MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  Caroline was fuming as she caught the anxious looks the watching parents were giving each other, obviously wondering if their offspring were safe in her hands. Somebody murmured, ‘I’ve heard that, too,’ well within earshot of her. Another muttered, ‘She’s not as good as Ella, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Now then, children,’ she said briskly, through gritted teeth. ‘If you’re ready, we’ll carry on with the lesson. Pick up your reins, and prepare to move off. Oh, and Kelly,’ She beckoned over to the young helper. ‘Perhaps you could walk alongside the lead pony. We don’t want any more accidents, do we?’ At this, she glared at Sasha, who was looking smugly satisfied with herself. ‘Right then,’ she said. ‘Walk on.’

  Meanwhile, in the stable yard, Vanessa was suffering from mutiny in the ranks. The teenagers were getting bored with the endless mucking out of stables.

  ‘When are we going to get to groom the horses?’ asked a rather thin girl, with a pale face and a bad case of acne.

  ‘Soon,’ she said, glancing up from her latest copy of “The Horse Owner” magazine. She was in the middle of a particularly interesting article about dressage riders. And her coffee was getting cold, she realised, as she slurped a tepid mouthful of it. ‘Have you filled all the hay nets, like I told you?’

  ‘Ella lets us do that after we’ve ridden,’ said a rather pretty girl with dark, shiny hair, which had been cut into a flattering chin length bob.

  ‘Well, Ella’s not here,’ she said, flicking over the pages of her magazine.

  ‘Don’t we know it,’ muttered a sulky looking child of about fourteen.

  Vanessa glared at her. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be filling the water buckets?’

  ‘Done it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked at her watch. Goodness was it that time already. She supposed she had better let them bring the horses in from the paddocks, or they wouldn’t have a chance to ride them.

  ‘All right,’ she said, standing up, and laying her magazine to one side. (She would continue with that article later). ‘You can go and get a head-collar, and fetch your horse in from the field. Do you all know who you’re supposed to be catching?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the rather bored reply. They had known from the moment they set foot on the yard. That was the first thing they did when they arrived – read the list to see which horse they had been allocated for the day.

  ‘Good,’ Vanessa said, because she, for one, didn’t have a clue. Her mother normally picked the horses. She tended to know what one would be suitable for which teenager. Barring a few half-hearted arguments, she usually got it right. ‘Off you go, then,’ she said.

  The scrum to get out of the barn door nearly sent her flying.

  Bloody kids, she thought, as she picked up her magazine and sat down again. With any luck, the horses would be so difficult to catch that she would be able to finish the article she was reading before they got back to the yard.

  Three quarters of an hour later, and she had finished the whole magazine, and was sitting drumming her heels on a wooden tack trunk, wondering where her unruly tribe of kids had disappeared.

  She supposed she had better go and look for them.

  The shrieks and giggles of laughter coming from the car park seemed like a good enough place to start her search.

  The girls were standing beside a silver coloured car talking, or at least, laughing, with someone. Not a single tethered horse or pony was in sight. In fact, the head-collars seemed to have been draped on the fence, or tossed to the ground.

  Annoyed that they had so blatantly disobeyed her, Vanessa stomped through the gate to the car park, intent on giving them a piece of her mind.

  The personalised number-plate on the silver BMW caught her eye first; the sneaky, sideways glance from one of the girls, and the furtive whispering came second.

  ‘Here she comes.’

  ‘Don’t tell her we told you.’

  And then there was the giggling.

  Vanessa’s eyes widened and the breath caught in the back of her throat, as the car door swung open, and Lewis Trevelyan – the Lewis Trevelyan (all six foot four of gorgeous manliness), stood up, and held out his hand.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You must be Vanessa.’

  She tried to say yes, but her mouth was so dry, it sounded like a squeak, and her legs were shaking so much she could hardly stand still. Her head bobbed up and down like a nodding toy, as his warm, firm fingers, closed around her sweating palm. (Don’t faint. Don’t pass out, she told herself sternly).

  ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk, the last time I came.’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. She felt as if she were about to swoon.

  ‘The girls have been telling me all about their ‘Own a pony’ day. Sounds good to me.’ He winked at his adoring audience, who all seemed to be clutching tatty bits of paper to their pre-pubescent chests.

  A crowd of interested on-lookers were starting to appear from all corners of the yard. (Vanessa sincerely hoped that they noticed it was her hand he was holding).

  ‘I was wondering if your mother was at home?’ he said, tilting his head in the direction of the house. A shock of sun-streaked blonde hair tumbled forward over his forehead. ‘I had to bring a friend up here for a riding lesson, so I thought I’d take the chance and drop in on her.’

  Friend? Riding lesson? Vanessa glanced back towards the sand school, where she could vaguely make out Stella giving instruction to someone on Jester. (Why, oh why hadn’t she paid attention to the names booked into the diary for lessons that day?)

