‘Ten to one they mention the Platinum Trophy before we get to pudding,’ Brittany whispered. ‘Either that, or how super the Seychelles are for honeymoons.’
‘Make that evens.’ Seb saluted her with his wine glass. ‘On both counts.’
The conversation had been lunch-party polite so far; there had been four-way non-confrontational discussions on politics, the joys of having your children working for you in the family business, exotic holidays, the current tax system – and how to avoid it. Both sets had amusingly skirted round the main topic like mongrels eyeing the same bone.
Martina’s weather forecast having been correct, the sun was now simmering in a cloudless sky, and the lawn was dazzling dizzily with its jade and emerald stripes. The umbrellas cast welcome shade over the table, and threw sharp black shadows onto the nearest water feature. Sebastian hated the Tacky Towers water features. They were irritating trickles and bubbles, tiny plumes of water being regurgitated endlessly over pebbles. They played havoc with his bladder, and made him long for wild, unfettered oceans, roaring and crashing on to deserted beaches.
‘So–’ Oliver pushed a piece of oil-drizzled lamb’s lettuce round his plate. ‘Have you reached your decision on the Platinum Trophy yet?’
Seb and Brittany exchanged grins.
‘Not yet, no.’ Rod Frobisher concentrated hard on an olive that seemed determined to avoid his fork prongs. ‘Anyway, that’s Brittany’s province. She’ll collate all the reports from the tracks which have tendered, and will make the final decision.’
Oliver’s attention shifted immediately. ‘And have you visited all the interested stadiums yet, my love?’
Sebastian flinched a bit at his father’s familiarity. Brittany was an ardent feminist.
She smiled sweetly. ‘No, Oliver, love – I haven’t. No one has yet been ruled out – or ruled in for that matter. I know what the television boys are looking for – and obviously I know what Frobishers need by way of publicity and promotion. There are some places I’ve visited that probably won’t do on either count – but I still have several out-of-town stadiums to see throughout the summer. I’ll have made my final decision by the end of the year.’
‘But it’ll stay in the London area?’ Oliver’s tone had an edge of urgency.
Martina gave a little scream. ‘Lord love us! Of course it’ll stay in the London area! All the big boys know about the city tracks. It’s where the crowds come to – where the money is. It’d be madness to go outside – to somewhere where there’s no transport, no facilities–’
‘Oh, there has to be all that, of course.’ Brittany stretched her bare legs under the table, so that they brushed silkily along Sebastian’s. ‘But if we’re going to be linked with something so high-profile I think we’ll need originality too. After all, the well-known stadiums may be a bit – jaded . . .’
‘Jaded? Jaded?’ Oliver rocked dangerously on his chair.
Then he stopped. ‘Ah, right . . . yes, I can see where you’re coming from, love. You mean, with Wimbledon and Walthamstow already having the big meetings, the punters might be looking for something a little newer? A bit different?’
Sebastian, his concentration shattered by the proximity and movement of Brittany’s legs, held his breath. Brittany stopped her seductive sliding and leaned across the table towards his father.
‘Exactly. Which is why I’ve planned to ask Sebastian if he’d accompany me when I visit the smaller tracks. Naturally, I will expect him to be impartial, but I do need his expertise.’
Chapter Nine
Eleven thirty. Only another half-hour to go, and he’d be there. Ampney Crucis. Home. By midnight. Like a returning Cinderella.
Ewan Dunstable turned up the C D player in his ancient Citroën, flooding the interior warmth with the hippie harmonies of the Moody Blues, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The car rattled through the humid July night, catching freefall moths in the bouncing headlight beams. He was longing to be with Peg again; with her outspokenness and her honesty and her complete eccentricity. Peg had taken him on through his disruptive teenage years after his parents had emigrated to New Zealand and he’d elected to stay and finish his schooling. The plan then had been that he’d join them in Christchurch after A levels, or in vacations if he went on to university. He’d done neither. He’d fluffed his exams, stayed on with Peg, living in Ampney Crucis, and then he’d met Katrina.
