So she’d said the same to her husband as she had to everybody else. They didn’t have enough money to feed another family member. Right now, it was all hands to the pump doing the work with the horses themselves. Paying a groom was completely out of the question, so for now the only help was Tab, who worked in exchange for lessons and a horse to compete. She couldn’t afford to have her feet up playing the pregnant mother. Not yet.
Lottie sighed and clutched the horse blanket to her. The part that really scared her wasn’t being short of money, it was what she’d say when they’d got their lives back on track. Would the man she loved still want her when she admitted that she was prepared to do almost anything except bear his child?
‘It’s for charity, love,’ said Mrs Jones, admiring Mr August for a lot longer than Lottie thought necessary. ‘Oh my, would you look at Mr July? His helmet’s hardly big enough to cover his meat and two veg.’
Lottie cringed at the rush of middle-aged hormones the normally restrained shopkeeper was displaying as she waggled the calendar around. ‘There’s something about a fireman, isn’t there, love? I wouldn’t mind being rescued by Mr February and look at the way he’s cuddling that puppy. I don’t know which is more adorable.’ She shoved the calendar under Lottie’s nose. ‘Maybe we need a hot horseman one. What do you think, dear? Your Rory and that lovely Mick. People would pay to see them with only their riding hats and boots on now, wouldn’t they?’ She frowned. ‘And your dad. Although a lot of people have seen him in his undies already.’
She said it kindly, but Lottie still blushed. It was years, no, decades, since her father, Billy Brinkley, had appeared in the tabloids, but everybody remembered. And brought it up regularly. Even the village gossips. Although she supposed they were a similar age to him. Really, they were all old enough to know better.
‘Sorry, love. But your old man was quite a pin up in his day.’ Mrs Jones sighed and Lottie fidgeted, hoping that was the end of the conversation. ‘And he was such a naughty boy, just like your Rory. Must be something to do with all that fresh air and horses, eh?’ She winked. ‘Your mother had her hands full, I can tell you.’
Please let the ground swallow me up, thought Lottie. Instead the tring of the little bell above the door announced another customer. Bugger, if she wasn’t careful there would be a full-scale debate about what made a horseman hunky and whether Billy was still up for a full frontal for charity.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you, dear? It is for charity and it is the start of the New Year tomorrow. Where does the time go? So it’s your last chance. You wouldn’t want to miss a single day of Mr January would you?’
‘Just the er, pint of milk and, er, yes, okay one of these.’ She grabbed the calendar. ‘For charity, of course.’ Maybe if she took it with her that would be the end of it, and after all that the fire brigade had done for her, the least she could do was show some support. If they hadn’t been on the scene within minutes of the blaze being spotted, the whole of Tipping House (and guests) could have been barbecued, not just the main entertaining rooms.
‘Hang on, hold your horses, love, is that the last one?’
She hadn’t moved fast enough. The booming gruff tone was instantly recognisable. Her father.
Lottie glanced up and he was standing there, large as life, in his boots and breeches, blue eyes twinkling. His thinning sandy curls were damp against his head from the riding hat that he’d just taken off (which luckily meant his horse must be tied up outside, so he wouldn’t be there for long) and his arms were folded over his rather stout frame.
‘I hope you’re not planning on pinning that up in the bedroom to give the lad some competition.’ He guffawed.
Mrs Jones joined in. ‘You’re a card, Billy. We were just talking about you, weren’t we? Those were the days when I couldn’t put the newspapers out on a Sunday morning without seeing your body.’
‘Dad!’ Lottie felt vaguely nauseous. The conversation about her father’s naked butt (and, yes, it would get onto that if she hung around) was bad enough. I mean, who wants to even acknowledge their parents have bodies, let alone ones that have been lusted over by the nation? But for him to even hint at anything going on in her own marital bedroom was just plain weird. Cringe-worthy.
Mrs Jones obviously thought it was hilarious though.
‘I’m only getting it because it’s for charity,’ Lottie protested.
‘Yes, well you can stop looking, love. Come on,’ he waved a hand, ‘give it here. I need that if it’s the last one.’
She found she was gripping it more tightly than she’d expected when he tried to take it. ‘What do YOU want with naked firemen?’
‘It’s a surprise for Tiggy.’
Oh God, now he was dragging her step-mum and their relationship into this. ‘Here.’ She shoved it at him. ‘Don’t say another word.’
‘After a younger man is she, Bill?’ There was what sounded suspiciously like a girly giggle from Mrs Jones, who appeared to be flirting outrageously as she leant her elbows on the counter, displaying an ample cleavage. ‘Always a place in my bed for you if you need it, my darling.’
‘No, no, no.’ Lottie put her hands over her ears and hummed.
‘Tigs took a shine to Mr February. She said she’s thinking of doing a bit of painting again and I haven’t got the time to pose for her, have I now, Molly?’ Billy winked at Mrs Jones, then looked back to his daughter, who was studying the bars of chocolate avidly. ‘Want me to buy you some sparklers while I’m here, love?’
Lottie looked at him, startled. Was that some kind of euphemism? Did he think her and Rory’s love life needed a boost? Was Sam now responsible for the corner shop stocking vajazzle kits as well as superior fake tan?
‘We always had them when you were a kid. Thought the sprogs would want some.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Sparklers for little Alice and Roxy? Fireworks? To see the New Year in with, Lottie. I know Rory’s stocked up with more fireworks than they’ve got on the Thames, but a few of these never go amiss, do they?’ He tapped the packet she hadn’t spotted on the counter. ‘I’m sure young Roxy could put a few to good use.’
‘Oh God, yes, of course, thanks, got to go. Happy New Year.’ She grabbed both packets of sparklers that Mrs Jones was now holding out, made a lunge for the pint of milk and was out of the shop faster than a starter at Aintree.
Her father’s guffaws echoed round the shop as the door slammed shut behind her, and if it hadn’t been for Harry’s whine of surprise she would have forgotten all about the spaniel and left him still tied to the hook under the window.
‘Cripes, Harry, they go sex mad after a certain age.’ She would have actually quite liked to have had a closer look at the fireman’s calendar, but no way was she ever going to mention it again. To anybody. ‘Come on, Harry, we’re off to Sam’s to talk about something sensible like acrylic nails and boob jobs, and pick up the nibbles for tonight.’
* * *
‘Have you seen that naked fireman’s calendar that they’ve got in the corner shop, babe? That Mrs Jones was showing me this afternoon; said they were selling like hot cakes before Christmas. If I hadn’t got my Davey I’d be after Mr October,