Country Pursuits (6 page)

‘That's right, Nige, home sweet home,' he said, stretching contentedly in the back seat. ‘Peace and quiet, fresh air and not much else. It's a country bumpkin's life for me.'

Little did he know the dangers of crime-ridden Mexico would pale in comparison to daily life in Churchminster.

ANOTHER PROPERTY WAS
waiting for its new owners in the village. The Mill House had been converted into two luxury homes; while Sebastian and Caro had bought one side, the other had stayed empty. Then, the previous week, a ‘Sold' sign had appeared in the front garden. Caro noticed the sale had been managed by Harbottle & Brunswick, a very exclusive estate agent in Cirencester. She wondered who the new owners would be. ‘Oh, please let it be a young mum who's lots of fun,' she prayed. Caro envisioned a nice couple with two adorable children; they would all get on fabulously well and have riotous dinner parties. She and the woman – whose name would be Sara – would have giggly glasses of wine together and babysit each other's kids while the other one went for a facial. The husband – his name would be Hugh – would get on equally well with Sebastian and they'd spend weekends shooting together, before returning home to their families, flushed, triumphant and happy. Caro bit her lip; perhaps Sebastian would spend more time with her if there were interesting people next door.

She looked at her watch. It was time for Milo's morning walk. It was a crisp, beautiful day, so she wrapped him up warm, put him in the stroller and set off. As she crossed over the road, the birds were chirping and the sun was shining, making the green look plump and fresh. Caro's heart lifted a little. It
was
lovely here. She decided to push Milo around the green and then go and buy herself a Galaxy bar from the shop. ‘I'll burn it off on the walk,' she thought to herself guiltily.

As she drew level with her sister's cottage, Caro thought she really should go in and see how Calypso was doing. But she decided, with another stab of guilt, that she really couldn't face her youngest sister's traumas. She had enough on her plate with Milo. It was ironic really: when she had lived in London she had loved catching up with Calypso on the phone – when she'd been able to get hold of her. And once their parents had moved abroad, all three sisters had become closer than ever. But over the months since she'd moved back home, Caro had gradually withdrawn. Camilla had tried to broach the subject with her a few times, sensing her older sister was not herself, but Caro had brushed her off. She felt like she was on autopilot, acting the role of perfect wife and mother that everyone expected of her. She didn't know how to break that cycle.

Caro hurried past No. 5 The Green, and she was thinking longingly of her chocolate bar when the door of No. 3 creaked open and Dora and Eunice Merryweather came wobbling out. Their living room looked out directly on to the green and they had two armchairs positioned right in the window,
which they seemed to sit in all day, just watching the world go by. Or stopping the world go by. They lay in wait for Caro on her morning walks, and the second she walked past, they'd be out in the front waving garish hand-knitted booties for Milo, and pinching his chubby cheeks. Caro didn't mind really, they were harmless old dears.

‘Caroline, dear, how are you?' exclaimed Dora. She and Eunice did indeed look like they had just stepped off the set of Miss Marple. They were wearing almost identical floral-patterned dresses, strings of pearls round their necks, and cardigans draped round their shoulders.

‘Dora, Eunice, how nice to see you!' The two ladies clustered round the pram, cooing, and Milo stared up at them, nonplussed.

‘We've got a present for you, Master Milo! Haven't we, Dora?' said Eunice.

Dora's eyes twinkled. ‘Oh yes, indeed!' From behind her back she produced something knitted in sludge green and orange. Caro's heart sank; she'd already got a drawer at home bulging with bits and pieces they'd made for Milo, most of a similar ilk. She had once tried to put Milo in a maroon and cream romper suit complete with knitted bow tie, but Sebastian had thrown a fit and said no son of his was going to be pushed around looking like a Romanian gipsy.

‘Oh, you really shouldn't have!' said Caro truthfully. It was a knitted striped jacket with alternate green and orange buttons, and a bright blue ‘M' embroidered on the front. Caro had never seen anything so horrific. She resolved to find the number of the nearest charity shop when she got home.

‘It's lovely! Thank you so much,' she exclaimed brightly.

‘It's our pleasure, we do so love a little one to knit for,' said Dora.

‘Oh yes,' said Eunice, her eyes misting over.

