Jemima had been shocked to hear a vicar's wife saying pee.
Ribbons of horses were weaving their way to and from the gallops, and Jemima watched them. They were so beautiful: strong and gleaming with health, their gentle liquid eyes and their exquisitely intelligent heads turning to stare at her. It was such a pity that their natural strength and competitive spirit brought untold misery to so many people.
The stable lads, all dressed in jodhpurs and boots and bobbled crash hats, swayed past in the saddles, high above her. Some grinned. Nearly all of them called good morning. She returned the greetings and sighed. Horse-racing was the reason for the village's existence, and these people were hopefully going to be her customers. She'd have to compromise her principles if her dream was ever going to become reality. It would be pretty dumb, she thought with a grin, to slap a 'No Horsy People' notice on the shop door in the cavalier way people did with hawkers and free papers.
She had survived two weeks in Milton St John, and apart from an early problem with the char-grilling equipment, had settled in nicely at the Munchy Bar. The hours were long and the customers were non-stop, but she was used to working hard. And it was an ideal way to get to know the villagers.
Company
s assertiveness training was beginning to pay off. She now only hid behind her hair and her glasses in very stressful moments, and took every opportunity to introduce herself as the bookshop's owner and to start canvassing business. However, she still became paralysed with shyness when anyone asked her about herself. After all, what was there to say? The product of a broken home, a redundant bookseller, a failed waitress, a failed lover. It was hardly the sort of exciting and vibrant past life that would keep people riveted.
It had amused Maureen greatly that Jemima found it impossible to differentiate between Milton St John's racing fraternity and what she still called 'normal' villagers.
'But they were lovely!' she'd protested, after Maddy Beckett and her jockey sister, Suzy, had left a five-pound tip under their saucer. 'Maddy – the one with the red hair and that totally gorgeous baby – is engaged to a
trainer?
And that pretty girl actually
rides
racehorses?'
'They don't all have horns and hooves, duck,' Maureen had giggled. 'And those other ladies – the ones who were getting so enthusiastic about your bookshop earlier – they're both trainers.'
'No!' Jemima had stopped wiping tables. 'But the really glamorous one looked like a TV presenter, and the other one spoke like the Queen! And they were both so knowledgeable about books!'
'Diana James-Jordan and Kimberley Small.' Maureen had hardly been able to conceal her delight at the bewilderment on Jemima's face. 'Two of the top lady trainers in the country – worth a fortune between 'em. And, if you don't mind me saying, duck – it sounds a bit snobby to be surprised that they can read.'
'Oh, I didn't mean –' Jemima had blushed. 'Well, it just seems – I mean –'
'Preconceived notions don't get you nowhere,' Maureen had said wisely, whisking the squeezy mustard bottle away from a gang of stable lads. 'People's people the world over – good and bad. Rich and poor. It don't matter what job they do. Like I said, it might be a good idea for you to go to a race meeting some time, just to find out what it's all about...'
She already knew what it was all about, Jemima had thought. It was about gambling. And gambling led to moving house a lot, not answering the door, and hearing her mother crying when the postman arrived. Not even the friendly Maddy and Suzy, or the erudite Diana and Kimberley, could make her forget just how damaging horse-racing was.
She pushed her glasses more firmly on to her nose and walked back into the Munchy Bar.
Maureen was already frying bacon and eggs in huge quantities. 'You see to the teas, duck. We'll get the breakfasts out of the way and then we'll sort out the coffee and pastries for elevenses. Okay?'
Jemima struggled with the industrial-sized tea-pot, and wondered, as she had done every day since she'd started working with Maureen, how on earth the stable lads – who all looked as though a puff of wind would blow them away – managed to consume such vast quantities of food.
It was nearly eleven before there was any lull. Most of the tables were now occupied by the more elderly residents of Milton St John, enjoying a cup of Douwe Egberts with their Bath Olivers. In deference to them, Maureen had switched off the fruit machines and silenced the juke-box. The Formica tables were covered with lace cloths, and bud vases had been arranged dead centre. This transformation occurred again for afternoon tea at three, thus keeping both lots of customers satisfied. Jemima was most impressed by this clever strategy on Maureen's part and wondered if she'd be able to manage something similar in the bookshop.
‘Jemima!' Gillian Hutchinson stage-whispered from the doorway. 'Is it safe for me to come in?'
