A Primrose in November

by Luanne Oleas

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance; Family Saga; Bridgerton

Synopsis

Romance, revenge, and the meaning of home combine in this story about second chances. It's November 1972 in the less-than-bucolic English countryside. David's relationship with his French girlfriend disintegrates when a pretty Canadian offers him a marriage of convenience to solve her visa problems. David must not lose focus or a vengeful magistrate will steal Wyndlan, the family farm.

Release date: December 2, 2011

Publisher: Luanne Oleas

Print pages: 462

Sample

Chapter 1 - Queen's Head Pub

Winter in Sussex undressed the trees. Leaves swirled like brown and gold confetti beneath David's tires on the short, winding road from Wyndlan Grange to the Queen’s Head pub. Road-shy estates switched to lane-hugging cottages as David entered the village. Pulford consisted of one street, named “The Street,” where a tobacconist, a chemist, and a post office combined to form “The Store.” David parked across The Street from the old, stone church, where attendance never quite equaled the pub’s, save Christmas and Easter.

Leaving his mud-splattered parka in his unlocked car, he walked briskly toward the pub. He alternated between warming his hands with his breath and brushing bits of straw from his sweater. Other than raking a comb through the brown curls rebelling at his collar, he did nothing to change his scruffy appearance. Most of the patrons were farmers who distrusted hands too soft and clothes too clean.

David took two steps downward into the pub, forced to duck under the low doorway. More than six feet tall, he often dodged the low beams of the older pubs, always a treacherous prospect after too many pints. He found an open spot between the low ceiling’s black oak beams where he could stand up straight.

Patrons packed the pub where the fireplace blazed non-stop in winter. David began to lose the chill that dogged him throughout his chores all morning at Wyndlan. Pipe and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He searched the hazy warmth for Jim. His usual 15 minutes late, David expected to find his best friend waiting, pint in hand.

He could not remember the first time he entered the Queen’s Head pub, though his father had told him it was 32 years ago, when he was only fortnight old. As a boy, he often accompanied his father when he popped round for a chat with the locals. All the talk now was about Maggie Thatcher’s stand for Prime Minister, but the decor remained the same. The slate flooring and stone fireplace hadn’t changed, nor had brass harness fittings or the picture of a young Queen Elizabeth on the wall.

“You dirty stiff! What are you doing here?” asked a young man reeking of beer. “You look as though you have been playing with your cows again.”

“Henry, you are in fine form,” David said to his stepbrother who struggled to stay upright. Though Henry was several years younger than David, he logged more hours by far at the Queen’s Head.

“What brings you round, you dirty stiff? I thought Michelle forbid unescorted pub crawls,” Henry said, rocking back and forth. He threaded his arm through the loop of a leather strap hanging from the beam overhead. He swayed as if he rode a train car on the Underground. “Come to buy me a pint, have you?”

Henry’s pants were never soiled nor his sweaters tattered. He wore plush, green corduroys with the pant legs tucked neatly into well-polished boots. He looked warm in his military-style sweater with shoulder and elbow patches. His greenish-brown, watery eyes looked painfully bloodshot between his weak chin and unruly brown curls. Half a foot shorter than David, his pale face bore a certain puffiness above his wiry frame.

“You are blotto, Maggot,” David said, addressing him by his nickname. He earned it as a boy by postponing burying a sheep. When David’s father pressed the point, Henry dug a shallow hole. When the body bulged above ground, he jumped on the grave with both feet, causing the sheep to burst and cover him with maggots. David deemed him Maggot and it stuck.

“Of course I am blotto; I am in a bloody pub, aren’t I? I say, David, that French woman hasn’t let you out enough lately. You have forgotten what happens in a bloody pub. I intend to become even more pissed,” Henry added, twirling on the strap to face the young man behind him. “Nigel, be a good sport and get us another bitter.”

Henry passed his pint mug to a well-lubricated Nigel, who hung from an adjacent strap. In doing so, Henry let slip the sling that held him upright and fell backward toward the fireplace. David grabbed Henry by the arm and pulled him away from the flames.

