Levi and Zeke were already at the Munchy Bar's counter. The whole place was heaving with people. Jemima looked around with delight. Dozens of potential customers. They could all pile out of here in a couple of months' time – and straight into her bookshop.
'We've ordered Knickerbocker Glories,' Levi informed her as she eased her way through the closely-packed Formica tables to join them. 'Is that okay?'
'Lovely.' A ceiling fan was working overtime, but it was still stifling. The woman behind the counter, who Jemima guessed was the eponymous Maureen, was trying to serve everyone at the same time. 'Is there anywhere to sit?'
'On yer bum!' they chorused together, giggling.
Two middle-aged ladies, looking like cloned Mrs Mertons in floral polyester, cross-over sandals, and tight perms, glared from the nearest table.
Zeke smiled at them. 'Hello, Mrs Cox. Hello, Mrs Pugh.'
The matching perms bobbed down towards their teacups.
'We hate them,' Levi said cheerfully. 'They're horrid about Mum.'
Maureen, who had a bleached beehive and sparkly eye-shadow and had obviously been informed all about Jemima by the twins, placed three overflowing sundae glasses on the counter. 'They are, too. You want to ask Gillian about Bathsheba and Bronwyn. Go to church twice every Sunday and think that gives them the right to slag everyone off for the next six days. They fancy the pants off the Vicar, of course, but that don't give 'em the right to be bitchy to Gillian.' She huffed her spectacular chest in the direction of the tightly permed heads. 'They can be venomous old cows if you gets on the wrong side of them.'
Jemima paid for the ice-creams. Milton St John's chocolate-box idyll was beginning to melt as quickly as the Knickerbocker Glories.
'Mum always says to Dad that they needs a good man,' Zeke mumbled through his ice-cream. 'We always think that's funny 'cause they're married to Ted and Bernie an' they're Dad's churchwardens an' you can't get much betterer than that.'
'Christ!' Maureen grinned, showing lipstick-stained teeth. 'Gillian's not far wrong neither. Did you see the poster they've just put up? Load of rubbish but they has tea here twice a day, so I don't object. Doubt if anyone'll read it anyway.'
Jemima hadn't seen the poster. In the crowded Munchy Bar it was impossible even to see the walls.
To the twins' evident delight, Maureen leaned chummily across the counter displaying a vast amount of cleavage. 'Bathsheba and Bronwyn are always crusading for summat or other. At the moment they've got a bee in their bonnet about books.' Maureen cast a wary eye at Levi and Zeke who were engrossed in their ice-creams, and leaned even closer to Jemima. 'You'd know all about them, of course. The ones with bonking an' that in. Them Fishnet Publications. Sort of sex for women. I love 'em myself.'
'Oh, right. Erotica.' Jemima spooned the cherry from the top of her Knickerbocker Glory. Bookworms had stocked Fishnets. They'd been very popular. She'd already ordered the new July ones for her own shop. 'But surely they don't have to read them?'
'They don't want anyone else to read them either.' Maureen straightened up and moved away to serve another customer. 'That's why they had the meeting in the Cat and Fiddle this afternoon – them an' all the other sad saps in the village. Waste o' time if you ask me. Poor Vicar's got enough on his plate.'
So that's where Glen had been, Jemima thought, mixing in peach ice-cream with raspberry syrup, on an anti-erotica campaign. She'd be sucked into the fray herself if she wasn't very careful. She'd chosen a wide range of books from the publishers' lists – something for everyone, she'd thought, at least until she'd got a feel for the village and her customers. It looked as though she could be heading for trouble even before she opened. Just for a moment, she wondered if she should in fact mention her Fishnets order to Glen. Perhaps not. Probably just a storm in a teacup. Hopefully, Bronwyn and Bathsheba would be campaigning about something completely different by July. They'd probably never spot the slim Fishnet volumes. And to think everyone in Oxford had told her that she would find life in the country deadly dull.
Levi and Zeke, wearing identical ice-cream moustaches, were scraping the bottoms of their glasses, "s okay if we go and have a kick-about on the field? Or do you want us to stay?'
'No, I can find my way home from here. And thanks for the tour.'
The twins squirmed through the crowds and paused at the door. 'Ta for the ice-creams too, Jemima. You're ace.'
'Jemima.' Maureen paused for a second to whisk away the empty glasses. 'That's pretty. Old-fashioned. Is it a family name?'