He saw his parents once every couple of years; they had happy reunions and all parties seemed quite relieved when they were over. Peg, he knew, meant more to him now than his own mother. Of course he should have been in Ampney Crucis weeks ago as promised; he should at least have let Peg know that he’d be delayed; but things had got rather out of control.
His life, Ewan thought as he turned from the bypass on to the coast road, had a habit of getting out of control lately. Well, not just lately, if he were honest. Things had been haywire ever since he’d married Katrina. He hadn’t made many mistakes in his life – being naturally lazy he’d just taken whatever came along and made the best of it – but marrying Katrina in that first hot flush of lust had been the biggest mistake ever. Not fair on either of them: not then – and definitely not now.
Whether Katrina knew or cared where he was at the moment was immaterial. They both knew that divorce was the only answer to their problems, but neither had so far had the inclination to make the first move. Living apart had been sufficient. Katrina had her career, earned her own money, had her own savings, and had more or less kept him throughout their marriage. Ewan shrugged ruefully. While Katrina may or may not miss him when they eventually split, she’d definitely be pleased to see the back of the financial burden.
The coastal roads were deserted. High-banked verges like waves breaking over an ocean gully surrounded the car on either side, their tops white-crested with shepherd’s-purse foam. Ewan felt the tension draining away as the surroundings became more familiar. More dear. What a fool he’d been to leave.
All those years ago, when he’d joined Katrina in Cambridge, hopelessly infatuated, and sure that his idealism would lead him into charity work, or the social services, or maybe even local politics, he’d considered Ampney Crucis far too insignificant a place for his talents. He’d bragged to Clara and Andrew and Jasmine that they’d be stuck in the village rut for ever while he went out and set the world alight.
He grinned as he turned at the rickety Ampney Crucis signpost; his crusades had led him into more trouble than he wanted to think about – and, each time, when everything got too much, the very place he headed for was the one he had been so eager to leave.
Slowing the Citroen to a respectable speed, he cruised through the sleeping village. Down the hill past St Edith’s, where Benny was now buried. Ewan felt a pang of regret; Benny had been one of the constants throughout his young life in Ampney Crucis; everyone had loved him. He couldn’t imagine how devastated Jasmine must have felt when he died. Must still feel. The love Benny and Jas had shared would live on for ever. The Moody Blues had reached a sad track, so Ewan switched off the CD player. He’d sent a card, of course, but not until afterwards – which had really been far too late. He hoped Jasmine would forgive him, but he’d been busy in Spain and postal communications had been at a minimum, and by the time Peg had eventually managed to get hold of him, even the funeral was over.
Towards the village now. The new estate – which was actually not new at all any more – was in darkness. Ewan thought of Jasmine again: was she still living at home here with Yvonne and Philip, or had she and Andrew married by now? He shook his head. Peg would have let him know, and he’d have been invited to that – surely? He felt a pang of guilt about letting his contact with Ampney Crucis slip in such a cavalier fashion. Peg, Jas, Clara – God, even Andrew – meant more to him than anyone else. They were his roots. He’d been far too hasty in ripping them up and thinking that Cambridge and Katrina and the educational élite were all he needed to flourish.
Still cru
ising, he now drove along the harbour road – past the old three-tier fishing huts, which had been bought up by property developers and optimistically rechristened ‘Marina View’ – where Clara had her minimalist loft conversion overlooking half a dozen lobster boats and the occasional pleasure cruiser offering trips around the bay.
Clara ... Was it too late to make amends? Stupid of him really to have ignored what was under his nose, and left Ampney Crucis for Katrina’s ice-cool intelligence. Then, of course, he’d fouled up big-time a couple of years ago when he’d sworn that he’d left Katrina for good – and Clara had believed him . . .
He drove on slowly, still savouring the familiarity. The Crumpled Horn, Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar, the Crow’s Nest Caff ... – everything was the same as it had been in his childhood, and probably as it would be in another fifty years. It was so good to be back.
Jesus! Pulling the car to a halt, Ewan slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Back where? Where the hell was he going? Peg’s, obviously eventually – but not at this time of night. Once Peg had removed the Doris Day persona, had a cup of Bournvita and two Thin Arrowroots, and a blast of ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’, there was no waking her until Todayfiltered through the radio alarm. He groaned. He’d have to park on the cliff top and sleep in the car.
