Lots of Love (24 page)

‘I’ll fetch the keys.’ Ellen moved back into the sun, fanning her T-shirt. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ she muttered, under her breath, as she left him rootling through the open barn and made her way into the house.

She pulled off the shades and stared at her face in the mirror – still hopelessly red-eyed, but now distinctly red-cheeked as well.

‘Bugger.’

This was such a dumb thing to do. She, of all people, should know better than to let someone like Spurs get close enough to play with. He was as energetic, flirtatious and fun as any bad-boy surf nut she knew and loved; he was also dangerous, edgy and reckless. He would probably wreck her parents’ overgrown garden and she would help him do it, no doubt, because he was more addictive to be around than Bob Flowerdew and an army of performing garden gnomes.

She knew she couldn’t hope to control him. If he chose to, he could play with her as easily as greedy, carefree Fins played with helpless baby rabbits. She’d realised that the moment she’d failed to stare him down. Two days in his company would be two days walking on hot coals. She would have to wear very thick boots.

Suddenly she noticed the horseshoe sitting on the window-sill. She stooped to pick it up, dropped it into an empty plant pot on one of the shelves in the porch and told herself that there was no such thing as bad luck, just bad decisions. She had a feeling this had been one of her all-time worst.

However uncontrollable he might be, Spurs wasn’t afraid of hard work. Equipped with Theo Jamieson’s ancient two-stroke strimmer, he set to on the Goose Cottage garden like a man going to war, and didn’t stop until the engine blew up.

‘Jesus!’ He leaped back as smoke belched out in front of him.

Ellen straightened up from weeding a bed just in time to see a strimmer fly through the air and burst into flames.

Spurs had managed to penetrate about six feet of long lawn, leaving it pale and tufted. Half an acre of meadow still stretched in front of him, and then the paddock beyond.

‘Dad always said cutting this lawn was a merciless task,’ she said as she joined him. They watched the flames die away in a cloud of acrid smoke, the dry grasses nearby sizzling.

‘Strimmerciless,’ he said, seemingly unbothered by the exploding garden tool. He pulled off the unmatched gardening gloves they’d unearthed in the workshop and wiped his sweating forehead. ‘This is going to be harder than I thought. Fuck it, I’d better go home.’

He’d got bored even more quickly than Ellen had anticipated.

‘For heavy-duty equipment,’ he snapped, knowing exactly what she was thinking. ‘There’s an APV at the manor, and a huge brush cutter thing. I’ll bring them over with the topper.’

‘Are you sure your mother won’t mind?’ she asked, without thinking.

He gave her a withering look. ‘As long as I don’t leave my catapult by the seat, I think she’ll be okay. Besides, she’s gone to Cheltenham with Father to buy a hat.’

‘Special occasion?’ Ellen pulled off her own gloves – stupid flowery rubber ones her mother had bought from an upmarket catalogue.

‘No – she buys hats all the time,’ he said, looking at the tiny impression he’d made on the Goose Cottage wilderness. ‘Talk about one man went to slo-mo a meadow. It burns well, though.’ He kicked at the scorched patch surrounding the dead strimmer. ‘We could just torch it.’

Ellen glanced at him, pretty certain he was joking but not entirely trusting her judgement.

He was waving regally at Hunter Gardner now. ‘I hope he has a decent sunscreen – he’s been roasting his bald head ever since he put his Panama over his Pimm’s. Still, at least he’s got his priorities right. There’s nothing worse than warm cucumber. And a cold drink’s not such a bad idea.’

Then, to Ellen’s consternation, he set off across the old footpath that her mother and Hunter Gardner had paid the local councillors backhanders to close. They’d argued that the track – which ran along the bottom of their land as far as the village hall, ending in a little-used gate to the manor – was obsolete, served no purpose and for many years had only been used by riotous children, drunks and ne’er-do-wells.

But today it served Spurs’ purposes perfectly, providing him with a short-cut as he jumped easily over the imposing post-and-rail fencing that the Jamiesons had erected to make it clear that the path was no longer in use.

Hunter Gardner, his binoculars still trained as he sat on sentry duty looking out for signs of poultry-worrying, let out an enraged roar. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, man? You’re trespassing!’

