[Polwenna Bay 01.0] Runaway Summer

by Ruth Saberton

  “I suppose I ought to thank you for getting me home last night,” he added resentfully. “You’ll be going to heaven for sure, you will.”

  The taint of alcohol-laden breath fought with the scent of newly mown grass and salty air. The alcohol won and it took all of Jules’s restraint not to shrink away. Resisting the urge to flee, she just shrugged instead and ignored his jibe.

  “I was already booked in long before we met. Don’t thank me if you don’t want to. I wasn’t looking for gratitude.”

  “So what do you want? Some money for the church spire? Me to say a few Hail Marys?”

  “Just in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a spire, and if you want Hail Marys then you should pop over to Father William at the abbey.” Antagonism was coming from him in waves every bit as rough and as white-tipped as those that came rolling into the bay on stormy days. Jules chose to ignore it. “Actually, what I’d really like is for you to promise never to cause a scene like that again. Smashing glasses and terrifying the poor barmaid? It’s hardly kind behaviour, is it?”

  He laughed rudely. “Kelly? Terrified? Don’t make me laugh. She’s as thick as two short planks.”

  “She might be ‘thick’, as you so nicely put it, but she wasn’t the one making an exhibition of herself in front of the whole village, was she? And no matter what you think of her intelligence she’s surely got the right to be safe at work without being accosted by you?” Jules wasn’t feeling very patient suddenly. The whiff of the whiskey was making her stomach churn. “Anyway, I didn’t do it for you; I did it to help your family out and to stop you causing even more of a scene. “

  Danny snorted. “My family? What on earth has my getting drunk got to do with them? We’re all grown-ups, Vicar.”

  Jules thought of Alice, so strained and fragile, and of Morgan who was trying to cling on and cope by whatever means possible, and she felt her temper start to bubble up. Danny might have been horribly injured – she had no way of even starting to understand how he must feel – but he still had a family who loved him. In her ministry Jules had come across endless people who yearned for that, and to see him scorn it made her angry. She really must add patience to her long list of things to ask God to help her with. She took a slow breath to calm herself down.

  “The last time I saw him, Morgan wasn’t an adult. If you don’t give a toss about yourself then try to think about him.”

  He turned, jolted. The scars seemed even more livid in the daylight but Jules didn’t shrink from looking at him. Somehow the physical wounds shocked her far less than those she couldn’t see.

  “Morgan? What’s he got to do with anything? He wasn’t there – and if that bitch has her way, he won’t be around for much longer either.”

  “If you carry on like this then it’s probably just as well she takes him away.” Jules wasn’t able to contain herself – her worst flaw as a pastor, she often thought, but her greatest strength too when her instincts were right. Today they were telling her that Danny Tremaine had been handled with kid gloves for far too long and it wasn’t doing him any favours. “He’s a bright enough boy: of course he’s noticed what goes on. One of the first things he told me was that you use lots of rude words when you have a drink. And before you think I was discussing you, I wasn’t. I’d not even heard of you. I slipped in the harbour during the duck race and said ‘bollocks’. Morgan heard me apologising, so in his own way he was trying to make me feel better.” Jules grinned. “It worked, actually. Apparently your collection of obscenities is way bigger than mine!”

  Danny stared at her. “Morgan said that about me? That I drink and swear?”

  “Yep. He’s as sharp as a razor. There’s not much that will get past him. Of course he knows what goes on – and I’d bet you anything that he overhears a lot more than people realise, too. He’ll know all about last night. Your gran tells me that the school’s worried about him too.” There was no point holding back now; she’d started, so Jules supposed she ought to finish. “Come on, Danny. Whatever else that bomb might have done to you, it didn’t stop Morgan needing you. He looks up to you, and you know as well as anyone that change and uncertainty are difficult for him. He needs his dad, not some drunk wallowing in self-pity. You can turn this around, before it’s too late.”

  Even Danny’s scars turned pale. Leaning forward he pushed his ruined face practically into hers and, thrusting his shoulder towards her, waved his empty sleeve. His closed eye seemed to be glowering and it took all of Jules’s self-control to remain still.