  ‘I didn’t think it would be fair to stand and watch,’ he added. ‘It might put him off.’

  ‘Um, yes,’ Vanessa said. ‘Who is it, exactly?’

  ‘Adam,’ Lewis said, grinning broadly. ‘Adam Lansing.’

  Never heard of him, Vanessa thought.

  ‘So if your mother’s in, perhaps I could have a word with her?’

  Vanessa cheeks had gone crimson, and her eyes were wide and bulging in their sockets. For once, she appeared to be at a loss for words.

  One of the girls tittered.

  Vanessa shot her a warning look. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, as she struggled to regain some of her composure. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘No, its okay,’ he said, casually withdrawing his hand from her vice like grip on his fingers. ‘You carry on. I don’t want to interrupt your work here with the girls.’

  ‘It’s no problem…’

  ‘No, really.’ He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘You stay here. I insist.’

  Vanessa watched, rather forlornly, as he strode up the gravel drive towards the house. The way he walked, with those long, rangy legs, the firm muscles rippling beneath the neat cut of his jeans – the casual stride; the windswept, but undoubtedly expensive, cut of his hair…oh God, he was so gorgeous.

  ‘Look! Look, he’s signed it to me. To Mandy, it says!’

  The pretty girl with the dark hair waved a scrap of paper under Vanessa’s nose.

  ‘He’s put, “Love Lewis” on mine,’ crowed the girl with bad acne.

  ‘Oh, I just love him! I do, I love him.’

  Vanessa scowled at the gaggle of teenagers, with their irritating giggles and excited chatter. Jumping up and down like…like lovesick adolescents, (and like she would have done, if she had been given half the chance).

  ‘Yes, well, show’s over,’ she snapped. ‘You’re supposed to be catching some horses, aren’t you?’

  The group of girls gathered up the head-collars, which had been abandoned in such haste, and carried on chatting and laughing as they ran towards the fields.

  Vanessa stared up at the house where, a moment earlier, Lewis Trevelyan had stood waiting to be let in. What did he want, she wondered anxiously? And why was he so keen to speak to her mother. More importantly, she thought, with a twinge of panic, where the hell was Caroline?

  Ursula Johnson was in the process of baking a cake for the weekly Charity Club coffee morning. It was her du
ty, as an upstanding member of the community, to let it be known that she was always willing to do her bit for charity. The fact that she loathed baking, and couldn’t give two hoots about whatever charity they were supporting this week, was neither here nor there. Duty had to be seen to be done.

  She prodded a skewer into the middle of the fruitcake, which she had just removed from the centre of the oven, and examined it dubiously. She never knew when these things were cooked or not.

  The doorbell rang at a most inconvenient moment.

  Cursing, she slid the cake tin back into the oven, and turned the heat up. A few more minutes to finish it off should do, she thought, as she wiped her hands clean on a damp cloth, and went to open the door.

  Lewis Trevelyan was the last person she expected to see standing on the doorstep (and the last person she would have wanted to see her, all red-faced and harassed from baking, and wearing a large apron that was smudged with flour and egg whites). But it was too late.

  ‘Oh.’ Her mouth opened like the proverbial goldfish, as she yanked open the door and found him grinning down at her.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said brightly. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘No. Well, just a spot of baking,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I like to do a cake for the Charity Club. I do one most weeks,’ she added.

  ‘Smells good.’

  Ursula blushed. Behind him she could see a gathering horde of people, staring up towards the house. ‘Come in, Mr Trevelyan,’ she said, opening the door a bit wider. ‘Oh, and ignore the dog. He’s harmless enough.’

  Harmless he may be, but Lewis had never seen one quite so huge. The Great Dane must have been almost four foot at the shoulder. It’s huge, drooling mouth tilted sideways, as it gazed up at him with inquisitive eyes. A deep, thunderous ‘woof’ rumbled from the back of its throat.

  ‘Basket, Wilson,’ Ursula said. The dog slumped to the floor in front of the warm oven, and pointedly ignored her. It lay its head down on its huge paws, and closed its eyes.

  It seemed to have accepted his presence in the house, but Lewis felt one could never be too sure where strange dogs were concerned. He kept a careful watch on the slumbering grey bulk, as he sidestepped past it and then followed Ursula through into the coolness of the lounge.

  ‘Now then, Mr Trevelyan,’ she said, patting the cushion of a chair for him to sit on. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Lewis felt distinctly uncomfortable, as he perched on the edge of the bottle green armchair. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to phrase this. His gaze scanned the walls for photographs, mementoes, and reminders – anything that might prompt the thread of his intended topic of conversation. He could see nothing.

  No pictures of Robert Johnson; no cups, medal, trophies; not even a photograph of his most famous horse, Fool’s Gold. And certainly no photos of his daughter.

