'Don't worry about the pinks,' Maddy was saying. 'They take care of themselves.'
Pinks? What pinks? Everything looked green. Still, if he didn't have to worry about them then it didn't matter if he couldn't see them, did it? There were a lot of clumpy grey things. Weeds. Definitely weeds. Vincent earmarked them for decimation.
Maddy at last managed to get the dogs under control. 'I don't know how things were done at your last place, and of course, we've never had a gardener before – but I thought once we get organised, if I leave a list of things that need doing in the office every morning, then you can sort out your own agenda. Does that sound all right to you?'
Vincent said that it sounded just the job and Maddy sighed happily. They walked along a further maze of crazy-paved paths, while Maddy muttered words like rudbeckias and ajuga and limnanthes. He wished he could write them down.
'And we keep the herb garden going here.' Maddy stopped and, crouching down, pointed at a rather overgrown patch just inside the garden's crumbling arch. 'Well, I do, I mean. Drew still thinks herbs come out of Schwartz jars.'
Vincent, who was amazed to hear that they didn't, remembered to laugh.
'That's about it really.' Maddy straightened up, pushing her hands into the small of her back. 'No doubt you'll soon get the feel of the place. The mowing machine is in the shed along with everything else – and you said you were an expert on water gardens, didn't you?'
Vincent was afraid he might have done, during the interview.
Maddy grinned. 'Ours is very embryonic, of course. But if you want to extend it, then go ahead. You've got a free hand. Now, if you'll excuse me I've got to get to work. Drew is going to be at Brighton races all day, but if you need anything, Holly will be in the office. Take breaks whenever you want – and have your lunch in the hostel with the lads. They usually get a two-course meal there and then go down to the Munchy Bar.' She stopped and stretched out her hand. 'I do hope you'll be happy here, Vincent. I know how lousy things have been for you. We'll try and help however we can.'
God help him! He'd far, far rather be going to Brighton with Drew. Vincent looked into the warm and trusting green eyes and hated himself. 'Thank you. You've both been very kind. And the cottage is great. Really lovely. I'm sure everything will be just fine.'
Piece of cake, he thought, three hours later, easing his aching muscles and looking with pleasure at the heaped wheelbarrow beside him. He still hadn't discovered anything pink, but the nasty little spiky grey things had all been pulled up. He had left the big thing with thorns – a sort of gigantic rose, he reckoned, rampaging its way up the wall, and dug out all the spindly truncated bushes beneath it. The walls and paving slabs were clear; he'd gouged out every last invasive sprout. Maddy, he was sure, would be delighted.
The sun was spiralling overhead, and not having stopped at all, Vincent decided it must be time for a break. Maybe it would be politic to visit the Munchy Bar now, rather than leave it until lunch-time when it was obviously going to be crowded. Emptying the wheelbarrow into the composter as instructed, Vincent had a quick wash in his bathroom – hot water and clean towels – and set off for the village.
Maybe, if Jemima didn't mind, they'd go to the Cat and Fiddle. He'd like to see Ned Filkins again. He'd like to thank him for pointing him in Peapods' direction that fateful day. He wasn't totally sure that Ned Filkins was on the straight and narrow – but he had contacts, and contacts were what Vincent needed to get his scheme off the ground. And quickly.
The Munchy Bar wasn't quite what he'd expected. For a start there was no sign of Jemima, and he'd expected it to be a bit more, well, laddish. It was all lace doilies and Miss Marple. Several tables were occupied by elderly ladies having coffee and brushing crumbs from the front of flat Moygashel chests.
Not a problem for the lady behind the counter, though, Vincent thought, as Maureen's prow-head bosoms sailed towards him.
'Yes, duck? What can I get you?'
Vincent studied the comprehensive menu. It was most impressive. Burgers and Knickerbocker Glories, however, didn't seem to be the number-one choice for the current genteel clientèle. He smiled. Clever. Very clever. Running with the fox and hunting with the hounds, so to speak.
'I'm spoiled for choice,' he said, admiring not only Maureen's statuesque figure but also the sparkly eye-shadow. He liked a woman who knew how to make the most of herself. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'
'Ah.' Maureen's tower of peroxided hair nodded. 'But it'll be wet afore night, you mark my words.'
