The man responded to her two shameless classic pulling gestures with a look of suspicion. ‘I’m not sure I possess the Seventies slacker clothing or the gormless expression,’ he replied, his voice suddenly gruff. Oh. He patted Scooby-Doo on his silky back and looked at her ruefully. Moody type, despite the initial bonhomie, she surmised. Oh well. Trying to lighten him up might be entertaining; she had nothing else to do.
‘Well, you’d look cute with both,’ she said. ‘Shaggy could do with a re-boot.’ She gave him a slight wink, for good measure and her own amusement. Surely he would go back to smiling, nice country-person now and start flirting with her back.
‘Where are you headed?’ he asked; his expression still guarded. ‘Are you going into the village?’
‘Yes, I’m off to have a little look around,’ she said.
‘I’m going that way,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
They walked for a while in silence. He had wellies on, too. Those posh ones with the band of leather round the top. Garfield the Great Dane trotted next to them. That dog really was enormous, thought Meg. If he stood up on his hind legs you could do the foxtrot with him. There was more silence: this man was certainly not the chatty type. Funny, thought Meg; he’d seemed exactly that when he’d first approached.
‘What’s your name?’ Meg asked him.
‘Jamie Chase.’
‘I’m Meg.’
‘Nice to meet you, Meg.’ He said it without looking at her. He didn’t sound like it was ‘nice’ at all.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a vet.’
Meg threw her head back and laughed.
‘What’s so funny,’ he asked crossly.
‘Nothing, honestly.’
‘You think everyone in the country is a farmer or a vet?’
‘Well, you could include doctors – with their own country practice, a view of the fields and a stream of genial patients with minor and satisfying-to-treat ailments.’
‘Very good.’ He still sounded sour.
‘I read a lot of books,’ she offered, still teasing.
‘I see.’
Oh, she gave up! Perhaps he was busy, distracted, on his way to somewhere, she decided. He probably had a hamster to put down, or something, or somewhere unmentionable he needed to stick a Marigold-gloved hand. Shame, really. She switched tack and opted for polite small talk.
‘I’m staying here, at my sister’s cottage. Well, it used to be mine, too – once upon a time. Sarah Oxbury. Do you know her?’
‘You’re Sarah’s sister?’ He turned to her, surprised. ‘I never would have guessed that!’
What did he mean? Looks wise, probably, like Clarissa had said. Or did he mean Sarah was all grown-up and sensible, whilst she was all ridiculous and prone to falling in cowpats? She gingerly tugged at the wet backside of the jeans to temporarily release their vacuum suction from her knickers. Ugh.
‘Well, I am,’ she said defiantly. She wasn’t sure if she was defending her sister, or herself. ‘I used to live here. I left when I was eighteen. I work in London. I run my own mo—’ She stopped herself; he looked like he wasn’t interested. His mouth was set like one of those presidents on Mount Rushmore. Only Garfield looked animated. He was all bouncy, like he might leap up at her at any moment and have another go. ‘So, you know Sarah?’ she said instead.
‘I know Monty, mainly,’ said Jamie. ‘Her cat? But Sarah’s very nice.’ A car passed them, its windows down.
‘All right, Jamie?’ came a voice.
‘All right, Trevor!’ Jamie waved, a huge grin on his face suddenly, and he gave another cheery wave as the car’s horn made a jaunty beep. Oh. He was friendly to other people, noted Meg. Maybe it was just her. ‘That cat certainly makes its presence known. Last time it came into the surgery it knocked over a week’s supply of prescriptions.’ He chuckled to himself. They were at the village now. One final corner to turn and before them was a tiny circular village green, raised and bordered by a low wall and surrounded by a circumference of lopsided pastel-painted houses, wedged tight and leaning on each other and all characterized by flinty, weather-beaten roofs, sunken skew-whiff doors and weeny small-paned windows. To the left of the houses was a timbered peach and black pub with a swinging sign – The Duke of Wellington. A ginger cat stretched itself full-length on a solitary picnic table outside, basking in the early-morning sun.
It was all the same as it ever was. How very disappointing.
‘One of your charges?’ asked Meg, referring to the cat.
‘Lord Hamish the Third, yes. So, see you around,’ said Jamie and he turned and headed off down the lane to the left of the green which promised the village hall, according to an old-fashioned sign. The ginger cat looked up from its slumber.
‘Bye, then,’ said Meg, somewhat petulantly. Her charms were clearly deserting her. Or he was simply a moody git, even if he was annoyingly handsome. She hoped she wouldn’t see Jamie or Garfield again. Especially Jamie, and she’d prefer Garfield, actually. A close eye would have to be kept on this Monty, she realized, when he showed up – no skirmishes with other cats, no eating things he shouldn’t … absolutely no trips to the vet.
Once Moody Jamie had disappeared off down the lane, Meg looked around her. Yep, there was Binty’s – a Wall’s Ice Cream metal sign gently swinging next to a wooden stool with a cardboard tray of eggs on the top; a brown stone front, brown tinted glass in the window and a brown painted door. And there was Les Metcalfe Hair, the near-fossilized hairdresser’s with a faded poster of Farah Fawcett in the window. Shiny Metropolitan London could not feel further away.
The door to Binty’s opened with the familiar clang of an ancient bell. Brown uneven oak floorboards? Check. Scowly ancient person behind counter in brown jumper, despite the heat outside? Check, although Meg noticed it was a new ancient person. Not Scowly Steven, who always used to tell her off for being too loud. There were shelves of old-fashioned sweet jars behind the new old scowly person, a basket full of freshly baked bread and doughnuts on the counter and shelves all around filled with approximately one of everything – a tin of beans, a packet of jelly, a tin box of teabags, reminding Meg of when she and Sarah used to play ‘shops’. She wondered if Binty’s still had one of those old-fashioned cash registers, with the ping.
‘Morning,’ said a scowly voice.
‘Good morning!’ said Meg brightly. ‘How much are the doughnuts?’
‘Five for two pound.’ Oh, they were cheap! She’d get a magazine and a bar of chocolate as well. ‘I’ve never seen you before,’ said the woman peering over the top of horn-rimmed glasses and stroking her beard. ‘Are you a tourist?’
‘No. I used to live here.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Er … Meg Oxbury.’
‘The hooligan? Oh, I’ve heard about you! Your poor sister!’
‘Oh. Right.’ Meg was taken aback. ‘Well … er, five doughnuts please?’
Meg hurriedly paid for her purchases and dashed out of the shop as quickly as she could. Hooligan! What an exaggeration! She hadn’t been that bad. Clutching her brown paper bag of doughnuts, Meg strode round the path which circled the green.
‘Morning.’ An old man in a flat cap greeted her as he walked past. This was better;