Authors: Hannah Hooton
Pippa stayed where she was, only leaving the window once to retrieve a blanket from her bed before resuming her post. The mist turned from pink to gold to ivory before dissipating with the strength of the sun.
She turned away from the window and concentrated hard on remembering every detail so she could put it on canvas later. Her fingers itched for her brushes and watercolours.
She busied herself preparing for her journey back to London, cursing that there wasn’t any running water. But although she would have died for a bath, she could have killed for a cup of coffee.
With a last look around Hazyvale House, she locked the front door regretfully and returned to her car.
The nearest town she found was ten minutes away, which might not seem very much, but to Pippa, who had been brought up within thirty seconds of fellow humanity, it seemed a different country. Helensvale was quaint and tidy with a narrow High Street. Pippa easily found a parking space outside a small café. The jangle announcing her arrival as she opened the door brought a lady in from the back of the shop. She was small like Pippa, but plumper and more buxom, rather like a favourite aunt – if she’d had one.
‘All right, love? What can I get you?’
The curiosity in her voice, Pippa knew wasn’t just of her order, but of her presence in town. She returned the lady’s smile.
‘A cappuccino to go please.’
‘Right y’are. RANDY!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Pippa jumped in terror, only fractionally calmed when a gawky ginger-haired teenage boy stuck his spotty face through the serving hatch.
‘We got more of them Styrofoam cups back there?’
The boy frowned for a moment’s thought then shook his head.
‘Nah.’
The lady turned back to Pippa.
‘You in a rush anywhere?’
‘Well,’ Pippa began awkwardly, ‘I do need to get back to London...’
‘Ah, London,’ she said, nodding, as if that explained a lot. ‘Sorry, love. The coffee’s going nowhere but the tables today. Why not have a seat and I’ll bring one over to you.’
Pippa thought about the long drive back to the city where she was bound to get stuck in gridlock traffic. Sticking around just made the journey seem longer. On the other hand, the smell of coffee and breakfast wafting around the warm and cosy café was hard to resist. Her stomach gave a thunderous rumble, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime.
‘Okay. Could I have a blueberry muffin as well if you’ve got any?’
The lady chuckled and shook her head.
‘You London folk. Blueberry muffin coming up.’
Pippa sat down at a table next to the window and looked out at the passers-by. She noticed most of the men wore tweed and flat caps. Wow, she thought, this really
is
the country. Across the street was a post office-cum-grocery shop where an elderly man was setting the newspaper headline sandwich boards out on the pavement. He paused to greet a couple walking past with two black Labradors.
CHILD’S BIKE STOLEN FROM DRIVEWAY
screamed the headline. Pippa couldn’t help smiling. It made such a change from the latest stabbings and gun shootings.
‘Here y’are, m’love.’ The lady placed an obese muffin and cup of coffee on the plastic table before her.
‘Thanks.’ Pippa took a big unladylike slurp of the hot drink and sighed with satisfaction as she felt the warmth filter through her body. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’
The woman, who hadn’t moved away, chuckled.
‘Mind if I ask what you’re doing round these parts?’ she asked.
‘My uncle owns – or rather
did
own – I own it now – a cottage not far from here.’
‘Oh, yes?’
The fact that Pippa had opened up a little appeared to be an invitation for the woman to sit down opposite her. Pippa didn’t mind. In fact, she was quite enjoying this friendly, enquiring company. It was so far removed from the anonymity and severe self-privacy of London.
‘Yes. Hazyvale House. Do you know it?’
‘Ah yes. Old Dave Taylor. Wily old man. Full of stories, he was. Sorry to hear of his passing.’
‘He was full of stories, wasn’t he?’ She smiled at her childhood memories when Uncle Dave would come to visit and regale exciting and, she now realised, completely farfetched stories. ‘He left me his house and his horses.’
‘That right?’ she said with raised eyebrows. ‘And what do you intend to do with them?’
For a moment Pippa thought she was overstepping the line between being curious and being nosy. But then in such a small town, she probably had every right to know if she was going to sell the cottage or move in.
‘Well, the plan is to sell everything eventually. The cottage is gorgeous, but needs so much done to it. So once that’s all sorted then I’ll probably put it on the market.’
