'God forbid,' Gillian muttered, flapping the hem of the floaty green dress and scattering cigarette ash over Maureen's just-wiped table. 'And don't knock what you haven't experienced.'
Jemima paused in refilling the coffee percolator. 'What? Being a brain surgeon?'
'No,' Gillian shook her head. 'The men of Milton St John.'
Charlie Somerset turned the bridle over in his hands. It comforted him. The feel of the softened leather, the smell, even the way it gleamed in the shafts of dusty sunlight splintering through the high tack-room window, gave him a feeling of security.
He'd cleaned tack since he was old enough to walk. It didn't matter whether it had been at home in the well-appointed hunting yard of the Somerset mansion, or in David Nicholson's high-profile set-up where he'd served his apprenticeship, or those glorious early years with Franklin Pettigrove when he'd been champion jockey, he'd always enjoyed cleaning tack.
Odd really, when most of the lads hated it, and he, being naturally lazy, shied away from any sort of organised labour. But cleaning tack had never seemed like work: it relaxed him and gave him time to think. And today, there were a hell of a lot of things to think about.
Peapods' tack-room, dark apart from the one window, and cluttered with bridles and bits, girths and rugs, all hanging from the overhead hooks, offered him sanctuary. Even the perpetual aroma of dried mud, mingled with sweat and wet leather and warm, foetid air, was pleasing. If he'd stayed in his cottage the phone would ring, or someone would knock on the door. This afternoon he didn't want to talk to anyone.
More than anything, he wanted something calorie-laden to eat and a pint of beer, but he knew he could afford to have neither. Kath Seaward's barbs at Aintree had penetrated deeply. She had been right. If he was ever going to achieve that ultimate jump-racing accolade, he'd have to get in shape. His new fitness regime took in boiled eggs, steamed chicken, and unadulterated pasta. If he was lucky he could even squeeze in a glass of slimline tonic.
He pushed the collection of empty coffee cups, whips, and crash hats a bit further along the bench and applied more dubbin. The small circular movements were as reassuring as smoking and, as Charlie hadn't had a cigarette for twelve-and-a-half days, it gave him something to do with his hands.
This thought led, naturally, to thoughts of Tina Maloret. Charlie sighed. The days in London with her had been as energetic and inventive as usual – and he'd probably burned off more calories than he could have hoped for with any of the expensive diet sheets that littered his cottage. He knew, as every jockey knew, that there was really only one way to lose weight. Not eat and sweat. As he and Tina had scarcely emerged from the bedroom in her West London flat, he felt he'd met the criteria pretty well.
It bothered him to realise, as he ran the bridle through his fingers and replaced the dubbin with brass cleaner, that he'd been almost glad to leave. Of course, Tina was physically gorgeous. Her angular, long-limbed body never failed to excite him. Her ferocious temper, however, didn't. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and would scream and bawl if things weren't exactly to her liking. Charlie, being peaceable and easy-going, sometimes found her tantrums hard to cope with. He'd implore her not to shout, not to express her displeasure – whether it be with a waiter, a taxi-driver or him – quite so loudly. And, despite her profession, Tina was no air-head. She took only the assignments that paid the most money, had a rock-solid shares portfolio, made sure she was in the right place at the right time, and read all the heavyweight Sunday supplements so that she could discuss politics and world affairs, or rave over the latest art exhibition or literary novel, with all the right people.
But there seemed to him to be something wrong with a lifestyle which appeared to involve an enormous amount of pleasure-seeking, and very little giving. Not just in bed, either. When they did venture outside the flat, the giddy whirl of parties and premieres, clubs and trendy restaurants, seemed as shallow as Milton St John's brook. Charlie held the buckles up to the sun. He must be getting old. On that last night in London he'd thought longingly of his cottage, of Peapods, of the horses, of riding, of the village. And, most of all, of winning the Grand National.
He'd ridden in the National five times while he'd been with Franklin Pettigrove, and although he'd never finished higher than sixth, he had at least always completed the course. That was why the fall from Dragon Slayer was so galling. Surely he would never have a better chance? The horse was out of this world, the race had been his for the taking. And he'd blown it. No one, not even Drew, knew just how humiliated he had been. And no one knew how fiercely determined he was now to show that next year, he could do it. He
could
win the National.
