Wild Oats (10 page)

‘What’s a hill-climb?’

‘Just what it sounds like. Basically, you go from the bottom to the top of the hill in the shortest time you can,’ Jack explained.

Jamie made a face. ‘That doesn’t sound very exciting.’

‘It’s not a straight track. They throw in a few hairpin bends just to test your mettle.’ Olivier grinned. ‘It’s pretty hairy at top speed. And it can be down to a hundredth of a second.’

‘In other words it’s pretty lethal?’

‘Well, yes, if you make a mistake, it could be,’ admitted Olivier cheerfully.

‘Whatever turns you on,’ smiled Jamie, rolling her eyes in exasperation. All she could be grateful for was that Jack had retired gracefully from the enterprise, and was happy to compete vicariously through Olivier. She wondered for a moment who exactly was financing this foolhardiness; even she in her ignorance could see that it didn’t come cheap and Olivier, by his own admission, didn’t have a job. But then who was she to quibble? It had given her father something to think about. It was a small price to pay.

Not wanting to dampen their enthusiasm, she carried on nodding in what she thought were the right places, before pleading exhaustion just after ten and excusing herself.

She fell into bed, snuggling up under the rose-covered eiderdown she’d had since she was six. She could just hear the voices of Jack and Olivier two floors below, and the occasional boisterous laugh. Again she had that feeling of being an outsider, an interloper, then told herself to stop being oversensitive and paranoid. It was her house, her father. And there was no denying he’d been delighted to see her.

Her relationship with Jack had never been conventional. From a very young age, he’d treated Jamie like an adult, when she hadn’t really wanted to be. In return, she had often treated him like a child, had been disapproving and reproachful of his behaviour. He wasn’t to know how embarrassing she’d found
him at times. He wasn’t like anyone else’s dad. He was too irresponsible, too carefree, too eager to break the rules. How she’d secretly longed for a father who was ‘a’ something: a doctor or a lawyer or a vet. Every time someone asked what he did, she died inwardly, because there was no answer. Import/export, he always told her to say, but that made it sound as if he was trafficking drugs. And in her more suspicious moments, Jamie thought perhaps he did – the Persian carpet business had definitely been a front for something. And it was always either feast or famine. Privately, Jamie preferred famine, because it meant everyone was at home and had to eat sensible meals round the table. Quite possibly the worst moment of her life had been when Jack had turned up to Speech Day in a helicopter, sending hats and the headmistress’s speech flying, waving frantically to three hundred girls with upturned faces and open mouths.

And while Louisa wasn’t a conventional mother, at least she was never overtly embarrassing. There was something very controlled and English about her, even if she wasn’t cuddly and bustly like some of her friends’ mothers. Jack was always a little too loud, a little too eager to push the boat out. He’d never really grown up.

Now she was more confident about herself, she could accept her father for what he was, and what he had done. He was over sixty now, so not only was he unlikely to change, but he was unlikely to get up to too much mischief. Her mother’s death made her
realize that Jack probably had little time left. And in a way, nor did she. She was the same age now as her mother had been when she’d had Jamie.

Looking at Jack this evening, all the resentment and bitterness she’d felt evaporated into pity. He looked so incredibly… vulnerable. His once luxuriantly bright golden hair was dull and thin, scraped over his skull. His eyes, always so alive and full of mischief, seemed permanently bloodshot, as if he had been weeping – and perhaps he had. Even his voice now had a slight tremor in it that he didn’t seem quite able to control. Jamie felt a sudden surge of fondness for him. She might not have approved of the way he lived his life, he may have done terrible things that she could never condone, but what was the point of holding it against him now?

She resolved to spend the next few months with her father; rebuild their relationship. And the house certainly needed some attention. She’d phone the agency tomorrow, tell them she was ready to go back on their books, but that she only wanted work locally. That way she could earn some money and concentrate on restoring Jack and Bucklebury at the same time. She was running through her plans in her mind, when there was a scrabbling and snuffling sound, and before she knew it her bedroom door was shoved open and Parsnip and Gumdrop bounded into the room and up on to her bed. She drifted off with the two little dogs asleep on her feet. They were like two lead weights and she didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing
them, but they made her feel wanted. They made her feel as if she belonged. As she fell into a delicious, much-needed sleep, she decided she’d definitely done the right thing by coming home.