Caro made what she hoped was a sympathetic noise. The rumour that had been around since she was little was that Eunice had once been married to a dashing air force pilot who had been killed in a ferocious dogfight over the Channel in the Second World War. Eunice, pregnant at the time with their first child, had miscarried at the shock and vowed never to marry again.

‘Anyway, we won't keep you, dear,' said Dora. ‘Besides,
The Archers
is on in a minute.'

‘Thanks again for the jacket,' said Caro, quickly putting it under the pram.

‘Bye, dear,' said Eunice. ‘Say hello to that nice husband of yours.' She and Dora turned and walked slowly up the path. Caro made a mental note to steer clear of the sisters for a while, before poor Milo was swamped in a sea of itchy woollens.

As Caro got up to the shop, she found an extra fiver tucked in amongst Milo's bottom wipes. Oh good-oh, she could buy that month's
Tatler
as well. The perfect treat to go with her Galaxy. It was always quite tricky getting the stroller through the narrow door to the shop, and even more of a chore to steer it round the cramped aisles. Luckily Babs Sax was coming out, a copy of
Watercolour Monthly
under one bony arm. She lived next door to the shop in a pretty little cottage rather ambitiously named Hardwick House. (Also known by the locals as Hard-On House, because of the number of arty
young men who went through the front door.) Today she was dressed in an aquamarine turban and matching kaftan, her lips and long nails painted firebox red.

‘Darling!' she exclaimed huskily. ‘You look radiant. And how, er, is the little one?' She peered into the pram the way a person might look at the sole of their shoe after treading in dog poo. Caro seized her chance. ‘Fine, thanks. Babs, would you mind looking after Milo while I pop in the shop? I won't be a sec.'

‘Well, er, I . . .' Babs flapped her skinny hands anxiously.

‘Thank you!' Caro rushed into the shop before Babs had time to change her mind. Inside, she grabbed her mag and chocolate and an impromptu purchase of a pot of organic honey, and headed to the counter.

‘Miss Caro!' said Brenda, appearing from under the counter like a genie from a bottle. ‘How are we? Milo? Sebastian? Your parents? Heard from them recently?'

‘Er, yes, I spoke to Mummy and Daddy a few days ago,' replied Caro, slightly bamboozled.

‘Keeping well, hmm? When are they over next?'

‘I think it will be Christmas,' replied Caro, thinking wistfully of London, where she could step outside her front door without facing the Spanish Inquisition at every corner. ‘Must be off, I've left Milo outside in his pram.'

Brenda raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘You want to be careful of those baby snatchers, I've been reading all about it in
Take a Break
.'

‘Babs Sax is minding him, Brenda,' sighed Caro.

Brenda gave a snort of laughter. ‘As if she'd be any good! Too busy trying to have it off with the getaway driver, I bet.'

Caro gave a forced smile and headed for the door. Brenda stopped her again.

‘Ooh, have you heard who's moved in? Devon Cornwall! He's bought Byron Heights!'

Caro wrinkled her brow. ‘Wasn't he in
Coronation Street
?' she asked, leaving Brenda open-mouthed. Outside, Babs Sax was standing by the pram, trying to look as if it was nothing to do with her. Caro relieved her of Milo, who was starting to squawk hungrily, and trundled home.

OVER IN FARM
Cottage, Stacey Turner was enjoying her third orgasm in thirty minutes. ‘God, you are
so
good at that,' she breathed as Jed Bantry looked up from between her legs. They were in Jed's bedroom at the poky two-bedroom home he shared with his mother. Speaking of whom—

‘You better push off,' said Jed, not unkindly. ‘Ma will be back from the big house soon.' He stood up and kissed her quickly on the mouth, then turned to put his boxer shorts back on. Stacey propped herself up on one shoulder looking at him as his firm, muscular buttocks worked in front of her. What an arse! In her eyes, Jed would give Colin Farrell a run for his money. Colin Farrell was Stacey's favourite actor, and she had seen every film he'd been in.

