'Christ, Gillian. You've already told me, remember? Maybe you're supposed to be in Bronwyn's telling her?'
'She already knows. She's in the Munchy Bar huddled with Bathsheba and that rather poisonous Petunia Hobday. They kept trying to beckon me over but I ignored them. No, listen, this is something else.'
Jemima listened. Suzy and Luke had split up. It all sounded fairly acrimonious. Suzy would be leaving the village after Christmas. Luke had moved in with his trainer, Emilio Marquez. Shame, Jemima thought, and wondered irrelevantly if the news might at least cheer up the members of the Luke Delaney fan club.
'You didn't think to ask Bathsheba about Lucinda's whereabouts, I suppose?'
'Of course not. Do you think I'm totally tactless? The lucky child is probably still curled beneath Charlie's feather and duckdown. Oh, damn. It's the hit squad. Is there time for me to get out the back way?'
There wasn't. Bathsheba, Bronwyn, and Petunia stood in the shop's entrance, blocking out the sun. The elderly ladies round the library shelves moved closer together. Gillian slid behind the counter beside Jemima.
'I think you owe us an explanation,' Bathsheba boomed. 'I understand that you have been peddling pornography.'
Fighting the desire to laugh, Jemima feigned innocence. 'Not as far as I'm aware. Was there something unpleasant in your last Elizabeth Elgin?'
There was a collective intake of breath, a mass quivering of chins. Bathsheba held Bella-Donna Stockings aloft. 'This – this is dissolute licentiousness!'
'And I think you'll find that's a tautology, actually,' Jemima said smugly as Gillian disappeared beneath the counter.
'I don't care what fancy name you give it, my girl. Filth is filth. And we wish it to be known,' Bathsheba sucked in her breath, 'that the Ladies' League of Light will fight a non-stop battle until the shelves are divested of this rubbish. Either that – or your shop closed down. Understood?'
'Yes, thank you.' Jemima was still afraid that she was going to giggle. 'Um – I suppose this wouldn't have anything to do with Lucinda not appearing for work, would it?'
'Lucinda is staying out of harm's way with a schoolfriend. I'll make sure she never sets foot in this den of iniquity again. Pure as the driven snow, is Lucinda. I will not have her innocence corrupted in this shop.'
Petunia Hobday blanched a little. Bronwyn looked slightly uncomfortable. Still, Jemima thought grudgingly, give them their due, whatever they knew they obviously weren't about to snitch. Maybe she'd underestimated Charlie Somerset's appeal to the female population of Milton St John. The library ladies took the opportunity to file out silently.
Gillian, on her hands and knees, was heading towards the kitchen. Unfortunately, Bathsheba spotted her. 'Mrs Hutchinson! A word if you please!'
Gillian looked up from the sisal and smiled as she scrambled to her feet. 'Sorry – I'd – er – dropped a contact lens.'
'Didn't know you wore glasses, Gillian, dear.' Bronwyn Pugh looked concerned. 'Well, no, I suppose you don't – not if you wear contacts. Have you tried disposables? My Natalie says –'
'Bronwyn!' Bathsheba reined in her henchman. 'Now, Mrs Hutchinson, you will no doubt be joining us on this anti-pornography crusade? Vicar has already been informed. We're holding a meeting in the back room of the Cat and Fiddle on Friday evening. I shall go home now and plug into the computer and post notices. We can rely on your support this time, I take it?'
'Oh, absolutely.' Gillian flashed apologetic glances towards Jemima. 'I had absolutely no idea –'
Bathsheba cut in. 'Me neither, Mrs Hutchinson. Me neither. I'm very, very disappointed. I would probably have remained as unenlightened as yourself if I hadn't found this in Lucinda's bedroom – borrowed from young Maddy Beckett apparently – but definitely purchased from this shop.'
Jemima coughed.
'And what Drew Fitzgerald has written in it is almost worse than the book itself –'
'Really?' Gillian had already reached out a hand. 'May I?'
'No, you mayn't! I shall be taking this up to Peapods forthwith. I will expect some sort of apology from the pair of them for the corruption of a child. And not only will I be canvassing locally – I intend to write to the publishers and demand an explanation.' She turned to Bronwyn and Petunia. 'Come, ladies! There's work to be done.'
Exit the three witches: stage left, Jemima thought, as they stomped out on their air-cushioned soles. She glared at Gillian. 'Thanks for your support, pal.'