He and Drew had discussed Kath's wager over and over again, watching the dawn breaking across Peapods' cobbles, each of them knowing that it was more than a friendly challenge between rival yards. It meant survival.
The whole business of being a jump jockey was so damn precarious. Applying more Brasso carefully to the buckles, Charlie told himself how lucky he was to still have a future, however brief its duration might be. Fortunately, his disaster on Dragon Slayer had been a seven-day wonder in the village. There was always another triumph, a further catastrophe, to become hot gossip in Milton St John. Apart from Kath Seaward, most of those involved at Aintree, and nearly all those who had backed him, had forgiven him. But he still had so much to prove. It was the one prize that had so far evaded him.
Was there a chance with Drew? There was certainly no chance without him. Charlie was well aware that there were plenty of new apprentices coming up, more fit, less battle-scarred than him. Always supposing Drew found a suitable horse in time, this would be his last shot at it. And if Drew decided to cut his losses and merely run the flat-racing side of the yard in future – which looked increasingly likely – he'd never get another offer. What would be left then? A racing hack for one of the papers? A TV commentator? Without the National under his belt, they'd all seem like consolation prizes. Charlie, desperate for a cigarette, grabbed at yet another bridle.
He was still industriously polishing when Maddy, carrying Poppy Scarlet and accompanied by all four dogs, appeared in the tack-room doorway.
'Don't let me stop you. I like to see a man working.' She plonked Poppy on to his lap amidst the bridles. 'Show Poppy the ropes, Charlie. Drew needs all the unpaid labour he can get.'
The dogs snuffled noisily in the corners, tails wagging. Charlie cuddled Poppy and kissed her. He adored his goddaughter. He reckoned he'd make a brilliant father. Still, no point thinking along those lines, was there? He raised his eyebrows. 'As bad as that?'
'You bloody know it is.' Maddy cleared away more paraphernalia and sat beside him. 'Where is Drew, anyway? I thought he'd be in the yard somewhere.'
'Office, I think. Talking to Alister.'
'Oh. Right.' Maddy stretched her legs out in front of her. 'I wanted to tell him that the new gardener – Vincent – has just arrived. I've left him moving his stuff – what there is of it, poor man – into the cottage. Such a sad life – lost his wife and his home ... Still, he knows everything there is to know about gardening – and his references were out of this world. We were lucky to get him. I've invited him to supper. He doesn't look like he's had a decent meal for weeks.'
Charlie grinned. Drew and Maddy immediately made everyone at Peapods part of their extended family. It was probably the only yard in Milton St John that kept the same stable staff for more than a season.
'Lucky bastard.' Charlie jangled the bridle just out of Poppy's reach and thought longingly of Maddy's incredible cooking. 'Tell me to shut up, Mad, but can you afford him? Vincent, I mean? I thought –'
'Don't.' Maddy pulled an agonised face and pushed her head back against the tack-room wall. 'I've promised Drew I'll pay his wages out of my Shadows money. When we advertised earlier in the season, I don't think either of us realised how dire things were going to be. It's just that I need to work full-time – and if I do then this place needs someone to look after it. I can take Poppy to work with me, but I can't take the house and the garden. Whether we can afford him or not remains to be seen.'
'You know I'd help you out if I could.' Charlie lifted Poppy high into the air, making her squeal with laughter. It was a sore point. The Somerset money was all tied up in ninety-year investment bonds or something equally unhelpful. His mother held on to the purse-strings with tightly clenched fingers. He lived, comfortably at the moment, on his racing income and his overdraft. 'Still, maybe Drew's discussing new owners with Alister?'
'And maybe he isn't.' Maddy screwed her curls into a knot on the top of her head. 'I certainly haven't been aware of the Maktoum family queuing on the doorstep. And thanks for your offer – but I know you're in the same boat. We've all been guilty of living over our limits and not giving a toss about the consequences. Anyway, what are you doing in here? Why aren't you out pillaging the village maidens?'
'Didn't feel like it. I'm getting seriously worried about myself, actually. I was indulging in lurid thoughts about fish and chips and lager.'
Maddy giggled. 'Really? You weren't having a fantasy about Gillian Hutchinson smothering you with them, were you? And you can't fool me. I know you fancy her. You're disgusting, Charlie. Really –'
'Oh, come on, Mad. The Vicar's wife! Give me some credit.' He jiggled Poppy again. He really would have to be less obvious. Even he had standards. 'Anyway, Tina does it with beluga caviar and champagne.'
