jockey, Charlie was possibly his closest friend in Milton St John. And that raised another problem: if he gave up with National Hunt and specialised in flat-racing, then there would be no job at Peapods for Charlie.
'Where do you intend starting?'
'Kath Seaward. She's got everyone's ear.'
'Jesus.' Charlie backed out of the box. 'Don't mention me then. I'm still persona non grata at Lancing Grange.' He frowned at Drew as he bolted Solomon's door. 'Where's the car?'
'I'm not taking the car. I'm walking. I think better when I walk.' Drew knew this would flummox Charlie who seemed to be welded to the Aston Martin. 'And don't tell me you're driving to the Cat and Fiddle? It's only a hundred yards away.'
'Nah.' Charlie slid into his car's luxurious interior and pushed his dark red hair away from his eyes. 'I'm off to London. Tina Maloret thinks she might have forgiven me.'
Drew winced. Charlie would probably be knackered for the rest of the week. 'So we won't be seeing you around for a while?'
'Hope not.' Charlie revved the Aston Martin into life. 'If I'm not back by next weekend send in the Red Cross. Or that nice St John lady from Aintree ...'
St Saviour's bells shattered the Sunday silence, pealing across the roofs of the cottages and reverberating round the downland hills. Charlie leaned from the window. 'That reminds me – have you heard? About Gillian Hutchinson? The Vicar's wife?'
'Nothing remotely salacious, no.'
Charlie revved the car and started to pull away. 'She's rented the Vicarage flat to the woman who is opening the bookshop. A real grunge granny, according to the lads. I shan't bother checking her out.'
'I'm sure she'll be grateful. I'd heard the flat had been taken. At least Gillian Hutchinson's been luckier than me. I haven't had a single reply to the gardener advert.'
Drew felt a pang of pity for the newcomer at the Vicarage. Maddy and her friends had been delighted that there was to be a bookshop in the village, but honestly – when did trainers and jockeys ever have a spare minute to read anything other than form books or the racing papers? The bookshop seemed destined to be a spectacular failure. He knew the feeling.
Yelling to Maddy that he was going to Lancing Grange, he followed the Aston Martin's exhaust fumes out of the yard.
'It's far too bloody hot for May!' Kath flapped the tails of her checked shirt, looking, Drew thought, more like a demented scarecrow than ever. 'Thank God my season'll be all but over in a couple of weeks. This baked ground will knacker any progress. Still, apart from that nasty business with Ned Filkins at Christmas, and the effing débâcle at Aintree, we've had a damn good year so far.'
Kath Seaward's problems with her ex-travelling head lad were well known. His sacking had made the tabloids. And the air around Lancing Grange had been electric for days after the Grand National. Kath, it was rumoured, had put out a Mafia contract on Charlie Somerset.
Knowing that she was waiting for him to spring to the defence of his stable jockey, Drew didn't take Kath's bait. She was a master tactician on and off the racecourse. A wrong word now could lead to a major schism; and, although the rivalries between the various racing stables in Milton St John were fierce, there was also a strong bond of local camaraderie. And anyway, as his visit to Lancing Grange wasn't simply social, he was most unlikely to get Kath's help if he started championing Charlie.
Kath leaned against a pungently steaming wheelbarrow and surveyed him from beneath the brim of her grubby Jack Charlton golfing cap. Drew, playing the same game, rested his back against the wall in the sunshine and admired her immaculate stable yard with a professional eye. The Lancing Grange boxes were ultramodern. The yard was paved with red blocks and emerald-green tubs alight with pansies stood at each corner. A state-of-the-art tack-room, food store and equine medical centre took up the whole of one side. No expense was
'Where do you intend starting?'
'Kath Seaward. She's got everyone's ear.'
'Jesus.' Charlie backed out of the box. 'Don't mention me then. I'm still persona non grata at Lancing Grange.' He frowned at Drew as he bolted Solomon's door. 'Where's the car?'
'I'm not taking the car. I'm walking. I think better when I walk.' Drew knew this would flummox Charlie who seemed to be welded to the Aston Martin. 'And don't tell me you're driving to the Cat and Fiddle? It's only a hundred yards away.'
'Nah.' Charlie slid into his car's luxurious interior and pushed his dark red hair away from his eyes. 'I'm off to London. Tina Maloret thinks she might have forgiven me.'
Drew winced. Charlie would probably be knackered for the rest of the week. 'So we won't be seeing you around for a while?'
'Hope not.' Charlie revved the Aston Martin into life. 'If I'm not back by next weekend send in the Red Cross. Or that nice St John lady from Aintree ...'
St Saviour's bells shattered the Sunday silence, pealing across the roofs of the cottages and reverberating round the downland hills. Charlie leaned from the window. 'That reminds me – have you heard? About Gillian Hutchinson? The Vicar's wife?'
'Nothing remotely salacious, no.'
Charlie revved the car and started to pull away. 'She's rented the Vicarage flat to the woman who is opening the bookshop. A real grunge granny, according to the lads. I shan't bother checking her out.'
'I'm sure she'll be grateful. I'd heard the flat had been taken. At least Gillian Hutchinson's been luckier than me. I haven't had a single reply to the gardener advert.'
Drew felt a pang of pity for the newcomer at the Vicarage. Maddy and her friends had been delighted that there was to be a bookshop in the village, but honestly – when did trainers and jockeys ever have a spare minute to read anything other than form books or the racing papers? The bookshop seemed destined to be a spectacular failure. He knew the feeling.
Yelling to Maddy that he was going to Lancing Grange, he followed the Aston Martin's exhaust fumes out of the yard.
'It's far too bloody hot for May!' Kath flapped the tails of her checked shirt, looking, Drew thought, more like a demented scarecrow than ever. 'Thank God my season'll be all but over in a couple of weeks. This baked ground will knacker any progress. Still, apart from that nasty business with Ned Filkins at Christmas, and the effing débâcle at Aintree, we've had a damn good year so far.'
Kath Seaward's problems with her ex-travelling head lad were well known. His sacking had made the tabloids. And the air around Lancing Grange had been electric for days after the Grand National. Kath, it was rumoured, had put out a Mafia contract on Charlie Somerset.
Knowing that she was waiting for him to spring to the defence of his stable jockey, Drew didn't take Kath's bait. She was a master tactician on and off the racecourse. A wrong word now could lead to a major schism; and, although the rivalries between the various racing stables in Milton St John were fierce, there was also a strong bond of local camaraderie. And anyway, as his visit to Lancing Grange wasn't simply social, he was most unlikely to get Kath's help if he started championing Charlie.
Kath leaned against a pungently steaming wheelbarrow and surveyed him from beneath the brim of her grubby Jack Charlton golfing cap. Drew, playing the same game, rested his back against the wall in the sunshine and admired her immaculate stable yard with a professional eye. The Lancing Grange boxes were ultramodern. The yard was paved with red blocks and emerald-green tubs alight with pansies stood at each corner. A state-of-the-art tack-room, food store and equine medical centre took up the whole of one side. No expense was
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