Hours later, after she'd eaten an enormous Peapods supper and Drew had driven her home, Jemima curled beneath her duvet. She closed her eyes and started to drift, memories of the day flickering in and out of her semi-consciousness. The bustle and the laughter and the noise and the colour of Christmas had been everywhere. And people were different. More cheerful. And Charlie ... She thought a lot about Charlie these days. And she really would have to ask him what he'd meant. Or maybe she'd ask Vincent. Oh, please God, don't let it be anything to do with gambling....
Jesus!
She was instantly awake. Among her replay memories was Matt's room. The suitcases, the neatly folded clothes, the single present for his mother ...
Why the hell, she wondered, if Matt was going back to his family's farm in Devon, had his passport been on the top of his suitcase?
Vincent wrapped the last present and mummified it with Sellotape. They all looked the same – sort of long and lumpy. He'd never had a deft touch with a parcel – he'd always left that sort of thing to Rosemary – and latterly, of course, there had been no money for living, let alone gifts. This year, he thought with satisfaction, it was going to be different.
The radio was warbling 'White Christmas'. Vincent peered out of his window. It might just be. He hoped not. He didn't want Kempton to be snowed off.
Christmas Eve. He glanced across the cobbles towards Peapods. It was racing's day of rest with no meetings anywhere, but the horses had been exercised and fed as normal, and he'd swept the yard. His fingers had been numbed by the biting wind as he'd clutched the broom and he'd been glad to defrost with a well-rummed coffee. Maddy was still at home, although her parents and Suzy had arrived a couple of hours earlier. He wondered if the baby would be born on time – unlike Jemima who'd had him and Rosemary on tenterhooks for three agonisingly long days after her expected birth date.
God, he'd been so proud on that day. So bloody happy. It was all very long ago. Another lifetime.
He pulled himself away from sentimental wallowing. He'd lost one good life – through no fault of his own, really – and he'd started to build another one. He had no intention of losing that. Perhaps what they were doing was morally wrong – but then he wasn't
forcing
Matt Garside to cheat, was he? Ned was doing that. Just as Ned was forcing his collusion. Nasty little phrases gleaned from
The Bill
– like accessory and collaborator and conspirator ~ all bubbled to the surface. Vincent pushed them down and slammed the lid. No point in thinking like that. What was done was done – he just had to make the best of it. And after the Grand National he'd confess to everyone and everything would be fine.
Having sorted out this dilemma, at least for the present, Vincent switched off the radio. The rest of the day stretched pleasurably ahead. Well, not all pleasurably. He was meeting Ned Filkins for a lunchtime drink in the Cat and Fiddle. He wasn't looking forward to that much, to be honest, but he never liked to cross Ned – just in case.
Still, at least Maureen's part of the day would be lovely. With Brian and his lorry in Greece, she'd invited him to call round for Christmas Eve drinks and stay over. It would be the first time. He hoped it wouldn't be the last. He knew she had no intention of leaving her husband, and he honestly didn't want her to. This arrangement suited them both nicely. He wasn't a hundred per cent sure what Jemima made of it, but even her disapproval wouldn't stop him.
And the Milton St John jungle drums had failed to pick up on the liaison – at least as far as he could tell. Maybe it was because he and Maureen were hardly Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. Maybe the stout middle-aged weren't supposed to have desires stirring their sluggish hormones. Maybe it was simply that there were far more juicy titbits on offer.
Titbits like Matt. If that ever got out... Vincent groaned aloud and poured another dollop of rum into his coffee. He'd promised himself not to think about it until after Christmas. The whole thing had got right out of control. And Jemima walking in on them yesterday – Christ! He hadn't known what to say. And Matt, the cool, cruel bastard – Vincent stopped. No, he wasn't. Not either of those things. Not really.
Matt had been caught up in the web of his own deceit – exactly as he had. The more you struggled, the more entangled you became. Still, one thing was clear – the accident during the Hennessey had been precisely that. There was no way that Matt would have managed anything quite so spectacular. Ned Filkins had been jubilant over the Oscar-winning fall – but Vincent had been there. He'd been sure it was genuine. He'd been sure that Matt – against all orders and risking his reputation – would have gone on to win that race. And now he'd spoken to him, he
knew
that he would.