He shrugged and drove on again. It would mean waking cold and cramped and with a mouth like burned sandpaper, but what other choice was there? Anyway, he’d slept in far worse places recently, and survived, hadn’t he? As usual, he’d planned to get to Ampney Crucis in daylight; as usual, his plans had gone slightly awry.
Of course, there was always Clara . . . He switched on the CD player again, the Moodies swamping the Citroen with mystic chords. No, not Clara. Not after the acrimonious break-up. He had bridges to build with Clara, and turning up in the middle of the night would definitely not be the best way to lay the foundations.
Would Jasmine still be awake? Probably, but he’d never liked her parents, and they’d always disapproved of him, so he couldn’t see them welcoming him with open arms at any time, and definitely not at gone midnight. Who did that leave? Andrew? He shook his head. Definitely not.
Driving across the scrunchy shale and bouncing over tussocks of coarse grass, Ewan pulled the Citroen on to the cliff top and switched off the engine. The music was low now, and the sea and sky both black and welded together like melted tar. The only outside sound was the rush and pull of the tide on the shingle, and the occasional desultory slap of a wave splashing over the groynes.
Ewan pushed the headrest back and leaned into it, stretching out his legs. He was dog-tired, longed for sleep, but didn’t want to close his eyes. When he closed his eyes the horrors rushed in from nowhere. He was hungry too. And thirsty. And most of all he needed a pee.
Sighing, he climbed from the car. There were no handily placed bushes, no privacy, and the public conveniences at the top of the cliff steps were always locked at sundown. He wandered to the edge of the gentle chalky fall. Several scrubby gorse bushes halfway down offered some minimal seclusion, but were at a precipitous angle . . . He grinned to himself: below him, their pointy roofs in zigzag relief against the darkness, stood his salvation. The beach huts.
Ewan started to scramble down the undulations, dislodging bits of stone and pebbles beneath his trainers. No one would know, would they? There was no one to see him. OK, it was hardly sanitary, but he really didn’t have a choice. Hopefully it’d rain in the night, or there’d be a heavy sea fret, and tomorrow’s beach-hut users would be none the wiser. He rattled down the last few feet, skidding over clumps of candytuft and crushing ferns, before landing in a slither behind the huts.
It was pitch-dark, silent, secluded. Everything he needed.
Oh, the relief!
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ An angry female voice and the blinding flash of a torch cut the relief pretty short. ‘Jesus! That’s disgusting!’
Mentally juggling with whether to stay and apologise, or run like hell, Ewan faltered for a minute. Christ! How embarrassing! And it was bound to be one of the Ampney Crucis blue-rinse brigade making sure her beach hut’s net curtains were up to scratch, or something. That was exactly the sort of thing they did in the small hours here. Skulked. Unless, of course, the village had moved on a bit and was now into Neighbourhood Watch. Jesus! That really didn’t bear thinking about – and hadn’t one of the Rolling Stones once been arrested for urinating in public? What chance would he have?
The torch light wavered a bit. The footsteps came a fraction closer. ‘Ewan?’
He screwed up his eyes, trying to see past the dazzle. Christ – not someone who knew him? Not one of Peg’s cronies? They’d have a field day in the Crumpled Horn retelling this one
‘Um . . . yes . . . Actually . . .’ He blinked. ‘Er – look, you seem to have the advantage. I can’t see a bloody thing with that light on.’
‘Ewan!’ The voice sounded amazed and quite happy. The torch’s beam dropped. ‘It’s me – Jasmine. You scared me to death.’
‘Jas?’ This was even more embarrassing. ‘What on earth are you doing here? It’s past midnight.’
‘I live here, silly.’ She’d moved closer still and was smiling at him. ‘Didn’t Peg tell you?’
Ewan shook his head wordlessly. He wasn’t sure whether Jasmine could see the denial or not. It didn’t matter. It was all so bizarre. Why the hell would Jasmine, whom he could now see was wearing some sort of nightshirt thing with kittens on it, be living on the seafront like a summer dropout?
