MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  ‘Found somebody else, I expect,’ he said. He slipped the notes into his wallet, and pocketed it with a smile. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mind doing a favour for an old school mate. It was good to see you again, Ella. You too, Kate.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Kate said.

  ‘Wonder who he married,’ Ella said later, as they sat drinking coffee in Kate’s bedroom. They had gone back to her house, so that Kate could get changed for her ‘big’ date. The man in question had been the object of Kate’s fancy for well over a month now. Persistence and guile had eventually paid off. He had sent her a text message that afternoon, inviting her out for a drink. Ella was going to help her decide what to wear. Though goodness knows why, she thought, since Kate looked fabulous in everything.

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask him,’ she added, flicking through Kate’s wardrobe. Her friend wasn’t usually so reticent. ‘What about this one?’ She held out a powder blue lacy top. ‘With black trousers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know - this red one.’

  Kate frowned. ‘Put it on the pile of “possibles”.’

  ‘You’ve got more in that pile than you’ve got left in your wardrobe,’ she observed dryly. ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’

  ‘Mark? He’s one of the managers from head office, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.’

  ‘You say that about everyone you go out with,’ Ella said.

  ‘No I don’t. The peach blouse – that one.’ She wagged a finger, sticky with fresh nail varnish, at her.

  ‘Very pretty,’ Ella murmured, holding it up and examining it with a critical eye. ‘It’s a bit see-through, though.’

  ‘Perfect for a first date.’ Kate grinned. ‘Shall I ask him if he’s got any nice single friends?’

  ‘No.’ Ella retorted crossly.

  Kate blew on her fingernails. ‘Pass me that bottle of perfume, will you?’

  Painted, preened, and dressed to perfection, in a black leather mini skirt, peach (see-through) blouse, and black boots, Kate was finally ready for her date.

  ‘Think I’ll make a move,’ Ella said, picking up her bag.

  ‘You could wait. He’ll be here in a minute. I’ll introduce you if you like?’

  ‘No, I’d better go,’ she said. ‘Thanks for everything, Kate. I mean, for lunch, and the car and helping me get things sorted.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for.’ She stood up and straightened her tight leather skirt as she spoke. ‘You don’t think this is too short?’

  Ella grinned. ‘I’m sure this Mark, whoever he is, will be bowled over by it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Kate.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll ring you,’ she said. ‘And remember we’ve got the Jazz Club tomorrow night. You did say you’d go.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Ella said. ‘I can’t believe it’s a week since the last time we went.’

  She left Kate contorting herself from every angle in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. It never ceased to amaze her that her friend, who seemed so supremely confident in everything she did, was always so uncertain when it came to deciding what to wear. Ella didn’t have that problem. She had work clothes, riding clothes, and a few ‘going out’ clothes. Normally she chose whatever was closest to hand. Perhaps tomorrow night, she thought, she would make more of an effort.

  In the meantime, she had better get home. It was getting dark, and it would be darker still by the time she got back to Hollyfields. If she were lucky, there would be no one around to notice the paint job she’d had done on the rear panel of the Range Rover. She could always plead ignorance at a later date.

  But she was worrying needlessly, because back at the stables, Ursula had much more pressing concerns on her mind.

  The entire day had been a public relations disaster from the start.

  An irate Mrs West had removed her daughter Jemima from the children’s pony lesson class, and loudly announced to anyone who would listen, that the whole place was a disgrace and a shambles, and they would not be coming back

  Consequently, three other children did not book lessons for the following week, and Sasha Wilkes’ mother insisted that her daughter would only return if she could have her usual instructor, and not the incompetent Caroline.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Vanessa then found that her group of willing teenagers were no longer so willing, since they had had their brush with stardom. All they wanted to do was talk about their encounter with Lewis Trevelyan, and they had spent half the afternoon phoning their friends on their mobiles to do just that.

  When one of the livery owners subsequently discovered her horse had been put in a stable that hadn’t been mucked out properly, she was justifiably furious.

  The trouble was she complained so vocally, that some of the other owners started to protest as well. (The water buckets hadn’t been cleaned out, the hay nets were half empty, and some idiot had given the wrong feed to a laminitic pony on starvation rations).

  Ursula spent the best part of the afternoon either cancelling bookings, or consoling ruffled feelings. The worst part was when she counted up the week’s takings, and discovered they were way down on the week before, and horrendously low, compared to the same period the previous year.

  It was no wonder that the bank manager, who had personally authorised the business loan for the sand school, was starting to doubt her ability to pay it back.

  The future of the stables lay in clever marketing and advertising, and in events guaranteed to attract new customers.

