Devon’s image of a homely middle-aged lady who drew pictures of cutesy mice for a living was pushed straight out of the window when he spotted the rather neat backside in jeans, long legs and blonde hair cropped in a gamine style.
He pushed his way through the pub, towards the dartboard, managing not to spill his pint. Mouse Lady still had her jacket on and the sort of stance which suggested she might bolt at any second.
It looked as if she and Bets were getting a quick bit of practice in as she held a dart experimentally, weighing it up. Practice? Not the right word. It suggested some level of experience that was being honed. God help them, they were going to get absolutely slaughtered.
‘Devon, there you are.’ Bets strode over and tucked a hand under his elbow, pulling him closer into the small circle – her usual mother hen, making sure everyone was included. ‘I was beginning to think you’d double-crossed me and signed up to be on call.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he drawled. ‘Not that me being here is going to make a blind bit of difference.’
‘Being so positive keeps you going! How do you know Ella here isn’t a ringer?’
‘Is she?’
‘No,’ admitted Bets with a sad little moue to her mouth. ‘But we’re quorate or whatever the technical term is for a full team. The vicar’s just finishing his tea. Not that either of you could hit a barn door with a rocket launcher if you tried.’
‘Ella,’ Bets tapped the other woman on the arm just as she was about to launch her dart. She threw it wildly, the dart bouncing off the board with a thud. ‘Oops. Sorry. This is Devon, my boss, landlord, brother-in-law to be and,’ she shot him a cheeky look, ‘friend, on a good day.’
‘Be careful, otherwise I’ll get my rocket launcher out, you cheeky mare. Hi,’ he stepped forward with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’
As if a cloud had covered the sun, the expression on Ella’s face closed down. Her lips thinned and her chin lifted as she studied him with what he would have said was barely veiled disgust, but maybe he was being paranoid.
‘Yes,’ she said ignoring his outstretched hand and turning back to the dartboard on the wall. With one fierce, brutal throw, she speared the dart into the board. He winced.
This was going to be an interesting evening. It looked like Bets’ new friend was some kind of man-hater. He wasn’t on Marina’s Christmas card list at the moment but he’d never had the impression she wanted to nail his balls to a dartboard. Although there was still time, he supposed.
‘We’ve met,’ said Ella giving him a pointed, almost triumphant look.
‘We have?’
Her fierce expression darkened further.
He didn’t remember but he could tell that admitting that was only going to make matters worse. This girl radiated brittle anger. Any moment now she might breathe fire all over him.
Bets watched the two of them, amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘Come on, you can buy me a drink,’ she said to Devon, already heading towards the bar.
‘Would you like one, Ella?’ asked Devon politely.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Her clipped tones had bite to them.
‘Be right back.’ Bets tossed the words over her shoulder as she led him to the bar.
‘What’s her problem?’ he asked. ‘You’d think I’d insulted her or something.’
Bets’ eyes widened a shade too innocently and her gaze slid away. ‘I might have told her that you thought she’d be ordinary and not an artist at all. But it’s all right,’ she added hastily, ‘because what Greta said was far worse.’
‘Ah, if I’ve upset her artistic sensibilities that might explain it.’
‘I think she’s just a bit sad at the moment.’
‘Sad? And you surmise this how?’
‘There’s just this look in her eye sometimes and I get the impression she might burst into tears at any second. Magda didn’t say what the problem was. You need to be nice to her. I had to force her to come out this evening. I think she’s lonely.’
‘Lonely! I’m not bloody surprised.’
‘No, seriously. I think she’s lost.’ He shook his head and took his pint. ‘Please be nice to her, Devon.’
‘All right then, as it’s you.’ Bets was usually a pretty good judge of character.
Greta, the landlady, nodded at them as they approached the polished wooden bar, brass pulls gleaming in the low light, tugging at the denim straps of her ubiquitous dungarees. Apparently, she modelled herself on eighties band Bananarama, which also explained the red and white head scarf tied around her bird’s nest of bright hair, pink this week.
‘What are you having, Bets? Nothing too strong. You’re our best bleedin’ player.’ Greta shot Devon a dubious look. ‘Unless Mr Vet here has hidden talents.’
He put up his hands in surrender. ‘Not a one. I’m just here to make up the numbers.’
‘Christ alive. You and the vic, the dream team of disaster.’
‘And Magda’s goddaughter,’ chipped in Bets.
