okay?'
Vincent nodded his agreement, and as Ned dived back into the Cat and Fiddle's fray, he took a deep breath to steady himself.
It really was a pretty village, he thought, with the winding road and the bubbling brown stream running alongside. And, whether Ned was a wrong 'un or not, Vincent wasn't going to chuck away this sort of opportunity. He was a gambler, for heaven's sake! He'd spent his life throwing everything on to the turn of a card or the tumble of a dice – or, more relevantly here, the nose of a horse. Situations like this were worth their weight in gold. How he'd cope if he got the job would be something to worry about later. A minor detail. The handyman part would be fine – he could knock in nails and repair gutters – but the gardening ... Still, there were always library books and umpteen television programmes, weren't there? Vincent whistled cheerfully. He was sure he'd manage somehow. He always had before.
His optimism almost deserted him as he walked across the cobbled yard.
Drew Fitzgerald was a prominent trainer. No mug. Surely he'd see straight through him? And if he did, then Vincent's plans for a prosperous future would be scuppered before he'd even started. And Jemima? What the hell would Jemima say? She knew he'd never gardened in his life. And surely Jemima, of all people, would know exactly why he was living and working in Milton St John? He hoped against hope that he wouldn't run into his daughter today.
These worrying thoughts were interrupted as a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and T-shirt emerged from beneath the clock arch. A slight frown was followed by a friendly grin. 'Can I help you?'
Christ! Too late now. Recognising Drew from his numerous visits to racecourses, Vincent felt hopelessly star-struck.
'Er – yes. I've come about the post you're advertising. Gardener and handyman?'
'At last! Mr Benson, isn't it? You rang this morning?'
'Carlisle. Vincent Carlisle. And I –'
Drew was grinning even more broadly. 'My fault. I probably wrote it down wrongly. God, am I pleased to see you. We'd all but given up hope of finding anyone. You've brought your references?'
Vincent, who'd taken the opportunity of calling in a few favours prior to the receivership, had elicited several glowing reports of his abilities from various colleagues. They had all stressed his honesty, hard-working attitude, integrity, and team spirit, and had conveniently left out what he was capable of doing. He nodded.
'Great.' Drew was walking back beneath the clock arch again, and beckoned Vincent to follow him. 'Come along and meet Maddy. She's the expert. I'm sure you'll get on really well. I know damn all about flowers and things.'
And that makes two of us, Vincent thought, following Drew Fitzgerald into the cool gloom of the ancient archway.
Chapter Seven
Jemima pocketed the key to the bookshop, and made her way across the lay-by to the Munchy Bar. Bronwyn Pugh was opening up the Village Stores for its Monday-morning onslaught, and waved to her. Having managed to avoid the anti-erotica meetings under the pretence of Maureen being a slave-driver, Jemima waved back. As she wasn't due behind the Munchy Bar's counter until half past seven, she'd sneaked a few minutes to open up her shop and simply stand and stare.
The shelves and counters were in place, the decorators had finished the green-and-gold decor, and the furniture for the sitters and browsers was stacked in a corner hermetically sealed in polythene. She'd touched everything, closing her eyes and imagining how it would be when the shelves were stocked with colour and the sisal floor was hidden by dozens of pairs of feet. She'd also tried adding a constantly ringing till to the fantasy, but realism insisted on creeping in. She'd been a bookseller for long enough not to have too many aspirations.
A small sound system had been fitted at one end of the shop and Jemima was planning to have audio books playing quietly. The realism reminded her
Vincent nodded his agreement, and as Ned dived back into the Cat and Fiddle's fray, he took a deep breath to steady himself.
It really was a pretty village, he thought, with the winding road and the bubbling brown stream running alongside. And, whether Ned was a wrong 'un or not, Vincent wasn't going to chuck away this sort of opportunity. He was a gambler, for heaven's sake! He'd spent his life throwing everything on to the turn of a card or the tumble of a dice – or, more relevantly here, the nose of a horse. Situations like this were worth their weight in gold. How he'd cope if he got the job would be something to worry about later. A minor detail. The handyman part would be fine – he could knock in nails and repair gutters – but the gardening ... Still, there were always library books and umpteen television programmes, weren't there? Vincent whistled cheerfully. He was sure he'd manage somehow. He always had before.
His optimism almost deserted him as he walked across the cobbled yard.
Drew Fitzgerald was a prominent trainer. No mug. Surely he'd see straight through him? And if he did, then Vincent's plans for a prosperous future would be scuppered before he'd even started. And Jemima? What the hell would Jemima say? She knew he'd never gardened in his life. And surely Jemima, of all people, would know exactly why he was living and working in Milton St John? He hoped against hope that he wouldn't run into his daughter today.
These worrying thoughts were interrupted as a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and T-shirt emerged from beneath the clock arch. A slight frown was followed by a friendly grin. 'Can I help you?'
Christ! Too late now. Recognising Drew from his numerous visits to racecourses, Vincent felt hopelessly star-struck.
'Er – yes. I've come about the post you're advertising. Gardener and handyman?'
'At last! Mr Benson, isn't it? You rang this morning?'
'Carlisle. Vincent Carlisle. And I –'
Drew was grinning even more broadly. 'My fault. I probably wrote it down wrongly. God, am I pleased to see you. We'd all but given up hope of finding anyone. You've brought your references?'
Vincent, who'd taken the opportunity of calling in a few favours prior to the receivership, had elicited several glowing reports of his abilities from various colleagues. They had all stressed his honesty, hard-working attitude, integrity, and team spirit, and had conveniently left out what he was capable of doing. He nodded.
'Great.' Drew was walking back beneath the clock arch again, and beckoned Vincent to follow him. 'Come along and meet Maddy. She's the expert. I'm sure you'll get on really well. I know damn all about flowers and things.'
And that makes two of us, Vincent thought, following Drew Fitzgerald into the cool gloom of the ancient archway.
Chapter Seven
Jemima pocketed the key to the bookshop, and made her way across the lay-by to the Munchy Bar. Bronwyn Pugh was opening up the Village Stores for its Monday-morning onslaught, and waved to her. Having managed to avoid the anti-erotica meetings under the pretence of Maureen being a slave-driver, Jemima waved back. As she wasn't due behind the Munchy Bar's counter until half past seven, she'd sneaked a few minutes to open up her shop and simply stand and stare.
The shelves and counters were in place, the decorators had finished the green-and-gold decor, and the furniture for the sitters and browsers was stacked in a corner hermetically sealed in polythene. She'd touched everything, closing her eyes and imagining how it would be when the shelves were stocked with colour and the sisal floor was hidden by dozens of pairs of feet. She'd also tried adding a constantly ringing till to the fantasy, but realism insisted on creeping in. She'd been a bookseller for long enough not to have too many aspirations.
A small sound system had been fitted at one end of the shop and Jemima was planning to have audio books playing quietly. The realism reminded her
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