“Good show, David. You saved my bloody life, you dirty stiff. I suspect you think I should be ruddy grateful.” Henry shook loose from David’s grip and clung to his strap again. “Right enough then, I am. Grateful as a bloody stiff. I am forever in the debt of David Elliott, my ruddy stepbrother. How is that then?” As he finished, Nigel returned and handed him an unneeded pint. David attempted to slip away.

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious why Nigel and I are drinking this wretched pub dry today?” Henry asked before David could leave.

“When have you or Nigel ever needed an excuse for that?” David asked, his eyes searching for Jim.

“You make it sound as if I am some dirty, great alcoholic,” said Henry. “And what does it matter? Today is different. Today we learned that Nigel lost Hill House.” Lifting his mug in a sloppy salute, he said, “This one is for Hill House.”

“You sound like a raving madman, Maggot,” David said. “What are you on about? I suspect only you two could be pissed enough to lose an entire house.”

“I grew up in that house,” Nigel said in a maudlin tone. Henry’s friend stared into his drink, his boring features more vacant than usual. “I shall miss the old girl.”

“Your father is selling, is he?” David asked, still confused.

“Mind your tongue,” Nigel answered. “My father would never sell Hill House. It has been in the family since 1773, when my great, great, great grandfather. . . Maybe that should be four ‘greats.’” He paused to search his muddled mind for the answer. “I was never quite certain. I shall have to ask Father. I should know. After all—”

“What are you trying to say?” David asked.

“I have lived there almost 30 years,” Nigel said with a whimper, oblivious to the question.

“Bloody hell! I have almost lived there 30 years,” Henry said, as if it justified his present state.

“Henry, you never lived a day at Hill House,” David said. “Either you were with your father at Newcombe Manor or home with us at Wyndlan.”

“Nigel here is my oldest chum,” Henry said. “I have had a good many laughs at Hill House and I cannot forget that. You would not make light of it if you were losing your bloody Wyndlan, would you?”

“Make light of what?” David asked in frustration.

“Show some sensitivity and buy us both a round,” Henry said in hopes of persuading David to go the bill. “This has not been easy for Nigel, you know.”

“You are so far gone I haven’t a clue what you are on about. You both run to the nearest pub if your dog dies or to commemorate the latest labor strike. Perhaps after I down a pint or five, I shall understand what you keep nattering about, though I doubt I shall have the time to catch up with you two before closing.”

David left them both and made his way to the wide bar on the opposite side of the room. The crowd, mostly men, queued three deep before the counter. David swam between them and answered greetings from fellow farmers, friends, and acquaintances. Acquiring a lager was a difficult but familiar task in the busy pub.

He finally managed to land an arm on the bar towel. The barmaid set down three pints for the chap beside him, all filled just above the brim. They drenched both the towel and David’s elbow.

She must have been the Canadian girl someone mentioned the other day. He could not remember if it was his stepbrother Peter, or his brother Chad. She was somewhat smaller than his girlfriend Michelle, though still attractive in a different way. Her eyes were a sparkling blue and her brown hair had a touch of red. She pulled the brass-topped draught handle with graceful strength.

“Waddullit be?” she asked David.

“Pardon me?” He did not understand her question straightaway. It had been a good long while since he last heard a Canadian accent.

“Would you like something to drink?” she said, smiling as she enunciated each syllable.

“A beer,” he answered with equal deliberateness, and returned her smile with a twinkle in his eye.

“Great. What kind?” During the noon rush, she could not spend too much time with any customer.

“Do you stock a decent Canadian beer?” David felt a challenge coming. He quickly slipped from friendly to flirtatious, his worst habit as well as his greatest pleasure.

“I only wish we did,” she said with a quick glance to the publican filling pints at her side.

“A pint of lager then,” David said with resignation. “You must be dreadfully thirsty.”

“I’ve adapted. It was that or go dry and I’m not ready for anything that drastic.” As she spoke, she selected a mug for him and pumped it full of golden brew. She scooped off the foam and filled the glass full up. She set the dripping pint on the towel between them. “You are the first person who hasn’t called me a Yank.”