  Ursula drummed her fingers on the top of the desk, and peered morosely out of the window. She needed to think of something new – something different. They already had the children’s Pony Club camp, but perhaps they could cater more for the older riders - the bored housewives with time and (hopefully) money on their hands, or the middle-aged men who fancied themselves as John Wayne?

  She picked up the invitation card, which was tucked behind some bills in the drawer of her writing desk, and read it through again. Simon De Silva may not know it, she mused, but the future success of Hollyfield lay in his hands.

  The stables needed some favourable publicity, because good publicity (as her bank manager kept telling her) was the key to business success.

  This film could be the making of them.

  It had to be.

  Chapter Twelve

  Preparations for the annual Agricultural Show were in full swing. On the County Showground, marquees were being erected, and stands assembled. Various catering companies had already been allocated their pitches, and the final timetable of events had been printed and published. The addendum was inserted meticulously into every programme: “Extra event – the filming of the Simon De Silva Show-jumping stakes”.

  The posters, which had been displayed around the surrounding towns for weeks now, were hastily amended to carry the extra flyer, and the local radio station devoted an entire chat show programme to it.

  Everyone, it seemed, was talking about the filming, and the effect it would have on the scattered and mainly rural community.

  ‘We’ll have sightseers flooding into the place.’

  ‘It won’t be a local show.’

  ‘They’ll ruin the atmosphere.’

  ‘But think of the trade benefits.’ (This from Gerald Fitzgerald, head of the organising committee, and husband of Petunia) As a businessman himself, he could see the advantages of having a huge crowd in attendance at the show.

  ‘I’m thinking of the traffic,’ grumbled William Daley, whose property boarded the ring road around the town, and who found it almost impossible to get out of his driveway at the best of times.

  ‘A minor inconvenience,’ agreed Gerald. ‘But it is only for two days.’

  Two days, where the pride of the County’s cattle, sheep, pigs and other livestock were put on display, alongside trade stands of every description. The Women’s Institute would be there in force, displaying their varied talents from cake-making to flower arranging, (Mrs Fitzgerald was hotly tipped to win the drie
d flower class), and various stalls, from country clothing to crafts would be open for business.

  The show jumping was one of the main attractions for many people. That and the heavy horses. Some people never got beyond the grand arena, preferring instead, to secure their place at the ringside, in a coveted seat, complete with rugs, picnic and binoculars.

  If the filming took place inside the arena, it was a guaranteed fact that most of the seats would be filled within an hour, if not less, of the gates opening.

  ‘Well, I’ll be going,’ Jimmy Mulligan announced, as he read the amended poster on the notice board outside the village church. ‘I’ve always fancied myself in a film. What do you think, Thomas?’

  ‘Sure, and I think you’d have made a fine star, Jimmy my boy, but sadly, they don’t make silent movies any more.’

  Thomas Button ducked quickly, to avoid the half-hearted punch the young stable lad swung at him.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m still going. That Lewis Trevelyan might recognise me. He spoke to me, you know.

  ‘Indeed he did,’ Thomas said, as he stepped forward to read the poster for himself. They had strolled into the village on the pretext of buying fresh rolls, ham and cheese for lunch, their morning duties having been completed early, giving them a couple of hours free before the afternoon shift of feeding and grooming.

  The posters for the show were everywhere – attached to lampposts, nailed to fences, and in every shop window they passed. (Someone was going a bit overboard with the publicity, Thomas thought). The additional flyer had been slapped diagonally across the top corner of the notice.

  “The Simon De Silva Stakes – to be held on Saturday at two o’clock,” he read aloud. ‘Wonder if Ella knows about this?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘I don’t see how she couldn’t. Vanessa and Caroline are talking about nothing else. Apparently Ursula has treated them to new show jackets and breeches, and riding boots that cost the earth. Oh, yes, and get this; she’s ordered a new saddle and bridle for Nero.’

  Thomas raised an eyebrow at him. ‘In the hope of achieving what, exactly?’

  ‘A horse that behaves itself,’ Jimmy chuckled. ‘She thinks he’s bad tempered because his saddle doesn’t fit properly.’

  ‘And we know it’s because he’s such a cantankerous beast.’

  Thomas smiled as he stared thoughtfully at the poster. It was strange that he hadn’t seen any similar notices in the tack room – the most likely place for any to be displayed. Nor had he seen any lying about the stable yard or house. He had the sneakiest feeling that Ursula was trying to keep this from Ella.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jimmy said. He watched, surprised, as Thomas carefully unpinned the notice from the board, folded it in half, and then half again, and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Borrowing this poster.’

  ‘Borrowing it?’

  ‘Just in case,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Come on, lad. It’s time we were back at the yard.’