  “Do you see this? Do you? It’s fucking monstrous. I’m monstrous. No wonder Tara doesn’t want me! Would you?”

  Jules gulped. He might be injured but Danny Tremaine was still a big man and trained to kill. Right now he looked ready to throttle her with his good hand. Being a good few stones overweight and horribly unfit, Jules didn’t fancy her chances of taking him on.

  “Well?” thundered Danny. “Wouldn’t you be wallowing in self-pity too if you looked like this? If you were just a pathetic wreck of what you once were?”

  Her heart was thudding in her ears but somehow Jules managed to sound calm.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I would. I’d be angry and bitter and frightened and resentful, and I’d wonder what kind of God would let this happen. I’d shout and I’d rage and I’d cry. Danny, I’m not saying that I’d be any different or any better. In fact, I’d probably not cope nearly as well as you have. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you.”

  Jules rose to her feet. This was it. She had to speak before her courage wimped out on her.

  “You’ve got a family who loves you and an amazing son. Maybe even a wife too, if you can work things through rather than flying into a rage. Danny, you still have a life to live, with people who care about you.”

  “Yeah, I do, but some of my mates didn’t come out of it alive. Can you imagine how that makes me feel?”

  Jules couldn’t. “No, of course not. I can’t ever imagine what you’ve been through. I wouldn’t presume to pretend I can. But do you honestly think your comrades would have wanted you to drink yourself to death, rather than living?”

  Danny said nothing. His mouth was a grim slash.

  “Anything else you’d like to add?”

  “Yes, actually. You’re a hero, Danny Tremaine. I think so, your family thinks so and Morgan certainly thinks so. It’s time to start acting like one. Have faith in yourself. There’s nothing a man like you can’t do.”

  And with her heart crashing in her chest Jules walked away from him, across the churchyard and through the little gate. With every step she took Jules could feel Danny’s gaze boring into her back. He was absolutely livid – and as she’d already seen, an angry Danny was not good to be around.

  Whatever had she done?

  Chapter 12

  Riding a horse when she was in a filthy temper was, as Mo knew from bitter and bruised experience, never a good idea. Horses are herd animals and finely tuned to the slightest tremor. So when Mo tacked up her youngster, Splash, and took him onto the cliffs for a blast, she already had millions of years of evolution working against her, never mind the confrontation with Cashley being on constant replay. The tension in her body transferred itself through her seat and anger fizzed through her reins; by the time she’d reached the first field, Splash was already spinning around like Kylie and snatching at the bit.

  “Will you stand still!” snapped Mo, leaning forward out of the saddle and attempting to unfasten the gate. It was an impossible task. Every time she was within millimetres of success, her horse danced away or yanked so hard on the reins that she was almost pulled out of the saddle. With every tug and snatch, Mo grew hotter and crosser.

  “For God’s sake, Splashy! You’ve done this a thousand times,” she said, exasperated. “Stand bloody still!”

  But Splash, convinced even more now by the tone of his rider’s voice that there really was a horse-eating monster lurking in the hedge, only upped
the ante, his hooves striking sparks from the tarmac and egg-white foam flying from his bit. What Mo should have done, and what her logical voice was telling her to do, was dismount and open the gate that way. Alternatively, and more sensibly, she should just turn around and head back to the manège for an hour of schooling. Unfortunately Mo was still seething from the scene in The Ship and what she needed more than anything was a sprint so fast it ripped away all thought and tore tears from her eyes. Only when she was on the back of half a ton of galloping beast would she feel in control again. There was nothing that soothed Mo’s soul like the drumming of hooves and the surging power of a horse, so she’d been determined to take Splash out for a run, even though over twenty years of experience told her this was probably not her best idea.

  Finally, and after many frustrated attempts, Mo managed to hook the catch with her whip handle. The gate swung open into ten acres of pasture and Splash exploded through it in a series of bucks that would have had Buffalo Bill’s rodeo show frantic to sign him on the spot. Already out of balance from wrestling with the gate, Mo didn’t stand a chance of sitting these. She sailed through the air and landed with a heavy thud on the sun-baked earth, her breath punched out of her. With Splash’s hooves dancing above her face, there was nothing Mo could do except hope that in his excitement he didn’t catch her with a flying metal-tipped foot. That really would be the crappola icing on what was fast turning out to be a crappy day.