Now it was down to Charlie and Bonne Nuit to beat Dragon Slayer at Kempton. Kath Seaward had replaced Matt with Liam Jenkins again, who was nowhere near as good. Ned was convinced that Dragon Slayer would make a further poor showing, possibly be scratched from Cheltenham altogether, and be in the National at an incredibly good price.
There was of course one way out of all this. It was something he and Matt had discussed yesterday. It involved being very brave and very strong and risking everything – but at least they'd be free from Ned Filkins' blackmailing grip. If they both came clean about their misdemeanours to everyone who mattered, he would have no further hold. They'd decided against it.
Telling all. How could he? How could Matt?
Oh, God. Matt. Well, at least he knew what Matt's problem was now. It had sickened him to his stomach. Thank God that Jemima had no idea. Vincent had become very angry at this point, and demanded to know whether Jemima had come to any harm.
Matt had said that no, she hadn't. It didn't work that way. Matt told him everything. It had shocked Vincent rigid. He'd always considered himself to be a man of the world – but he had no idea that these sort of things went on. And among seemingly respectable people, too. He'd shuddered at the thought of the degradation. Bloody Matt. It was all his fault. If he'd kept his evil, corrupt habits under control, then he, Vincent, wouldn't be in this mess now.
Okay, so Ned knew about his own fiddles and the gambling and the debts. But that was positively
clean
compared to this other stuff, wasn't it? There was no comparison between his addiction and Matt's. No comparison at all.
Vincent had insisted that Jemima should be kept completely in dark – and that Matt must end their relationship as soon as possible. Then all he had to do was explain to Tina Maloret. Vincent winced. He wasn't too happy about that bit. Especially as Tina Maloret was also embroiled with Charlie. How long would it be before someone discovered what was going on? Christ! Still, Matt had assured him that he could handle it – and her. He'd just have to trust him.
And the Aintree scam? Well, as far as they both could see, that would go ahead. Matt was adamant on that point. He'd win the National. Even if it meant injuring Charlie to do it. Matt had a whole tree of chips on his shoulder. Winning the National was the only way he would ever hack his way free of them.
Vincent glanced at his watch. Nearly midday. He might as well go to the pub and get it over.
Ned was waiting for him, a pint of bitter at the ready. Vincent squeezed himself between the crowds – the place was packed with stable lads drinking themselves silly on their day off – and sat down. 'O Come All Ye Faithful' played in rap time made conversation impossible.
'Garside buggered off to the bosom of his family, has he?' Ned yelled in between verses. 'Did what you were told? Saw him on his way?'
Vincent nodded.
'Good on yer, Vince, mate.' Ned dug into the back pocket of his trousers. 'Here's your Christmas bonus, then. Don't spend it all at once.'
Vincent blinked at the wad of notes. Oh, God! He wasn't a saint. He couldn't give this up. Ned, despite being a ferret-faced bastard, had never let him down. This was so, so easy. He'd done his bit anyway, long before he realised it. He'd given away the information from Peapods that Ned had needed. This was simply the return. He couldn't do any more harm now, thank goodness. There was nothing left to do but to sit back and wait for the Grand< National.
The juke-box burst into a reggae version of 'Silent Night'.
'Sorry.' Vincent grabbed at his pint and stood up. 'I can't cope with this. Coming through to the Snug?'
Ned trotted behind him. The Snug was also packed but the cannibalised carols were mercifully muffled.
'Got to be making tracks,' Ned said, draining his Guinness. 'I'm going to me sister and her family for Christmas.'
Vincent stared. It seemed incongruous – Ned, with all his unscrupulous fiddles, sitting down like everyone else on Christmas morning and unwrapping presents with his family, eating a massive celebratory dinner, and probably dozing in front of the Queen during the afternoon. Vincent hadn't really considered that felons had holidays too.
'So,' Ned held out a skinny hand and pumped Vincent's arm chummily. 'Season's greetings an' all that, Vince, mate. Thanks for your backing. All we have to do now is sit tight until April and collect our dosh. See you in the New Year. And,' he tapped the side of his greasy nose, 'mum's the word.'
Vincent nodded like an automaton, wanting to wrench his hand free. As soon as Ned had gone he'd go into the gents' loo and scrub every trace of the bastard away. In the meantime he bought himself another pint, wondered what the hell Vicar Glen would make of Fizz Flanagan's version of 'Away in a Manger', and thought happily of Maureen.