Vincent studied the cerulean sky through the open doorway Not a cloud on the horizon. 'Are you sure?'
'Sure as eggs. The cows was all lying down this morning, see. That's a sure sign.'
Vincent's brow furrowed. Didn't cows sleep lying down, then? There seemed to be an awful lot to learn. He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Maureen chuckled. 'They can sense the rain on the wind long before we can. They secures themselves a nice warm dry patch for later. Clever buggers, is cows. Now, when you've made up your mind, you get yourself a seat and I'll be over.'
Vincent settled for a pot of tea and a slice of lardy cake and a seat by the window.
Maureen brought it across, an unseen petticoat rustling tantalisingly beneath a very tight black skirt. 'Haven't seen you in here before. New, are you? Or passing through?'
'New.' Vincent paid her with a collection of coins. It was practically all that remained of his last benefit giro. Maybe he'd have to glean a bit of info from Ned Filkins. Just to make ends meet until pay-day. 'I've just moved in.'
'Ah.' Maureen nodded. 'You'll be the new gardener up at Peapods, then. Bronwyn and Bathsheba said you'd arrived.'
Vincent blinked at this accurate information-gathering system. 'That's right – um -?'
'Maureen, duck. And you are?'
'The new gardener at Peapods.' Vincent hoped his grin was roguish. He didn't actually want his name bandied around. Not just yet.
'Get away with you!' Maureen's beehive rocked alarmingly. 'I can see you and me are going to get on just great, duck! Now, if there's anything you wants to know, you just ask me.'
Vincent sipped his tea. It was very good. Strong and hot. 'There is one thing. I believe you have an assistant working here? Jemima? Jemima Carlisle? Is it her morning off?'
'Jemima don't take time off, duck.' Questions were flickering across Maureen's sharp eyes. 'She's out the back preparing the salads. Did you want a word? Message from Peapods, is it? Maddy said she'd try and persuade her to go racing ...'
Maddy might as well try and persuade the world to stop turning, Vincent thought. 'Something like that. Yes, if I could just see her for a minute? Would that be all right?'
'I'll send her out. Shall I say who wants her -?'
'I'd like it to be a surprise, actually.' Vincent winked.
To his delight, Maureen winked back. 'Okay, duck. Whatever you want.'
Vincent bit into the lardy cake. It squelched in a most satisfactory manner. Probably a good idea to stoke up the system with a few carbohydrates. Jemima may not be a screamer, but she could put up one hell of a mental batde.
He saw her before she saw him. She looked very well. She was an extremely attractive girl – even if she wasn't aware of it. That glorious glossy hair – so exactly like Rosemary's that it caused him to bite his lip – fell forward in shaggy layers, and she was wearing a rather pretty, if shapeless, long cotton frock. There was a look of surprise on her face as she scanned the Munchy Bar. Oh, love her! She wasn't wearing her glasses. She'd never spot him. Vincent half stood up. Several elderly ladies turned to stare.
'Jemima! Over here!'
'Dad?' She scrabbled in the frock's pocket for her glasses, blinked, then smiled in delight. 'Dad! What on earth are you doing here?'
It had been every bit as difficult as he'd expected. Oh, not at first. At first, Jemima had been gratifyingly pleased to see him. She'd chattered non-stop about her flat and about the developments at the bookshop and ab
out the people she'd met. She oozed enthusiasm for Maureen and the Munchy Bar and Milton St John in general. It was only when she stopped to draw breath and asked him about his unannounced appearance, that the rot had set in.
He'd fudged, naturally. But not for long. Jemima was far too astute for any of that sort of nonsense.
'Of course I'm pleased you're here. And I'm delighted that you're working. But why didn't you tell me that you'd been offered a job? And you don't know anything about gardening,' she hissed across the table. 'You can cope with building and plumbing and electricals – but gardening. And in a racing stables? Sorry, Dad, but it won't wash.'
Vincent quickly shifted into another gear. 'Look, love, I'd rather you didn't let anyone know that I'm not actually trained in horticulture. The gardening was all part and parcel of it. And I'm learning. I've actually done rather well this morning. It's a job, Jem. A good job. With accommodation – and in the same village as you. We can be a proper family again ...'