“You don’t sound a thing like a Yank.”

“I don’t, eh?”

“Not a bit. I did some roughnecking on the oil rigs of the Northwest Territories a few years back. Canucks don’t sound like Yanks at all.” The part about the oil rigs was true. He looked at her sincerely, straight on, hoping the rest would be believed.

“Funny, I could never tell the difference myself,” she said with a smile. Maybe it was his honest blue eyes and the appealing trace of freckles high on his cheeks that prompted her next question: “Are you married?”

“Considering that I don’t even know your name, that’s a rather forward question, don’t you think?” David asked, leaning back from the bar.

“If you mean I’m blunt, yes. I’m very blunt. Excuse me,” she said as she refilled two empties for another patron. From a few paces away, she continued talking over her shoulder to David as she pumped the draught handle that faced the lounge bar. “It’s just that I’m pressed for time. I need to get married soon. The only hitch is, I don’t have a groom.”

“That could bog you down,” David said after a sip. He put his coins on the counter, intending to make a quick exit. Marriage was never a comfortable subject for him, particularly when it needed to occur in the foreseeable future.

“It’s not what you think,” she said. The mugs she placed on the soaked towel overflowed on to the heavily lacquered surface of the wood bar.

“What might I be thinking?” David asked.

“I’m not pregnant,” she answered. “That’s what you were thinking, right?”

“Perhaps.” David’s eyebrows jumped once. He was relieved it was not what he thought. “I suppose it did occur to me.”

“Of course it did,” she answered, collecting empties and washing them in the sink beneath the bar. “Why is it every time I ask a man to marry me, he immediately assumes I’m in some sort of trouble?”

“Because in this country, customarily, it is the man who proposes.”

Intrigued, David no longer tried to fade away into the crowd. While allowing other patrons access, he firmly secured a spot where the countertop met the wall. It was a precarious location considering its proximity to the dartboard, but he felt it worth the risk.

He often felt awkward re-entering the pubs in November after spending summer and half of autumn alone on a tractor. The first few weeks after all that solitude, he tended to find himself clutching his pint mug to his chest, straining to be sociable after months of grumbling to the cattle. She brought him out of his shell quickly and painlessly.

“Men are supposed to pop the question in Canada too. But I find that archaic.” She smiled at the thought, unconsciously tugging at the sweater beneath her white apron.

“I suppose it is. I try not to dwell on the subject.”

“Well? Are you married?” she asked.

“Would you care to know my name first?” he asked. “Or is that a bit old fashioned as well?” He could not help but smile at her tenacity.

“Oh all right, have it your way. What’s your name and are you married?”

“David and no. Or no and David if you prefer.”

“Terrific. Will you marry me?” She proposed with less awkwardness than most people display when asking directions to the loo. And as if it were twice as common. Then she dried her hands and readied more clean mugs.

“You must be joking. I don’t even know your name,” he answered. Her unconventional approach thoroughly amused him, especially on a topic he normally found distasteful at best.

“You certainly are a stickler for details.” She stepped back and took a deep breath, standing still for the first time since he stepped up to the bar. She brushed an errant strand from her forehead with the back of her hand, only to have it return to the same spot. Not only was she pretty in a very natural way, but David found her outlook quite game. He detected a reoccurring sparkle in her eye and enjoyed the moments it flashed at the gleam in his own.

“You think it odd to ask one’s name before entering into nuptial bliss with them?” he asked.

“There’s no bliss to it,” she answered.

“My thoughts exactly,” he said with a sly smile. The din of the pub was like a far-off rumble, punctuated by an occasional rowdy laugh.

“Fine. I’m Lyn. How about it?”

“How about what?”

“Oh never mind,” she answered. She pulled the draught handle again with exasperation. “You’re too much of a stuffed shirt for what I need.”

“Stuffed shirt? Me?” He pulled his ragged sweater away from his shirt and inserted a finger through a well-worn hole. “Tattered, yes. Stuffed? Never. What might you need that I don’t have?”

