Nothing to Lose (23 page)

The sea, after the scorching summer, was warm as it swirled round their ankles. Bee, shrieking with delight, leaped over the rippling waves, as April and Jix, each holding a hand, swung her up and over the foaming shoreline.

‘We ought to get a Lilo from that cafe place up there,’ Jix said. ‘I always wanted one when I was a kid but we could never afford it. And you,’ he eyed her, ‘really should christen that bikini.’

As Beatrice-Eugenie sat down and screamed with excitement as the sea eddied round her legs, Jix tumbled April into the shallow warmth of the water.

‘Bastard . . .’ she spluttered happily, splashing him back.

‘Oy! You! You got a bloody greyhound?’

They both looked at the wizened man in the Aston Villa replica shirt who was standing on the water’s edge, gesticulating fiercely.

‘Yes, but he’s tied up.’

The claret and blue arm jabbed angrily up the beach. ‘Not any more, he ain’t. The bugger’s just eaten my Cornetto!’

With a sigh, April scrambled to her feet. Holding on to her bikini and following the ice-creamless man, she side-stepped dozens of family groups before locating Cair Paravel. He was digging happily in the sand, his tail whizzing like a propeller.

She grabbed his collar and he looked up and smiled at her, the remains of wafer and chocolate decorating his muzzle.

‘How much do I owe you?’

The football shirt shrugged. ‘A couple of quid should do it.’

‘I’ll just go and get my purse.’ April tugged Cairey away from his excavations. ‘And if you come to the greyhound stadium tonight you could put something on him and possibly win a lot more than the cost of an ice cream.

‘On him?’ The football shirt looked horrified. ‘He ain’t even trained proper! Don’t you go getting your hopes up on him, gel. He’s not a proper racer – he’s out of control. He won’t be winning nothing, you mark my words.’

For Sebastian, August Bank Holiday Monday had so far been a very surreal experience.

It hadn’t just been arriving at the Ampney Crucis greyhound stadium and thinking that he must have inadvertently stepped back into a time warp: it had started long before that. Possibly halfway through the morning, when he and Brittany, emerging after a heavy night, intent on dodging the paparazzi outside her West London flat, had discovered that someone had wheel-clamped the Daimler.

‘We’ll take yours,’ Brittany had said, flashing smiles at the photographers and writing a cheque for a Frobisher minion to bail out the car later. ‘I can sleep all the way down there, then.’

And she’d done just that, Sebastian mused, now sitting in the bar of the strangest pub he’d ever encountered, listening to the umpteenth rendition of ‘Mr Tambourine Man’, and watching through the window as the tourists soaked up the scorching afternoon sun.

They’d whizzed down to Ampney Crucis in the Mercedes, with no traffic problems at all on the motorway, and Brittany in her brief sundress, which must have cost about a thousand pounds a square inch, had curled like a Siamese cat beside him, and slept soundly.

Once they’d arrived, Brittany’s razor-sharp business brain had kicked in immediately, and she’d suggested that, as their meeting with the Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium board members wasn’t until six o’clock, just prior to the evening’s racing, they should do a bit of private reconnoitring. This was when the second feeling of disbelief had started to emerge. Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium was like something out of an old Peter Sellers film: totally deserted, with no sound but the constant shush of the sea in the background, with birds and butterflies swooping overhead, and the sun spiralling from the crumbling white railings and tumbledown stands.

Sebastian had expected Brittany to hoot with laughter and suggest they made a quick getaway. There was no way on earth, even though the stadium was apparently due for a face-lift, that the Frobisher empire would want to stage their flagship race meeting in a place like this.

‘It’s rather sweet,’ Brittany had said, scuffing at tufts of fern growing through the shingle at the edge of the track. ‘Don’t you think?’

Sebastian had shaken his head. Sweet it may be, but it would never be able to cater for the
creme de la creme
of the dog world, and the punters, plus the spivs and touts and celeb hangers on, all of whom would follow the Frobisher Platinum Trophy like Eric Cantona’s seagulls. As far as he could see, there was no bar, no restaurant apart from the closed-up hot-dog van, and no Tote facilities. The only bookmakers’ pitches on offer were three piles of pallets beneath three striped umbrellas, all with well-worn name boards in curlicued writing.