'But it's a racing stable! You're a gambler, for God's sake! You've already lied yourself into a job! And you could have got that sort of job anywhere! Why here? Why in a place where everyone sweats racehorse through their pores?'
'Because I wanted to be closer to you. You're all I've got left now.'
'And whose fault is that?' Jemima had drummed her fingernails on the tabletop. 'Sorry, Dad, but your addiction caused the problems. And you could have been very close to me in Oxford for the last three years, and I never even got a Christmas card from you. But then Oxford isn't exactly well-known for its horse-racing connections, is it?' She stopped drumming. 'You may well be able to fool everyone else, but you can't fool me. You're up to something, aren't you?'
Vincent shook his head and looked at his daughter. 'I really thought that you, of all people, would have some faith in me, love. You've made a fresh start – and I want to do the same. All I'm doing is hanging on to your coat-tails, don't you see?' He covered her hand with his. 'This is the only way I can prove to you that I'm a reformed character. Gambling is a thing of the past. I've learned my lesson. And how better to prove it than to set up home slap bang in the middle of temptation, eh?'
Jemima's expression softened slightly. 'Well – maybe. But if I ever get wind of you setting foot in a betting shop –'
'I have no intention of ever going inside a bookie's again.' With an air of affronted indignation, Vincent leaned back in his chair. Well, at least that was true. 'And now you'll be right on the doorstep to keep an eye on me, won't you? It's going to be wonderful, Jemima. Just wonderful. Trust me.' He leaned forward again. 'There is one thing, Jem, love?'
'Yes?'
'You couldn't see your way to lending me twenty quid, could you? Just until pay-day?
June
Chapter Ten
It rained for the next ten days.
'Bloody wet Sunday at Fakenham,' Matt Garside, wearing red-and-white colours, looked glumly out of the weighing-room door. 'I'm surprised Barry Manilow hasn't written a song about it.'
'Probably has.' Charlie, in dark green, joined him at the top of the steps. 'Still, we've got a good crowd.'
'I shouldn't think there's much else to do in Fakenham on a Sunday.' Matt grinned suddenly. 'Want to make a bit on the side? Tenner win, fiver second? Add a bit of interest?'
'Done.' Charlie shook hands.
'You will be.'
He and Charlie often held private wagers at the smaller meetings especially when they were the top-rated riders on the card. As jockeys, they were not allowed to place bets with bookmakers, so it satisfied their latent gambling urges and had encouraged an exciting finish in many an otherwise unspectacular race. They usually broke even and spent the money together on very drunken evenings in the Cat and Fiddle.
'Nothing much to look at out here.' Charlie turned back into the weighing room. 'Nothing remotely fanciable.'
Matt cast his eyes over the ranks of raincoats and headscarves and sturdy shoes, and nodded. Charlie got first pick – always. At everything. Horses and women. Especially women. Two inches shorter, Matt considered his looks to be no more than average, and as they came with average brown hair and average grey eyes, he was well aware of his status as an also-ran in the pulling stakes and as a non-starter when Charlie was around.
Not for him, he thought, the delights of supermodels like Tina Maloret. He'd been riding her Dragon Slayer for a year now, and she'd given him no more than a haughty smile before the start of a race, or the coolest kiss on the cheek in the winner's enclosure. Even on the rare occasions when she visited Lancing Grange, he might as well have been invisible.
Then, when he'd been sidelined by injury and Charlie had been available to ride Dragon Slayer, within moments of meeting Tina and Charlie had been glued together like the layers in a bar of KitKat. It was bloody unfair.
Matt watched the Sunday raindrops drip into shallow puddles, and sighed. Not only did Charlie have Tina, but there was also a string of absolutely stunning local girls who continued to feature in Charlie's life as a back-up team when Tina was away. And this new one that he had in tow in Milton St John – the schoolgirl from the convent – Lucinda Something. Now, she was a real head-turner.
Still, Matt had had his moments: and there was always Jennifer at home in Devon, his on-off girlfriend from school days. And since he'd become Kath Seaward's stable jockey, he'd been able to move in fairly high-class circles. For a farmer's son, with none of Charlie's wealthy bloodstock lines, he supposed he hadn't done too badly. However, it didn't prevent him gazing at himself in the mirror sometimes and wishing that it was Charlie's face that gazed back.
