by Joyce Cato
Who’d have thought it of a run-of-the-mill village cricket match? If she’d had a more pessimistic nature, she might be wondering what was coming next.
Just then, she heard someone call sharply, ‘Tris. I want a word with you,’ and Jenny looked out through the open doors to see Mark Rawley stride up to Tris and scowl darkly. ‘Round the back, now,’ Mark snapped shortly, with a typical teenager’s pugnacious belligerence.
Tris rolled his eyes, and gave a shrug, which seemed to include both the women who were vying for his attention. Evidently dealing with a stroppy teenager was as good an excuse to bow out as any, for neither Michelle Wilson nor his stepmother made any comment when he muttered a graceless apology and left them.
For a few moments all was silent, and then Jenny, courtesy of the French windows, realized that the two men had come all the way around the back of the building and were now standing in the narrow egress between the rear of the pavilion and the chain-link fence. If she’d walked over to the French doors and peered to one side, no doubt she would have seen them.
But she hardly needed to do that in order to know that they were having a hum-dinger of a row. She sighed, and began to grate some nutmeg.
‘I thought you were my friend!’ she heard the boy yell forlornly, and couldn’t help but grimace in sympathy. No doubt the young Mark had seen Tris, the rich, handsome son of the local squire, working in London, living in a fancy apartment, and having his pick of women, as the ultimate role model. He’d probably been over the moon every time that lofty individual had deigned to so much as notice him.
Tris, to do him some justice, was trying to be conciliatory, but Jenny could tell that he was fast becoming impatient with the youngster’s histrionics.
‘Look, I told your granddad before he invested, that there were certain risks. If you want to play it safe, you can, but in today’s markets especially, interest rates are low, and you just can’t get any kind of decent return on your investment that way, unless you really want to go long-term. Which he didn’t. I told him straight, if you want to make a big profit on your money, you have to take big risks. And I set up the deal in good faith. It wasn’t my fault the market dipped when it did. Nobody could have predicted it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I’ve already gone over all this!’
‘But you got your own money out in time, or so Lorcan says!’ the young lad shouted angrily, as he continued to accuse Tris of first misleading his granddad, then of talking him into investing more money than he knew he could afford. Finally, he accused him outright of swindling James Cluley out of his savings by not warning him to get out in time.
In turn, Tris gave the lad a pithy lesson in the way of the world, and, perhaps worst of all to a lad of seventeen, advised him that he needed to ‘grow up’, before breaking off the encounter by simply sauntering off.
A moment or so later Jenny saw the lad striding off as well, his face red and contorted with bitterness and rage. He was clearly trying not to cry, but not quite succeeding, and he had to dash at his face angrily with the palm of his hand. Jenny watched him lope all the way along the length of the hedge, and then disappear under the horse chestnut trees at the top end of the field, where there had to be access back into the village.
No doubt he’d gone home to lick his wounds in private, away from prying, knowing, or worse still, sympathetic eyes.
Jenny sighed, and hoped that the lad had the good sense to stay away now. The last thing they needed at this particular ‘grudge’ match, was yet more grudge.
The ‘thwock’ of leather on willow resounded outside as Jenny removed her last batch of strawberry scones from the oven. They were, of course, perfect, risen to just the right height, and golden brown, the berries inside the mixture still bubbling a little with the sugar and heat.
She set them aside to cool, and then for the first time in ages, sat down on one of the folding wood and canvas deck chairs in order to rest her feet. Perhaps not surprisingly, it squeaked rather alarmingly at this treatment, and Jenny reluctantly got back up and stood looking down at it thoughtfully. Perhaps she was just a bit too much woman for such a flimsy structure, she admitted to herself wryly. And it would be very embarrassing to have the damned thing collapse under her, dumping her ignominiously onto the floor.
Remembering that there was a storeroom next door where she might find a sturdier chair, she stepped out into the hall, and glanced through the outer door to the green. She’d heard from the conversation of the people sitting just outside on the deck chairs, that Steeple Clinton had won the toss and were electing to bat. Whatever that meant.