'Oh, I know. I'm sorry. Silly old besoms.' Gillian was even paler than usual. 'They can be so vindictive. It's hell sometimes not knowing which bloody side I'm supposed to be on. But Glen won't like this, Jemima. I'm sure he won't. As Mrs Vicar, I'll have to at least pay lip-service. It's not personal. You do understand?'
Jemima supposed she did. Gillian was in a difficult position. It would be interesting to see just who was on her side if battle lines were drawn.
By the end of the afternoon, Jemima had had enough. Lucinda hadn't appeared, and the jungle drums had reached the new estate, causing a rush on Fishnets. The elderly ladies who had been interested in the library when Bathsheba appeared, returned with reinforcements, obviously hoping to catch a replay. Also, because the children hadn't yet gone back to school for the autumn term, the shop had been filled with young mums and bored toddlers and one of the beanbags had burst. Having swept up the last of the polystyrene beads, Jemima cashed up, switched the sign on the door to 'Closed', and promised herself an early night.
She ought to see Vincent, she knew, and she supposed she should ring Matt again. What the hell – they could both wait another day. Lucinda worried her more. She hoped that Bathsheba hadn't shackled her in her room. She'd ring her later. Maybe even pop round if Bathsheba went out. And then she ought to speak to Glen about Fishnets – he was her landlord, after all. She didn't want to risk homelessness again....
Mr Maureen's lorry was still occupying most of the lay-by. The sun was now glinting from the other side, illuminating some graffiti on the trailer that would make even the most ardent erotica-reader blush. Jemima lifted her face to the afternoon rays and hoped that the hoo-ha over the books would die a death. While accepting that no publicity was truly bad, she would have preferred not to have to fight this particular battle. Especially not now, when things were picking up nicely.
There was only a slight breeze, and it wafted the warm dust around the High Street in little swirling clouds. The chestnut trees gave welcome shade as she walked slowly towards the Vicarage. In a couple of days it would be September, and before long the leaves would turn to fire and fall. They'd been in tiny unfurling clusters when she'd arrived in Milton St John. The spring and summer had passed quickly. So many things had changed.
Oh, sod it. She stopped walking. Bathsheba Cox was standing four-square in St Saviour's shrubbery with Glen, gesticulating towards the bookshop. She really didn't want to face her again. Not yet. And certainly not with Glen. Hating public confrontations, she looked for an escape route. She was tired and sticky. She wanted a shower and some sleep. She didn't want to spend the next half-hour or so wandering round the village until the coast was clear.
A clump of leaves suddenly swirled past her ear. An eddy of small twigs rapidly followed. Jemima looked up into the massive spread of the chestnut tree. Could it be squirrels? Oxford hadn't prepared her for wildlife appreciation. There was a further flurry of leaves, a creak of branches, and a hissed expletive. Pretty street-wise squirrels, then. Intrigued, Jemima moved closer to the trunk and peered upwards. A pair of feet encased in grubby white trainers and attached to faded denim legs were just visible.
The rest of Charlie Somerset leaned down and grinned.
'What the hell are you doing?' She cricked her neck back further. 'Is Lucinda up there with you?' It seemed the only rational explanation. Surely there had been some historical figure who had sought sanctuary in a tree? Jemima rather vaguely remembered that that had been an oak. And that the person in question had been royalty escaping executioners. Not
much difference, really.
Charlie put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Jemima frowned. This was all a bit too Famous Five for her.
'Yes, I'm sure I saw her leaving the shop, Vicar!' Bathsheba's voice carried along the street. 'No, I'm determined. I'll wait here until she arrives. Or failing that, I'll go and find her. We need to thrash this out.'
Charlie leaned down a bit further. 'Climb up here. There are some low branches round the side. She won't see you.'
Not on her life! Jemima couldn't remember when she'd last climbed a tree. And Charlie Somerset was the last person on earth she'd want to take refuge with.
'I'll just walk along towards the shop,' Bathsheba was saying to a rather bemused-looking Glen. 'She won't escape me.'
Oh, shit. Grabbing her skirt in one hand, Jemima caught the lowest branch and hauled herself from the ground. The trunk was rough and crumbly and most of it seemed to stick to her. Inelegantly, she reached for the next branch and found she could go no higher. She was standing on her skirt, for God's sake. Irritably, she dragged at it, and almost fell. She negotiated two more branches. It had taken for ever and she was still only three feet from the ground.