At the age of eighteen years and two months, Stacey Turner was pert, buxom and curvy. She looked like a poor man's Kelly Brook. Stacey was a barmaid at the Jolly Boot, where her dad was landlord, and she loved it. She'd inherited her mum Beryl's flirtatious manner and her dad Jack's charm and gift of the gab, and she was always the centre of attention at the bar, with men for ever wanting to
buy her drinks. If only there were more about like Jed Bantry, she thought to herself, watching him step into his overalls. Stacey had her pick of the local boys, and she'd had a fair few of them, but Jed was definitely the best shag she'd ever had – and the fittest. He never suffered from brewer's droop or shooting his load too early; Jed could keep rock hard for hours. In fact, he wore
her
out sometimes, and that was a first. There was something unrestrained and wild about him that none of the others came close to.

Still, Jed was a strange one. Theirs was a strictly sexual relationship, and she never expected anything more, but he'd still barely utter a few sentences when they were together. He just used his mouth to communicate in different ways . . . Stacey shivered at the recent memory of Jed pleasuring her. Getting physical was just fine by her. And besides, she would be the envy of all her mates if they ever found out.

Stacey stretched luxuriantly, her magnificent boobs standing up to attention. Jed glanced at them momentarily and Stacey smiled. That would keep him ticking over until next time. ‘Pass me my bra, lover. I'm working at noon, Dad'll wonder where I am.'

Jack Turner was notoriously protective of his only child, and had once chased one of the locals down the road with a poker from the fire when they'd made a suggestive remark about Stacey's chest. ‘You'd better get your skates on then, lass,' said Jed. No one in the village knew about their fling, and that was just the way Jed intended keeping it.

The market town of Bedlington was five miles east of Churchminster. It lacked the prettiness and charm of the village, but had a functional, rustic charm that hadn't been completely diminished by the arrival of such places as Iceland and All Bar One. It helped that Bedlington held a very popular organic farmers market each month in the town square.

There was a small council estate on the eastern outskirts of the town, where farm workers had been housed in the seventies when their employers had sold off farm buildings to private owners. Nowadays, the Orchards Estate, as it was known, was home to young, non-farming families as well as some of the original tenants.

It was on the rec, a small, muddy piece of grass at the back of the estate, that Archie Fox-Titt and Tyrone lay on their backs, staring up at the sky in stoned oblivion. Archie had missed college yet again. Tyrone, who was meant to be studying to be a civil engineer, hadn't been to a lecture since before Christmas.

A fresh wind gusted across the field, making Tyrone shiver. ‘Man, it's freezing out here. Me nuts are about to drop off.' He cackled at the thought.

‘Can't we go back to yours?' slurred Archie.

Tyrone sucked his teeth derisively. ‘As if!' He lived round the corner in a cramped house with his mum, her second husband and two stepbrothers and sisters. There wasn't enough room to swing a cat.

In a moment of clarity, Tyrone slapped his thigh. ‘Why can't we start hanging at yours, man? It's, like, perfect to get well stoned.'

‘I don't think my parents would approve,' slurred Archie again, getting his words out with some difficulty.

‘Use your
brain
!' retorted Tyrone. ‘Your place is massive, man! We could chill for days in there and your olds wouldn't even know. What you say, bro?' But Archie had passed out, smouldering joint still in his hand.

Tyrone reached across and rescued it, then lay back again and took a decisive drag. As far as he was concerned it was sorted; no more hanging around the poxy rec freezing to death. Archie's place was perfect for a wicked house party as well; he'd just have to find out when Archie's parents were going to be away.

‘Bring it on!' said Tyrone to himself.

IT WAS THE
Tuesday before her dinner party and Camilla was in full organizational mode. The small dining room at the back of the cottage was dwarfed by her mother's Regency dining table and chairs, which her parents had donated to her when they left Churchminster. Camilla hadn't really entertained there properly since she'd moved in, and for a long time the room had been a dumping ground for more of Calypso's possessions. She didn't think Brenda had ever stepped foot in there, preferring to stay next door and run her cloth up and down the mantelpiece as she watched
This Morning
. But now new life had been breathed into the room. Camilla had cleared all the junk and polished the furniture until it shone like amber. Fresh flowers stood in the middle of the table and pieces of the Standington-Fulthrope family silver sparkled like diamonds in the mahogany cabinet. It was a room worthy of cultured conversation, fine food and exquisite wine, Camilla decided, as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. Then she thought about the dinner guests and winced slightly.