She paused, and then watched as the unmistakably graceful figure of Tristan Jones ran up towards a man standing in front of some spindly pieces of wood, and threw a ball at him. The man with the bat made a swipe and seemed to miss. A man in a panama hat then put up his hand, one finger raised in a very imperious and portentous manner, and there was a ragged cheer.
‘LBW,’ someone muttered from just outside the open door. ‘He will do it, every time. I’ve told him and I’ve told him…’
Jenny didn’t wait to hear what the despondent player, now trudging back towards the pavilion had been told, and nipped into the room next door instead. Here everything was dim and dusty, and Jenny looked automatically towards the windows, where the internal shutters were closed – hence the poor light. She made her way around the folded trestle tables and open shelves that were full of old cricket bats, balls, helmets, padded gloves, and a folded old-fashioned penknife, but a quick look told her that the shutters over the windows probably hadn’t been opened in years.
And when she did, in fact, reach up to the one on the left-hand side, she could see that it was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. What’s more, a tentative tug on the handle told her that it was stiff and reluctant to move. Rather than force it, she turned away with a sigh.
As her glance ran over the shelves, she noticed a piece of wood that had split at one end, producing a sharp, pointed shard. It had probably once been an old cricket stump, but now it reminded her, in some macabre way, of a stake that might have been used in one of those old Hammer Horror vampire movies, where Christopher Lee roamed about, constantly on the lookout for a tasty virgin.
Shucking off such whimsical thoughts, she set about searching for, and finally finding, a rather more substantial, folding, all-wood chair. Holding it tucked under one arm, she hoofed it back to her kitchen, where she leant it against a wall and then thoroughly washed her now dusty hands.
It was time to start preparing the salads, then leaving them to get deliciously cool and crisp in the fridge. She checked that her range of homemade chutneys were up to scratch, and set about slicing tomatoes. She’d cut them into fancy shapes and scoop out the seeds and fill them with something tasty. Cream cheese and chives maybe.
Outside, hostile eyes watched broodingly as Tris Jones took another wicket, and applause rang out across the beautiful grounds.
CHAPTER THREE
Tristan took three more wickets in rapid succession, then handed over to another Much Rousham stalwart and trotted off to do some fielding. And if his chosen area just happened to take him to a point suspiciously close to where Michelle Wilson was lounging on her deck chair, nobody chose to comment.
From time to time, however, that lady’s husband, who was fielding a little further away, glanced across at them. They weren’t openly talking, as far as Max could see – indeed, they seemed to be oblivious to one another’s presence. But since his wife was wearing sunglasses, it was impossible for him to see where she was looking, although her head seemed to be perpetually turned to watch the state of play.
But Max knew that her eyes were not on the cricket.
He forced himself to turn away casually and concentrated on the match just in time to see the ball come soaring his way, and made a perfect catch to run out Steeple Clinton’s man for a duck.
He smiled in gratification at the smattering of applause that wafted appreciativ
ely his way, and took the opportunity of the lull in play to saunter across to Tris and suggest amiably that they trade places.
His voice was just a little tight.
Tris, with a wide white smile, agreed affably enough and lazily moved away. In her deck chair, Michelle Wilson’s eyes followed his pleasingly athletic figure all the way across the field, her eyes admiring his trim derrière in his tight white trousers.
She’d arranged to meet him later, of course, after the buffet supper, when hopefully Max would be just drunk enough not to notice her absence for half an hour or so. But she was beginning to wonder, from the way Max kept hovering around, if he was beginning to suspect as much. So they’d have to be careful. She knew that neither one of them could afford to slip up. Not now.
Not that she was all that worried about her marriage breaking up, but she wanted to make sure it ended in a way that resulted in her getting a good settlement. And, perhaps more importantly, she wanted to be certain that she could be sure of Tris. Although she knew that many women were quite happy to be without a man, let alone an actual husband, she was not one of their number. For her, marriage meant security, position, and of course, a certain standard of living. And whilst Tris could certainly provide her with all three, she wasn’t absolutely positive that she could snare him.
