'Ah. Knocking her off in Tina's absence, is he? Dangerous business. Ms Maloret will probably castrate him when she finds out. Bloody good job, too. What's she like – this latest tart? Will she distract him well into next season?'
'I've no idea. And she's no tart. She's from St Hilda's.' Matt grinned. 'And I gather she's giving him a bit of a run for his money. She's playing it very cool. He's slightly miffed that she keeps standing him up to do her A-level revision.'
Kath chuckled. 'Camping outside the classroom, is he? Doing his usual naff trick of delivering ice-buckets of Moet and tons of red roses?'
'I don't think so. For once he seems to be planning a different strategy.'
'As long as it keeps his mind off race-riding it'll be all to the good. Silly bastard.' Kath snorted her approval of Charlie's testosterone-led conversation level, patted Matt vaguely on the shoulder and stomped off towards the saddling boxes.
The first three races were over. The rain had eased away to no more than a fretful drizzle, and the diehard Sunday-afternoon punters were hauling their delayed picnics from the boots of their cars. There was always a relaxed, point-to-point atmosphere at Fakenham and the jockeys enjoyed their visits there, despite the lengthy travelling time.
Matt stood in the parade ring beside Kath and watched Dragon Slayer plod round, completely unperturbed. Charlie had won the first race while he'd finished a close second, and the positions had been reversed in the next. The third had been a bit of a disaster, with Liam Jenkins and Chris Maude stealing their thunder, leaving them scrabbling for the minor placings.
'Four double gin-and-tonics down the drain,' Charlie had muttered as they'd lugged their saddles muddily back to the weighing room. 'Thought we were going to keep a clean sheet. One of us had better head the field in the next or we'll be on Aqua Libra tonight.'
Kath was assessing Dragon Slayer with a professional eye, and Matt alone knew why she'd chosen to send him out on this seemingly easy course. The ground was always good due to the natural drainage of the sandy subsoil, the half-dozen fences were far from testing, and the tight, square track had little in the way of problems.
'Keep him up front,' Kath advised from under the damp rim of her beret. 'I want a start-to-finish lead. This is the ideal place to find out if maybe our tactics were wrong at Liverpool. This course is a dream for front-runners, and that little hill on the run-in will still give him a stamina test. Maybe – just maybe – I was wrong to cover him up in the National. And this is the best place to find out – away from too many prying eyes. Okay?'
Matt touched his cap. Charlie, again in the dark-green colours, was talking to Drew. How different they looked, he thought, to him and Kath. Drew Fitzgerald and Charlie Somerset looked like every film director's dream of racing superstars: tall and handsome. Kath was right, though, Drew seemed less affable than usual. Charlie hadn't elaborated on the problems at Peapods – but then he wouldn't. Whatever other faults Charlie had, disloyalty wasn't one of them.
Still, Matt thought, as he hauled himself high off the ground and into Dragon Slayer's saddle, all trainers had problems: if it wasn't lack of money, it was lack of good horses, or the threat of some virus wiping out a season's work.
'Remember,' Kath was looking up at him. 'Go for it. Right from the start. I want to see if he can hold it.'
They bucketed off side by side, Matt on Dragon Slayer and Charlie on Drew's Moonstone. It was only slightly more taxing than the gallops at home, and Matt eased into a gentle stride, keeping Dragon Slayer's nose just ahead of the other five horses in the field.
'What's the plan?' Charlie yelled across the rhythmic thumping. 'He's not a front runner.'
'He's not a faller either,' Matt grinned, easing up a notch for the first hurdle. 'Watch and learn, Charlie. Watch and learn.'
They were still steadily ahead at the start of the second circuit. Dragon Slayer was moving easily, hardly having to make any effort at all to clear the hurdles. The rest of the field weren't far behind, Matt knew, but they were behind – and that was good enough.
Two fences to go. Dragon Slayer was, without doubt, the best horse he'd ever ridden. The long striding motion was assured, the pricked ears indicated his sheer enjoyment, the pleasure he was experiencing transferring itself to Matt. He was a winner. Better than anything Charlie could hope to ride. Here at least he'd got the beating of Charlie.
He had been desperately upset not to have been fit enough to ride him at Aintree, and it had driven him mad to see this great horse dumped so unceremoniously out of the Grand National. Dragon Slayer could have done so much better.
