Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  Maybe that wasn't so strange. She and Charlie didn't share a humiliating secret. Still, hopefully the win meant that Matt's lean spell was coming to an end. With any luck, he'd stop looking like a kicked puppy. One day, they might even be able to cope with the embarrassment.

  It was always going to be there. She knew she had handled it badly. She should have reassured him at the time; should have turned it into something they could share – upsetting, but no big deal. If only they could have cuddled and talked and defused the situation. But they hadn't – and she couldn't because it was her fault that Matt found her unattractive – and now it had spiralled out of control....

  Hearing a flurry of activity, she looked out of the window. Bathsheba had arrived. Illuminated by the orange glow of the street lamps, a woolly hat pulled well down over her ears, she was busily handing out placards and candles. Jemima sighed. There were loads of them – people, not candles. Although there seemed to be plenty of those too, virgin white tapers in little lantern holders. Left over, Gillian had told her, from the Milton St John pilgrimage to Kensington Palace. And it wasn't simply Bathsheba Bronwyn and Petunia and a handful of the WI, as she'd imagined – but also a cross-section of the villagers. Even some men. Not many of them were her regular customers as far as she could see. She'd have to draw up a blacklist.

  And where, oh where, were her supporters? Had they all decided to stay at home with the telly? Surely Maureen would be there – and... She shrugged. Who else could she expect? Tracy had said she'd come but maybe her Bobby hadn't been able to look after the children. Did it really matter to the citizens of Milton St John whether she carried on in business or not? They all had their own survival to consider – would they be the slightest bit interested in hers?

  She brightened. Glen and Gillian had arrived, accompanied, due to all their regular baby-sitters being on the protest, by a rather unhappy-looking Levi and Zeke. Her heart plummeted. Of course, even they weren't on her side tonight, were they?

  'Jemima!' a voice called through the back door's letter-box. 'Jem, love! Are you in there?'

  Smiling, she hurried through the gloom, tripping over the hem of her skirt, stumbling against the shelving. She should have known Vincent wouldn't let her down. She tugged open the door. 'Why didn't you come to the front?'

  'With those old bats out there? Not on your life.' Vincent looked around. 'Why are the lights off? Not – um – entertaining, are you?'

  She laughed. Almost. Twice in one day might be a bit much. 'I didn't want anyone to see me. I felt a bit isolated. They're all antis out there. Actually, it seems like a waste of time. I mean, if only Bathsheba and Co. turn up, then it's going to be a bit like preaching to the converted, isn't it?'

  Vincent headed for the front of the shop and peered through the window. 'Well, they've managed to light their candles without setting fire to their mittens, so I suppose that's a plus. But I see what you mean about it being a bit one-sided. Matt not supporting you, then?'

  She was glad the lights were low. She didn't want Vincent to notice that she was blushing. 'He was racing at Stratford this afternoon. I – um – think he'll try and get back in time.'

  Getting serious, is it?' Vincent still had his back to her. 'You and him?'

  No. Well, not any different. Actually, probably not as much. I mean, we don't see much of each other now that the jumping season is under way. He's really busy.'

  Vincent said nothing for a moment. He didn't move. 'Good.'

  'I thought you liked Matt.'

  'I did. That is, I do. I just thought – well, that maybe – with you not liking jockeys and racing and things, that it might have, well – fizzled out by now.'

  Oh God, it had fizzled out! 'I suppose I've mellowed a bit. The jockeys I've met have been really nice, and everyone in the village is great, and they all seem to adore their horses. And even you've given up gambling, which is brilliant. But no, even so, Matt s not destined to become your son-in-law, if that's what you mean.'

  She could have sworn that Vincent muttered 'Thank God'. 'Mind you, there's probably going to be a bit of back-pedalling. Did you know that everyone in this village hunts foxes?'

  'Who told you that?'

  'Charlie. There's an anti-blood-sports poster somewhere –' Oh no, there wasn't. It was in Charlie's jacket. 'Or rather, there will be. They're holding a saboteurs' rally at Fernydown at the end of November. I'm going.'

  Vincent raised his eyebrows. 'I think you should be careful, Jem. You could alienate a lot of people.'