‘Ah, yes, the artist. What’s she like? Is she a lesbian?’
Devon exchanged a look with Bets and raised an eyebrow.
‘She doesn’t like men, that’s for sure.’
‘Bacardi and Coke please.’ Bets ignored them both. ‘And no, she isn’t. But guess what? She’s the Cuthbert Mouse illustrator lady.’
‘Is she now? And can she play darts?’
Bets shrugged. ‘Of course not, I just invited her. She doesn’t know anyone—’
‘And you needed the numbers.’ Greta shook her head with a knowing smile. ‘Although to be fair it’s brought a few extra bums in. Having the vicar is a real bonus. The blue rinse groupies are out in force. I had to send young Barry out to stock up on sherry and dust off the schooners.’
Devon sat down on the opposite side of the table to Ella. Unfortunately, Bets had been waylaid by the late arrival of the vicar. The minute he eased himself into the seat, he watched her stiffen. Ella’s body language spoke fluently. Some perverse instinct made him push for conversation.
‘So I hear you’re staying at Magda’s.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘No.’
‘I guess it’s tricky when you’re at sea.’ OK, he’d officially bored himself to death with this conversation but she wasn’t making it easy. Not like Marina, who sparkled in front of an audience, held them spellbound with every word and tilt of her lovely head and smashed his life apart.
A sense of bleakness cast its familiar shadow and his diaphragm clenched in response.
He looked at his watch. Please God, let the other team turn up soon. This was excruciating.
He should have given up then, but he had a habit of flogging dead horses.
‘Bets says you’re an artist. What sort of art do you do?’
Cold unfriendly eyes turned his way. ‘I’m an illustrator. I draw pictures of mice for a series of children’s books. Small. Fat. Chubby. Rotund mice.’ She enunciated each with word with a dart of venom.
‘Right.’ Nothing wrong with fat mice. This girl was lining up to be the queen of crazy town.
‘So how long have been you been here?’
‘It feels like for ever.’ Her mouth twisted and for a moment sheer unhappiness illuminated her face. She looked so lost and alone in that second. And he knew exactly how it bloody felt.
‘God, I wish Bets hadn’t roped me in for this. I’m bloody hopeless at darts,’ he said.
‘So why did you agree then?’ She stared hard at him.
‘Community spirit. And you know Bets. Besides,’ he shrugged, ‘the other option was Gerry, who has about as much control over his right arm as a boom on a boat in a force nine gale. I thought me making a complete dick of myself was preferable to spending the evening having to tend to people’s injuries. People around here tend to value their eyesight.’
She looked up and for the first time met his gaze, her teeth worrying her lip as if trying to bite back any semblance of a smile.
‘I thought you were a vet?’
‘I am but people automatically assume I can deal with humans as well as animals.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I usually volunteer the information about how I take an animal’s temperature and they quickly change their minds. Although obviously if it was an emergency, I’d help if I could.’
‘Unless it was four in the morning.’ Ice filled her voice.
‘Sorry?’
‘I phoned a vet recently. He wasn’t very helpful. It was the middle of the night, I was desperate. I didn’t know whether it was an emergency or not. I’ve never looked after a dog before. I was looking for help from a professional.’
The beer he’d swallowed seconds before stalled in Devon’s gut.
‘Ah.’ Now that explained things.
She stared at him, an eyebrow quirking in dangerous question. Foreboding gnawed at him. He was in quicksand up to his neck. Even though it was far too late to save himself, he tried anyway.
‘It was four o’clock in the morning. You woke me up.’ That sounded pathetic.
‘It was four o’clock in the morning because I was worried sick I was doing something wrong with a dog that I don’t how to look after.’ She shot him an oddly superior look which wasn’t right because he was the professional and he’d told her the facts, albeit a tad sharply. ‘Plus, it’s not my dog. I’m looking after it while Magda’s away. So if it’s overweight, which you so kindly pointed out the other day, that’s not of my doing. However, if I’m overweight, in your opinion, not that it has anything to do with you whatsoever and I couldn’t give a . . . what you think, that’s my business.’
What the hell was she talking about now?
She tilted her head to one side, assessing. The silent study, as if she could see beneath the surface of him, made him want to squirm.
‘You don’t remember meeting me the first time, do you?’