  Sitting up slowly and with the green grass and blue sky doing a stomach-churning loop the loop, Mo watched her young eventer having a Desert Orchid moment as he raced up the field. Oh God, the long grass was being used for hay and concealed notoriously uneven ground. Mo prayed that Splash didn’t slip or put a foot down a rabbit hole. She always cantered up the set-aside at the furthest edge before opening the next gate and then going at full pelt across the next two fields, but Splash didn’t think like that. He just saw freedom. As her horse crested the hill, Mo staggered to her feet and hoped that Farmer Pete wasn’t out working and that the top gate was closed. The last thing she needed was Splash heading for Fowey and trampling innocent cliff walkers…

  Testing her limbs gingerly for damage, Mo decided that she was fine apart from a sore backside and even sorer pride. What a rookie mistake to make. She never, ever did things like this. Mo was a professional – she’d ridden round Badminton, for heaven’s sake – and she knew better than to take stupid risks when she wasn’t in a fit state of mind to be in the saddle. She was beyond furious with herself.

  It was all Ashley Carstairs’ fault, Mo decided bitterly as she dragged her aching body up the steep field leading to the cliff path. If he hadn’t been so bloody smug and so arrogantly convinced that the future of Fernside was a done deal, she would never have risen to his taunting and put herself in such a foul mood. Summer Penhalligan hadn’t helped either, of course, swanning about the place as though the past decade and Jake’s broken heart had just been a minor blip. But really the majority of the blame lay with Cashley. Just thinking about how his eyes had swept her body as though she was a horse he was appraising, and recalling his sarcastic invitation to dinner, were enough to make her implode with anger. There was no way he would get his hands on the woods, no way at all. If Mo had to chain herself to a tree or hurl herself in front of a JCB, then she would. Well, either that or sneak into the boatyard when Jake wasn’t looking and drill a few holes in the bottom of that ridiculous floating phallic symbol of his. Big Rod indeed. What an arse.

  Absorbed in a very satisfying daydream where Ashley Carstairs was lost at sea in a mysterious boating tragedy and PAG managed to raise the funds to buy Fernside (perhaps Donald Trump or Richard Branson would come by Polwenna Bay?), Morwenna hardly noticed the throbbing in her right shoulder or that she was limping. Somehow she dragged herself to the top of the field where, mercifully, the gate was firmly shut and Splash, his reins broken and stirrups dangling, was snatching big greedy mouthfuls of grass. The horse whickered in recognition and then carried on guzzling grass while Mo ran a practised hand over his legs, heaving a sigh of relief that there didn’t seem to be any damage. Headbutting her in greeting and covering her tee-shirt in acid-green slobber, Splash was up for the next stage of their adventure – but by now Mo had calmed down sufficiently to quit while she was ahead.

  “Come on, you,” she said, patting his glossy neck and gathering up what was left of the reins. “Let’s just go back home, shall we?”

  Limping down the field – Splash might not be lame but she certainly was – Mo concluded that she’d have to lunge her youngsters for the next day or two and ask a couple of keen pony-clubbers to help exercise the full liveries. As she was thinking this, she caught sight of a shiny white Range Rover parked up in her yard, and her heart plummeted into her welly boots. There was no mistaking a car that new and clean, or the private plate that read 3LLA.

  Ella St Milton, immaculate in cream jodhpurs and pristine Dubarry boots, was leaning on the yard gate and watching Mo. Although Ella’s eyes were shielded by enormous Chanel shades, Mo just knew that the other woman was laughing at her. She must have seen the whole bucking-bronco show. Just bloody great, thought Mo wearily. Fate really must have it in for her today. Why couldn’t Salmonella see her looking super smart in her dressage outfit and riding a nearly perfect test, or maybe flying through the heart-stopping water complex at Badminton? Why did it have to be a novice-style dumping and a tee-shirt covered in green slime that Ella would be able to sneer about?