“I need an unstuffy, male British citizen to marry me. I need him fairly soon in order to stay in this country and earn a living wage. Face it, as a Canadian, my chances of landing a decent job here are pretty slim.”

“You need a royal, though not necessarily loyal, subject. Is that it?” he asked as he pushed his empty pint forward for a refill. “Another please.”

“We could have some sort of friendship I suppose, but it would be a little cumbersome,” she answered, refilling his glass but ignoring his money.

“Cumbersome? We wouldn’t want to muddle our priorities then, would we?” He reclaimed his mug and, after the first sip, licked a foam mustache from his thin upper lip.

“You take it all so personally,” she said. As she attempted to explain, her features became more animated. Her normally expressive hands remained trapped close to her body by the cramped working quarters. David noticed a ring on her finger and suspected she was just having him on.

“A pint of ale, please, Miss.” The request came from the lounge bar, perpendicular to the busy pub. She snagged the customer’s glass and filled it beneath the draught handle closest to David.

“It might interest you to know I am not that sort of fellow,” David said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. After looking around discreetly, he added, “I would never consider marrying anyone without knowing her last name.”

“Does it matter?” she answered quietly, cocking her head slightly. “After all, we’d use yours.”

“Which you do not even know,” he said as she smiled and walked away.

“Now I suppose you want me to ask you what your last name is,” she said. She returned to stand in front of him, pausing briefly to put her hands on her hips before turning away. He watched her draw a gill of whisky from the inverted bottles overhead and noticed her heels left the floor slightly as she reached up to fill the glass. He remembered Canadian women as being adventurous.

“You dirty stiff,” said a familiar voice. “You are quite keen on chatting up the barmaid and denying us all another pint, aren’t you?” Henry stepped beside David, leaning against him slightly.

“Consider it mercy in your case, Maggot. I have only your well-being at heart.”

“All right,” Lyn said to David after placing the small glass in front of an older patron and collecting his pound note. “Have it your way. What will my last name be if we get married?”

“Married? David, you dirty stiff. What are you up to?”

“Elliott,” David answered, ignoring Henry’s remark while prying the mug from his fingers. “Please draw another bitter for this chap before he perishes from thirst.”

“You dirty rotter. Are you seriously considering marrying the barmaid?” Henry asked.

“Take your bitter and be off,” David answered.

“This should delight Michelle immeasurably.” Henry reached for his pint as he issued his sloppy threat.

“It is a pity you are so hopelessly plowed or you could tell her yourself,” David said, dismissing him.

“I already know, Daveed.”

David knew it was Michelle without looking. He turned slowly, smiling the entire time, never looking nearly as worried as Henry hoped he would. Michelle stepped in front of Henry, who faded back into the crowd.

“Have you been here long?” David asked.

“Long enough to know you are marrying the barmaid,” she answered. Her coal black eyes looked straight into his blue ones.

Dressed in red and black, her striking, tall frame bore a sophistication that set her apart from the local girls. Her black hair formed a smooth shadow that framed a classic face and a clenched but delicate jaw. David could sense her seething as she struggled to contain her anger. After four years as a couple, off and on, the last year spent living together, he felt he knew her well enough to know it would pass. Still, it tended to make her accent more pronounced and her English slightly stilted.

“Surely you cannot be cross with me,” he said, acting perplexed at her discontent. When she had his back to the wall, he would apologize. Until then, he preferred to coax her out of her bad mood and evade the crux of the matter. “Shall I buy you a drink? Almost closing you know.”

“No, thank you,” she answered, flashing a cold look at Lyn before focusing her glare on him.

“Michelle, I would like you to meet Lyn. She has come all the way across the pond to work in this pub and find a suitable mate. First-rate hunting grounds, don’t you think?” Michelle’s icy silence punctured David’s attempt to make light of the matter.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lyn said, removing a glass from the counter. “I didn’t realize David was married.”

“Oh, he is not married,” Michelle said. “However, he could soon be very available.”

“I shall buy you a drink,” David said again. “What do you fancy?”

“I am not thirsty, Daveed.”