Benny Clegg, Roger Foster, and Allan Lovelock. They sounded – and no doubt looked – like the Three Stooges. He’d laughed softly to himself, wishing his parents could be here to see this. He could imagine Oliver comparing this place with the Gillespie Stadium with all the air of an outraged Derby horse contemplating an Epsom challenge from a Thelwell pony. And Martina – well, Martina would simply never believe it.

‘Shall we just go home?’ he’d suggested. ‘Now. Before it gets any more embarrassing.’

‘No, of course not. I’ve seen much worse than this.’ Brittany had looked around. ‘Well, not much worse, actually, and probably not as decrepit, but it’s got – well – you’ve got to admit, the place has got something.’

‘Woodworm, dry rot, and impending bankruptcy?’

She’d smiled at him. ‘I know, Seb, darling, how desperate you and your parents are for the Frobisher Platinum to be staged in Bixford – and believe me, you’re up there with the best of them – but don’t forget the GRA are very keen to make the dog racing image a friendly, family-outing affair. Places like this have a certain kudos, you know.’

‘But you can’t seriously be considering – ’

‘What I’m considering is meeting the people here, as arranged, and discussing their refurbishment plans and their tender. They have as much right as anyone else to my time. That’s all. Now, I’ve got some stuff to do on the laptop and a million calls to make. You don’t mind if we park the Merc somewhere quiet and I turn it into a mobile office, do you?’

Sebastian had shaken his head. ‘No, of course not. I’m sure I’ll find something to amuse myself.’

‘I’m sure you will. Have a drink, something to eat, paddle in the sea, watch Punch and Judy . . .’ She’d curled herself round him and gently nibbled his lower lip. ‘Just don’t be late back, Sebby. It’s important that we get to the stadium on time.’

And so, Sebastian thought, draining his glass of beer, that was it. They’d parked the car on the cliff top, and he’d left Brittany plugged into her mobile phone and her computer. Arranging to meet her back at the stadium at six o’clock, he wandered off to take in the sights of Ampney Crucis.

They hadn’t taken very long. The village itself was incredibly beautiful, very quiet, and totally unspoiled. But it didn’t offer much by way of entertainment for someone alone who knew no one. Once he’d stared at the beach, investigated the Crow’s Nest Caff and the fish-and-chip shop, and had two pints of some really rather good local beer in the quaint Crumpled Horn, he felt he’d exhausted the possibilities. He looked at his watch. God – it wasn’t even two o’clock. What the hell was he supposed to do with the rest of the afternoon?

Deciding that he couldn’t cope with another pint – it was curiously strong – or yet another plaintive rendition of ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ – he already knew that he’d be humming the chorus for the rest of the day – he stepped outside into the sunshine.

It was gloriously warm and the beach below him was packed, brightly coloured bodies plunging in and out of the sea. Sebastian leaned on the railings that were obviously intended to prevent inebriates staggering from the Crumpled Horn and immediately rolling down the cliffs, and sighed. Since childhood he’d holidayed with Oliver and Martina on private islands borrowed from friends in the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean. In adulthood, he’d jetted off to the world’s trendiest vacation destinations. Never once had he had an English seaside holiday.

But these people, with their deck chairs, and their children, all looked far happier with the meagre amenities on offer than his rich and bored companions had done with every delight in the world at their disposal. The beach huts were pretty cool too. Like the old-fashioned picture postcards that his grandparents had shown him. It was another world here, away from Bixford and Tacky Towers.

Sebastian fondly watched a young couple with a small child in the distance, running in and out of the water to jump on and off a lurid-coloured Lilo. The girl was slim, with fair hair and a brilliant purple bikini, while the man had long hair and a lean body, and the child ran between them, obviously blissfully happy. There was a dog too, chasing the waves, shaking itself all over them.

They looked like some idyllic family from an Australian soap opera, Sebastian thought, watching them as they scampered back up the beach, carrying the Lilo to where an elderly woman sat huddled in a deckchair with a towel hooded over her head like ET. Was she ill? He hoped not. Illness and death didn’t have a part to play on a beautiful day like this. Sebastian smiled to himself as the woman leaned down with admirable dexterity, and helped herself to something from one of the carrier bags. No infirmity there then, thank goodness. She obviously just had an aversion to the sun.