  A framed portrait of Vanessa, Caroline and their mother, however, hung in pride of place over the fireplace. A watercolour of a mill cottage hung from another wall, and a picture of two children’s ponies was propped up on the oak sideboard. And that was it.

  ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘we’re not going to use Hollyfield Stables for our location shots.’

  ‘I had heard,’ Ursula said huffily. Though why they hadn’t had the decency to tell her before Petunia Fitzgerald found out was something she would be enquiring about in the very near future.

  Lewis nodded, and then shook his head. ‘It wasn’t my idea. Believe me. I think Hollyfield Stables would have been perfect.’

  (Ursula resolved to savour those words and store them for future retelling – perhaps at the next charity luncheon.)

  ‘Anyway, we’re going ahead with the County Showground shoot – I take it you’ve had your invitation card?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ she nodded agreeably.

  ‘And the girls will be coming?’

  ‘Of course. They wouldn’t miss it for the world?’

  ‘Good,’ Lewis said. ‘We obviously want as many experienced riders as we can, at the show.’

  Yet another observation to make at the charity luncheon, Ursula thought gleefully.

  ‘Your husband,’ he said, glancing back at her, with a practised smile.

  (Ursula nearly said, ‘which one?’ but thought better of it). ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘He was a show jumper, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A British champion show jumper,’ she said proudly.

  ‘And I’m right in thinking its five years since he died?’

  ‘Five years this month,’ Ursula said, with a suitably pained expression on her face. ‘He was killed in a car crash. It was tragic. He was on his way home to spend some time with me and the girls.’

  ‘Vanessa and Caroline,’ he said thoughtfully.

  Ursula looked pleased he had remembered their names.

  ‘And his other daughter? I don’t think I’ve met her.’

  Ursula’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  ‘Your stepdaughter,’ he added airily.

  ‘Oh, you mean, Ella.’

  ‘Ella. That’s right.’ He leaned back in the armchair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. This was getting interesting. Ursula was looking quite flustered. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Here? No. Well, I mean, she’s not here now, because… she’s out,’ she said falteringly. ‘But I’m sure you probably saw her the last time you came. She’s usually hanging around the yard – helping out, you know.’

  ‘Does she ride?’

  ‘Um…not really. No.’

  Lewis raised an eyebrow at her. His doubting expression was all too clear to see. Robert Johnson’s daughter did not ride. Oh, come on, woman. Did he look like a fool?

  Ursula rapidly lowered her gaze. ‘What I mean is – um - she sometimes rides, but not like her father.’

  ‘She’s not a show-jumper, then?’

  ‘No. Although, she does try, bless her. But she’s not very good. I mean, I’ve tried coaching her, but some things can’t be taught, can they? And these young girls – well, they hate being told what to do.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Lewis said. ‘Still, she’s lucky she’s got you to help her.’

  ‘Yes…yes, she is.’ Ursula beamed.

  ‘And I’ll look forward to seeing her at the County Show next weekend.’

  His words had the same effect on Ursula, as a sudden drenching of icy cold water would have done. Her eyes almost popped out of her head; her jaw locked open, and the colour rapidly drained from her face.

  ‘Next weekend?’ she repeated.

  ‘That’s right.’ Lewis stood up. At six foot four, he towered over the rather squat Mrs Johnson. Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t forget to tell her, I told you so, will you?’

  She gazed helplessly up at him. ‘No, no I won’t forget.’ Oh my goodness. ‘Wilson! Basket!’ she shrieked, as the huge Great Dane came bounding into the hallway, having been disturbed from its comfortable nap in front of the cooker, and nearly sending her honoured guest flying.

  ‘He’s all right,’ Lewis said, quickly recovering his balance, and stroking the large, silky head. ‘Aren’t you, boy? Good lad.’ Overgrown dogs were the least of his worries. He eased open the front door a fraction. Several people were congregating around his car. Others were sitting on the arena fencing, watching the lesson in progress. Yet more people were loitering on the driveway. Miles had been right. They should have brought a minder with them.

  They all looked innocent enough, but if they found out it was Simon De Silva having the riding lesson they’d be lucky to escape with their clothes intact. He’d seen it happen before. Poor Bradley Gulliver had stepped outside the Regent to sign a few autographs, and ended up in hospital with several broken bones and concussion – and none of his fans had been older than fifteen either.

  ‘Is there a problem, Mr Trevelyan?’

  ‘A slight one, yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you could get rid of those people out
side, could you? Tell them my car’s broken down and I’ve left in a taxi.’

  Ursula gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Of course. You wait here. I won’t be a moment.’

  Lewis ducked back out of sight as he heard a stampede of footsteps trampling over the gravel the moment the front door opened.

  Shrieks of ‘Lewis!’ were soon silenced as Ursula stood her ground, the huge Great Dane standing resolute at her side.

  ‘Mr Trevelyan has gone,’ she said loudly. ‘He left by the back door, and a taxi picked him up at the end of the lane. There’s no point in you all hanging about here.’