“I would never marry her without consulting you first,” David said. He reached for Michelle’s hand, but she withdrew it. “She would have to meet your approval first or—”

“Stop it, Daveed.” He angered her even more when he toyed with her temper. “Must I treat you like a child and demand you respect my heart? Today, we were to meet for lunch. I rushed home but you were not there.”

“I left a message at your office,” he said, lifting his lager for a sip and watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I did not expect a message at my office. I expected you. At home.” She stood rigid just out of reach, avoiding any physical persuasion on his part. “I called Wyndlan. I thought something was wrong. Perhaps you were hurt . . .”

“Oh.” He winced and lifted his shoulders, as if preparing for a thump on the head.

“They told me you were here . . . with Jim.” Michelle looked around conspicuously.

“Ah, yes. Jim—”

“Instead I find you proposing to the barmaid.”

“But it’s true,” he said. “Jim asked to meet me here after one of his dreadful bank manager meetings, poor bloke. Diabolical sort, those bank managers. He is probably being parted from his wallet as we speak.”

He tried to sound completely earnest, but knew she believed little of his story. Justified or not, she was frequently annoyed with him. He enjoyed their reconciliations so much, he wondered if he did not subconsciously provoke her.

“Have a drink, then,” he continued. “Fetching new frock you have on.”

“Just a tonic with a twist. I have a terrible headache,” she said with a pout as she relented. David nodded to Lyn and she poured it quickly.

“Sixty pee, and I suppose this means our wedding is off,” Lyn said, swiping his note from the countertop. She returned his change with a twinkle in her eye. Before passing the drink to Michelle, he gave Lyn a smile, though he knew he might not live to regret it.

“Last call, gentlemen. Last call,” the publican shouted.

David and four others drained their pints and smacked them on the counter.

“Another lager,” David said, amid the flood of requests for ales, bitters, and Guiness. He turned his attention to Michelle. “Tell me why you look so ravishing today?”

She seated herself on a bar stool beside him with a sigh. A provocative slit in her deep red sweater dress accentuated her long legs. As she crossed them, one black high heel let loose of her heel. A black belt encircled her narrow waist and matched her oversized black blazer. She sat gracefully erect, both hands tastefully jeweled. One delicate hand held her tonic, the other touched her forehead before resting on her thigh. Henry returned and leaned against her.

“Another man?” David asked, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, Henreee, go away,” she answered, as she pushed him upright against the counter. “This headache is all your fault, David.”

“What did I do?”

“You drove my car,” she said. David thought she sounded exhausted and truly angry, not just about lunch either.

“I have not driven your car in over a fortnight.” His eyes never left hers as he felt for his pint on the bar and brought it to his lips.

“Because of you, I had to stand before the magistrate today,” she said.

“Oh, that,” he said, hiding most of his face behind his pint.

“Yes, that. Because of you, I had to pay £12.00 for an illegal turn I did not make.” She placed her glass on the bar, waiting for his explanation.

“Actually, it wasn’t very sporting,” he said, holding his mug to his chest and drawing back from her slightly.

“I tried to explain that I was in Rome at the time,” Michelle said. “I even presented my passport as proof. He said that it was my car that made the turn, and since it had not been reported stolen at the time, it was my responsibility.” When provoked, her eyes always filled with a passionate indignation that David found enticing.

“You requested that I—” he started.

“Perhaps I should tell them you stole my car. Maybe then you would obey the driving laws of this country.” She paused, showing signs of fatigue but not resignation.

“You asked me to drive your car,” David said, grabbing the opportunity to answer in his defense. “You wanted your turn indicators repaired while you were away. I was taking it to Wyndlan when a bobby spotted me. It was not a proper ticket; not the sort where he gave chase. One ought to be nabbed in the act, not through a notice in the post.” He pleaded his case to a less than impartial juror.

“I still must pay the £12.” She waited for him to repent.

He knew he should offer to pay the fine, though she never considered paying for his auto repair services. However, reimbursing her would have been far too simple for their relationship.