'Give us your hand,' Charlie hissed from somewhere above her. 'The old bag's on her way.'
Mauled by Charlie or savaged by Bathsheba? What a choice! She let go of the branch she was holding and swayed alarmingly.
'Give me your hand!' Charlie's hiss was nearer now. 'Jemima!'
His grip was strong – probably from all those years of beating horses, she thought – and he yanked her unceremoniously up the trunk.
'Ouch.' Every bit of exposed flesh made sandpaper contact with the bark. 'Let bloody go. I can manage.'
He let go, and she was surprised to find that she could. She dragged herself upwards again until she was level with Charlie. The ground seemed an awful long way below. Her glasses were skew-whiff and her hair had fallen across her face. Scrambling awkwardly, she sat astride the branch, her back to the trunk, and shook.
'Okay?' He was laughing. 'Not very fit, are you?'
Bastard. She couldn't speak. She had to be doo-lally. Normal, sensible Jemima Carlisle from Oxford would have calmly confronted Bathsheba Cox and defused the situation. True, she would probably have blushed and stuttered a bit, but she would have remained on the ground to do it. What was it about Milton St John that made the sanest of people behave like fools?
She rested her head against the trunk. She rather liked it. It felt secure. She still didn't dare look down.
'She's heading this way,' Charlie whispered. 'Don't even breathe. She's got radar.'
Jemima didn't doubt it. Growing a little more used to the motion of the branches, she allowed herself to peer through the waving greenery. Bathsheba, oddly truncated, was immediately below her, staring towards the bookshop. Smothering an insane urge to giggle, Jemima felt young and giddy and a bit wicked. She hadn't felt like this for – well – she'd probably never felt like this before.
'You're mad,' she hissed at Charlie who was relaxing on an opposite branch. 'Do you do this much?'
'Only when I'm escaping from Lucinda's moralistic ma,' he stage-whispered. 'Or angry husbands. Don't panic. I'm not loopy.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'No, course not. I mean this is quite a normal thing to be doing. I do it all the time – bloody hell!' Her grip relaxed a bit and a shower of leaves tumbled downwards like confetti.
'Christ.' Charlie leaned over precariously. 'Have we been spotted?'
Jemima held her breath, and squinted downwards. Bathsheba was now staring straight up into the tree. She pressed herself closer to the trunk and prayed. If she'd almost lost her grip on the branch, she had certainly lost her grip on reality. What other rational explanation could there be for sitting up a tree with the biggest lady-killer since Casanova?
After what seemed like three hours, Bathsheba stopped staring and trundled away towards the bookshop, disappearing behind Brian's lorry. Jemima, who hoped that she'd read the graffiti, exhaled at the same moment as Charlie.
'So, does Bathsheba know about you and Lucinda, then? Is that why you're up here? And where is Lucinda, anyway?'
'No, no, and at the cottage. She tried ringing you last night to warn you, but your phone was engaged. I was on my way to see you to impart the news, and then I saw Mrs C, and well, I had a bit of a guilt trip – even though she doesn't know anything – and I sort of shinned up here until the coast was clear. I gather I was a bit late doing my Ghent to Aix bit?'
'Just a bit.' Jemima was impressed by the literary allusion. Maybe Lucinda's A-level revision time hadn't been completely wasted. 'So? What now?'
Charlie shrugged. 'You could scramble down and risk being spotted, or you could stay here and talk to me until she's gone.'
'Not much of a choice.'
'Sod you, then.' He stuck out his tongue and drew his knees up to his chin. 'I can't say you'd be my first pick as a companion, either.'
She grinned. It was probably true. Maybe if she'd had thigh-high PVC and fluffy eyelashes and a minus IQ she'd have been acceptable. Maybe if Charlie hadn't been a jockey and immoral and totally gorgeous it would have been different. They had nothing in common.
She leaned back against the trunk, enjoying the breeze through the leaves that sounded like crashing surf, the creak of the branches like wind in rigging, and the dip-and-sway motion. It was exactly like being on a ship. The pressures of the day were forgotten, the faint premonition of doom was receding. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looked at Charlie. Maybe he wasn't quite so mad after all. This was better than any other relaxation therapy she'd ever tried.
