I mean, if you think we should lower it...'

  'It's fine.' Jemima paused in the doorway. The rent had actually seemed ridiculously low, but maybe that was just the difference between Oxford and the heart of the country. Gillian appeared to be trying to communicate something to her with frantic eye-signals. Jemima, completely at a loss, resorted to what she hoped was an all-encompassing smile and slid from the dining room.

  As Glen had predicted, she located the twins among the blinding whirrs and fizzes of the Munchy Bar's one-armed bandits. They were both losing heavily, and didn't raise too many objections to the Milton St John trek.

  'Mind,' Levi said as they wandered slowly along the dusty street – it was still far too hot to be energetic – 'you'll probably see everyone if you just sit on that ole bench by the duck pond. Everybody comes by sooner or later.'