“Your glasses, gentlemen, please,” the publican said, officially announcing the two o’clock closing.

“Now I’ve done it,” David said as he finished off his pint with a gulp. “I have wasted an entire lunch talking about your car without so much as a bite to eat. Man does not live by lager alone,” he said. The room was nearly empty. Henry swirled in a semicircle, still hanging from the support strap in the center of the room. Nigel sat slumped in the corner. “Most men at any rate.”

“You are hopeless,” Michelle said to David.

“Yes, I know,” Henry answered.

“Henry, did you really threaten to shoot your neighbor’s dog?” Michelle asked, recalling some local gossip.

“I did and I shall,” he said, announcing his position with pride to the empty pub. He pulled himself upright and appeared, for an instant, stone sober. “The same fate awaits any dog I find chasing my pheasants.”

“Maggot,” David said, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “Surely you realize the RSPCA will have your neck. In this country, one would be safer as a baby basher. You won’t have a friend left in all of Southern England.”

“I don’t have friends. I have pheasants.” He released the strap, and wobbled upright for a moment.

“Glasses, please,” the publican announced with a bit more authority. At his plea, Henry and Nigel both deposited their well-drained glasses on the counter and stumbled out the door together.

“We should best be off,” David said to Michelle and finished his drink.

“Where’s Jim?” Michelle asked, rising to stand between him and the way out.

“Ah, Jim,” he answered, turning in his pint glass and feeling the wall at his backside. “Poor bugger. Those bank managers can be rough. It will be in all the papers tomorrow. ‘Dairyman Dies Dreadful Death in Bank Manager’s Office.’”

“Be serious, Daveed,” Michelle answered, her accent more noticeable again. “You say you came to lunch with Jim. Instead, I find you here with Henry and Nigel proposing to the barmaid.”

“Since Jim is just back from the States, I thought you would understand—”

“If he were here, I might. I am leaving for New York in the morning. I thought you might want to be with me.” She turned away to collect her purse and scarf.

“New York? I thought it was Boston,” he answered, dreading another long separation. Her career as a buyer for a clothes marketing firm kept her traveling far too much. He dug his fists deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears. “It’s all running together, I guess.”

“Boston was last month. Don’t you remember? Maybe it isn’t important enough,” she answered, squaring around to resolve the matter on the spot.

“Please,” he whispered as he moved himself between Michelle and the employees behind the bar. “Shall we discuss it tonight?”

“Why don’t we discuss it now? Or should I leave you here to make your wedding plans with— Jim?”

“Jim?” he repeated and followed her gaze to the door. His friend arrived with a familiar spring in his step and cheeks flushed from the cold. Jim’s dark shaggy hair hid his green eyes, and his full black moustache covered his smile. “I thought the bank manager had you this time,” David said with relief.

“So sorry I’m late,” he said, rubbing his hands together and casting a forlorn glance at the empty pint mugs, lined up like soldiers on the counter. “The whole business lasted a bit longer than I expected. Hello, Michelle,” he said with a smile.

“Hello. Please excuse me but I have to go,” she said, starting toward the door so quickly, he had to race back to hold it open for her.

“But I’ve just arrived,” Jim said, sounding a bit confused as she passed him. “Surely I haven’t put a foot wrong already.”

“I am off for New York,” she said, with a stabbing look back at David. “I have an early morning flight. I still must go by the store and pack too. Good-bye, David. Pardon me,” she said to Jim as she exited in a flurry of red and black.

“Cheerio,” David said, missing the kiss not given.

“Cheerio,” Jim echoed faintly and turned to David. “Doubtless I have arrived at the wrong moment. . . again.”

“On the contrary,” David said, as he shifted his gaze from the door to his friend. “It is just possible you saved me from a fate worse than death. She is truly cross with me this time.”

“I have botched it for you, haven’t I?”

“Nonsense. Have I ever needed help making Michelle cross with me?” David asked Jim with a reassuring smile. “How is the bank manager then?”

“Interesting. He’s quite a good fellow, you know,” Jim answered with a smug look.

