'Oh, goodness. Fishnets.' Tina's eyes homed in on the jackets. 'How very advanced! I thought everything in here would be written by Mr Digweed. Charlie's got the new Bella-Donna Stockings at home. Is that where he bought it from? Here?'
'Christ, no.' Matt laughed. 'Charlie only comes in here to –'
'Help with the shelf-stacking,' Jemima slid in neatly, glaring at Matt. She turned to Tina. 'And we actually stock all kinds of books. Not just ones with pictures.'
Matt grinned to himself as he followed Tina's angry shoulders from the shop. Fifteen-love to Jemima.
'Bit of a cocky cow, isn't she?' Tina said, once they were outside. 'You obviously enjoy being dominated. And why the hell does Charlie help her with the shop?' She jutted her chin forward. 'She got the hots for him, has she?'
'Definitely not. Anyway, no doubt you have and can't wait to get at him – so don't let me keep you. What was it you wanted to say? Is it a message from Kath?'
'No, sweetie. It's a message from me. What are you doing later? Of course, if you're seeing little Miss Toffee-Nose in there, I'm afraid you'll have to cancel it. This is far more important. We have things to discuss.'
'We don't. And I don't want to have to spend more time with you than is absolutely necessary. Or are you and Charlie into threesomes?'
Tina laughed. 'Enticing though the prospect is, I'm afraid that Charlie is apparently having dinner at Peapods tonight. Some sort of rescue mission on the Fitzgerald romance to which I was not invited. So, I'm kicking my heels until bedtime. Which is why I thought we should spend some time talking about Dragon Slayer's training schedule.'
No way. Matt thought that probably half the men in the country would kill to be in his position at this moment. 'It's really nice of you to ask, but –'
'Before you turn me down flat,' Tina linked her arm through his, 'just let me remind you that it is the owner of the horse who selects the jockey. And you do want to ride Dragon Slayer in the National, don't you, sweetie?'
Some August bank holiday this was turning out to be. Wet, windy, and with no recreation being offered locally other than the Scouts' and Guides' Jamboree on the football field. Vincent, having decided that he'd rather be struck down by bubonic plague than have to guess the weight of the cake or the number of beans in a jar, had chosen to seek solace away from the village. He splashed his car through the puddles along the High Street in the wake of a dozen others on a similar mission. Only the fact that Maureen, looking like a queen in turquoise lurex, was sitting beside him, could raise his spirits.
Jemima had been very angry about the purchase of the car. So had Ned Filkins. Jemima, of course, had demanded to know where he'd got the money; Ned knew only too well. He hoped that he'd managed to placate them both without resorting to too many lies. Well, it
had
been the absolute truth when he'd assured Jemima that he hadn't set foot inside a betting shop since arriving in Milton St John. And it had been very nearly the truth when he'd told Ned how much the Smalls and the James-Jordans were each paying him to introduce Oriental splendour to their gardens. Vincent still felt that he'd left an unfortunate element of doubt in both their minds.
And because of that, he thought as he peered through the slash of the windscreen wipers, here he was on bank holiday Monday, with Milton St John horses running right across the country – from Cartmel to Newton Abbot – and him warned off by both Jemima and Ned from setting foot on a racecourse.
'I'm well tuned in to the grapevine,' Jemima had said, frowning at him. 'And even though I'll be out of the village for the day, I'll know if you've been gambling. So don't try anything behind my back. You've done so well so far. I'm really proud of you ... Promise me you won't go racing, Dad, please.'
Vincent had promised. It had been very difficult – especially as Drew had asked him if he'd like to accompany the Peapods contingent to Fontwell to see Bonnie Nuts pop over a few anonymous hurdles. He'd mentioned the proposed outing to Ned. Surely, if they were going to be gambling heavily for the next few months on Bonnie and Dragon Slayer, it would be as well for one of them to test the water, so to speak.
Ned had been adamant. 'Steer clear, Vince, mate. I don't want you seen nowhere near any horses. It's far too soon. I don't want no one getting a whiff of what we're up to. Right?'
Right, Vincent had agreed; actually he'd agreed quite easily because so far he hadn't got a clue what they
were
up to. As far as he could fathom, nothing much had happened. Certainly he'd parted with five hundred pounds as a stake to illustrate his allegiance. Ned had assured him that this would be returned a hundredfold eventually, but he needed to grease a few palms. Vincent was all for that.