8

There was a saying in Lower Faviell that the only good Deacon was a dead Deacon. And there was a line of tombstones in the churchyard that should have been reassuring. But every Sunday, without fail, the flowers on the graves were replaced with fresh blooms, indicating that there were bearers of that name still going strong.

The family were the bane of Lower Faviell. Any suggestion of badger-baiting, cock-fighting, poaching, missing livestock, stolen ponies or petty breakins, and the finger of suspicion was always pointed Deaconwards. The men fought, they got drunk, they got girls pregnant. One or other of them was generally up before the magistrate; their names featured regularly in the local paper – driving without tax, driving whilst drunk, being drunk and disorderly, causing affray. And the distaff side weren’t much better – hard as nails. You didn’t mess with a Deacon girl, with their flashing dark eyes, their gypsy curls, their gold jewellery.

People often complained that something should be done – but what? And they could be useful, if you wanted a job done quickly for cash. They were all good with their hands, bricklaying and
plastering and painting and decorating. And demolition – they were particularly good at that.

The biggest branch lived at Lower Faviell Farm, where they had been tenants for three generations, and were ruled over by John, the oldest of his brothers and a man of few words who had respect for no one but his wife, the redoubtable Nolly. Being the oldest son, he had inherited the tenancy when his father had died, and as his own family had grown, his brothers and sisters had gradually dispersed towards the town, each of them actually glad to be rid of the responsibility of trying to scratch a living from twenty acres.

John and Nolly’s offspring were, on the whole, a good-looking bunch, built like the proverbial, fortuitously inheriting the best of their parents’ features. There were eight of them altogether – five boys, three girls, tightly knit. Three of them had moved out to the council estate on the edge of Ludlow to join their aunts and uncles – even the warren-like rooms at Lower Faviell Farm couldn’t hold all their partners and offspring. A couple of them were usually accommodated at Her Majesty’s pleasure at any one time.

And already the next generation were well established. John and Nolly were the proud owners of nine grandchildren, the eldest of whom were shipped into the village school at Lower Faviell by dint of their parents giving Lower Faviell Farm as their address. This was partly for convenience (so they could go from school straight to Nolly for their tea) and partly
because the Deacons always stuck together and looked out for each other. The headmistress despaired, as she was desperately trying to improve the SATs results and get a decent Ofsted report. But of her sixty-four pupils, nearly ten per cent were Deacons. Not that some of them weren’t sharp and cunning. If the little buggers could be made to apply themselves, they could do quite well. Rod Deacon was proof enough of that. It was generally agreed that, of all of them, Rod had done very well for himself and could, almost, be trusted.

Rod drove down his parents’ pitted drive, not bothering to try and avoid the potholes, for it would have been impossible, but thanking God he was in the pick-up, and not his low-slung brand new sports car. He hadn’t mentioned that to his family yet. He’d been hoping to keep it quiet for a while, although it was inevitable that he or Bella would be spotted in it sooner or later by one of the Deacon tribe. He’d be in for a right ribbing then. They thought the Mitsubishi Warrior was flashy enough, with its twin cabs, its chrome accessories, its dark green metallic paint. On the side, in discreet gold lettering, was inscribed ‘Roderick Deacon, Handmade Bespoke Kitchens for the Discerning.’

‘Who are they then?’ his dad had asked. ‘Is that a posh word for disabled or something?’

They’d wind him up about the Audi all right.

Rod had long accepted that his family were all
hypocrites, with double standards, resenting anything that smacked of achievement. After all, it wasn’t as if they didn’t all spend their lives in pursuit of money. Any means, as long as it wasn’t legitimate and preferably didn’t involve hard work. They’d scorned him for setting up properly in business. Practically fell off their chairs laughing when they found out he refused to do cash deals. But Rod had learned the hard way not to trust anyone. If you did cash deals, it was only a matter of time before someone grassed you up to the Inland Revenue or the VAT man, and life was already complicated enough.

He swung the car into the yard in front of the house, avoiding the motley collection of bright plastic toys that had been reaped from car-boot sales over the years – two Cosy Coupés, a turtle sandbox, a Barbie bicycle, lethally abandoned rollerblades and a pair of quad bikes that had never worked since the day they’d been brought home. They had joined the queue of things waiting for repair: a battered old Land Rover, a washing machine with the drum removed. In the midst of this chaos stood a pristine set of iroko chairs and matching table shaded by a green parasol. Rod didn’t like to think of its provenance. No one in his family would have dreamed of forking out the best part of a grand for garden furniture. Two fat white Alsatians lifted their heads in interest as he climbed out of the cab, then, satisfied that he wasn’t an intruder, carried on their snoozing, their muddy tails thumping up and down to indicate they were pleased
to see him but really couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.