Jemima had always hated it. In addition to her glasses it had led to quite a few taunts during her childhood. Especially when the majority of her contemporaries had been called Tracy. 'Actually I was named after a racehorse.'
She had never quite come to terms with the fact that she had apparently been conceived during an alcoholic celebration shortly after Vincent had won a thousand pounds on Jumping Jemima in the last race at Ayr during her parents' Scottish honeymoon. It spoke volumes for her father's lack of gambling success that she was an only child.
'Bloody hell!' Maureen spluttered through her pasted-on lipstick. 'Still, it could have been worse, duck. You could have spent your life as Desert Orchid. Anyway, you're in the right place here.'
'I don't like horse-racing, either.'
Heads turned and stared. Maureen sucked in her breath. Jemima realised she'd just uttered the worst possible heresy. 'Well, that is – I don't know anything about horse-racing. And I'm not particularly keen to find out.' She wasn't going to say anything about Vincent and the gambling. That was all behind her now.
'You ought to go to a race meeting.' Maureen swept away the perspiration from her cleavage before diving off to serve a bevy of youngsters at the far end of the counter. 'You never know. You might change your mind.'
Never in a million years, Jemima thought, spooning up the last mouthfuls of melted ice-cream. The formidable Bronwyn Pugh and Bathsheba Cox were just leaving and they smiled inquisitively at her. Her natural inclination was to bob her head downwards, hiding behind her glasses and the tousled layers of her hair. It had helped a lot so far. She'd read all the articles in
Company
about assertiveness – and even practised being bolshie in front of her mirror – but the principles always deserted her in real life. Still, once she was running the shop she'd have to get over her shyness, and start greeting people with confidence. So why not have a trial run now?
She smiled back. 'Hello, I'm Jemima Carlisle. I'll be running the bookshop next door.'
'We've heard,' Bronwyn said cheerily. 'Just what the village needs. I hope you'll have plenty of Agatha Christie and Dick Francis.'
'And Catherine Cookson,' Bathsheba joined in. 'And none of that filth that masquerades as romance these days. Dame Barbara is the only one who writes romance proper, if you know what I mean.'
'I'm sure there'll be something that you'll enjoy.' Jemima resisted the urge to fiddle with her glasses and carried on smiling. She hoped she wasn't blushing.
'We won't tolerate filth and degradation,' Bronwyn said. 'We've never had any of that in this village. Anyway, it's lovely to meet you, dear. You look like a nice respectable girl.' The gimlet eyes approved the ankle-length skirt and studious spectacles. 'Perhaps you'd like to come to our next meeting? Might be as well for you to know what we want in our bookshop. And, more important, what we don't. Ask the Vicar for details.'
'Yes ... yes, I might. Er – thank you.'
'Well done,' Maureen puffed, wiping down the counter as the floral frocks disappeared through the doorway. 'Get 'em on your side. They can be the very devil if they takes against you.'
Jemima scraped the bottom of her glass, feeling proud of herself. This was a nice village, she thought, despite it being full of jockeys and trainers. She had been here for merely half a day and everyone had been very friendly. No doubt because the people she'd met so far were nothing to do with the racing brigade. The stable staff would probably never come within sniffing distance of the Munchy Bar or her bookshop. Obviously, Milton St John's horsy fraternity were scattered across the country's racecourses, being cruel to animals and relieving mug punters of their hard-earned cash.
'I needs six pairs of hands.' Maureen grabbed at Jemima's empty sundae glass. 'It's bloody non-stop. I only opened up last year – and they told me I wouldn't make a go of it. Now, I'm rushed off me feet – and with Maud, she's me regular help, still getting over her hysterectomy, and none of the casuals ever turning up on time – if at all – I'm fair frazzled.'
Jemima jerked herself back from drifting into a daydream in which Milton St John was far more famed for its cosy, friendly and well-stocked bookshop than its racing connections.
'Sorry? Are you – um – looking for staff?'
'Looking? I'm long past looking.' Maureen's glittery eye-shadow had run into greasy creases. 'I'd take Old Nick himself if he could fry a burger.'
As her religious beliefs hovered somewhere between God being an elderly man with a flowing white beard reclining on a cloud, and some rather woolly Buddhist ethics regarding self-help and the right of everything to an uninterrupted life-span, Jemima was rather reluctant to thank any celestial deity for this job opportunity. However, it might just have something to do with her now living cheek-by-jowl with the clergy, mightn't it? She firmly interrupted this train of thought. Much more of that and she'd stop shaving her legs, buy a guitar, and be belting out 'Lord of the Dance'.