Oh God. Cold panic flashed. As far as he knew, he’d kept track of every woman he’d slept with or tangled tongues with and there weren’t that many of them. Admittedly quite a few drunken fumbles at university and two unmemorable one-night stands which had reinforced his view that fleeting sex left a nasty taste and a yearning for something more. ‘I’m sorry . . . no.’
‘Up in the woods, a couple of weeks ago.’ She looked ready to punch him, her chin lifted with all the pugnacity of a boxer. ‘Told me I was fat. The dog too.’
A hot wave of shame washed over him but it didn’t stop his eyes doing that bugging out thing, which immediately he saw pissed her off even more. The woman sitting in front of him now looked nothing like the drowned rat slash bag lady he’d torn a strip off that day.
‘With that and the phone bedside manner, I’d say you copped the double whammy.’ She sat poker stiff, her mouth twisted in bitterness, but it was the veil of misery he could see in the hunched set of her shoulders and the weary distance in her eyes that held his attention.
‘Aw shit, I’m so sorry.’ He winced in self-deprecation. ‘I was bloody rude. If it makes you feel better, I felt bad about it afterwards. I’m not normally like that. Honest. I’m a nice guy really. Would it be any justification if I told you I’d been up all night and had to put down a dog that morning?’
Her eyes narrowed as she thought about it.
‘I shouldn’t have made the personal comment, although . . . ’ He racked his brain trying to remember exactly what he had said. He was pretty sure he hadn’t come out and said she was fat. The dog, yes, but not her. ‘Look, the dog I had to put down was in agony. So overweight it had developed diabetes. I’d warned the owners so many times . . . they didn’t listen. That dog didn’t need to suffer or be put down.’
Her eyes started to soften. Fractionally.
‘I don’t normally lash out at complete strangers, I was just feeling sorry for myself and took it out on you. I’m sorry. Really.’
She eyed him carefully, her nose scrunching ever so slightly as if she were weighing him up with the precision of a set of scales. Tension took hold of his shoulders, vicelike in its grip. Why should it matter what she thought? It wasn’t as if she’d be alone in having a low opinion of him. Since taking over Dad’s practice he seemed to have upset more pet owners than pleased them. If it wasn’t for Bets keeping him going in the surgery, he’d have slung his hook weeks ago. Dad was still pretending to be at death’s door but it was time to call his bluff. He’d give it a couple more weeks and then he’d be out of here. Start afresh elsewhere and no woman was ever going to derail him again. From now on he was going to focus on his career.
For a minute it was tempting to slump, let the depression break in and have its way with him.
Sheer boredom was the only reason Ella had come tonight. That and the realisation that Bets would have just kept knocking at the door until she answered. She sighed and narrowed her gaze at Devon.
One of her worst faults was this grinding inability to let a grudge go. Second only to the desire to go back to the seat of an argument and niggle at it like a tongue going back to a mouth ulcer over and over. Seeing Devon tonight was like manna from heaven, it gave her the opportunity to let out all her internal shittiness. Except he went and spoiled things by apologising and being human about being rude before.
She hated herself for the horrid small-minded meanness which seemed to have seeped into every corner of her soul. She hadn’t always been like this. Seeing that bleakness in his eyes, the sudden blankness almost devoid of emotion, made something inside her pop like a balloon. She knew the expression. She’d seen it in the mirror every day for the last few months. Abject depression. Misery. Self-loathing. The sight of it punched into her so hard it almost took her breath away. Knowing the feelings so well she couldn’t not acknowledge it.
Funnily enough, touching his hand made her feel better. His head shot up in surprise and they stared at each other. Probably the same surprise echoed in her eyes. Blind instinct. Wanting to dispel that darkness haunting his eyes made her want that human connection again for the first time in a long time. When had she become so cold and brittle? Remote and isolated from everyone? Stupid questions, because she knew the exact moment. No wonder her mother was so worried about her.
Of course, now she’d done it, it felt a bit weird. She pulled her hand back hurriedly and they both looked away, pretending the brief moment hadn’t happened.
She swallowed. So maybe he wasn’t all bad. ‘I’m sorry too. A bit all over the place at the moment.’
‘I know that feeling. Shall we call a truce?’
She nodded as they exchanged wan half-hearted smiles. Not that they’d probably run into each other that often. Before either of them could say anything more Bets bounded into view.
‘Ella, Devon, this is Richard the vicar.’ The sandy-haired vicar beamed from behind round glasses as Bets completed the introductions. For some reason, Ella immediately sat up straighter. She’d never met a vicar before.
