Katy Carter Wants a Hero (31 page)

God, I think as I grind the gears on the minibus, what a waste of emotion. I’m so over James! I’d like to travel back in time and give the me of several months ago a good hard kick up the arse. I would so do things differently.

I check my watch again. I’m running late. Maybe I need to reverse back up to the crossroads and try another direction. Trouble is, I can’t remember which way I came from.

I rub my throbbing temples. Today is not getting any better.

By the time Auntie Jewell staggered back to the rectory, Richard had come home and was having a blazing row with Mads in the hall.

‘Don’t mind me, darlings,’ hiccuped Jewell, tottering past them. ‘Much healthier to let it all out.’

Richard paused in amazement, mid-row, as Auntie started to climb the stairs, swaying like she was still on
Dancing Gir
l.

‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, lips white with rage.

‘Katy’s Auntie Jewell,’ Mads yelled. ‘Who the fuck’s Isabelle?’

Richard winced. ‘You know I don’t condone that kind of language.’

‘And I don’t condone you shagging other women,’ shrieked his wife, and off they went again, hammer and tongs, until the small hours. This was all right for Jewell, who passed out the second her head touched the pillow, but not so funny for me, who tossed and turned until dawn, sleep kept safely at bay by Mads and Richard’s yelling and Jewell’s snoring.

Anyway, this morning Jewell went to sea with Guy, the two of them seeming to have formed a bizarre friendship, and I decided that I was going to seek alternative employment and tell Gabriel to shove his job up his bottom. Richard went out running at the crack of dawn, slamming the front door so hard that the rectory almost slid down the hill, and Maddy attacked the vodka while she ate her cornflakes.

Things are not looking good.

I may well be lost in deepest Cornwall but I’m grateful to be out of Tregowan. Next time I want a peaceful life I’ll go somewhere quieter, like the fast lane of the M25.

I let up the clutch and the minibus goes shooting backwards. I try to stamp on the brake but my short legs are waving in the air because the pillow I shoved in my back has slipped. It’s been a few years since I was let loose on the Sir Bob’s minibus, chiefly because the last time I was behind the wheel I took out four bins and a skip, but they say you never lose the knack.

Although you have to have it in the first place, I suppose.

In any case the minibus shoots backwards and ends up in a hedge, where it sits, wheels spinning, while I bash my head against the wheel in frustration. My parents must have forgotten to invite the bad fairy to my christening or something, because this run of bad luck is beyond a joke. Then I remember that they’re pagans and didn’t bother with christenings. Well, my aura’s dented or something. The minibus is
definitely
dented. Richard will freak.

There’s a tap at the window and I nearly jump out of my skin when a dark head pokes in through the window. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I think so,’ I say. ‘But I’m very lost. I’m supposed to be at Tregowan Stables.’

The young man grins at me. He’s got a mop of dark curls and his front tooth is chipped. There’s a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his bumpy nose and the beginnings of dark stubble across his cheeks. He’s not conventionally good-looking but he’s got a cute smile.

‘You’re not as lost as you think you are,’ he says. ‘You’ve just backed into the south paddock.’ He sticks his hand in through the window and shakes mine. ‘I’m Tristan Mitchell. You must be Katy Carter.’

‘Afraid so,’ I say glumly. This is not the way to impress a potential new boss.

Tristan opens the door. ‘The yard’s only a few minutes up the road. I’ll rescue this while you get sorted. Gran can’t stand people who are late.’

‘Thanks.’ I hop out gratefully. Once out of the minibus I can see that he’s wearing tight cream breeches that show off his long, lean thighs. Mads is right. Tristan is gorgeous. What she failed to mention, however, is that he’s about eighteen years old. Seriously! He looks like he ought to be sitting in my A-level group discussing iambic pentameter or something. I’m starting to think all this country air is getting to Maddy.

To cut a long and very painful story short, I’m back at the minibus in less than twenty minutes. If Tristan is pure Jilly Cooper, then his grandmother is like something out of Stephen King.

In other words, she’s a horror.

‘Katy Carter?’ she barks when I tear into the yard. ‘You’re late!’

‘Yes, sorry!’ I gasp. ‘But—’

‘Never mind but, girl! Time is time! I’m Mrs M. I own this place. You can ride, I take it?’

‘Well, I have—’

‘Yes or no?’ she snaps. ‘Come on! Look lively! I haven’t got all day.’

‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly. And then, almost before I know what’s happening, I’ve got a crash hat rammed on my head and have been zipped into some kind of body armour that is pushing my poor boobs practically through my spine. I must look as though I’m about to be shot out of a cannon.

‘Right!’ bellows Mrs M, leading the most enormous grey horse out of a stable. ‘This is Spooky. Up you get! Let’s see what you can do.’

This is the point in the proceedings where I really ought to tell her thanks but no thanks and toddle off with my pride intact. But there’s something about Mrs M that doesn’t brook arguing with. She’s wearing those old-fashioned breeches from the 1950s, all puffed out at the sides, which makes her a dead ringer for an SS commander. All she needs is a swastika. And I don’t like the way she’s tapping her whip against her boots either.

‘Chop chop!’ snarls Mrs M, heaving me up so violently that I almost fly over the other side of the horse. ‘Leg on!’

And it’s downhill from then on. I don’t think I even last five seconds because Spooky puts in an enormous buck and I go sailing through the air and land on my backside. Mrs M tuts loudly and legs me up again, and once more I’m launched into orbit.

‘I give up!’ I puff, after I’ve been deposited for the third time.

‘Give up?’ bellows Mrs M in disgust. ‘What’s the matter with you young people? I was taught by a member of the Household Cavalry, my girl, and there was no giving up in my day. It takes seven falls to make a horse-woman! Up you get!’

Seven falls? I’ll be dead. My bum is dislocated as it is.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t think this is going to work out.’

And I’m out of there like last week, leaving Mrs M muttering about young people and our lack of commitment. Well, she is so wrong. I
am
committed — to keeping my neck in one piece.

When I get back to the minibus I’m relieved to see that Tristan has extricated it from the hedge and managed to turn it around. But there’s no sign of him.

Strange.

I open the driver’s door and ease myself in. My bones are screaming and I’ve got aches in places that I didn’t know could ache. I suppose that it’s a sad fact of life that when you hit thirty you don’t bounce.

‘Oh!’ I gasp, when I glance in the rear-view mirror and glimpse Tristan. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

Tristan’s looking in amazement at Maddy’s kinky cargo, which has spilt out of the boxes when they toppled with the collision. He’s got Throbbing Theo in one hand and an edible G-string in the other.

‘What sort of church do you go to?’ he asks. ‘I feel the need to get religion.’

‘Put those away!’ I hiss. ‘They’re not mine.’

‘Keep your hair on!’ He stuffs the goods back into the boxes. ‘That was a quick interview. Did you get the job?’

‘No.’

‘Pity.’ Tristan winks at me. ‘We could have had some fun.’

Am I being chatted up by a fit eighteen-year-old?

He jumps out of the bus and slams the door. ‘Any time you want a ride, you know where I am. See you!’

And off down the road he saunters, firm young bottom wiggling jauntily. I’m blushing from head to toe but also feeling something close to pride. I may not have Nina’s boobs, or the perfect teeth and perfect body that Gabriel requires for his pretend girlfriend, but I’ve just had an eighteen-year-old flirt with positively geriatric me. I haven’t lost it!

I put the minibus in gear and lift the clutch. Every bone in my body aches but I’m still smiling even when I get back to the village. I may not have a job yet but I’m feeling more cheerful than I have for ages. And I’ve got the number for Jason Howard in my bag. Maybe I’ll pop down to Arty Fawty and have a chat with him. After all, how hard can it be to look after two small children? Unlike my encounter with Spooky, it’s hardly likely to kill me, is it? After all, I’m a secondary school teacher. I’m made of sterner stuff.

How wrong can a girl be? It’s only quarter past six but already I’m drooping with exhaustion and longing for Jason Howard to come in from work. My head is pounding and my throat’s hoarse from screeching at the two imps of Satan so cleverly disguised as sweet-looking children. Ever since I’ve picked them up from school I’ve needed eyes in my backside.

Note to self: never, ever have kids.

No wonder Jason Howard pays so well. This is danger money.

After leaving the stables I’d parked the minibus, cunningly lining the scraped side alongside the wall so that hopefully Richard won’t notice the new dents, and wandered into Tregowan. It was a glorious afternoon, primroses clustering the gardens and cow parsley frothing the hedgerows. Seagulls wheeled and plunged above and the village throbbed with holidaymakers, who crowded the narrow streets and clustered round the harbour. Munching on a pasty, I meandered with the tourists, peeping into the gift shops and admiring the views until I eventually arrived at the quayside.