'Coast completely clear of Glen's fan club, if that's what you mean.' Jemima laughed. 'Bronwyn said she was far too busy to stop this morning and had a take-out, and Bathsheba left ten minutes ago. Coffee?'
'Please. Black, strong. Oh, and an ashtray. I'll sit here by the door and blow outwards.' Gillian, wearing something diaphanous and pale green, drifted in and sat down. 'I'm absolutely frazzled. I think I've got writer's block with a vengeance. Have you got time to join me?'
'Course she has.' Maureen appeared from the kitchen. 'She never takes her break properly. You go and sit down, duck, and I'll bring the coffees over.'
Fanning her face, Gillian looked anxiously at Jemima's dress and T-shirt. 'Goodness – aren't you boiling in that? I thought this morning that you were rather overdressed. Haven't you got any shorts?'
Jemima smothered a smile. Shorts had never featured in her wardrobe. 'I'll be fine. The breeze from the door sort of wafts through the layers. I've been in this student-hippie look for so long now that I think I'd feel naked in anything else.'
'You and naked don't seem to go together somehow. But I simply can't understand why you want to hide that beautiful figure behind all those dowdy clothes.' Gillian stopped suddenly, shaking her head. 'Oh, I'm sorry. That was crass of me.'
Maureen arrived with the coffees. 'You tell her, Gillian. Oh, I know I'm full to bursting at the moment, but we'd have 'em queuing out of the door if she put a pair of shorts on. Pretty girl like her shouldn't be all bundled up like my Brian's granny.'
Brian, Mr Maureen, was a long-distance lorry driver working out of Upton Poges, Gillian had informed her. He only got home at weekends.
'I've always dressed like this,' Jemima protested, laughing. 'It feels right. It's like some people develop into spandex, some become designer-label freaks, some want jeans and leather jackets. Me – I just like long, loose clothes. I think they make me invisible. People don't usually bother to give me a second glance.'
Maureen had bustled back to slicing buns for the lunchtime burgers. Gillian wrinkled her nose. 'Really? They must be mad. But you've had some boyfriends?'
'Loads, thanks.' Jemima grinned. 'But they took the trouble to get to know the me behind the grunge. That was my yardstick. The ones who only wanted instant physical attraction weren't worth knowing.'
Gillian leaned forward across the table, lowering her voice. 'Do you know, I've always longed to wear something skin-tight and sparkly – a bit like Maureen. I'd never be allowed to get away with it, though. Bathsheba Cox would go all Roman and demand three weeks of Hail Marys.' She sighed. 'Of course, I adore Glen, but there are drawbacks to being spiritually pure and morally perfect.'
'God, yes, I can imagine. Er – I mean, I couldn't even attempt it. It must be hell being a vicar's wife. Oh, sod it,' Jemima took refuge in her coffee. 'You have to admit that you're hardly a typical vicar's wife, though, don't you? Is that why the blue-rinse hit squad are gunning for you?'
'That, and the fact that they're consumed with lust for my husband. Bronwyn's okay, really. It's Bathsheba who can inject the real venom. Actually, my unsuitability caused several lively diocesan debates when Glen and I first got together. The ladies of the parish wrote to complain. Luckily the Bishop, bless him, loves me so he came out on my side.'
Jemima stared out of the open doorway over Gillian's head. The early-morning warmth had blossomed into full-blown heat, and Milton St John was shimmering again. Another string of horses wound its way along the High Street towards the Munchy Bar. 'Did you meet Glen in church, then? Did your eyes meet over the altar rail at Communion? Did your hands touch during the offertory?'
'You should be the one writing romance,' Gillian said. 'No, it was far more mundane. We met in Newbury. I was a hairdresser – Glen had just been appointed curate here and came in to get his hair cut. It sort of developed from there. I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. I went all out for him – started going to church again, joining confirmation classes, everything. Not that it was too much of a hardship. I'd always been a Christian – I think the Bible is the greatest piece of literature ever. I mean – what an opening sentence: "On the first day God created the heaven and the earth...’ It's almost as good as Dick Francis. You'd just have to read on to find out what happened next, wouldn't you?'
'I suppose you would. I'd never thought of it like that.' The horses were much closer now. About half a dozen of them. Their hooves were muffled on the baked road. Dust rose in spurting clouds, hovered and then fell. Jemima watched, drawn again by their beauty. 'And were you already writing? Before you met Glen?'