'Still on then, are you? You and the stalking clothes-horse?'
'Just about. She's more or less forgiven me for spoiling her moment of Grand National glory – but it took all my powers of persuasion. Thankfully she's off on the Italian catwalks for a couple of weeks, which should give my back time to heal.'
'You honestly are incorrigible!' Maddy leaned across and squeezed his arm. 'When are you going to settle down and find yourself a wife?'
Charlie kissed the top of Poppy's head again. She smelled lovely. The recent hot weather had meant a rash of shorts and skimpy tops in Milton St John. There really were some gorgeous women about. How on earth could any red-blooded male settle for just one? 'I've never seen the point of having a wife of my own when I can have everyone else's.'
'If I thought you meant that I'd never speak to you again! Seriously though, Charlie – haven't you ever thought about it? Getting married?'
He hadn't. It had always seemed a pretty scary thing to do. 'I'm not lucky in love – unlike some. Which reminds me – when are you going to ask me to be best man?'
'What?'
'Well, Drew told me that the divorce will be through in September. Obviously you'll be getting married straight away, and I thought I'd be the obvious choice as best man. Still, if you've chosen someone else, can I be chief bridesmaid instead?'
Maddy lifted Poppy from Charlie's arms, whistled the dogs, and stood up. 'I don't really want to talk about weddings yet. I mean, Drew and I are brilliant as we are. I can't understand why he wants to leap into another marriage as soon as his divorce from Caroline comes through.' She smiled. It didn't quite reach her eyes. 'Look, I'm going to take Poppy down to the duck pond. She likes it better than our own pool. I think ours is a bit too PC for her. If you see Drew, be an angel and tell him where we are. Oh, and that Vincent has arrived.'
Charlie watched her disappear across Peapods' cobbles and pulled a face. He'd been certain that Maddy would be simply bursting with enthusiasm for getting married. Still, it just went to show. You never knew where you were with women – thank God.
Of course, Maddy was aware of the precarious financial situation at Peapods, and probably didn't want to cause Drew any more unnecessary expense. He hoped that's all it was. Dear God – he'd always thought that Maddy and Drew's relationship was rock solid. They were one of the few couples he knew who were truly right for each other. They had love and laughter, friendship and understanding by the bucketful.
Tiring of the bridles at last, Charlie stuffed everything back into the tack cupboard and leaned on the door until it shut. The next unfortunate lad to open it would no doubt be buried beneath an avalanche of dirty cloths and dubbin.
He wandered along the row of boxes in the first yard. The closed doors, indicating no inmates, looked like pulled teeth. The Epsom meeting was just over a week away. Drew's five entries at the early stages for the Derby Day races had all been withdrawn. Even the most optimistic owner was aware that they didn't stand a chance. It was no surprise, then, that on a midweek May day, when the flat was firing on all cylinders, both Drew and his assistant trainer were in situ at Peapods. Again, the yard had no runners.
Dock of the Bay had acquitted himself well at Bath and Windsor, and three horses were due to run the following day at Brighton. But they were small tracks, and the prize money was comparatively meagre. Racing was cutthroat business, and one where only the strong survived. Trainers were going belly-up all the time. Poor Drew, Charlie thought. And poor him if nothing else turned up.
A small boy emerged suddenly from beneath the clock arch, causing the horses to clatter in their boxes, and cannoned into him. 'Oh, bugger! Sorry! Didn't see you – I was taking a short cut and – Oh, hello, Mr Somerset, it's you.'
Charlie looked down into a pair of pale green eyes glittering up at him from beneath a ginger fringe. One of Gillian Hutchinson's sons – he hadn't got a clue which one. God – was school out already? Where the hell had the day gone? 'No problem. No damage caused. But you really mustn't run in the yard. The horses don't like it. Who's chasing you?'
'Tyler an' Nathan.' The child was darting looks over his shoulder. 'I think they might have got Ezekiel!'
Really, Charlie thought, Gillian and Glen should have more sense than lumbering the kids with those appalling names, especially in a village where their compatriots were all called Wayne and Jason. They might as well have had 'Punch me' tattooed on their foreheads at the christening.