Juliet snickered. “I bet all the girls like to hold it against you.”
Against his will, Sam felt himself blushing at her innuendo and Juliet shrieked with laughter.
“Rein it in a bit, Jules,” said Alex, in a bored voice. “Sammy-boy is right: chaps are much easier to work with. Don’t have to deal with all those hormones. And as for the maternity rules, well, they’ll cripple any business if you let ‘em. Dropping babies all over the place, expecting crèches and shorter working hours. Hmm. Much better to employ men: they get the job done – just like Sammy-boy said.”
Sam felt like banging his head against the table, but smiled thinly instead. He threw a glance at Elle: she seemed to be having the same feeling. They swapped a sly smile and Sam immediately began to feel better.
The food wasn’t half bad and a welcome distraction. Sam tried to praise Mrs W for her cooking but she rather stiffly pointed out that she had a woman from the village for that sort of thing.
When the dessert dishes had finally been cleared away, Sam had hoped that he might be able to get near to Elle again. She’d looked bored rigid seated in between Alex and her father, both of whom had rudely been talking over her. But instead the three women stood up, intending to retreat to the drawing room. Sam looked around him in panic and Elle shrugged sympathetically.
Mrs Wilkinson caught the look and said rather coolly,
“We’ll leave you gentlemen to your cigars then.”
The way she emphasised ‘gentlemen’ made it quite clear that she didn’t include Sam in that category.
Juliet stumbled as she tried to stand and almost landed in Sam’s lap. She cackled loudly and Mrs Wilkinson looked irritated.
“Pissed again,” snorted Alex.
He made no attempt to help his wife.
Sam made sure Juliet was more or less upright, and felt grateful when Elle helped escort her sister from the room.
Mr Wilkinson watched the door close and huffed,
“Thank God we’ve got rid of the women at last. Don’t get any sensible conversation with them around.”
He drew a small, wooden box out of the sideboard and opened it. Alex helped himself to a cigar as broad as a Lincolnshire sausage, then passed it to Sam.
“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
Mr Wilkinson raised his eyebrows.
“Why not? It’s Cuban. Rolled on the thighs of virgins. Ho! Ho!”
Sam shrugged.
“Just never started. I used to play a lot of sport…”
“Well, a cigar now and then doesn’t keep me off the golf course,” brayed Alex. “Go on, try one. Puts hairs on your chest. Ha! Ha!”
“No, thanks,” said Sam.
If Alex hadn’t been knocking back the Shiraz he might have noticed that Sam’s voice had a slight edge to it.
“What sort of sport do you play then?” said Mr Wilkinson, narrowing his eyes to keep Sam in focus.
Sam’s mouth twisted unhappily.
“Not much these days. I don’t have the time…”
“Bloody hell!” roared Alex laughing. “School’s only from nine till three – what do you do with the rest of your time? Read poetry? You should try a proper job.”
Sam felt intensely irritated and had had enough wine himself to feel the control on his temper slipping slightly; but telling off this moron, Eleanor’s brother-in-law, wasn’t going to help anyone.
“What sport did you play,” continued Mr Wilkinson, “before you were so… busy?”
“Rugby.”
The reply surprised them.
“Really?” said Mr Wilkinson, looking interested for the first time. “Did you play rugby at school? I would have thought you were a football chap. What position did you play?”
“I was a fly-half,” said Sam.
“I liked a bit of rugger at school,” said Alex. “Always good as a Prop.”
That figured, looking at Alex’s flabby bulk.
“Which school did you go to?” said Mr Wilkinson.
Sam shrugged, smiling slightly.
“Not one you would have heard of: the local comp.”
“And they played rugby there? Well, well. Did you play for the school team?” asked Mr Wilkinson, raising his eyebrows to peer owlishly at Sam.
“Yes. And later at university.”
That surprised them. Sam didn’t bother to mention that he’d played professionally for one season for the Saracens. A cruciate ligament knee injury had put a permanent end to that career path.