‘Richard the Vicar. Sounds rather noble, doesn’t it?’ he said noticing her posture. ‘Bit like Richard the Third. Not, of course, that he was terribly noble. Quite the contrary. Rather ignoble. The princes in the tower and all that.’ He beamed again and Ella couldn’t help smiling back at him, not quite as happily. She noticed Devon smile too. Maybe the vicar was a spiritual miracle worker – he’d already lightened the atmosphere. In his checked shirt and sensibly styled jeans he reminded her of a rather beatific country singer, John Denver’s younger brother. An image popped into her head. Startled, she sat wide-eyed for a moment. Then she grabbed her handbag. ‘Sorry, I digress. Nice to meet you both. I’m sincerely hoping that one of you knows one end of a dart from the other, metaphorically speaking. Because of course it’s quite obvious. The sharp pointy end . . . you know.’
He mimed throwing a dart as Ella finally managed to pull a pencil out of her bag. A beer mat would have to do. With sudden energy, she peeled away the top layer of the beer mat, leaving the blank card beneath and rapidly sketched. Excitement fizzed and popped in her system as an angeliclooking mouse complete with wings and a halo took shape. With a breathless, ‘Oh’, she stared down. Englebert. It was Englebert. She hadn’t been able to get a feel for his character for weeks. He didn’t get much of a look-in. Always the quiet, serious one. With the pencil she shaded his eyes and added a blissful smile to his little mouth.
‘Very nice to meet you, Ella. I hear you’ll be doing the flowers for the church one weekend.’
‘Yes? What?’ Aware again of her surroundings, Ella looked up, her brain now computing what the vicar had said.
‘That’s wonderful news. It’s always gratifying when people get involved in the community and doing the church flowers may seem like a small inconsequential thing but it’s all part of the bigger make-up of village life. Magda’s very good at that sort of thing.’ He paused and looked out of the window. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her.’
Ella’s shook her head as her heart sank. It was just as well she hadn’t heard from her godmother, she might have a few choice words to say to her. Seriously, flower arranging? What had Magda been thinking? And now she’d missed a perfect opportunity – she should have told him she was far too busy. But you couldn’t lie to a vicar, could you?
‘And, how lovely, you’re an artist. I shall look forward to your floral creations. It must be truly wonderful to have a talent like that. Sadly, mine run to much more practical things. Well, I say practical, but not in a plumbing or putting up shelves sort of way. So probably not terribly practical at all.’
Unsure of what to say to his stream of consciousness chatter, she nodded again, her eyes sliding to the quick sketch she’d done.
Devon peered down at the beer mat, took a sidelong look at Richard and then back at the picture, his mouth curving in sudden amusement. When she looked up again, his eyes danced with mischievous delight. For a second her breath caught. Was he going to rat on her? It hadn’t been a deliberate caricature. He gave her a conspiratorial wink.
‘I’m sure you’re good at loads of things, Vicar,’ piped up Bets, quite unaware of the silent exchange. ‘I’m hoping for a bit of divine intervention. Or you could do a prayer or two.’
‘I tend to do that with regard to somewhat weightier matters.’
Bets gave a cheerful shrug. ‘Just a thought. Right, we’re playing 501 to zero. Devon, you can score. You’re better at maths than me.’
‘And I have a calculator on my phone.’ Devon held up his mobile.
‘Even better. Here they come. Alan, Fred, Bill and John. Welcome.’ Bets introduced everyone and the four men, who seemed to be a set of quadruplets in a general uniform of khaki chinos and chambray blue shirts, sat down with their pints at the table opposite.
Ella was amused by Bets’ assumption that she was likely to be the weakest link. She was down to play last after Devon and the vicar.
Neither Devon nor Richard had lied about their skill. The vicar missed the dartboard completely with two of his throws and the third dart hit a three. Devon was no better and managed to hit a ten and the part of the board outside of the numbers. Alan, Fred and Bill threw their darts with quick efficiency. One. Two. Three. Insouciant confidence radiated from them as they stepped up to the oche with self-assured strides instead of shuffling about on the line the way Devon and Richard had done.
At last it was her turn. She weighed the darts in her hand as she took the set from Devon. The tiny bit of practice she’d had earlier had given her a feel for them again.