'Oh yes, I wrote short stories and articles as a hobby. It's taken me several years to become successful.' Gillian stopped and stared into her coffee cup. 'Actually, I meant to mention it before, but if Glen ever again brings up the amount of rent that you pay – I don't think he will – but, if he should, could you not tell him exactly how much you're really paying.'
'Yes, sure. But –'
'There's a very good reason.' Gillian blushed and watched the equine procession. 'Believe me. I don't make a habit of lying to Glen, but – well, let's just say that I have more money at the moment than he thinks I have. I'd rather he didn't know the source. I'd prefer it if he believed – at least for a while – that it came from you.'
Completely mystified, Jemima hoped that she wasn't being sucked into something iffy. Still, if Gillian was selling her body or peddling cannabis to the stable lads, it really wasn't any of her concern, was it? She wondered, fleetingly, if Bathsheba and Bronwyn may have got wind of whatever Gillian was doing, and if this was the real reason behind their spiteful behaviour. God – she'd only been in the village for two weeks and she was already developing the mindset of a village biddy!
'Drew Fitzgerald's lot.' Maureen bounced up to them and nodded her head towards the horses that were now level with the doorway. She gave Jemima a sly grin. 'And even though he's in horse-racing up to his neck, he's dead handsome, isn't he?'
Jemima had to admit that he was. Very Mel Gibson in fact. He raised a hand in greeting.
'He's Maddy Beckett's man,' Maureen said. 'The one she's going to marry now his divorce is through.'
Lucky Maddy, Jemima thought, and smiled.
The smile wasn't lost on Gillian. 'We'll convert you yet. I expect the whole village will be invited when Drew and Maddy get married. And then you'll meet lots of lovely horsy men. I simply love weddings, don't you?'
'Not really.' Her coffee break over, Jemima stood up. 'I suppose you have to. It's part of the job description, surely?'
'Oh, I know. But there are parts of being Mrs Vicar that aren't so pleasant, especially the funerals. I'm supposed to be calm and caring and offer support and sympathy – and I always end up bawling my eyes out. Thankfully people live so long round here that we haven't had too many of those. But the weddings,' she was dewy-eyed, 'all that hope for the future and undying devotion ... everyone looking so beautiful ... the eternal vows ...'
'Which in two out of three cases get broken within the first five years.'
'Don't be such a cynic. Don't you believe in romance?'
'Definitely not.' Jemima picked up their empty cups. 'Romance equates with broken promises and broken hearts in my book. My men are strictly for fun – no strings.'
'And you don't mind being on your own?'
'I've never been on my own.' Jemima thought of the people who had crowded in and out of her twenty-eight-and-a-half years. 'But I'm manless by choice. They've been a pleasant addition to my life – but never the reason for it.'
Gillian frowned. 'That's just because you haven't met the right one. We've got oodles of single men-friends – we'll have to introduce you to them. Milton St John is simply seething with the most gorgeous jockeys.'
'That's what I've been telling her,' Maureen joined in. 'She hasn't seen any of them yet, you know. They're all too bloody weight-conscious and starving to set foot in here – more's the pity. I keep telling her she ought to go to a race meeting –'
'No way,' Jemima said firmly. She'd been convinced that Gillian Hutchinson would be firmly in the anti-racing camp. She was rather shocked to discover she wasn't. 'I disapprove of racing on principle – and gambling in particular. Jockeys are all cruel to animals, and I'm certainly not going out with someone who comes up to my knees.'
'Ouch! Were you dropped on your head by a bookie as a baby or something? All the horsy people I know in Milton St John absolutely dote on their animals. And let me assure you that jump jockeys are perfectly normal – in every way.' Gillian lit another cigarette. 'Even some flat jockeys are taller than you. I'll have to ring round and invite a selection for supper – just to get you to change your mind.'
'Specially Charlie Somerset,' Maureen's leer was lascivious.
'Definitely Charlie Somerset,' Gillian affirmed with a grin.
'Please don't even think about it.' Jemima headed for the counter. 'If you start playing Mrs Bennet and introducing me to a lot of fox-chasing, horse-bashing, bandy-legged midgets, then I'll abandon the bookshop and be off to do something simpler – like brain surgery.'