From out of nowhere appeared three children: Stacey, in pink plastic mules and an Eminem T-shirt that came down to her knees, Casey in a nappy and Bob the Builder wellingtons, and Jordan in top-to-toe Diadora, trainers flashing wildly as he raced to be the first to embrace his uncle. Rod detested the way his various brothers and sisters used his mother ruthlessly as an unpaid childminder for those of their offspring who were too young for school. Nolly insisted she didn’t mind, that was what grandmothers were for, but Rod objected to the way his siblings never gave her a second thought, didn’t consider that she might have a life of her own, and certainly never paid her for her time, or even gave her a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers as a thank you. After all, Nolly was getting on now. He thought she deserved a rest, but she was far from likely to get one.

Rod disentangled himself gently from a tangle of arms and kisses. The smell of Bazooka bubblegum and poo overwhelmed him.

‘Casey needs changing,’ Stacey informed him in her twenty-a-day rasp, brushing her too-long fringe out of her eyes.

‘Where’s Nana?’ asked Rod.

‘On the net,’ Jordan informed him solemnly. Rod rolled his eyes. His mother was no doubt trying to drum up publicity for his sister, Tanya, who had a Shania Twain tribute act called 36D. Nolly was her
publicist, agent and manager rolled into one, which meant she spent most of her days emailing bigwigs and trying to get Tanya more prestigious slots than the third Monday of every month at the Drum and Monkey in Tidsworth. Tanya was the only sister who hadn’t yet started whelping, and still lived with her parents. She worked her socks off as an instructor at a nearby riding school. Rod had a lot of time for her. She wasn’t as lazy as the rest; she understood that life wasn’t about finding the easiest way out all the time. Her lack of partner had led to rumours that she was a dyke, but Rod didn’t believe them. Tanya didn’t suffer fools gladly and she just hadn’t yet found a man worthy of her respect.

He scooped up Casey and took her into the kitchen to change her. He wasn’t squeamish, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her trotting round dirty. He knew perfectly well her father wouldn’t have ever changed her nappy. Dean was a sexist git through and through. All of his brothers were. It rankled Rod. If – no, when – he had kids, he’d be a hands-on father. He was quite happy to spend hours playing with his nieces and nephews; pushing them on the rope swing he’d put up, playing hide and seek, teaching them to ride bikes, holding their hands while they mastered roller skating.

It was ironic that his brothers and sisters had so many offspring between them and paid them so little attention. Instead of time, they lavished them with toys and games which were usually a five-minute wonder. Every few months or so one of his sisters or
sisters-in-law would ‘catch’ for another one, and spend the next nine months moaning and groaning. Then, the minute it popped out, the baby became Nolly’s responsibility most of the time, while its mother sat at home watching daytime telly, smoking and ordering things out of catalogues.

In the meantime, months had gone by since Bella and Rod had started trying, and there was still no sign…

He didn’t want to dwell on it. He’d got a lot of work to do. He shouted up to his mum that he was there, dished out Panda Pops for the three kids, plonked them in front of the forty-two-inch screen television to watch
Rocky IV
on the DVD, and went out to the old shed he still used as his workshop.

As soon as he left school, where the only thing he had been good at was carpentry, Rod had started out fitting kitchens for one of the big DIY stores. The experience opened his eyes: he was appalled at how quickly he and the rest of the team slapped in a kitchen, how little care was taken both in the initial design and the installation, how corners were cut and things were botched. He was even more incensed by the differential between what the customer was charged and his pitiful hourly rate. But there was little he could do about it, so he kept his head down, and if he was more conscientious than his workmates, they were quite happy to let him get on with it. He ended up with the tricky jobs, because he could be
bothered, and as a result there were fewer complaints. There was no sign of acknowledgement from the management, however, because the gaffer never gave him the credit. All Rod could gain was experience, hoping that he wouldn’t be ground down and eventually become as cynical and slipshod as the rest of them because, as they pointed out, no one gave you any thanks for doing a good job so you might as well do a bad one and save yourself the trouble.