Bathsheba's voice, carrying now from the other direction, dispersed the euphoria. Both she and Charlie peered downwards.
'Old bag's giving up,' Charlie reported. 'She's yelling something at Bronwyn – oh, and heading off towards home. Give her a couple of minutes to get round the corner and you'll be okay.'
'Thanks.' She sighed. 'Do you think she'll really make things difficult for me?'
'I don't think she'll close the shop. But she can be dead persuasive. She'll probably hire flying pickets or something. Still, you're tough – and clever. You'll be more than a match for her. It's a shame about Lucinda, though.'
It was. Lucinda had been invaluable in the shop and had become a good friend. Jemima realised she would probably miss the friendship more. 'That's rich coming from you.'
'Lucinda and I know exactly where we stand – or rather, don't...'
'And Tina?'
'Is unaware of the situation and not really part of this conversation. Unless, of course, you want to trade under-the-sheets gossip about Matt. In which case,' Charlie's eyes gleamed, 'I'd be all ears.'
'God, no. I've never been a believer in kiss and tell.' Which was, on reflection, just as well, she thought, as there was very little kissing to tell anything about. 'Unlike some in this village, I think my private life should stay just that.'
'Bugger,' Charlie said good-naturedly. 'Matt won't say anything about you, either. Boring sod. I suppose you want to go home now, do you?'
'Yes, please.' Tentatively straightening her legs, Jemima slid towards the edge of the branch. She peered downwards. The ground looked a very long way away. Getting down was going to be a darn sight harder than getting up had been.
'Do you want any help?'
Jemima shook her head. 'I can manage, thank you. Ooops!'
Charlie hauled her back. 'Head first is not the best option. What sort of childhood did you have? Didn't anyone teach you how to climb trees?'
'Unlike some, I wasn't privileged enough to have a nanny, a minder, a valet, a butler, a resident fitness instructor and tree-climbing tutor –'
Charlie laughed at her. 'Put your left foot here. Hold on with your right hand. There ... See? Easy. And I didn't have those things, either. I had a wheelchair-bound father, an over-protective mother, no brothers and sisters, and acres of space. I learned self-sufficiency at an ea
rly age. No – not that branch – the next one.' He sat back and looked at her. 'You'd probably find it easier if you tucked your skirt into your knickers.'
She slithered down the remaining three feet of trunk, grazing her hands. Much of the tree still seemed to be attached to her hair. Charlie swung effortlessly between the branches and dropped easily beside her.
He was quite some athlete, she thought reluctantly. And okay, really. 'Thanks.'
'No sweat. I'll ask Lucinda to ring you, shall I?'
She nodded. 'We'll have to try and work something out. Now all I've got to do is explain things to Glen before Bathsheba's meeting on Friday.'
'Good luck.' Charlie managed to squeeze his hands into the pockets of the skin-tight jeans. He started to walk away, then stopped. 'Oh, and give my love to Gillian.'
September
Chapter Twenty-two
Matt had absolutely no intention of seeing Tina Maloret again. With Kath at the Lancing Grange brainstorming sessions, or in a crowd of thousands at the racecourse, it might be okay. But he didn't want to be on his own with her. He'd never trusted her – and now he knew he couldn't trust himself, either.
Still, right now he had other things on his mind. It was the last race at Worcester on a golden afternoon; the first Friday in September. Dragon Slayer was hot favourite. Five to two on at the last show. Kath Seaward had chosen different tactics from Drew for the season's inaugural airing of her potential champion. Not for Lancing Grange the obscurity of an unannounced outing at Fontwell. Dragon Slayer was far too well known for that. Kath Seaward planned to do it in style.
Concentrate, Matt told himself as he and Dragon Slayer made their way to the start. Concentrate on this race. Worry about everything else later. Dragon Slayer, preening, prancing, putting on a show for the public, obviously couldn't wait. Matt would have liked to wait for ever.
He wished he could tell someone. Confess all. Make a clean breast of it. But he couldn't. And Ned Filkins knew he couldn't. Ned knew all about his weakness. Ned was blackmailing him with the secret. But Ned didn't want cash for his pay-off; he just wanted Dragon Slayer to lose. And money had changed hands. He'd actually taken money from Ned. Blood money. Thirty pieces of silver. Whatever. Doing so had sealed his fate.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 25