The muted sounds of the commentator were growing louder, and the roar from the stands swelled in his ears. Dragon Slayer spurted forward with a burst of speed that was totally instinctive, and cleared the final hurdle with feet of daylight between his black flanks and the top of the fence. It was like sitting on air. Matt had nothing to do except steer. Dragon Slayer sailed past the winning post, hardly sweating.
Standing up in the stirrups, punching the air with his whip as though he'd just cleared the hill at Cheltenham, Matt looked over his shoulder. The remainder of the field was still labouring up the incline some twenty lengths behind him. Charlie and Moonstone were battling to stay in contention. Matt grinned in delight. Kath's instincts had been right: Dragon Slayer was a natural front-runner. They'd wipe out the field at the next National! It was what he wanted most in the entire world. He was pretty sure he'd kill to achieve it.
'Bloody superb!' Kath gave him an uncharacteristic hug in the winner's enclosure. 'We're right-on for next season. He's proved that he knows better than me – and now he's going to have a good holiday and eat his head off before we get down to the hard work after the summer. This baby,' she kissed Dragon Slayer's nose, and Matt was amazed to see tears in her eyes, 'is going to be the next star of Aintree – and so, Matthew Garside, are you.'
Charlie was silent for most of the journey home. He had hardly spoken at all by the time they'd left the flat landscape behind them and hit the first motorway.
'We didn't do that badly.' Matt was slouched down in the Aston Martin's passenger seat. Give him half a ton of horse hurling itself at a mile-high fence and he wouldn't blink. Charlie Somerset's Aston Martin on a kamikaze mission with a forty-ton lorry was something altogether different. 'We've got enough in the kitty for a reasonable piss-up.'
'Yeah.'
Matt tried again. 'Tina will be pleased with the way Dragon Slayer went today. Kath's going to ring her tonight. In Italy.'
'She's not in Italy.' Charlie clenched his hands on the steering wheel and overtook a line of boy-racers. 'She's gone on to LA. Some premiere thing or other.'
'Missing her, are you?'
Still travelling at over a hundred, Charlie stabbed a CD into the player. 'What do you think?'
They continued in silence – apart from the eardrum-shattering accompaniment of Aerosmith – until they pulled off the M25.
'Is everything okay with Drew?' Matt realised that he'd been gripping the edge of the seat for the last half-hour and tried to unfurl his fingers. 'He's seemed a bit – well – off lately. It's all round the village that he's going bankrupt.'
'Bollocks.' Charlie squeezed even more out of the accelerator. 'It's a bit of a blip, that's all. All yards get them, you know that. And he's completely knackered. Since Alister left to go to Mr Thornton's it's all been down to him. There's no let-up in a mixed yard – and his flat runners have been a bit of a disaster recently, haven't they?'
The understatement of the year, Matt thought. 'Er – so, under the circumstances – is their picnic still on next week?'
'As far as I know. Maddy's invited the world. You know what she's like. Who are you taking?'
'No one.' Matt eased himself up in his seat, took one look through the windscreen and slid down again. 'What about you? Will Tina be back in time?'
'Doubtful. I'll have to call on my reserve team.' Charlie screamed the Aston Martin past three cars an
d grinned across at Matt. 'You might not have much luck with the ladies, but you've certainly got one hell of a horse. Pity you can't take Dragon Slayer to the picnic, eh? So, what was that all about? Running him today? Kath planning a change of tactics for next year?'
'Nah. It was just a muscle-stretcher before his summer break.' Despite the pallor of his passenger-seat terror, Matt knew he was blushing. 'I mean, Drew entered Moonstone this afternoon. He's not coming on for the National, is he?'
'I fucking hope not.' Charlie indicated to leave the motorway. 'Tailed off last of six at bloody Fakenham. Hardly the stuff of Aintree dreams, is it?'
Even the Cat and Fiddle seemed rather subdued tonight, Matt thought. Sunday evening, the light just fading with June dampness, and only the ever-thirsty stable staff lining the bar, eager as always to celebrate their one day of almost-rest.
Charlie had dropped him off at his two-up two-down house in the back-streets of the village and agreed to meet him later. The hands on the clock had already ticked away two gins. Matt, unsure whether to stay or wander off home for the delights of a thinly sliced breast of chicken and a tomato – opted for another drink. At least the gin acted as an antidote to fluid retention.