  Ella didn’t know when she had enjoyed a weekend off more. If it hadn’t been for the slight mishap with Ursula’s Range Rover, it would have been perfect. The Sunday night jazz club had once again been a total success. Her old friends had been as good as their word, and had all turned up at the same venue for another evening’s drinking and dancing. It had been great fun.

  Now, however, she was reaping the consequences of her own over indulgence. She really must stop drinking so much, she resolved, swallowing a couple of painkillers with a large glass of water. It wasn’t doing her any good at all.

  She had missed the morning feeds again. Not that Thomas would object. He was as reliable and capable as they come. But it wasn’t fair of her to take advantage of him. She would need to apologise to him – yet again.

  ‘There’s no need for that, lass,’ he said, when she finally made her appearance on the yard, looking somewhat the worse for wear. ‘Everyone needs a social life. Mind, I’m glad to see you back,’ he added. ‘We’ve had one hell of a week-end.’

  ‘Really?’ Ella said. ‘Why? What happened?’

  By the time Thomas had filled her in with the details, her headache had eased a bit, and she was feeling marginally better. It was immensely satisfying to know that Vanessa and Caroline were both as incompetent as she believed them to be. The sad thing was that Ursula couldn’t see it for love or money. Her daughters could do no wrong in her eyes. She would always find someone else to take the blame.

  ‘…And then, that producer chap turned up,’ Thomas said, as he poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘And he caused mayhem in the yard. Those Saturday kids didn’t want anything to do with horses after they’d spoken to him.’

  ‘Lewis Trevelyan came here?’ she said. That would explain how she managed to collide with him on the back road outside the village. It didn’t explain, however, why he had been driving like such a lunatic on the narrow country roads. ‘What did he want?’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘Search me. He went up to the house – that’s all I know. My guess is, he was looking for you.’

  Ella blushed. ‘Don’t be so daft.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m not that daft,’ he said, his voice becoming more serious, as he groped in his pocket. ‘See this, Ella.’ He handed her the folded up piece of paper. ‘There are posters all over the village, but there’s none of them here. You read that, and then tell me why.’

  ‘It’s for the County Show,’ she said, scanning the notice quickly. ‘That’s all – the County Show.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said. ‘And what’s that?’ He jabbed a finger at the attached flyer. ‘The Simon De Silva Show-jumping stakes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘For goodness sake, lass. Are you so hung over that you can’t see what I’m getting at? They’re filming at the show. Lewis Trevelyan is going to be at the show. He’s looking for a rider at the show. Get my drift?’

  ‘And Vanessa and Caroline are going to be at the show,’ Ella groaned.

  It suddenly dawned on her, what was going on. No wonder Ursula had been so keen for her to have this weekend off. She had manoeuvred things so cleverly, that she hadn’t been suspicious of her in the slightest. And now she had agreed – no, promised, to cover for her the next weekend – the weekend of the County Show.

  Thomas was nodding severely at her. ‘Now you understand my meaning. She’s had this planned from the start. She knows, as well as any of us, that if you turn up at the show, her precious daughters won’t stand a chance. That film company will only have eyes for you and you alone.’

  ‘Thomas, I think you’re exaggerating…’

  ‘Am I?’ He shook his head as he spoke. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, even if it is true, it’s not going to make any difference,’ she sighed. ‘I won’t be going.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right to me,’ Thomas muttered, tipping the dregs of his coffee into the enamel sink, and rinsing his mug under the tap.

  If Ella hadn’t felt so wretched, she would have been inclined to agree with him. But she couldn’t help thinking that there would be thousands of people at the show, and dozens taking part in the show jumping. It seemed highly unlikely that Lewis Trevelyan would miss her, when he would have plenty of other riders to choose from.

  She left Thomas muttering to himself, and headed down to the sand school, where Stella was holding her advanced dressage class. This was one area where Hollyfield stables excelled. Stella was a stickler for a properly turned out horse and rider. Appearances counted, and she had been known to refuse to teach any client who turned up without a proper hairnet and necktie. The fact that she was a stuck up snob with manners above her station was neither here nor there. She got results, and that, in Ursula’s eyes, was what mattered most.

  ‘…And straight down the middle, and stand. And bow. Thank you Laura. That was very good. Do that on Saturday and you’re bound to be placed. Now then, Gemma. Let’s see you do the same.’

  Ella perched herself on the end seat and wa
tched as Stella put her select group of riders through their paces.

  The dressage movements asked for in the arena aimed to test the quality and level of training of the horse and rider, and had six main objectives - rhythm, suppleness, connection, impulsion, straightness, and collection in all areas.

  A good dressage rider’s aim was to restore the natural grace and beauty of the horse, without tension or resistance.

  Gemma Pearson was a skilled rider, but she did not have the ability to feel the horse’s movements to the level required for such a demanding discipline.