Even so, as this was one of his very few days off, the urge to have a flutter with some of the money which was lying heavily under his mattress, was extremely strong. He'd have liked to have a real slammer on Bonnie Nuts. Show a bit of solidarity. For some reason, Kath Seaward wasn't running Dragon Slayer anywhere – which meant his preparation was probably that bit forward.
And that was another thing: Lancing Grange didn't have any runners today, and Matt hadn't been listed as riding for anyone else in the morning papers – but he wasn't spending the day with Jemima. Jemima, going out with the Hutchinsons
en famille,
had told him that Matt wasn't joining them because he was working. But if Matt Garside, Vincent gripped the steering wheel with paternal ferocity, was playing fast and loose with Jemima's affections, he'd bloody kill him.
'Sure you don't mind doing this?' Maureen turned from the passenger seat. 'If you'd rather be spending your holiday Monday with Jemima, just say.'
'God, no. I mean, Jemima's going out with Gillian and the Vicar and the twins to a fair or something, which really isn't my scene.' Vincent knew that it wouldn't be polite to say that, given the choice, he'd far rather be at Fontwell Park with Drew and Charlie and Bonnie Nuts. 'This will make a nice change.'
'For me too, duck.' Maureen snuggled happily down in the passenger seat.
Brian, Mr Maureen, was spending his bank holiday driving his forty-foot articulated lorry somewhere in Spain. Vincent reckoned Brian was more of a prat than ever to be passing up the opportunity of three days in Maureen's voluptuous company.
Mind, he thought, following the line of cars through the village and glancing at the rows of soggy tarpaulins across the football field, anywhere was preferable to being in Milton St John. Poor little Maddy obviously didn't have a choice, having been co-opted into serving the Jamboree teas. He'd watched her shoving Poppy Scarlet's buggy across the damp ruts with the other young mums, her head down beneath the sagging bunting. There had been no improvement in the atmosphere at Peapods.
Having inveigled his way into the position of acting yardman, he'd hoped that not only would he be able to filch information for Ned on Bonnie's progress, but that he'd also have an opportunity to help Maddy. It hadn't worked out that way. Everyone was very tight-lipped. Drew was stalking about looking like he had double neuralgia, and Maddy seemed to have aged ten years. At least, Vincent thought, being ever the optimist, they were still together. But for how much longer?
'Got anywhere in mind?' Maureen burrowed into a bag of toffees and handed one to him. 'Better be indoors, I reckons. This bloody weather won't let up for a couple of days yet.'
Vincent didn't doubt it. Maureen's meteorological talents were deadly accurate.
He shifted the toffee into his cheek. 'I thought we could have a spot of late lunch somewhere. Make a change for you not to have to do the cooking. Then maybe we could catch the early house at the cinema in Wantage, and be out in time for the last knockings at the Cat and Fiddle.'
'Magic, duck. A real lovely day.' Maureen's eyes sparkled almost as much as the rest of her. 'I'm right glad that you moved into the village.'
Vincent was pretty pleased himself, too.
He drove away from Milton St John, through Lambourn, and hit the network of tiny single-track roads that criss-crossed the Downs. With the rain sweeping across the misted hilltops it was as if they were the only people alive. Sitting next to Maureen, warmly cocooned against the downpour, Vincent reckoned that if he couldn't be at Fontwell, this was as near as damn it a pretty good substitute.
'I don't reckon I've ever been out this way.' Maureen narrowed her eyes and squinted at the rather daunting tunnel of dark and dripping evergreens. 'And I've lived round here all me life. Do you know where you're going? Or is this a magical mystery tour?'
'A bit of both.' Vincent swerved the car into a tiny car park. 'No, you wait there. I'll open the door for you. Can't have that smashing frock getting soaked, can we?'
They scurried into the pub, Vincent's jacket protecting Maureen's rigid beehive from the worst of the Berkshire elements. In daylight the pub's interior didn't look anywhere near so poky as it had on the occasional evenings when he and Ned had been there. In fact, in daylight it actually looked quite quaint. Not surprisingly, they had the microscopic bar to themselves.
'Get yourself settled.' Vincent steered Maureen towards the table tucked out of sight in the curve of the window. 'Vodka-and-lime okay?'
'Lovely.' Maureen reached out a pudgy and heavily ringed hand to touch Vincent's arm. 'This is a real treat. I'm dead happy.'
So was he, Vincent discovered with some surprise, as he covered the bar in three strides. This was the happiest he'd been since Rosemary had left him. All he needed now was for Ned's money-making scheme to pay off, and life would be simply perfect.