Pushing aside her vegetarian principles in the name of survival, she took a deep breath. 'Actually, I used to work in McDonald's, and I need a job, you see, until the shop is ready, and –'
'Hallelujah!' Maureen's cleavage jumped for joy. 'Grab yerself a pinny, my duck, and let me show you the ropes.'
The Cat and Fiddle was heaving. Having managed to secure half a pint of bitter, Vincent Carlisle held it above his head and looked hopefully around the scrum for a likely face. Not finding one immediately, he settled for a seat in the corner just beside the juke-box.
This, he decided, was just what the doctor ordered. Maybe Lambourn would have been better – and, of course, Newmarket would have been ideal – but, there was a God, after all – alive and well and flourishing in Milton St John. He quaffed half the beer and grinned at the irony. Jemima getting the flat at the Vicarage suited his plans nicely.
Not of course that he'd let her know that he was here. At least not today. She knew him too well. No, he'd leave her to issue an invitation when she was ready. When, he thought, she believed he could be trusted in the midst of so much temptation. Not, of course, that he saw it as that. One man's temptation was another's opportunity.
However, today was just a flying visit, a recce, to see how the land lay. To find out whether or not there was an outlet for his talents. Talents which would, with the right contacts, be able to restore him to the sort of lifestyle he'd lost so unfairly. And, equally important, enable him to repay Jemima.
She was a star, his daughter. Working in that burger place – despite her having been a vegetarian from the age of five when he, in a thoughtless moment, had made the link between the lambs frolicking so prettily in the fields and their Sunday lunch –
and
sending him half her money! How many kids would do that? He loved Jemima dearly, and always felt ashamed that he'd let her down. Well, not any more. Not with this God-given realm of possibilities for wealth being delivered gift-wrapped into his lap. He'd make her proud of him before the year was out, or die in the attempt.
Having decided to make the Milton St John pilgrimage, Vincent had had to face one or two pressing problems. Money was the most pressing of all. Or rather, the lack of it. His car had disappeared not long after the bank had repossessed the house, and just before the bailiffs moved in and removed the goods and chattels. No car and no money had meant that transport difficulties were pretty insurmountable – and despite the Government's promise of accessible public transport for all, no one had yet seen fit to provide a free hourly bus service from Vincent's bedsit into the heart of the downlands.
He'd compromised by walking to the outskirts of town and then hitching lifts. He'd actually quite enjoyed it. It took him back to his days as a student. The A34 had been no problem. Two lifts with reps and then a very pretty lady lorry driver from Upton Poges – Diamond or Diadem or something, the company was called – had kindly taken him from Chievely Services to the Milton St John-Tiptoe crossroads.
Vincent had managed to catch the Cat and Fiddle at the height of the lunchtime rush.
He tackled the second half of his drink with more circumspection. He'd only got a couple of pounds left in his pocket, and as yet hadn't fastened his glance on anyone who looked likely to stand the next round. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the racing chatter, delighted to be part of the scene – albeit on the periphery. His eyes slowly scanned the crowded pub like CCTV.
Good God! Wasn't that Kath Seaward by the bar? And Ferdy Thornton? And – dear heavens! Barty Small and Emilio Marquez! Vincent all but punched the air. Four of the country's top trainers in one place! This would suit him very nicely indeed....
'Sorry, mate.'
Vincent looked in horror as his glass clattered sideways and his precious last few mouthfuls of beer slopped across the table. A short, middle-aged man with a creased face and no teeth, was leaning towards him.
'My fault. Bit crowded in here,' the toothless mouth flapped. 'Someone jogged me elbow. Let me get you another one. Bitter, was it? Pint?'
Vincent bit back his groan of complaint and turned it into a nod of compliance. The man left his own drink on the table and expertly wriggled through towards the bar. Short and weather-beaten, Vincent noted, bow-legged and malnourished – he had to be an ex-jockey. This could be the one...
Ten minutes later, a fresh pint in front of him, and his benefactor beside him, Vincent was well into his patter. No need to involve Jemima at this juncture, he'd decided. And maybe a widower would elicit more sympathy than a divorcee ... The lack of home he'd put down to tied accommodation and redundancy, rather than repossession and bankruptcy. And his past position as director of his own building company had become handyman, gardener, jack-of-all-trades....