Ellen dashed to the hedge in time to see him standing on his decking and waving his air rifle. ‘Is that you, Belling? I don’t know how you have the nerve to set foot on the property! Get off my bloody land or I’ll shoot you!’

Spurs turned to look at him in surprise.

‘You have ten seconds or I shoot!’ Hunter took aim through his new telescopic sights.

‘Stop!’ Ellen shouted, then yelped as he swung the gun in her direction. Out of some illogical instinct, she put her hands above her head. ‘Spurs isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s helping me.’

‘He is.
On. My. Land!’
Hunter swung the gun back at Spurs. ‘I mean it, Belling. Ten seconds.’

‘It’s a public path.’ Spurs looked relaxed. ‘I have every right to be here.’

‘We had it closed, so you do not.’ Hunter strode forward, gun still cocked. ‘A lot of things have changed for the better in this village since you’ve been gone, Belling. And we’re no longer willing to put up with your insolent nonsense. Now, get off my land! Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’

Still smiling, Spurs folded his arms.

‘. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .’

‘For God’s sake, get out of there!’ Ellen shrieked, but he didn’t move a muscle.

‘. . . four . . . three . . .’

She closed her eyes.

‘. . . two . . .
ONE
!’

When Ellen opened her eyes, Spurs was running along the path, laughing his head off as he passed the wall that divided the field from the village-hall car park, then leaped the manor gate like a steeple-chaser. He certainly had a swift turn of foot.

‘Damned impudence!’ Hunter uncocked the rifle and marched up to the Goose Cottage hedge. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at,’ he raged at Ellen, ‘but from what I’ve seen so far your mother would be very disturbed indeed to hear of it. Very disturbed.’

‘I shook out the pigtails years ago.’ Ellen sighed.

‘That may be so, but I cannot stand by and watch you entrust yourself to that – that poisonous piece of filth.’

She was taken aback by the vitriol in his voice. ‘He’s only helping me with the garden.’

‘Don’t let him into the house!’ Hunter warned, his porcine eyes burning into hers.

‘What is it about him everyone hates so much?’ Ellen asked, then stopped. ‘Sorry, I heard about him burning your garage . . .’

‘That,’
Hunter’s fleshy neck unfolded as he thrust out his chin, ‘was one of his least evil misdemeanours. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll shut up the house, get into your car, lock the gate behind you and take a
very
long drive.’

Ellen rolled her eyes at him in a way that was better suited to a young girl with pigtails, and wandered inside to make coffee. Then she dug around in her parents’ shelves for gardening books. After two cups, a chapter of Alan Titchmarsh and half an hour’s more weeding (she was better able to identify the weeds now, thanks to a handy pull-out chart), she decided that Spurs wasn’t coming back.

She was surprised at the leaden feeling of disappointment. She had probably been rather unfriendly to him, but the short encounter had cheered her up. And she badly needed his help.

She lobbed Alan Titchmarsh irritably into the long grass, pulled off the flowered gloves and did a handstand against the wall to cheer herself up. Just as the blood started rushing to her hot head, she heard an engine puttering along the lane.

Spurs looked as though he had equipped himself to declare war on the Goose Cottage lawn and its sniper neighbour. He was riding astride a mini-tractor with an absolutely huge strimmer-type device slung over one shoulder like a bazooka, goggles propped up on his forehead and a fag clenched between his teeth. Rattling behind him was a small trailer laden with spades, forks, backpack sprays and other useful hardware.

He looked even more bizarre upside-down, and Ellen righted herself dizzily.

There was nothing self-conscious about him, she realised, as she went to open the gates. He looked a mess – faded T-shirt covered in oil, denim shorts grey with dust, scratches on his ankles and one toe torn from his trainers – yet he was about the sexiest thing she had seen in years, particularly when he was shooting her that mesmerising smile.

‘Can you believe Hunter Gatherer almost took a potshot at me?’ he said, as he swung into the gates and jumped down, cutting the engine.

‘Gardner,’ Ellen corrected him.

‘I’d rather you called me Spurs,’ he told her, eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve never been good at job titles. Did Hunter warn you off me?’

‘Of course.’ She checked over her shoulder but Hunter’s lookout was shielded from where they stood by the cottage.