The landlord folded away his
Sun,
unpeeled himself from a stool and negotiated a large dog, a pile of crates and three mammoth jars of pickled onions. He peered at Vincent. 'Not a nice day for it, chum. Come far? Ah – haven't I seen you in here before?'
'No. I've never been this way,' Vincent lied confidently. 'You're a bit off the beaten track for passing trade, aren't you?'
'Ah, you could say. You sure you haven't been here -?'
'Positive. Are you doing food?'
The landlord jerked a thumb towards a blackboard. 'All fresh. Our Winnie can rustle up any of them. Whatever takes your fancy. A bit of a River Caff foodie follower is our Winnie.'
Encouraged, Vincent skimmed the menu, ordered two vodka-and-limes, and returned to Maureen. 'Pie and chips, sausage and chips, egg and chips, bacon and chips, egg, bacon, sausage and chips ...'
'Home from home, like,' Maureen said comfortably. 'I'll go for the pie, duck, and double chips and bread and butter.'
'We'll make that two, then.' Vincent nodded in admiration. He liked a woman who knew her mind. 'And another vodka to wash it down?'
Our Winnie may have got a bit confused about which caff on which river, but she could rustle up double pie and chips in record time.
'Bloody marvellous.' Maureen wiped up the remainder of her brown sauce with her last slice of bread. 'That's the stuff to give the troops, eh, duck? Let me get the drinks this time. You going to risk another vodka?'
Vincent wasn't. He'd been without wheels for long enough; he wasn't going to let a breathalyser take them away. 'Better make mine a half of lemon-and-lime.'
He settled back in his chair and watched pleasurably as Maureen made her way to the bar. She was a fine figure of a woman. The turquoise lurex clung to the ample curves and stopped an appreciative distance above the shapely knees. Pity about Mr Maureen, really. If the adenoidal Brian – Vincent had seen the wedding photographs – wasn't on the scene, he might just think about making this more of a permanent arrangement. With the rain still trickling against the steamy windows, and the fragrance of our Winnie's culinary efforts floating on the fug, it was wonderfully soporific.
A car rattled through the damp gravel of the car park and scrunched to a halt. Vincent took little notice. Probably someone else hoping to escape the joys of a wet bank holiday. No one came through the door. A second car eased to a halt. Still no one came in. Vincent didn't think about it much. Might be a courting couple on a bit of a cloak-and-dagger mission. Married, like as not, and not to each other. The thought of clandestine lovers on this dreary day warmed his heart.
'There we are.' Maureen placed the drinks on the table and wriggled her bulk with intriguing rustles into her chair. 'I've just seen something kind of funny.'
'Ah?' Vincent gulped at his lemon-and-lime. Our Winnie's lunch had left a bit of an afterburn. 'And what's that then?'
'When I was waiting for my change. You can see right through to the back kitchen – and I couldn't believe my eyes.' She leaned across the table, her cleavage sparkling with bits of stray lurex. 'Matt Garside and Ned Filkins came in through the back door.'
God almighty! Vincent choked on his lemonade. Surely not? Ned would have told him if things were moving in that direction – wouldn't he? 'Are you quite sure? I mean, it's pretty dark in here and –'
'I know what I saw.' Maureen's beehive nodded in righteous indignation. 'And they're odd bedfellows, aren't they? I mean, what with Ned getting booted out of Lancing Grange – and Matt still being Kath Seaward's blue-eyed boy. They're not usually bosom buddies. Oh, I knows they have a pint or two sometimes in the Cat and Fiddle, but that's only if Matt can't avoid it. And why isn't Matt with your Jemima today, then?'
Vincent thought he could hazard a pretty good guess. How wrong had he got this? He had assumed that all they were doing was spreading early bets on Bonnie and Dragon Slayer, but it appeared they weren't. He swallowed the rest of his drink. And Matt had told Jemima he was working. Pretty damn lucrative work if he was taking backhanders from Ned for information on Dragon Slayer. And probably from him too? Is that where his five hundred quid had gone? Tucked away in Matt Garside's pocket?
The implications were horrendous. He'd have sworn on Rosemary's life that Matt Garside was as straight as a die. Charlie Somerset, now he looked like a right rogue, but Matt? No way. And he was going out with Jemima. Vincent closed his eyes. How much did Jemima know? One thing was for definite – he wanted to get Maureen as far away as possible before either Ned or Matt saw them.