“Now I teach rugby after school,” said Sam. “We’ve got quite a good a girls team…”
Alex hooted. “A girls team!? Playing rugby! Good grief, whatever next. I can just imagine it: ooh, ref! I broke a nail!”
Sam laughed. Keeping Ayesha from breaking her opponents’ face in the scrum was more of a challenge.
“It’s not really like that: they’re a competitive group. There’s a good league of girls’ teams in London. We get a lot of support at matches.”
Alex and Mr Wilkinson shook their heads in disbelief.
At that moment, Poppy the retriever pushed her way into the smoke-filled dining room. Nominally she was Juliet and Alex’s dog, but they didn’t seem to pay her much attention. Instead she made a beeline for Sam, wagging her tail so briskly that her whole body undulated with joy. She was a cutie, and certainly the nicest member of the family that Sam had met so far.
She rested her heavy head on Sam’s knee and gazed up adoringly, her chocolate-brown eyes begging for affection. He stroked her silky head and she sighed happily. If only all females were that easy to please.
Just then Poppy eyed the haunch of ham that was still resting on the window seat. Before Sam could react she vaulted over his legs and wrestled the ham to the floor.
“Get that dog out of here!” roared Mr Wilkinson, aiming a kick at Poppy. The dog danced out of the way, the ham swinging from her teeth. She was enjoying this game.
“Put that down, Poppy!” yelled Alex impotently, his face red with anger. “Drop! Drop!”
But Poppy had no intention of dropping the ham. Sam tried not to laugh but when he saw the vengeful look in Alex’s eyes, he grabbed hold of the dog and prised the ham from her jaws. She looked at him, unabashed.
“I think I’d better take you out,” said Sam.
Poppy wagged her tail happily.
“Bloody dog!” snarled Alex.
Sam tugged Poppy from the dining room and pulled her into the kitchen. Juliet was slumped across an old easy chair and Elle was leaning with her back to the sink, smoking a cigarette. It was something she only did when she was feeling particularly stressed.
“What was that all about?” she said. “I heard shouting.”
“Oh,” said Sam, a smile making his eyes crinkle in a way that she couldn’t help adoring. “There was an incident with Poppy and… er… the joint of ham.”
Elle rolled her eyes as Juliet slurred, “Jus’ run it under the tap,” from the corner.
Poppy wagged her tail and smeared some drool on Juliet’s skirt.
Still smiling, Sam wrapped his arms around Elle’s waist and kissed her hair lightly. She stubbed out the cigarette on a dirty plate and roughly pulled his face down to hers. He could taste the nicotine on her breath but didn’t comment.
He kissed her slowly but seriously, feeling the tension in her body. She twisted her fingers into his hair, her breathing becoming uneven.
Just as things were starting to get interesting, Mrs Wilkinson arrived carrying the violated ham.
Poppy looked up hopefully, then sighed when the meat was consigned to the bin.
Elle pulled away from Sam when her mother said scathingly,
“I really don’t think this is the place for that.”
“Nowhere is the place for that as far as anyone in this bloody family is concerned,” slurred Juliet from the armchair.
Mrs Wilkinson’s withering glare rebounded off Juliet’s inert body.
“Church in one hour,�
� she sniffed, marching from the kitchen.
Sam and Elle dissolved into giggles. Now he knew how his pupils felt when he found them snogging behind the science block.
“Church?” he said, questioningly.
Elle shrugged. “Family tradition: Christmas Eve midnight mass. Actually it’s rather sweet. The church is candlelit and everyone bellows carols out of tune. Then there’s punch and mince pies in the hall afterwards. Do you want to go?”
“If it makes you happy,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear so he could run his lips along her neck.
Elle sighed.
“Oh for God’s sake,” mumbled Juliet from the armchair, “just get a room.”