She seemed to have regained her equilibrium far faster than he had. She still smiled expansively. ‘God – I’m sorry if I frightened you – but really, why were you having a pee behind my beach hut?’
‘Your beach hut? God Almighty, Jas – you don’t mean that you and Andrew are shacked up in that chalet, do you? What happened? Did his dealership go belly up or something?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her laughter rolled up the cliff path. ‘It’s a long story – and where the hell have you been, anyway? Peg said you were arriving weeks ago.’
‘Yeah,’ Ewan nodded. ‘I was supposed to be. And that’s an even longer story . . .’
The walnut carriage clock on the chiffonier said a quarter to three. Mind you, Ewan reckoned it had said quarter to three two hours ago. He stretched comfortably in his armchair, and drained his fourth bottle of Old Ampney. ‘Is that clock right? Or are we stuck in the Ampney Crucis time warp?’
‘It’s half-past two, almost. Do you want to go to bed?’ Jasmine pushed her dark hair away from her eyes, then wrinkled her nose. ‘Hey, pack it in! Don’t use your seduction look on me. It’s totally wasted. I simply meant, if you’re tired I’ll drag out the spare eiderdown for you.’
He grinned back at her, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m fine as long as you are. We can both sleep in in the morning and I wasn’t being seductive. I’ve lost the art.’
‘Bollocks,’ Jasmine said cheerfully. ‘You never found the art with me. I was always immune. Now, carry on with your story – you’ve heard all my news.’
He had. Looking round the crowded beach hut, which was now furnished exactly as he remembered Benny’s house from his childhood, he thought Jasmine had worked miracles with her life. He couldn’t wait to see her in action as Benny Clegg – the Punters’ Friend – and as for having the guts to leave the security of the house on the Chewton Estate, and shacking up here in the hut – his admiration knew no bounds.
‘I got a bit involved in a cause . . .’
Jasmine, tugging the kitten nightshirt firmly round her curves as she curled on the deeply cushioned sofa, stopped and leaned forward. ‘Really? Crikey. Peg said you’d joined some mercenaries or something. Like guerrilla warfare or gun-running, but we thought she’d got it wrong. What was it then?’
‘Greyhounds.’
‘Uh? Greyhound-running? Doesn’t sound like an undercover operation to me. We do it all the time here – Tuesday, Friday and Sa
turday nights, every week of the year. ’
‘Jasmine! This is serious. I’ve become involved in a rescue operation.’
She beamed at him then, looking exactly as she had in Ampney Crucis Junior Mixed. ‘That’s sweet of you, but there’s no need. The stadium is going to be OK. Didn’t Peg tell you? We’re – me and Peg and Allan and Roger –investing Grandpa’s money into making it – oh, almost as good as Bixford!’
‘Not the stadium, Jas. I’m rescuing greyhounds. Abandoned ones, ill-treated ones. Ones that have served their moneymaking purpose. You have no idea what happens to them when their racing life is over.’
‘Of course I have!’ Jasmine looked indignant. ‘There are all sorts of organisations that make sure they have long and happy retirements. The Greyhound Industry and the Greyhound Trust both work like crazy to ensure that the dogs are well looked after. And round here all the owners just keep them as pets when they’ve finished running, and weep buckets when they die and – ’
‘Not everyone is like that, though.’ Ewan gave an involuntary shudder. ‘That’s why I’ve been in Spain. So many greyhounds are sent out to the Continent to continue racing in appalling conditions and are treated unbelievably badly. God, Jas, you’ve no idea of some of the things I’ve seen . . . The Spanish boys have a great rescue mission going on. This particular group that I’ve joined is co-ordinated from there. We’ve been snatching dogs, getting them the right veterinary treatment, and finding them homes across Europe.’
‘Really? Wow!’ Jasmine untangled herself from the kitten nightshirt and stumbled across the obstacle course of furniture. Throwing her arms round his neck she kissed him. ‘You’re a star!’
Slightly winded by her exuberance, he pushed her to arm’s length. ‘Thanks, but Katrina didn’t think so.’
‘Why on earth not?’ Jasmine sat down again. ‘God, Ewan, I can’t think of anything better to be doing with your life. I’d have thought she’d be so proud.’
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