'Sorry I'm late.' Charlie crashed in through the door. 'Tina rang. Kath had told her about your incredible success this afternoon. She says well done, by the way – and she can't see why l couldn't have done that at Aintree.'
'I trust you told her that skill and judgement on the racecourse sometimes takes precedence over all-night performances in the bedroom?' Matt pushed a double gin-and-tonic across the table. 'I've divvied up our winnings. We should have enough to be satisfactorily plastered by closing time.'
'Thank God for that.' Charlie collapsed into a chair. 'I need something to lift the gloom. Lucinda is heavily into the Canterbury Tales and won't see me. It's the first time I've been passed up in favour of a bloke who's been dead for nine hundred years. Oh, bugger.'
'What?'
'Over there. Ned Filkins – and Drew and Maddy's new gardener, Vincent. They're real bosom buddies these days. I don't think Ned's the best companion for him.'
'Ned's not the best companion for anyone.' Matt drained his glass. 'Maybe someone should warn him before it's too late.'
Charlie swirled the remainder of his gin, before swallowing it in one go. 'I've tried. Mind you, I picked a bad moment. I walked in on the mother and father of all rows.'
Matt raised his eyebrows. He loved gossip. Charlie always had some titbit. 'What? At Peapods? With Drew and Maddy?'
'Nah. Maddy and Vincent. Seems he'd completely wrecked her walled garden. You know, the one she's been nurturing ever since Mrs F took up permanent residence in the Channel Islands? He'd pulled out all the roses, and some cottage garden plants that had belonged to Maddy's gran and, well, practically everything. The whole place looked like it had been napalmed.'
'Christ.' Matt gathered up the empty glasses for refilling. 'A bit of an odd thing for a gardener to do. Did he know what he was up to?'
'That's more or less what Maddy was asking – in no uncertain terms.' Charlie grinned hugely. 'Then Vincent said that he'd discovered that all the plants had lumbago root rot or some other crap, and they had to go. He said he'd turn it into a Japanese garden, all concrete and stunted growth, until the soil was clear of infection.'
'Oh.' Matt was a bit disappointed. He'd expected more. He stood up, ready to head for the bar. 'And was Mad happy with that?'
'Dunno. She looked bloody murderous. The next day it was all down to paving slabs and stunted growth. Oh, shit – Ned's spotted you.'
'Hello, Matt.' Ned was calling to him across the pub. 'Quite a little coup you an' the ole cow struck this afternoon by all accounts. I was just telling Vince here all about it, wasn't I, Vince?'
Vincent nodded. Matt greeted them both briefly and turned his attentions to the Cat and Fiddle's landlord.
Picking up the drinks and heading back to the table, he groaned.
Ned and Vincent had vacated their own table and were chattering to a thunder-faced Charlie.
'Hurry up, Matt, lad!' Ned patted the seat beside him. 'Come and sit down. Ole Vince here is a right babe-in-arms when it comes to matters of the turf. I told him, there's no one better than you and Charlie to give him a few tips.'
Chapter Eleven
'Jemima! Mum's not ready to go yet, and she says can you meet her in the summerhouse, and Zeke poked his head round the door of the flat. 'Oh, bugger. Sorry.'
The head disappeared and the door closed. There was then a polite knock before it reopened. Zeke grinned. 'I always forget that bit. Yeah, anyway, Mum says she'll be about another ten minutes. Hey, you look really nice.'
'Thanks.' Jemima flicked her hair behind her ears and burrowed under the sofa for a stray canvas boot. 'Suitably dressed for a picnic, do you reckon?'
'Nah. Too grown-up. Anyway, picnics are for kids – not for old people. Old people grumble about dog poo and getting ants in things and they always see wasps that aren't there and complain about grit in the sandwiches and –‘
Jemima laughed. 'Cheers. I can see I'm going to have a really nice time. At least it hasn't rained this week, which means we won't all have to sit on our pac-a-macs, will we?' She found the boot and laced it. 'There. Now, shall we go and chivvy your mum up a bit?'