  There was no love lost between the two women; there never had been since Mo’s Vidal Sassoon moment at school. Why Ella St Milton had turned up now was something of a mystery, as was her equestrian attire. As far as Mo knew, Ella hadn’t ridden for donkey’s years – and when she had, she hadn’t been very good. All the expensive ponies and smart gear in the world couldn’t disguise a wobbly seat and hands like cast iron.

  “Well, that was an interesting display,” Ella remarked when Mo reached the yard. “I thought three-day eventing was your thing, not stunt riding.”

  Ignoring her, Mo opened the gate and led Splash into his stable, where she proceeded to remove his tack. Unperturbed by this, Ella followed her and leaned over the half-door to watch.

  “He’s got more bondage gear than Christian Grey,” she said idly as Mo slipped the martingale and breastplate over Splash’s head. The bridle with its Dutch gag bit followed, and Ella’s Botoxed brow attempted to frown. “Is that kit really necessary? It looks a bit cruel, if you don’t mind me saying so. My trainer says that gadgets are overrated. He likes Parelli.”

  Oh great. Ella wanted to talk and, even worse, it sounded as though she was back into horses. Could this day get any worse?

  “If your trainer wants to wrestle a sixteen-three Holsteiner around a cross-country course in just a head collar, then he can be my guest,” Mo snapped. “Until then, I’ll stick to what I know works, thanks.”

  Ella held up beautifully manicured hands that clearly hadn’t been anywhere near a horse lately. “Touchy! Sorry I even mentioned it. I do worry that I love the animals too much sometimes. The trouble is that I’ve got a very soft heart.”

  Mo snorted rudely. At school Ella St Milton and her mean-girl posse had made Vladimir Putin look sentimental. She couldn’t imagine that much had changed in the years since.

  “I have!” Ella insisted. “Look, Mo, I know we haven’t always been the best of friends—”

  “Friends? Hardly. You did your best to make my life hell at school, remember?” Mo reminded her. “And you weren’t exactly nice to Summer either, were you?”

  “I think we both know that you managed to hold you own with a pair of scissors. Besides,” Ella shot her a sharp glance from narrowed eyes, “you’re not so worried about Summer these days, are you? She’s hardly bothered with you since she left the village, and most of her clothes, behind. From what I can recall of it she wasn’t very nice to Jake either, was she? Didn’t he go to Australia because of her?”

>   Mo said nothing. What could she say? It was true. Summer had left Jake behind without so much as a backwards glance.

  There was a silence in the stable, broken only by the occasional stamping hoof and steady munching as Mr Dandy tore into his hay net.

  “It’s time to move on from the past,” Ella said. She reached in and stroked Splash’s nose rather tentatively, her own nose wrinkling when she noticed the dirt on her fingers. “Look, I’ll be honest, Morwenna: I’m not your greatest fan and I know you don’t like me. But we do have something in common.”

  They did? Mo couldn’t think what that might be. Chalk and cheese had more to talk about as far as she could see.

  “I mean Jake,” Ella continued, brushing her soiled hands on her breeches. “We both really care about him. I know that you Tremaines are a tightly knit bunch and protective as hell of each other – and I admire that, I really do. You wouldn’t want Jake to be hurt again, would you?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That I’ve seen him with Summer, and from the way it looked she’s desperate to get her claws back into him again.”

  “That’s rubbish! Jake wouldn’t have anything to do with her again!” Even before the words had left her lips a little knot of unease was tightening deep in Mo’s stomach. Jake had stuck up for Summer yesterday and her tender-hearted brother was just the kind of person who could be worked on. He wasn’t a single-minded and ruthless type like Ashley Carstairs, for example. Mo couldn’t imagine anyone crossing Cashley and being given a second chance. This thought made her shiver.

  Ella shrugged. “So why was he buying her pasties and coffee in the harbour café earlier on?”

  Morwenna stared at her. “You are kidding me?”

  “No. It was like going back in time – only now Summer has a Premier League fiancé in tow, hasn’t she? I doubt Justin Anderson will be thrilled.”

  Mo felt a cold queasy horror, of the kind she usually associated with opening bank statements or approaching big fences. If Summer broke Jake’s heart again Australia wouldn’t be far enough away for him.