  She glared at him. Charlie had said the same thing. Bloody men. 'I don't care. I care about animals and I won't condone cruelty. I can't just stand by and let it happen. Not here on the doorstep.'

  'Maybe not, love, and I admire your principles. I'm against it myself, you know that. Me and your mum, we always brought you up to love and respect animals. But this village, and your business, depends on a lot of people involved in National Hunt racing, doesn't it?'

  'Yes, but I don't see –' The penny dropped with a huge clunk. It was something that Charlie had omitted to mention. 'God! It's connected, isn't it? Hunting animals and National Hunt racing? That's why it's called ... and it takes place at the same time of year and ... you mean, that's what they do with their horses when they're not actually racing them? Charge across the countryside killing animals? People like Drew and Charlie and –'

  'Some of them hunt, I'm sure.' Vincent looked uncomfortable. 'But then again, lots probably don't. I just think you should find out whose toes you'll be stamping on.'

  It would be a damn sight more than toes, she thought crossly. How on earth could these people profess to love their horses – and have loads of dogs and cats spilling about their yards – and then go out and actually enjoy seeing a small, terrified animal pulled to pieces? She had never heard anything so bloody hypocritical in her life.

  A squeal of brakes halted her next flood of invective.

  'Reinforcements.' Vincent squinted through the door again. He sounded quite relieved. 'Not sure whether they're theirs or ours. A van and an estate car. Anyone you know?'

  Still seething at the duplicity of the racing fraternity, Jemima looked over his shoulder at the vehicles pulling into the lay-by. She didn't recognise them. Obviously anti-erotica supporters by the way Bathsheba had stopped waving her 'Purity for the Pure' banner and was peering inside the car.

  'Not mine. Theirs, then. Again. Anyway, what about your faithful fan club tonight? Where's Maureen? I thought she'd be along to support me.'

  Vincent looked a bit shifty. 'Well, you know how it is. After a long day at work and everything ...'

  Jemima sighed. It had happened all her life. People promised things – and then simply didn't deliver.

  Christ! The lay-by was lit suddenly by arc lights, the curve of shops illuminated like a Blackpool hotel. Vincent, giving the glow no more than a cursory glance, was grinning.

  'What's going on, Dad?'

  He shrugged. 'Probably the Ladies' League of Light spontaneously combusting.'

  'Oh, my God! It's the telly!' Well, maybe the BBC hadn't considered it came within their social parameters, but Meridian and Central obviously had. 'And Thames Valley Radio have sent an outside broadcast! Dad – look!'

  Vincent looked. 'Ah, yes. Bill Rennells. Old honey-voice. Your mum used to have a hell of crush on him when he was on Radio Two. I wonder who could have tipped them off?'

  Jemima pulled open the door. If the local media were going to zoom in on the meeting, there was no way that she was going to let Bathsheba hog the limelight.

  She needn't have worried. Just as Bill Rennells was setting the scene for his listeners, and Anne Dawson was doing the same for the viewers, the Munchy Bar's double doors crashed open. Jemima blinked. The cameras zoomed in. Levi and Zeke giggled. It was the only sound. Everyone else had stopped talking. Most of them looked as if they'd stopped breathing.

  Led by Maureen, they trooped out on to the lay-by: Suzy, Fran, Georgia, Maddy, Dia
na James-Jordan, Kimberley Small, Tracy, Holly, Kath Seaward and about thirty other women. They outnumbered the League of Light by a mile.

  Like the Parish Biddies, they were carrying placards; like them, they carried candles, only theirs were scarlet. Unlike the Parish Biddies they were wearing a wild mixture of basques, teddies and suspenders. Their faces were caked in outrageous make-up, with huge pouting lips and kohled-on eyelashes. To a man they were wearing fishnet stockings.

  Jemima didn't know whether to laugh or cry so she did a bit of both. 'Oh, my God! They're amazing! They must be absolutely frozen! And no one breathed a word to me!'

  'Maureen's idea, love.' Vincent beamed proudly. 'She went to see Upton Poges's Am Dram version of The Rocky Horror Show last year and thought it'd be just the ticket. Young Georgia belongs to the group and was very helpful with loaning the costumes. Maureen's been burning the midnight oil all week letting out seams and organising the make-up. Look a picture, don't they?

  They did. Sort of Brueghel meets Beryl Cook.

