that the shop would probably never make her fortune, but its mere existence was the embodiment of a dream.
And as soon as she started to make a profit she'd look for a house to buy, and then contact her father and invite him to live with her. As there was no telephone in Vincent's bedsit, she'd written to him, just to let him know that she was settling in well and about her job with Maureen. He hadn't replied yet. Vincent, she knew, would love Milton St John and, with her to keep him under control, would never slide back into his old ways.
Having sorted out the next ten years of her life at least, she'd locked the door behind her and breathed in the pink pearly mist of the downland morning. Oxford and Bookworms and Petra's Parties were all in another lifetime, she thought. Her future was here in Milton St John and, horse-racing or no, she'd have to make the best of it. She knew she was lucky to have the chance.
Tucking the glossy layers of hair behind her ears, Jemima lifted her face to the sun. She'd pulled a long beige dress over the top of her T-shirt that morning and hoped that she wouldn't bake to death. The newscasters on Thames Valley FM were drawing comparisons with the summer of '76 and warning of impending water restrictions and drought.
'Doom, gloom and despondency,' Gillian had said as she'd left the Vicarage. 'It's either too hot or too cold. We get two weeks of early sunshine and every programme is full of global destruction and skin cancer. Still, being England, it'll no doubt pee down for the rest of the summer.'
Jemima had been shocked to hear a vicar's wife saying pee.
Ribbons of horses were weaving their way to and from the gallops, and Jemima watched them. They were so beautiful: strong and gleaming with health, their gentle liquid eyes and their exquisitely intelligent heads turning to stare at her. It was such a pity that their natural strength and competitive spirit brought untold misery to so many people.
The stable lads, all dressed in jodhpurs and boots and bobbled crash hats, swayed past in the saddles, high above her. Some grinned. Nearly all of them called good morning. She returned the greetings and sighed. Horse-racing was the reason for the village's existence, and these people were hopefully going to be her customers. She'd have to compromise her principles if her dream was ever going to become reality. It would be pretty dumb, she thought with a grin, to slap a 'No Horsy People' notice on the shop door in the cavalier way people did with hawkers and free papers.
She had survived two weeks in Milton St John, and apart from an early problem with the char-grilling equipment, had settled in nicely at the Munchy Bar. The hours were long and the customers were non-stop, but she was used to working hard. And it was an ideal way to get to know the villagers. Company s assertiveness training was beginning to pay off. She now only hid behind her hair and her glasses in very stressful moments, and took every opportunity to introduce herself as the bookshop's owner and to start canvassing business. However, she still became paralysed with shyness when anyone asked her about herself. After all, what was there to say? The product of a broken home, a redundant bookseller, a failed waitress, a failed lover. It was hardly the sort of exciting and vibrant past life that would keep people riveted.
It had amused Maureen greatly that Jemima found it impossible to differentiate between Milton St John's racing fraternity and what she still called 'normal' villagers.
'But they were lovely!' she'd protested, after Maddy Beckett and her jockey sister, Suzy, had left a five-pound tip under their saucer. 'Maddy – the one with the red hair and that totally gorgeous baby – is engaged to a trainer? And that pretty girl actually rides racehorses?'
'They don't all have horns and hooves, duck,' Maureen had giggled. 'And those other ladies – the ones who were getting so enthusiastic about your bookshop earlier
And as soon as she started to make a profit she'd look for a house to buy, and then contact her father and invite him to live with her. As there was no telephone in Vincent's bedsit, she'd written to him, just to let him know that she was settling in well and about her job with Maureen. He hadn't replied yet. Vincent, she knew, would love Milton St John and, with her to keep him under control, would never slide back into his old ways.
Having sorted out the next ten years of her life at least, she'd locked the door behind her and breathed in the pink pearly mist of the downland morning. Oxford and Bookworms and Petra's Parties were all in another lifetime, she thought. Her future was here in Milton St John and, horse-racing or no, she'd have to make the best of it. She knew she was lucky to have the chance.
Tucking the glossy layers of hair behind her ears, Jemima lifted her face to the sun. She'd pulled a long beige dress over the top of her T-shirt that morning and hoped that she wouldn't bake to death. The newscasters on Thames Valley FM were drawing comparisons with the summer of '76 and warning of impending water restrictions and drought.
'Doom, gloom and despondency,' Gillian had said as she'd left the Vicarage. 'It's either too hot or too cold. We get two weeks of early sunshine and every programme is full of global destruction and skin cancer. Still, being England, it'll no doubt pee down for the rest of the summer.'
Jemima had been shocked to hear a vicar's wife saying pee.
Ribbons of horses were weaving their way to and from the gallops, and Jemima watched them. They were so beautiful: strong and gleaming with health, their gentle liquid eyes and their exquisitely intelligent heads turning to stare at her. It was such a pity that their natural strength and competitive spirit brought untold misery to so many people.
The stable lads, all dressed in jodhpurs and boots and bobbled crash hats, swayed past in the saddles, high above her. Some grinned. Nearly all of them called good morning. She returned the greetings and sighed. Horse-racing was the reason for the village's existence, and these people were hopefully going to be her customers. She'd have to compromise her principles if her dream was ever going to become reality. It would be pretty dumb, she thought with a grin, to slap a 'No Horsy People' notice on the shop door in the cavalier way people did with hawkers and free papers.
She had survived two weeks in Milton St John, and apart from an early problem with the char-grilling equipment, had settled in nicely at the Munchy Bar. The hours were long and the customers were non-stop, but she was used to working hard. And it was an ideal way to get to know the villagers. Company s assertiveness training was beginning to pay off. She now only hid behind her hair and her glasses in very stressful moments, and took every opportunity to introduce herself as the bookshop's owner and to start canvassing business. However, she still became paralysed with shyness when anyone asked her about herself. After all, what was there to say? The product of a broken home, a redundant bookseller, a failed waitress, a failed lover. It was hardly the sort of exciting and vibrant past life that would keep people riveted.
It had amused Maureen greatly that Jemima found it impossible to differentiate between Milton St John's racing fraternity and what she still called 'normal' villagers.
'But they were lovely!' she'd protested, after Maddy Beckett and her jockey sister, Suzy, had left a five-pound tip under their saucer. 'Maddy – the one with the red hair and that totally gorgeous baby – is engaged to a trainer? And that pretty girl actually rides racehorses?'
'They don't all have horns and hooves, duck,' Maureen had giggled. 'And those other ladies – the ones who were getting so enthusiastic about your bookshop earlier
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