She’d learned, over the course of their affair, that Tris Jones could be somewhat slippery.
Max, carefully watching his wife languishing in her deck chair, slowly shook his head in disgust. Even here, right out in public, she didn’t have enough sense to keep her infatuation for the younger man under control. Already he could just feel several of the wives sniggering about it under their polite pretence at social chit chat, and it was more than he was willing to put up with. It was one thing to have your wife stray afield – in this day and age it had come almost to be expected. But it was another thing entirely to have her lose her head completely over a man nearly eight years her junior, and one who was so known for his Casanova complex, that he was becoming something of a laughing stock himself.
Max suddenly realized that his hands were curling into fists tight with tension and forced them open. Then he turned away to smile pleasantly at the umpire.
His thoughts, however, were fast winging their way back to his cricket bag, sitting under one of the benches back in the pavilion. And just what was in the bag. And it instantly made him feel better, and some of his rage abated. Because soon it would be time to put it to good use. And then he’d feel a whole lot better.
His wife wouldn’t be so inclined to smile after that.
And Tris sure as hell wouldn’t, either.
In the changing room, Erica had set up a deck chair just inside the open front door, to take the best advantage of the cooling shade, along with Caroline Majors, and her friend Ettie Flyte, who had placed two chairs just behind her.
Erica had removed her multi-coloured blouse to reveal the short-sleeved tube top in shot silk underneath. What looked suspiciously like a diamond and platinum bracelet was wound around one, twig-thin wrist, sparkling and flashing now and then as it caught the light.
Every woman in the room pretended not to notice it.
‘I know why I’m not one for the sun,’ Ettie, a 55-year-old WI veteran said, glancing down ruefully at her extremely well-padded figure, encased in a large and rather loud floral print dress of dazzling hues. ‘But I thought you youngsters liked to bask like lizards nowadays,’ she said, smiling at Erica. She ran a hand through her short grey hair, and wondered if she might just casually slip off her shoes, which were beginning to pinch the corn on her little toe. But after one quick glance at the elegantly shod lady of the manor, who was wearing neat black ballet shoes, à la Audrey Hepburn, conceded reluctantly that perhaps that was just not on. ‘Not that I blame you mind – we get so little sun in England nowadays, or so it seems,’ she continued brightly. ‘I’m not surprised that everyone’s so mad keen to go abroad for the summer.’
Erica, assuming rightly that the remark had also been addressed to her, forced herself to be pleasant. But it wasn’t easy. What did she have in common with these tired, middle-class housewives, after all?
‘We redheads tend to burn, rather than brown,’ she said, making no effort to stifle a bored yawn. ‘Besides, I prefer to look “pale and interesting” as some poet or other put it, rather than follow the common herd and go the colour of a nut. It gives me an added cachet.’ And so saying she eyed her milky white forearms with satisfaction.
Caroline managed to turn a derisive snort into a passable sneeze, and then suddenly applauded loudly as yet another Steeple Clinton man was caught out.
‘Carry on like that, and they won’t even reach a century between them,’ she muttered gleefully to her friend. ‘It’ll be an early tea, you mark my words. All the better for us.’
Ettie, not much of a cricket fan, nodded vaguely.
Erica, who was watching Max Wilson approach Tris and say something that made him swap fielding positions, hid a sly, feline smile. Now that was interesting. She hadn’t been sure if Max knew which way the wind was blowing, but he obviously had some suspicions. And there might just be some mileage in that for her, if only she could think out how best to use it. Besides, anything that succeeded in putting Michelle’s nose out of joint was always an added bonus, she thought viciously.
In her kitchen, and with one eye on the clock, Jenny was busy finishing the sandwiches and rolls, and she began to stack them attractively on classic large, blue and white china plates, covering them with damp, clean tea towels to stop them drying out. She’d already unloaded the tablecloths, in a pale mint-green colour, and now walked with them out into the main changing room.