Her plans while she had lain in bed last night had built a picture of selling the horses and using the money to hire some local tradesmen to fix the cottage up, after which she could sell it. It would probably do for some London couple who wanted a weekend pad in the country to escape the hustle and bustle of the city.
She noticed the lady wasn’t too impressed by the news, but she was saved from any comment by the jangle of the door opening. A thin stooped man who looked about a hundred creaked in. A dog, looking equally ancient, pottered at his heels.
‘All right, Norm, my love?’ The lady jumped up and bustled around to the other side of the counter. The man grunted and made his way to a table next to Pippa’s. ‘RANDY! Norm’s here for his breakfast!’
This time Pippa was a bit more prepared for this bellow at the poor teenager. She also liked the way the old man hadn’t needed to tell her what he wanted. She’d do that too at Vivace’s if she could ever remember what their regulars ordered.
He looked short-sightedly across at Pippa through milky cataracts, but turned away to the hostess as she came over with a cup of tea.
‘New clientele you have here, Wendy?’
‘Just passing through, she is. From London,’ she added with extra emphasis.
‘Ah, London. Needed a change of scenery, did you, love?’
‘That too,’ Pippa said hesitantly. She didn’t want to go upsetting any more townsfolk with her news of selling up. ‘I inherited a cottage near here. It’s a beautiful part of the country.’
The old man smiled. His grey eyes softened and all of a sudden he didn’t seem so grumpy.
‘What’s your name then?’
‘Pippa Taylor.’
‘Old Dave Taylor’s niece,’ Wendy inputted.
‘Don’t you go calling Dave Taylor old, Wendy Tarver. If he’s old, what does that make me?’
Prehistoric
sprang to Pippa’s mind and she bit back a smile.
‘You’ve been around too long to be in denial about your age,’ Wendy said, batting a dishcloth in his direction. She moved over to the hatch to retrieve his cholesterol-pumped fry- up which Randy had just cooked. ‘Now, put that down you and don’t be bothering my customers, you hear?’
Pippa thought this was a bit rich, but didn’t comment.
Norm took no notice of her warning and after giving his dog a hash brown, he turned once more to Pippa.
‘Are you sorting out all Dave’s affairs now he’s kicked the bucket? Not something I’d envy.’
‘I’m going to do up his cottage and sell it – hopefully. I was thinking of getting someone local to help,’ Pippa replied, finishing off her muffin.
‘Well, now. That might make it easier to swallow if you bring some work into this place. You’ll be selling to some city folk no doubt?’
Pippa hesitated, feeling unnecessarily guilty.
‘That is the plan, unless of course someone local wants to buy it.’
‘No one will probably be able to afford it, but don’t let that worry you. If it’s city folk you must sell it to, then so be it.’
She gave him a grateful smile, faltering slightly when she became aware of Wendy regarding her from behind the counter.
‘Well, I’ll certainly advertise it locally to begin with,’ she said, trying to appease her.
Norm grunted and scooped another forkful of beans and sausage into his mouth.
‘
O
w, fuck. That’s hot,’ Pippa muttered, trying to pick up a plate of Vivace Restaurant’s homemade lasagne. Finally laden with three plates, she weaved through the tables to deliver the order. The lasagne-requestor looked suspiciously at his food.
‘What is this?’
‘Lasagne,’ Pippa said slowly.
‘Is that meat?’
Pippa peered at the plate then looked back at the man. Was this a trick question?
‘It looks like it.’
‘I ordered vegetarian lasagne. Not this.’
‘No, you ordered regular lasagne,’ Pippa frowned. She could have sworn he hadn’t mentioned anything about being a vegetarian.
‘I think I know what I ordered!’
‘Okay. I’m sorry for the mix-up. I’ll go order you a vegetarian dish.’
‘So I can sit here watching my colleagues eating their food? I don’t think so!’
‘There’s a complimentary bread basket,’ Pippa suggested.
‘Bloody ridiculous!’
‘Excuse me, is there a problem?’
Pippa closed her eyes and counted to five as Jayne, the restaurant manageress appeared at her shoulder. As usual, her boss was dressed in a power pinstripes more suited to a lawyer’s office or tycoon PA.
‘Yes, my friends and I ordered a meal and
she
couldn’t even get three orders right! I wanted vegetarian lasagne!’
