– they're both trainers.'
'No!' Jemima had stopped wiping tables. 'But the really glamorous one looked like a TV presenter, and the other one spoke like the Queen! And they were both so knowledgeable about books!'
'Diana James-Jordan and Kimberley Small.' Maureen had hardly been able to conceal her delight at the bewilderment on Jemima's face. 'Two of the top lady trainers in the country – worth a fortune between 'em. And, if you don't mind me saying, duck – it sounds a bit snobby to be surprised that they can read.'
'Oh, I didn't mean –' Jemima had blushed. 'Well, it just seems – I mean –'
'Preconceived notions don't get you nowhere,' Maureen had said wisely, whisking the squeezy mustard bottle away from a gang of stable lads. 'People's people the world over – good and bad. Rich and poor. It don't matter what job they do. Like I said, it might be a good idea for you to go to a race meeting some time, just to find out what it's all about...'
She already knew what it was all about, Jemima had thought. It was about gambling. And gambling led to moving house a lot, not answering the door, and hearing her mother crying when the postman arrived. Not even the friendly Maddy and Suzy, or the erudite Diana and Kimberley, could make her forget just how damaging horse-racing was.
She pushed her glasses more firmly on to her nose and walked back into the Munchy Bar.
Maureen was already frying bacon and eggs in huge quantities. 'You see to the teas, duck. We'll get the breakfasts out of the way and then we'll sort out the coffee and pastries for elevenses. Okay?'
Jemima struggled with the industrial-sized tea-pot, and wondered, as she had done every day since she'd started working with Maureen, how on earth the stable lads – who all looked as though a puff of wind would blow them away – managed to consume such vast quantities of food.
It was nearly eleven before there was any lull. Most of the tables were now occupied by the more elderly residents of Milton St John, enjoying a cup of Douwe Egberts with their Bath Olivers. In deference to them, Maureen had switched off the fruit machines and silenced the juke-box. The Formica tables were covered with lace cloths, and bud vases had been arranged dead centre. This transformation occurred again for afternoon tea at three, thus keeping both lots of customers satisfied. Jemima was most impressed by this clever strategy on Maureen's part and wondered if she'd be able to manage something similar in the bookshop.
‘Jemima!' Gillian Hutchinson stage-whispered from the doorway. 'Is it safe for me to come in?'
'Coast completely clear of Glen's fan club, if that's what you mean.' Jemima laughed. 'Bronwyn said she was far too busy to stop this morning and had a take-out, and Bathsheba left ten minutes ago. Coffee?'
'Please. Black, strong. Oh, and an ashtray. I'll sit here by the door and blow outwards.' Gillian, wearing something diaphanous and pale green, drifted in and sat down. 'I'm absolutely frazzled. I think I've got writer's block with a vengeance. Have you got time to join me?'
'Course she has.' Maureen appeared from the kitchen. 'She never takes her break properly. You go and sit down, duck, and I'll bring the coffees over.'
Fanning her face, Gillian looked anxiously at Jemima's dress and T-shirt. 'Goodness – aren't you boiling in that? I thought this morning that you were rather overdressed. Haven't you got any shorts?'
Jemima smothered a smile. Shorts had never featured in her wardrobe. 'I'll be fine. The breeze from the door sort of wafts through the layers. I've been in this student-hippie look for so long now that I think I'd feel naked in anything else.'
'You and naked don't seem to go together somehow. But I simply can't understand why you want to hide that beautiful figure behind all those dowdy clothes.' Gillian stopped suddenly, shaking her head. 'Oh, I'm sorry. That was crass of me.'
Maureen arrived with the coffees. 'You tell her, Gillian. Oh,
'No!' Jemima had stopped wiping tables. 'But the really glamorous one looked like a TV presenter, and the other one spoke like the Queen! And they were both so knowledgeable about books!'
'Diana James-Jordan and Kimberley Small.' Maureen had hardly been able to conceal her delight at the bewilderment on Jemima's face. 'Two of the top lady trainers in the country – worth a fortune between 'em. And, if you don't mind me saying, duck – it sounds a bit snobby to be surprised that they can read.'
'Oh, I didn't mean –' Jemima had blushed. 'Well, it just seems – I mean –'
'Preconceived notions don't get you nowhere,' Maureen had said wisely, whisking the squeezy mustard bottle away from a gang of stable lads. 'People's people the world over – good and bad. Rich and poor. It don't matter what job they do. Like I said, it might be a good idea for you to go to a race meeting some time, just to find out what it's all about...'
She already knew what it was all about, Jemima had thought. It was about gambling. And gambling led to moving house a lot, not answering the door, and hearing her mother crying when the postman arrived. Not even the friendly Maddy and Suzy, or the erudite Diana and Kimberley, could make her forget just how damaging horse-racing was.
She pushed her glasses more firmly on to her nose and walked back into the Munchy Bar.
Maureen was already frying bacon and eggs in huge quantities. 'You see to the teas, duck. We'll get the breakfasts out of the way and then we'll sort out the coffee and pastries for elevenses. Okay?'
Jemima struggled with the industrial-sized tea-pot, and wondered, as she had done every day since she'd started working with Maureen, how on earth the stable lads – who all looked as though a puff of wind would blow them away – managed to consume such vast quantities of food.
It was nearly eleven before there was any lull. Most of the tables were now occupied by the more elderly residents of Milton St John, enjoying a cup of Douwe Egberts with their Bath Olivers. In deference to them, Maureen had switched off the fruit machines and silenced the juke-box. The Formica tables were covered with lace cloths, and bud vases had been arranged dead centre. This transformation occurred again for afternoon tea at three, thus keeping both lots of customers satisfied. Jemima was most impressed by this clever strategy on Maureen's part and wondered if she'd be able to manage something similar in the bookshop.
‘Jemima!' Gillian Hutchinson stage-whispered from the doorway. 'Is it safe for me to come in?'
'Coast completely clear of Glen's fan club, if that's what you mean.' Jemima laughed. 'Bronwyn said she was far too busy to stop this morning and had a take-out, and Bathsheba left ten minutes ago. Coffee?'
'Please. Black, strong. Oh, and an ashtray. I'll sit here by the door and blow outwards.' Gillian, wearing something diaphanous and pale green, drifted in and sat down. 'I'm absolutely frazzled. I think I've got writer's block with a vengeance. Have you got time to join me?'
'Course she has.' Maureen appeared from the kitchen. 'She never takes her break properly. You go and sit down, duck, and I'll bring the coffees over.'
Fanning her face, Gillian looked anxiously at Jemima's dress and T-shirt. 'Goodness – aren't you boiling in that? I thought this morning that you were rather overdressed. Haven't you got any shorts?'
Jemima smothered a smile. Shorts had never featured in her wardrobe. 'I'll be fine. The breeze from the door sort of wafts through the layers. I've been in this student-hippie look for so long now that I think I'd feel naked in anything else.'
'You and naked don't seem to go together somehow. But I simply can't understand why you want to hide that beautiful figure behind all those dowdy clothes.' Gillian stopped suddenly, shaking her head. 'Oh, I'm sorry. That was crass of me.'
Maureen arrived with the coffees. 'You tell her, Gillian. Oh,
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