Half an hour later he wandered back over Peapods' cobbles. He'd passed the bookshop – Jemima had waved to him from behind her still-busy counter, so they were still friends – and popped his head round the door of the Munchy Bar. Maureen, serving fry-ups to those who knew they had a week of cooking ahead of them, gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. He grinned to himself. The women in his life were well and happy. He'd go home and sleep for an hour, then start distributing his presents round the village. He’d given Maddy and Drew and Poppy theirs the previous day, so he'd start out at the James-Jordans' place and work inwards.
He was quite keen to glean whatever information was going about the New Year Nuke, to be honest. He'd never been to a rave before. The nearest he'd got was the Shepton Mallett Blues Festival in the sixties. He wondered if it was similar. Maureen might quite enjoy it.
'Vincent! Quick!'
Drew was belting across the yard towards him. Drew never ran. Not in the yard. He never shouted either.
'What's up?'
'The baby!' Drew grabbed his arm. 'She's started having the baby.'
'Wonderful – I didn't see you take her in –'
'I didn't. I haven't. She's in the kitchen!'
'You'd better get a move on then. You bring the car round and I'll go and see what I can do.' He tried to remember what had happened with Jemima. It was all pretty hazy. 'Er – have you phoned the hospital to say you're on your way?'
'Of course I fucking have! But there's no time! Come on!'
Vincent smiled to himself as they ran back across the cobbles and under the clock arch. Bless him. Drew was just as excited as he had been all those years ago. Still, this was his second. You'd think he'd be a bit more calm about it. He followed him through the outhouse and into the kitchen.
'Christ!' On second thoughts....
Vincent took one look at Maddy sprawled in the rocking chair and nearly fainted.
'Hi...' she panted through gritted teeth and a tangle of hair. 'Drew's-a-bastard.'
'Can't we get her into bed or something?' He looked at Drew. 'And where the hell is everyone else?'
'I'm-not-bloody-moving,' Maddy puffed. 'Don't-touch-me.'
'Maddy's parents and Suzy have taken Poppy into Newbury to see Father Christmas.' Drew knelt by the rocking chair, holding both of Maddy's clenching hands and wincing. 'She said nothing was happening. She said she'd be fine for days yet. Not even a twinge...
'It-wasn't-like-this-with-Poppy – Oh, shit!'
'Second ones are usually quicker,' Vincent said, remembering something he'd read in one of Rosemary's magazines. 'Um – shall I get Charlie?'
'No!' Drew and Maddy yelled together.
'He's gone to Newbury with the others.' Drew smoothed Maddy's hair away from her face. 'Remember to breathe. It's all right, darling. It's all right...'
'It's-not-bloody-all-right-you-bastard!'
Grimacing against the scream, Vincent belted out into the hall. Phone – where was the bloody phone? He punched out 999 and asked for an ambulance. Maddy screamed again from the kitchen. He felt very sick.
The calm voice on the other end said cheerfully that the ambulance had already been contacted and would be there as quickly as possible, but due to an RTA on the A34 there may be some delay.
'But the baby's coming!' Vincent howled. 'Get an ambulance!'
The calm voice asked questions which he couldn't answer, then suggested that maybe Drew would be more use.
Vincent swung round the kitchen door. 'Drew – speak to the woman on the phone! She's giving instructions! I'll stay here!'
'Piss-off!' Maddy spat. 'I-hate-fucking-men!'
When Jemima had been born he'd stayed outside the delivery room. He had paced up and down with the other expectant fathers who were not yet new enough men to be standing at the foot of the bed with a camcorder. All his information on the techniques of childbirth had been gleaned from television. Mostly from Westerns. The women always seemed to have their wrists tied to brass bedsteads, wear a lot of petticoats, and still have their boots on.
Towels ... hot water ... something to wipe her forehead ... No, possibly not. Maddy looked like she'd bite him if he tried that. He squatted beside her.
You should be lying down.'
I-should-be – kneeling – in – a – birthing – pool – with – whale – music – so – sod – off. Oooh!'
Taking one frantic look, Vincent shepherded all the animals into the outhouse and slammed the door. As gently as he could, he lifted Maddy out of the chair and laid her on the floor beside the fire. He wasn't sure if it was hygienic – it just seemed that being doubled up in the rocking chair must only increase the pain. Surprisingly, she offered very little resistance.