His eyes moved along the shoreline, taking in other similar families, all happily enjoying the very unEnglish bank holiday temperatures. He envied them their ability to be so carefree. Again, he thought, he ached to be part of a happy, uncomplicated family – like the one he’d watched earlier – with a child and a dog and a mother or grandmother sitting cosily in charge of the picnic bags. They were probably all staying at some B&B that Martina wouldn’t even deign to enter, and eating fish and chips and huge fry-ups and having the best time it was possible to have.

Feeling highly dissatisfied with his smug, comfortable, parentally organised life, Sebastian unpeeled himself from the railings. There were still more than three hours to go until he could join up with Brittany. It really was scorchingly hot. Irritably he wondered why he hadn’t thought about packing swimming trunks and a towel. Possibly because he’d never expected to find clear blue waters and pale clean sand in Ampney Crucis. Of course he could just pop into the Crow’s Nest Caff and buy some beach stuff, but it hardly seemed worth it now.

Yawning and stretching, he thought the best thing to do was to look for somewhere cool and shady . . . somewhere he could relax and catch up on the sleep that Brittany’s acrobatics had denied him last night.

He drifted away from the sea front, puffing in the heat on the slight incline towards the village. All the seats on display were in very public view, and in the full glare of the sun, and certainly wouldn’t serve his purpose. He walked on, his feet heavy, his whole body suffused with a sleepy, opulent, mid-afternoon lethargy. Each step was like walking in a warm bath, and the air was hot on the back of his throat.

A clump of dark trees just along the cliff top seemed to offer the most shade, so Sebastian headed for them, hoping against hope that a dozen other day-trippers hadn’t beaten him to them.

They hadn’t. Probably, he thought, because when he reached them he quickly discovered that the trees belonged to St Edith’s churchyard, and a graveyard would surely not be top of anyone’s holiday must-visit list.

The cemetery, set apart from the greystone church, was bordered by trees on three sides. One of these looked out to the sea, and Sebastian felt a childlike frisson of pleasure, watching the shimmering water dancing through the shifting branches. The elders of the parish had kindly provided wooden benches dotted around the tombstoned serenity, and he sank down on the one with the best sea view, grateful for the dark cool green shadows.

God, he was tired. The combination of Brittany’s nocturnal antics, the sizzling heat, and the two pints of Old Ampney ale proved just too much. Stretching out, listening to the distant soporific sounds of the sea, and the gulls, and the happy shouts of the children playing on the beach, Sebastian felt his eyelids droop.

He woke with a jump. He could smell pine needles and hot spicy privet flowers. Where the hell was he? He blinked, and slowly remembered. Christ – suppose it was late and he’d missed Brittany and the meeting? He glanced down at his watch in the deep dark silence. Quarter-past four – thank God for that. He stretched, feeling refreshed, and just a bit uncomfortable, then realised he wasn’t alone.

A woman, with her back to him, was tending one of the graves against the sea wall. He watched her for a moment as she arranged a tumble of pastel freesias in the vase, and realised that she was talking. Knowing that he was intruding on something very private, Sebastian wasn’t sure whether to stay still and hope she’d finish and walk away without even knowing he was there, or to stand up and try to sidle off without her noticing. He certainly didn’t want to startle her.

He sat for a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe, hearing the cadence of her voice but not the torrent of words. It sounded like a proper conversation and his heart went out to her. Squinting at the headstone he could see that Mary Clegg had departed this life some twenty-five years previously, but that Benny, devoted husband of Mary, father of Philip and adored and much-loved grandpa to Jasmine, had only joined her in May this year. Four months ago.

He stared at the woman’s hunched back again. Poor thing. The grief must still be very raw.

Was this the Cleggs’ daughter-in-law, then? Sebastian thought probably not. Although he couldn’t see the face, the glossy dark brown hair was girlishly long as it fell forward, and the black T-shirt and jeans indicated a more youthful way of dressing. The granddaughter perhaps? Jasmine? Beautiful name . . .

With another start, Sebastian realised from the quiver of the shoulders as the girl finished arranging the flowers and remained squatting, still talking, that she was crying. God, this was awful. He really shouldn’t be here. Standing up as silently as possible, hoping that if he stepped off the gravel path and on to the neatly clipped grass he’d be able to exit the cemetery without making a noise, he started to move away. But although he hadn’t made a sound, the girl must have sensed the movement, and jerked her head round, staring at him in fright.