“John claims there are only two kinds of bank manager meetings,” David said, recalling his father’s words. He grasped the leather strap hanging from the beam nearest him. “In one, he offers you a stiff back chair and suggests you get straight on with business. In the other, he invites you into his office, inquires after your health, your family, and the weather while opening his finest Scotch. Which was it then?”

“More like the latter, I would guess. Without the Scotch, unfortunately,” Jim added with a mournful glance to the bar. “Not to worry though. I didn’t sign anything.”

“Come along, David, Jim,” the publican said to them. “Must be closed by 2:00. If the bobby pops round, we shall all be up on ‘after hours’ charges.”

“Cheerio, guv’ner,” Jim answered, starting back toward the door.

“Too bad,” Lyn said, passing David on her way toward the bar with a tray full of empty glasses. “About us, I mean. I sort of like the name Elliott.”

“Been in the family for generations,” David answered as he disengaged his arm from the strap. “All for the best perhaps, what with me being so ‘stuffy’ and all.”

“You’re probably right,” she said to his surprise as she slipped behind the bar.

“Cheers,” he called back as he and Jim started up the steps and out of the sunken pub. He thought he heard her say good-bye as the door closed behind them.

“What was that about?” Jim asked as they crossed the damp tarmac to The Street.

“She wants to marry me.”

“What?”

“Of course, once Michelle appeared, she rescinded the offer.”

“If she is desperate, perhaps she will marry me,” Jim said, almost sounding serious. “She’s quite a good looker, you know.”

“She isn’t that desperate,” David answered before thinking.

“Thank you very much, mate.”

“I mean she is not in a family way. It would purely be a marriage of convenience.”

“Whose convenience?” Jim asked, recalling Michelle’s hasty departure.

“Hers. She wants me for my citizenship and whatever job opportunities it might provide.”

“Not my idea of convenience,” Jim said as they approached his car with Pippa his dog asleep inside. “I need a bird who wouldn’t mind being knocked up at dawn’s first light to help me pull 450 titties.”

“You have a way with words and women,” David said with a laugh. He knew he could never explain Michelle’s anger, first because Jim was not in the pub, and then because he was. “Why were you so late?”

“It was all a bit too much to fathom in a single meeting.”

“Sounds like my finances.”

“Oh, we dispensed with that part rather quickly, unfortunately. It was all the nasty stories about Ivan Warner and Patsy’s mill.” Jim’s voice faded as he looked around discreetly before opening the car door. “What with the jet lag and all, you have one perplexed dairyman.”

“What possible connection could there be between Henry’s father and the sawmill at Wyndlan? What did the bank manager say about Ivan, our illustrious magistrate?”

“Best not to discuss it here,” Jim said, looking up and down The Street.

“You’ve gone all cloak and dagger over this, haven’t you?” David asked. As he spoke, the sun was barely clinging to one corner of the autumn sky. “As mysterious as it all sounds, I am afraid it will have to wait. Chad is off to London for the day and I am left with his work as well as mine.” David grimaced at the thought of another late night at the farm and the subsequent displeasure it would cause him when he reached Michelle’s.

“I haven’t attended me cows in two weeks. I have some good boys but. . .” Jim never finished the thought. David understood the importance of minding the stock first hand.

“Michelle will be off across the pond tomorrow. Tell me about it then,” David said. Looking at the big black dog in Jim’s car, he asked, “You didn’t take Pippa to the bank, did you?”

“Of course,” Jim answered, smiling behind his dark moustache. Affection twinkled in his green eyes as he opened the car door and petted his mutt. He slipped into the driver’s seat, forcing the dog over to the passenger side with difficulty. “I consult her on all me financial matters. Wouldn’t make a move without her. I’m off. Ring me when the warden leaves.”

“Right enough,” David answered. He rubbed his hands together, feeling a chill from the north wind. He forced them deep into his pockets as he walked to his car. “Cheerio,” he called back to Jim.

“Cheerio, mate,” Jim answered after rolling up his window. His muffled response was easier to make out than his blurred face. The fogged windscreen came courtesy of the big-nosed shadow driving away beside him.