There, Caroline Majors and Ettie were quick to help her set up and arrange the tables in the most efficacious way possible, to allow a milling crowd access to all sides of them, and then began to load them with glorious food.
‘I was just saying to Ettie, it’s as well to set up early,’ Caroline said, admiring the collection of quiches the large cook had just brought in on a mammoth tray. ‘I reckon tea could be needed any time now, on account of the Steeple lot being almost all bowled out. Well, unless that Les Walton digs in and hits a few boundaries. He can be apt to do that,’ she added darkly.
Jenny, carefully putting a gateau in pride of place in the middle of the display, sighed with relief at its safe transportation, and then stood back to survey the work so far. As every good cook knew, you ate first with the eyes. And an appetizing display of colours, textures and even heights, all added to the gastronomic experience.
Perhaps a few more jam tarts? Their jewel-like colours were so impressive.
‘Mind you, with Lorcan bowling, you never can tell what might happen. Les might be Steeple’s best batsman, but Lorcan’s known for being a bit of a wild card,’ Caroline chattered on. ‘Sometimes he can’t bowl for toffee, and anybody’s granny could get a century off one of his balls, and other times, he can come up with a Yorker like you wouldn’t believe. Bit like that in his personal life too, or so I hear.’
Jenny, who had no idea what, or even particularly who, she was talking about, nodded wisely. ‘Men can be like that,’ she felt confident in saying, since, in her experience, she’d found that it could be said in more or less any eventuality, and hardly ever be challenged. Especially by women.
On cue, Caroline nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, you’re so right. Just look at that business over his engagement. First, his poor mother thought she’d never get rid of him again after his divorce – what with him moving back in with her and still living at home when he is in his forties. And you know what that nearly always means – he’s back in the nest to stay. After all, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have afforded a place of his own and everything if he’d wanted to, what with him being partners with Tris in that city firm and all. But then, just when she was resigned to being his unofficial housekeeper, he ups and springs that awful girl on her, and they’re set to tie the knot by the
end of the month. No wonder his poor mother was at sixes and sevens, not knowing whether to be pleased, or horrified. And then, to top it all, Tris goes and blows it all out of the water again.’
Caroline took a deep breath, shook her head sorrowfully over the shenanigans of others, and then looked down somewhat blankly at the mixed platter of teacakes, fruit fingers and Chelsea buns that she’d brought in from the kitchen all of five minutes ago.
‘Oh well.’
She hastily arranged her booty in the last available space on the table, and then stood back to admire her handiwork and nodded in satisfaction. ‘And if you ask me, he actually meant to do it, too,’ she added, a shade defiantly.
‘Meant what?’ Jenny asked blankly, circumspectly re-arranging the Chelsea buns into a more pleasing hexagonal shape.
‘Meant to get caught out being so naughty,’ Caroline said in surprise, but lowering her voice and looking around, as if expecting to see hoards of people, all with their ears pricked, trying to catch what she was saying. And in point of fact, although Ettie didn’t seem to find the conversation particularly interesting, Jenny would have bet money that the same couldn’t have been said of Erica Jones. There was something in the slightly rigid set of the redhead’s shoulders that told the cook that she, for once, was listening to Caroline’s gossip avidly.
‘Naughty?’ Jenny echoed, still feeling a little baffled. They were talking about Tristan, and … was it Lorcan?
‘You know, get caught in bed, with his best friend’s fiancée,’ Caroline hissed.
‘Oh,’ she said blankly. Then, realizing that much more was expected of her, added, ‘Crikey,’ somewhat helplessly.
‘Yes. Of course, we all knew that she wasn’t the right sort for Lorcan,’ Caroline said grimly, and shook her brown head so emphatically that all her curls bounced pertly around on her head. ‘Not at all his type, anyone could see that, so it was bound to be a disaster. His poor mother was at her wit’s end about it, I can tell you. Which is why some of us think that Tris did it on purpose. You know, broke them up. To do Lorcan a favour, almost, as it were.’