  Maddy, bless her, being so very pregnant, had toned down her costume a bit – otherwise they'd left nothing to the imagination. Jemima's eyes filled with tears again. Oh, they were wonderful! And they were doing this for her! Nothing had ever touched her quite so much.

  Parading up and down on their six-inch heels, PVC thigh boots gleaming in the arc lights, giving Girl Power salutes, they were stupendous. Their placards pledged support for erotica, for freedom of choice, for Fishnets, for women's literature, for Jemima Carlisle. The media, ignoring the woolly bonnets and brogues, zoomed in with relish.

  'Fucking hell!' Charlie's voice rang through the awed silence.

  'I've just walked into my wildest fantasy!'

  She turned and grinned at him. Matt, standing just behind him, was slack-jawed.

  Gillian, who up to that point had been feebly waving a 'Ban Bella-Donna Stockings!' poster at knee-level and looking sheepish, cast a frantic look at Charlie then slunk up beside Jemima, trying to free her hair from its bun. 'Bugger. You didn't say that he'd be here. Look at me! Frump of the year.'

  'Serves you right for not having the guts to come out.' Jemima, on top of the world, poked out her tongue. 'Just think, you could have paraded in your Ann Summers' best solely for his benefit.'

  'I don't have any Ann Sum — Oh, right. Metaphorically. Yes, I could, couldn't I? Oh, sod it.'

  The noise and the lights had dragged everyone out of the Cat and Fiddle and the neighbouring cottages. The road was teeming with grinning villagers, clapping their hands and catcalling as the Rocky Horror chorus formed a circle round the anti-erotica faction, and marched with majorette precision. Maureen had obviously drilled them within an inch of their lives. Not one pointy toe was out of step, not one goosefleshed bosom drooped. It was awe-inspiring.

  The media obviously thought so. Bill Rennells had joined in.

  I thought you'd be out there with them,' Charlie said to her, beginning to regain the power of speech. 'Seeing as how you're a professional. You must even have the right costume.'

  I don't. I told you – that was ages ago –' She wanted to giggle, and probably would have done if she hadn't caught Matt's eye.

  'Oh. congratulations on your win.'

  What? How did you know?'

  'I listened. I obviously picked the right time to tune in. Well done.'

  Matt looked embarrassed. 'Oh, yeah. Thanks. What did he mean about you being a professional?'

  Charlie winked. 'God, don't you two share any secrets? Jemima used to be a lap-dancer.'

  'I bloody didn't! I worked for a party company – I had to dress like Marilyn Monroe and jump out of a cake – once.'

  Charlie nodded appreciatively. 'Not surprising – you've got incredible legs.'

  Both she and Matt stared at him. 'How the hell do you know?'

  Charlie grinned, raised his eyebrows, and wandered off to join the Rocky Horrors who were now executing a sort of Tiller Girl high-kicking routine across the lay-by. Carefully wrapping his leather jacket round Maddy's shoulders – she'd obviously been excused this part of the plan – he wriggled himself between Georgia and Suzy and kicked along with them.

  'Prat,' Matt said, but with no malice. He didn't look at her. 'I'm glad you listened to the race this afternoon. Maybe things will be – well, okay?'

  With the racing or their relationship? 'Maybe.' She wasn't counting on either.

  'How come Charlie has seen your legs?'

  God – how did she know? It might have been when they were tree-climbing. She couldn't tell Matt that, could she? 'I'm sure he hasn't.'

  'But you told him about being a lap-dancer.'

  'I was never a bloody lap-dancer! I wore a scanty costume and jumped – or rather, didn't – out of a birthday cake. That's all.'

  'That's not all though, is it?' Matt's eyes were desolate. 'You still told him. You didn't tell me.'

  'Gillian told him.' God, this was irritating. 'Matt, it's not important right now. Right now, this is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me. At last I know where I stand in this village.'

  Matt shrugged. 'Lucky you. I wish to hell I did. You haven't told anyone, have you?'

  About what? Petra's Parties? Why should she? Oh, God! He meant about the non-seduction. 'No, of course I haven't. What do you take me for?'

  'I'm not sure. I'm beginning to think I've never really known you. Still, that's nothing new. I don't even think I know myself any more. I'm going to get a drink. I'll be in the pub later – if you're interested.'