There was no missing the Arty Fawty shop. It was painted in vivid primary colours with the name picked out in the most violent shade of pink I’d ever seen. The place looked like a migraine with a roof. Throwing my pasty crust to the gulls I wandered through the open door and was almost blinded by the bright pictures jostling for pole position on every surface. Bright blobby boats in rainbow hues competed with splashy cottages and splats of vermilion and crimson screamed for attention. It was bold and bright and unbelievably funky, even if it did all look a bit as though a gang of six-year-olds had been let loose.

‘Can I help you?’ A bit like the shopkeeper in
Mr Benn
, a man appeared as if by magic. He was wearing paint-splattered combat trousers and a faded blue fisherman’s smock speckled with the same lary colours that filled the shop. His wavy hair was caught up with an elastic band and there was a smudge of paint across his nose, Adam Ant-style.

I was a bit disappointed. I’d been expecting a tragic Captain von Trapp type. Jason was attractive in a trendy hippy kind of way, with long skinny limbs and a funky headscarf, but he wasn’t my type at all.

For a start, he was ginger.

I know! I know! I’m the last person in the world to be gingerist. But I can’t help it. If we got it together we’d look like two ginger peas in a ginger pod. And imagine the poor kids, cursed with two sets of pale and freckly genes. I just couldn’t go there.

I’d have to have words with Mads. She has no idea what constitutes a romantic hero. I may need to force her to read my entire Mills and Boon collection.

‘Jason? I’m Katy Carter.’ I held out my hand. ‘I’ve come about the childminding job.’

‘Thank God!’ Jason Howard grabbed my hand and clutched it tightly. ‘It’s yours!’

I was taken aback. ‘Don’t you want to see my references or something?’

‘I’m sure they’re great,’ Jason said. ‘Besides, you’re staying with the vicar. I trust you.’

I opened my mouth to point out that I could be anyone, but then shut it again. After all, I wanted this job. Anything had to be better than posing as Gabriel’s girlfriend. And though in my usual experience most parents would rather cut their hair with a Flymo than hand over their precious children to any old body, I wasn’t instantly suspicious. After all, my parents had always been more than happy to dump Holly and me on just about anyone who’d have us. And with his hippy-style long hair and dreamy expression there was something about Jason that reminded me of them.

‘I’m a qualified teacher,’ I told him. ‘I’ve taught in inner London for the past seven years.’

‘Aren’t the kids really tough there?’ asked Jason.

People
always
ask me that, like the children are a pack of flesh-eating monsters who would tear a teacher limb from limb as soon as look at them. In reality all it takes to tame them is a loud shout, big shoes and a funky pencil case. Still, who am I to shatter the illusion?

I nodded. ‘Like wild animals.’

‘Excellent!’ cried Jason.

Excuse me?

‘I mean, excellent you’re a teacher,’ he amended quickly. ‘You’re hired.’

Well that was easy, I thought, as I left the shop. Jason had promised to call the head teacher at Tregowan Primary to let her know that I was coming at home time to collect Luke and Leia.

Luke and Leia! I chortled to myself as I climbed the hill on top of which some thoughtless sod had built the primary school; they shouldn’t be hard to identify. Just spot the boy with the light sabre and the girl with the Chelsea buns on the side of her head.

Nearly three very long hours later I’m laughing on the other side of my face. Luke and Leia? Satan and Lucifer would be more appropriate names.

‘Katy Carter?’ A harassed-looking primary teacher elbowed her way through the throng of waiting mums, dragging a small boy and girl in her wake.

‘That’s me!’ I said, all Mary Poppins brightness. ‘And you,’ I added, crouching down to beam at a carrot-haired little boy, ‘must be Luke.’

Luke looked at me with bright eyes.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he drawled, and his sister shrieked with laughter.

I was momentarily gobsmacked. Maybe I’d heard wrong? I took a deep breath and smiled at the little blonde angel, who was shaking with mirth.

‘And you’re Leia?’

‘No, dumbass, I’m Luke,’ she shrieked, and dissolved into more gales of laughter. In the meantime her brother had tripped up another boy and was busy kicking his school bag around the playground.