‘I do apologise. I can assure you this sort of mistake does not happen often. I’m sure Chef has some freshly-made vegetarian lasagne.’
‘Oh, forget it. I’ll just have a salad.’
Pippa slunk away, avoiding eye contact with Jayne. The manageress wasn’t to be deterred that easily though.
‘Pippa, where is your head tonight?’ she demanded once they were out of earshot of the customers.
‘I’m sure he didn’t say veg lasagne. Honest.’
‘Well, it’s too late to try pinning the blame back on the customer. Remember
the customer is always right
.’
Pippa had difficulty not rolling her eyes.
‘What were they drinking?’ Jayne said.
‘House white.’
‘Fine. Go get them a complimentary bottle and
apologise
.’
Pippa dragged her aching feet up the last remaining stairs to the flat and let herself in quietly. She wasn’t sure if Ollie was back yet from his bi-weekly Boys’ Night Out at the pub although it was long past midnight.
Switching on the lights, she found her answer. The coffee table in the open plan living room was strewn with empty beer bottles and crisp packets; crumbs ground into the rug. Either Ollie had stayed home and drunk himself into a stupor or he’d had his mates round.
Pippa resigned herself to clearing up the mess. Collecting up the bottles, she sympathised with her boyfriend. He had been under so much pressure lately. His agent hardly ever called nowadays and when she did, it so often ended up in disappointment. Just like that last audition almost a month ago when she’d gone down to Somerset. Ollie apparently hadn’t fitted the role of Brave Cop #4.
She left the crumbs for the next morning’s hoovering, but hesitated when she turned towards the closed bedroom door. She was tired, but she couldn’t bear to be faced with alcohol-enforced snores that she could hear rattling through the door.
Instead, she opened the lounge window and lit a cigarette, watching the plume of smoke mingle with the night’s damp air. She thought back to the beautiful dawn she had witnessed at Hazyvale House. With a sigh she looked out at the off-licence across the street. A cold drizzle fell, highlighted in the dirty yellow glow of a street lamp.
Glancing at the dresser next to her, she looked disinterestedly at the small corner of a recycled Amazon Rainforest that was Dave Taylor’s personal paperwork. She’d brought everything back to London after her primary visit four weeks ago, but hadn’t got very far through it all. Reaching out, she flicked through the uppermost paperwork, reading adverts for car boot sales and couple of dog-eared
Racing Post
newspapers. An industrial-sized diary slipped off the pile and landed on Pippa’s already aching foot.
‘Ow!’ she cried, leaping precariously on one slim heel. She shushed herself, glancing across to the bedroom door as she tenderly massaged her toe. She picked up the offending book. As she did so, two sheets of paper slid out and, catching a draft, winged their way into the centre of the lounge. Pippa balanced her cigarette on the windowsill and went to pick them up. The names PEACE OFFERING and ASTOLAT boldly titled each page.
‘Hello. What’s this?’ She picked them up and returned to her smoking post. At first, she couldn’t quite understand Dave’s writing, but she gathered from the dates and bulleting that it was a stats list.
PEACE OFFERING
1963 – Ayala – 66/1
1966 – Anglo – 50/1
1967 – Foinavon – 100/1
1971 – Specifiy – 28/1
1980 – Ben Nevis – 40/1
1985 – Last Suspect – 50/1
1987 – Maori Venture – 28/1
1989 – Little Polveir – 28/1
1995 – Royal Athlete – 50/1
2001 – Red Marauder – 33/1
2007 – Silver Birch – 33/1
2009 – Mon Mome – 100/1
1995 – Royal Athlete – last win 1993
2004 – Amberleigh House – last win 2002
2007 – Silver Birch – last win 2004
Almost half of winners in past 50 years have been 9-year-olds.
Only 5 favourites in past 50 years have won.
‘Won what?’ Pippa turned the sheet over to see if there was more, but the other side was blank. Looking at the page with Astolat’s name on it, it was much the same except with different names and dates. It didn’t give any clues either. ‘Hmm. Oh, well.’
With a shrug she added the papers to the rest and set about tidying it. The two horses were going to be sold the next day anyway. What small compensation she could muster from not being able to afford to keep the horses, she could perhaps invest in getting a better job.