‘Why were you doing a handstand?’ he asked, glancing at the stone walls against which she’d been tapping her feet.

‘It helps with the hay fever.’

‘I’ll have to try it – although I swear by cold beer.’ He reached into the trailer and hauled out a chill-box, which opened with a vacuum-packed hiss to reveal several cans of smoking-cold Stella.

Ellen laughed. ‘Isn’t it my job to provide the refreshment?’

‘It’s your wish come true, remember.’ He handed her a can.

It was barely midday, but the sweltering heat made beer the kiss of life. ‘Perfection,’ she gasped happily, after she’d swallowed a draught. She cocked her head and looked at him, taking in the mercury eyes and the sharp, clever features that worked together absurdly well. ‘You really are taking this promise seriously, aren’t you?’

He leaned back against the tractor and tapped the can with his finger. ‘I’m glad you bought it . . . even if you were coerced by my mother. Sorry about that.’

‘It was worth it for this.’ Ellen raised her beer and patted the bonnet of the little tractor. ‘If the others had known they’d get this much value for money, they’d all have been bidding last weekend.’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head. ‘Believe me, I am
bloody
glad it was you who bought it,’ the silver eyes slid away and creased against the sun, ‘because you are the only one in this village who would not use this opportunity to wish me dead three times over.’

‘That depends how well you cut the lawn.’

He laughed, toasting her with his can. ‘I like you. You’re seriously disrespectful.’

She laughed too. ‘Why should I respect you? Because you’re the lord of the manor?’

‘Surely Hunter told you?’ He dropped his voice. ‘I
am
the devil.’

She drank some more beer and ran a hand round her sweaty neck. ‘Is that why it’s so hot around here?’

‘I’ve had the brimstone on the hob all week.’

Together they sagged companionably against the hot flank of the tractor, soaking in a moment’s sun and relaxation as they geared up for another gardening onslaught.

And that was when it hit Ellen.
She
liked Spurs Belling – on instinct, without questioning it at all. The fear that jabbed fingers through her ribs when she looked at him wasn’t the terror that gripped the village, the old unhealed wounds that incensed Pheely, Hunter and the others. She had no reason to feel that. The fear she experienced – and still felt now – was the same exhilarating, freefall fear she had once craved as a daily fix. It was a recurring fear, habitual and addictive, and one that she had long fought to control. It was a fear that Richard had accused her of losing touch with. He’d said that her inability to recognise it would kill her.

Looking at Spurs, she knew Richard was wrong, as she’d told him so many times. It wasn’t the fear she had lost touch with: it was her ability to feel it with him any more. Being with Richard stopped her fearing anything, and she craved that fear – pushing herself to greater and greater danger as she strived to feel it. Each encounter with Spurs clamped her chest in a tight vice of apprehension, like balancing on a high cliff preparing to jump into the ocean. But she knew that she had to keep her boots on and stand still. Last night with Lloyd had proved just how ill-prepared she was to test the water, and his salty shallows were barely lukewarm. Spurs’ deep fathoms boiled like sulphur.

Thirteen years with Richard and their earthy mutual friends had left Ellen fearless when it came to men, sport and danger. It was her own libido that terrified her. Naïve, undermined, inexperienced and barely used, it sometimes tried to kick its way out of her, aiming at nothing in particular and destined, she was certain, to cause chaos. She fought to keep it rigidly under control.

‘Seems a shame to tame it,’ Spurs murmured, beside her.

Ellen looked at him in alarm, certain that he had read her thoughts, then saw with relief that he was looking across the garden.

‘I know – I prefer it like this to the way it was before,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t live here. I’m just passing through.’

‘Lucky you.’ He crunched his beer can and threw it into the trailer.

‘I dug out a gardening book,’ she told him, and fetched Alan Titchmarsh from the long grass. ‘Not sure if it’ll be much help – I gave up after three pages on cold frames.’

He took it, flipped a few pages, then tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Two rules: we stop every hour for a beer and a chat, and we don’t kill anything except weeds and time together, okay?’

‘Sure.’ She tried to hide the width of her smile and reached for her gloves.

About to head back to the tractor, Spurs stopped. ‘Why does your dog have to be on a tether?’