  'Problems?' Maddy, snuggling under Charlie's jacket, asked as Matt walked away.

  'Nothing that can't be put right. Anyway, thanks for doing all this for me – especially –' she cast a glance at Maddy's bump, 'when you've got so many other things on your mind.'

  Maddy hugged her. 'Don't be daft. We're your friends – it's what friends do, isn't it? I told you when we first met, you sort of get sucked into this village.'

  They watched the high jinks for a moment in silence. Vincent, she noticed, was gazing soppily at Maureen. Matt, en route to the Cat and Fiddle, gave him a very wide berth. They must have had words. Poor Matt. She felt a rush of pity. She'd got all the friends in the world – and he seemed to have so few at the moment. She'd go into the pub just as soon as this was over and talk to him. He'd been kind to her, and they'd been close once – maybe they could salvage something.

  'Are you getting nervous about the wedding?' She looked at Maddy. 'I mean – after what you said at the party – I'm so pleased that everything has worked out.'

  'It's worked out wonderfully.' Maddy's eyes sparkled behind the grotesque grease paint. 'I was just being stupid. I've never been happier, and I can't wait for next week. I love Drew so much. I should have been honest with him right from the start. It's always best to be honest, isn't it?'

  Jemima nodded. It was.

  ‘Ladies – and gentlemen!' Glen had decided that enough was enough and had grabbed a Meridian microphone. 'I think we ought to call this a day before half my parishioners,' he cast a wary glance at the Rocky Horrors, 'die of hypothermia! I feel that we in Milton St John have ably demonstrated that freedom of expression is alive and well. We are a small community – but a democratic one. God has given us the power to make decisions, right or wrong. I suggest that we now call a truce, and pray for unity – and deliverance from evil.'

  Nicely put, Jemima thought, as the League of Light and the Rocky Horrors stopped glowering at each other and bowed their heads. Glen was a bit of a diplomat on the quiet. The ambivalence of his words obviously hadn't been lost on Gillian, either. Just as the prayers came to an end, she lifted her head and winked at Jemima.

  'We will not be vanquished!' Bathsheba roared, albeit halfheartedly. 'We will fight on!'

  Bronwyn Pugh and Petunia Hobday looked as though they probably wouldn't. Jemima was pretty sure that Fishnets would remain on the shelves for quite a while longer. Some people would buy them, others wouldn't. It was how it sho
uld be. Bathsheba might never set foot in the shop again, but that was her choice. One problem solved – three million to go.

  The media were packing up, happily assured of several invaluable snippets to fill the next week's schedules. The Rocky Horrors, followed by Charlie and Vincent, skittered noisily back into the Munchy Bar. Jemima hugged them all as they passed.

  Having retrieved his jacket from Maddy, Charlie paused in Maureen's doorway, fished in the pocket and held out the poster. 'Here. There's no point in me tearing it up, is there? You're a woman. You'll do exactly what you want, won't you?'

  'Of course. Um – did Matt talk about me this afternoon?' Perhaps he'd sought out Charlie's advice on how to seduce the unseduceable.

  'Not really.' Charlie grinned. 'Funny, that. If I were in his shoes I'd talk about you all the time. All he talked about was horses, and more horses. Especially Dragon Slayer not being on form, and how he hoped he'd come good for the Hennessey. Oh, and he seemed quite interested in Tina Maloret, too. Being Dragon Slayer's owner, I expect. I know they don't get on too well. What?

  He looked into the neon-brightness of the Munchy Bar. Suzy was gesticulating wildly. He shrugged. 'I think she's after my body. See you later.'

  Jemima pushed the poster into her pocket. She'd have to iron it before putting it up on the notice-board. The curve outside the shops was empty now. It had taken a very short space of time to clear the decks. Everyone had melted away to resume their normal lives. Another small chapter in village history had been written. The High Street was quiet again; it could all have been a dream.

  Locking the door of the bookshop, she wandered towards the Cat and Fiddle.

  Paying for a white wine, she looked around for Matt. She hoped he wouldn't be in laddish conversation with his racing cronies. Not tonight. She wanted to talk to him while she was still on a triumphant high. She felt able to tackle anything tonight.