He wandered back through the weighing room. The clerk of the scales was getting everything in order for the first race; registration books showing the jockeys entered at the course and their weight allowances, medical records, the number-cloths to be allocated – all the day-to-day administrative necessities for the legal side of race-riding – were arrayed on the table opposite the scales.
Matt grinned. 'If it carries on raining like this, we'll all weigh heavier when we come back than when we set out.'
'Better bloody not.' The clerk frowned. 'The job's a bugger to keep up to scratch as it is. You lot always try and pull flankers.'
Matt was still grinning when he reached the changing room. It was bedlam as ever. Twenty jockeys in various stages of undress called ribald greetings. He and Charlie always tried to get changed first. It saved fighting for space later. The valet was already laying out the colours for the second race, and hanging the postage – stamp-sized saddles – some only weighing as much as a bag of sugar – on the hook allotted to each jockey, along with all the tack, and checking at the same time that each of the weight-cloths was exactly right.
Matt reckoned the valets had the worst job in racing – toting all the equipment from course to course, taking it home covered in mud after a meeting, and producing it in pristine condition all ready for the next day. It was the behind-the-scenes people like this that kept racing going – and very few people realised it. He always gave his valet large tips.
Charlie was sitting slightly apart from the other jockeys, leaning his head against the utilitarian green-painted wall, his eyes closed. Matt slid beside him, ignoring the surrounding elbows and knees and half-naked bodies. 'What's up?' He had to shout. The noise level was unbelievable. The jokes were blue. The language even more so.
'I'm bloody starving.' Charlie opened his eyes and gazed wistfully at the ceiling. 'And that bugger Liam Jenkins down there has got a bar of chocolate.'
'Bastard.'
Matt felt sympathetic. Naturally chunky, he spent the entire jumping season starving himself. It was one of the drawbacks of being a jump jockey – and another area where Charlie had always seemed to score points over him. While he had to watch his weight continually, Charlie was renowned for gracing picnics and barbecues, fork suppers and dinner parties, throughout the area, eating Falstaffian meals, and still managing not to tip the scales the f
ollowing day. Matt, who had a season ticket to the sauna, seemed to gain half a stone if he even sniffed a pizza.
'Weighing out for the first race!' The voice echoed through the changing room.
Like schoolchildren leaving everything until the last minute on a Monday morning, there was a further burst of invective and a final mad scramble for saddles and cloths, whips and bridles.
Clutching all his gear, Matt followed Charlie on to the scales. He'd been allowed ten-and-a-half stone including his saddle and tack. It had taken a week of starvation to get there. All jockeys were generously allowed an extra pound for their body protector. The needle flickered up past the half-stone mark, wavered, and settled down. Dead on. Matt exhaled.
'Garside. Ten eight! Next!'
Ducking his head down against the penetrating drizzle, Matt ran to the parade ring. Kath Seaward, with raindrops studding her maroon beret like incongruous pearls, nodded to him. 'Okay? Up for it? This one and the rest of the card?'
'All six.' Matt nodded. 'It's a bit now-or-never.'
This meeting in far-flung Norfolk was one of the last of the jumping season. Flat-racing was well into its stride, Epsom had been and gone, and dreams and aspirations were now centred on Newmarket and Ascot – not the hazy distance of next year's Grand National.
Kath pulled the maroon beret round her ears and turned up the collar of the ground-trailing trench coat. 'Hopefully the racing press haven't read too much into Dragon Slayer being in the fourth. Fakenham is hardly Aintree trial status. Drew's remaining tight-lipped about us running him. He's turning into a right dour bugger these days. What's Somerset said about it? You must have had bloody hours to discuss things on the way up.'
Matt had travelled to Fakenham in Charlie's Aston Martin. The conversation during the convoluted journey had had very little to do with Dragon Slayer.
Matt shrugged. He knew, as Kath knew, about Drew's financial troubles. He admired Drew and was fond of Maddy. It seemed wrong to gloat. 'Charlie's main preoccupation at the moment seems to be more with his new girlfriend than why the hell we're sending out a champion chaser at a minor meeting.'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 11