The summerhouse was in a state of chaos. The June sun, blazing through the windows, illuminated the debris with halogen brilliance. Gillian, looking wonderful in a silver silk trouser suit, languidly cleared a space on one of the chairs. 'Sit down. I won't be a tick. Just a few bits and bobs to put away.'
'Isn't five o'clock a strange time to be going on a picnic?' Watching Gillian's leisurely tidying-up process, Jemima ran her fingers through her hair again. It hadn't quite reached an acceptable level of tousledom. 'Shouldn't we be taking our own contribution of egg sandwiches and a flask? Oh, I can't get my hair right! And you look sensational – I'm nowhere near as posh as you. What exactly should I be wearing?'
'No to the time, and no to the sandwiches, and your hair looks lovely.' Gillian paused.
'Yes?' Jemima frowned. 'But?'
'That dress – it's absolutely gorgeous. Perfect. You look very Renoir. Laura Ashley, isn't it?'
It was. It was also her best going-out frock. 'There's still a but, isn't there?'
'Not a huge one.' Gillian laughed. 'But I'd advise against wearing the black knickers under it.'
'Christ!' Jemima hurtled out of the summerhouse.
Back in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she changed into white knickers, added an ankle-length cotton petticoat for good measure, and wondered how many times she'd displayed her underwear in Oxford. She had always worn the Laura Ashley – minus petticoat – to Bookworms functions. Why hadn't anyone ever had the balls to tell her before? Probably, she thought, because Gillian was rapidly becoming something she hadn't had for a very long time. A close friend. In fact, Milton St John was making a rather lovely habit of giving her things she had thought she'd have to live without. Like friends, like a social life, like a future, like a father...
She was delighted that Vincent was here. She had seen him three times since he'd surprised her in the Munchy Bar: twice in the Cat and Fiddle and once here at her flat when she'd cooked him a meal. She loved him to distraction, and was so pleased to see the pallor subsiding, and his muscles beginning to fill out – but she still didn't trust him an inch.
He was so damn plausible. Always had been. Gillian and Glen had thought it was wonderful that Vincent was living in the village, and couldn't understand her reservations. But how could she tell them? She had learned very quickly that in Milton St John, if you sneezed at one end of the High Street, someone immediately said 'Bless you' at the other. And Vincent might really have turned over a new leaf. If so, she didn't want to put any doubts in Maddy and Drew's mind. It was so long since anyone had given him a chance – and she was blowed if she was going to be the one that ruined it for him.
&
nbsp; She had ordered him back issues of all the gardening magazines, guiltily aware that she was now compounding his felony, and advised him after that first fiasco to check with Maddy on exactly what she wanted pulled up or pruned. Typically, he'd got away with that desecration – and Maddy had been into the Munchy Bar singing Vincent's praises and raving about her new low-maintenance Japanese walled garden. Jemima had warned him that he'd never get away with it twice.
At least, she thought, as she inspected the Laura Ashley in the mirror for total opaqueness from every angle, there was one good thing about tonight's picnic: she'd checked with her father and he wasn't going. Meeting a few chums, he'd said, in the pub. Much more fun. She hoped it would be. She just hoped his fun didn't involve gambling – the betting shop in the village would be closed, wouldn't it? And he didn't have transport to get to the bigger ones in the nearby town. She'd just have to trust him....
And his absence did have a further plus point: whatever lies he'd invented for his CV, at least she wouldn't be expected to agree with his fabrications tonight. She could enjoy a village evening out without having to worry about a thing. Grabbing her ethnic mirror-glass shoulder-bag and locking her door, she almost skipped down the staircase.
Gillian still wasn't ready. Jemima leaned against the desk and tried to read some of the sheets spewing from the printer.
'Oh! You were quicker than I thought you'd be.' Gillian switched off all the equipment, and gathering the A4 sheets together in an untidy bundle, stuffed them into a drawer. 'Stand up against the light. Oh, yes. That's much better.'
'I'm still not sure I should be going with you. I know Maddy invited me, but I think she meant me and a Significant Someone. Shouldn't this be a romantic evening out for you and Glen?'
'He wouldn't have wanted to come even if he hadn't already had a prior engagement with the Parish Biddies' Clean-Up Campaign,' Gillian said. 'It isn't his sort of thing at all. And you really don't know that many people yet, do you? It'll be a great opportunity to circulate away from the Munchy Bar.'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 12