When Sam woke up the next morning, the air in the bedroom was so cold he could almost see his breath. He really didn’t get the point of having money and a big house if no-one ever put on the central heating. Maybe when they were cold they just threw another dog on the bed. Although he couldn’t imagine Poppy cuddling up to Mrs Wilkinson. In fact he couldn’t imagine Mr Wilkinson cuddling up to Mrs Wilkinson, although he supposed he must have done so at least twice.
He stretched out, careful not to wake Elle, who was lying with her head on his chest. He stroked her hair thoughtfully, watching her dream as her eyelids trembled softly.
Sam could hear angry voices somewhere in the house. The noise woke Elle. She yawned and stretched, narrowly missing punching him in the face.
“Ugh, what a racket!” she said, crossly.
“Mmm,” he said, wistfully, then kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Elle.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Merry Christmas.”
She definitely wasn’t a morning person.
He shuddered as he rolled out of bed into the cold air. Elle had her back to him and seemed intent on going back to sleep some more.
Moving quietly, Sam slung a pair of jeans around his hips, scooped up some clothes and headed for the shower.
He took one last look at Elle snoring softly and carefully shut the bedroom door behind him. He padded along the hall, hoping that his hosts hadn’t skimped on the hot water as well. But as he turned the corner he bumped into Juliet, who was looking rather the worse for wear, mascara smeared unattractively across one cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Juliet,” he said, politely.
She looked up, her eyes huge and surprised. For a moment there was a sweet vulnerability about her face and Sam thought he saw the woman she could have been, or the woman she once was. But the expression was soon wiped away as she swept her eyes across his bare chest.
“I was wondering what Ellie saw in you,” she said, her eyes measuring him. “But my little sister isn’t as stupid as she looks.”
He flushed, embarrassed, and looked nervously over his shoulder – but there was no-one to rescue him.
“Oh, come on,” she said, taking a step towards him. “Don’t play innocent – a good looking boy like you must have women throwing themselves at your feet all the time.”
She reached out to stroke his chest and he had to grab her hand as it snaked across his stomach towards his waistband.
“I’m with Elle,” he said, a note of authority in his voice.
Without warning Mrs Wilkinson rounded the corner, her gimlet eye magnetically drawn to Juliet’s hand.
Juliet jumped as if she’d been electrocuted and scuttled off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Sam was left standing in the corridor looking guilty-as-charged. Mrs Wilkinson sailed past, as if acknowledging his presence was entirely beneath her.
If Sam had had his boots with him he’d probably have made a run for it there and then. Instead he stumbled into the shower, hoping the tepid water would wash away the scene that ran like a horror film inside his head.
It was turning into a complete nightmare. The father thought he was a gold-digger, the brother-in-law thought he was a loser, and the sister… she seemed to think Christmas had come early. As for the mother… Sam winced. She looked as if she wanted to put rat poison in his turkey. Mind you, if she really had been his mother-in-law, he might well have considered eating it anyway – and then having seconds.
Elle was scowling in her sleep when he came back from his shower. Sam rubbed his temples, tiredly. He didn’t doubt this was going to be a long day.
Quietly, Sam made his way downstairs. The only person who seemed pleased to see him was Poppy. She bounded up, wagging her bottom and stood by the kitchen door, whining. She wanted to get out; Sam knew how she felt.
“Come on then,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Poppy seemed delighted with the idea. She sprang up to rest her paws on his chest and gave him a doggy lick. There was definitely a theme going on, thought Sam grimly.
He found her lead hanging up by the kitchen door and clipped it to her collar. Then with a feeling of relief, he opened the door and followed Poppy out into the frosty morning.
She was so exhilarated to be going for a walk that she strained at her leash. Sam picked up the pace and together they jogged through the empty lanes, their breath curling like smoke.
Poppy tired quickly, unused to exercise, and seemed content instead to snuffle along at a snail’s pace. Sam didn’t mind: her company was uncomplicated.
A few people filing into church for the early Communion wished him a Merry Christmas, but otherwise Sam’s thoughts were undisturbed.