With her right foot just up to the line, she narrowed her eyes, focused and let the dart fly. Twenty. Double Twenty. Twenty.
‘You’ve played before!’ screeched Bets, leaping up and looping her arms around her waist.
‘Once or twice.’ Ella shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant, unaccountably pleased by Bets’ delight and the look of surprised admiration on Devon’s face.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you could play?’ Bets indignant face made her giggle. ‘Magda never said.’
‘For starters, you never gave me a chance. I did try but you kept interrupting me.’
‘She does that a lot,’ said Devon drily to no one in particular.
‘I do not . . . OK, sometimes I do. So how come you can play?’
‘The double was probably a fluke as I’m a bit out of practice but I used to live over a pub when I was a student.’ She flashed a superior grin towards Devon. ‘Men tend to assume girls, particularly blonde girls, can’t throw straight.’ She winked at Bets. ‘Kept me in paint and brushes while I was at college.’
Devon burst out laughing. ‘That’s brilliant.’
Richard tried to look however a vicar should look and after a few expressions crossed his face, he clearly gave up trying. ‘Good for you. I’m sure there’s a scripture in there.’ He nodded his head and muttered to himself. ‘Perhaps Colossians 3:23.’ He lapsed into thought.
‘So have you got any tips for us?’ asked Bets.
‘Yes, your throwing technique is dreadful.’ She mimicked Bets’ throw. ‘You need to be side on and twist your upper body. Keep your body still. Aim, bring the elbow back a little and then throw and let your hand follow through.’
‘Show me again.’ While Bill took his turn, Ella took hold of Bets’ arm and elbow.
‘Like this, feel it.’
This time when Bets threw her dart, she scored a far more respectable eighteen, a one and a twelve.
‘Yay!’ She swivelled her hips, chanting, ‘Go me. Go me. Go me.’
Stepping up and skirting around her smartly, Fred made short work of three throws scoring twenty, twenty, twenty.
Bets, her face a picture of petulance, muttered, ‘Show off,’ as Devon, Ella and Richard burst out laughing.
Ella noticed how quickly she cheered up when Richard’s improved throw delivered three darts, all of which hit the board. Despite the fact none of them scored anything he received a hearty round of applause from the group of ladies sipping drinks behind them. Maybe she should take a few lessons from the ever-cheerful Bets. Nothing seemed to slow her down for long. In fact, now she was very unsubtly celebrating John’s surprisingly inept score of three.
‘Not very sporting,’ teased Devon, nudging Bets.
‘I know, but it makes me feel a lot better.’ She smirked and rubbed her hands, waggling her eyebrows in pretend villainy. Ella smiled and tried not to laugh at her silliness. It was very childish, but it was impossible not to laugh when she realised the vicar, who should never ever play poker, was doing his utmost to look suitably disapproving while distinctly unholy glee danced in his eyes. Bets’ unsportsmanlike delight was infectious.
‘Right, my turn again. Let’s see if Miss Midas here can give me the darts touch.’ With his dark brows screwed in concentration, almost meeting in the middle, Devon stepped up and took his time, mirroring Ella’s technique. Letting his darts fly, he scored two twentys and a twelve.
Bets leapt to her feet and high-fived him with a loud whoop. ‘Yee-ha!’
Ella took a deep breath as she stepped out of the pub into the chilly night, immediately aware of the quiet. Ahead, her solitary shadow loomed tall and thin in contrast to the bright lights behind her. When she looked back she could see everyone inside, laughing and smiling, action and noise, in ambers and golds. With a leap of her heart she stood stock-still, taking note of the angles and planes of faces, the light and shadow between, the colour and shapes coalescing in her head.
She turned sharply and crossed the street in quick, impatient strides. Devon had offered to walk her home but she’d refused. The place was so tiny compared to London, any hint of danger was laughable unless she was likely to be mauled by a passing hedgehog.
When she opened the front door, the dog bounced up and down in the hall with her usual ridiculous excitement. You’d have thought she’d been gone for three days instead of three hours. With a small sigh, which might almost have been contentment, Ella hung up her coat.
The dog butted her head at her legs gently as if to say, hello, remember me. I’m still here. The evening had turned out far better than she’d expected. She’d had fun. Bets had been a lot less irritating than she remembered. The vicar rather sweet and Devon, well, he wasn’t so bad after all, but one to steer clear of – she couldn’t cope with another lost soul.