He hoped Elle would like his Christmas present: it had been so hard to know what to get her. She already had a chemist’s shop worth of perfume and buying underwear seemed too obvious. He’d spent a miserable Saturday pounding Oxford Street until he’d stumbled into an antiquarian bookshop, one of the few that survived, in a small courtyard off Charing Cross Road. There he’d found a miniature, hand-printed edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was really more expensive than he could afford, but it was so beautiful, he hadn’t been able to resist. At the time it had seemed perfect, but now he wondered if e-book vouchers might not have been more Elle’s style.
Luckily she’d insisted that her parents wouldn’t expect him to give them presents. Instead Sam had bought a couple of bottles of good wine and the largest box of M&S chocolates he could find. Neither had been received particularly gratefully.
Sam strung it out as long as he could, but he knew he’d have to return to the Old Vicarage sooner rather than later. He prayed that Eleanor was awake and out of bed. He really didn’t think he could take any more quality time alone with Juliet or Mrs Wilkinson.
When he let Poppy in through the kitchen door he was relieved to see Elle sitting at the kitchen table, her damp hair filling the room with the smell of strawberries. He leaned over to kiss her but hesitated when he saw the poisonous expression on Mrs Wilkinson’s face.
“Been out, darling?” said Elle, yawning widely.
“Yes, Poppy took me for a walk through the village. The frost makes it look like a scene out of Dickens, it’s so…”
“That’s nice, darling,” she said, interrupting his description.
He fell silent and thought he detected a smirk on Mrs Wilkinson’s face. But it could have just been wind.
Pulling off his coat, Sam made his way back upstairs and sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his head in his hands. Then he stood up suddenly and started stuffing clothes into his hold-all. As he ransacked the room for his few belongings, he saw Elle’s present; the tiny package of tissue paper wrapped in a ribbon. He hesitated.
His phone rang, distracting him from angry thoughts.
“Hi Sam! Happy Christmas!” sang his sister Fiona. “Rosa, say ‘hello’ to your Uncle Sam.”
There was a pause and a small voice said, “Hellow Unker Sam!”
There was a thud on the other end as Rosa dropped the phone, then his sister’s voice was back.
“Sorry about that,” she said, breathlessly, “Rosa’s been on the go since 5 am. I’m knackered.”
Sam felt himself smiling.
“You sound it. Is she
having fun? Did she like her presents?”
“She loved yours,” said Fiona, “but I really wish you’d been here to see her open it. I filmed it for you. Of course, the first thing she tried to do was eat it, but I think she’s got the hang of it now. Anyway, how’s it going there? Are you having fun?”
Sam fished for the right words.
“Oh,” said his sister, divining his thoughts, “is it that bad?”
“Worse,” said Sam, grimly. “If we’d come in my own car I’d be on my way home by now.”
He stared at his half-packed bag.
“How’s Elle holding up?” asked Fiona.
Sam frowned.
“I don’t know. She acts really uptight here; she’s not like herself at all.”
His sister’s silence reminded him that she wasn’t particularly fond of Eleanor.
“Well, you’ll be home tomorrow,” she said, comfortingly. “Rosa will be so happy to see you.”
“Yeah, sis. Me, too. Give her a kiss from me, Okay?”
“Will do,” said Fiona. “Hang on in there.”
“No choice,” he said. “See you.”
When his sister had gone, Sam felt the emptiness all the more.
The bedroom door opened quietly and Elle walked in. She looked more tentative than usual.
She sat next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered. “It’s this place: it makes me a bit crazy.”
He took a deep breath and put his arm around her, letting her snuggle into him.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” she said, tracing a finger down to the top button of his shirt and pulling it open.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he said.
She saw his half-packed bag and leaned away to look up at him.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, stiffly.
“Just getting your present,” he lied. “Do you want it now?”
Elle fingered the tiny package longingly.
“We’re supposed to do presents after lunch,” she said, biting her lip.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said.
The New Samurai Page 2