Home for the Holidays

by Sue Moorcroft

  At twelve weeks, Barney’s fluff was beginning to be replaced by soft speckly grey and gold feathers and he had a squeaky-door call underlying his hehhhhh. Ben wasn’t particularly looking forward to the full-blown screech adulthood would bring but at least he’d be out in the aviary by then and less likely to wake Ben at dawn, when Barney should be out hunting.

  Freed, Barney made small circles with his head as he peeped at Ben. Then pounced on Ben’s toes.

  ‘Ouch, mind your damned talons,’ Ben grumbled. He reached for the tiny teddy that usually kept Barney company in his tub and bowled it a few feet across the floor. Barney flung himself after it, fly-hopping energetically, right wing beating but the left hanging at his side. His flapping bounce allowed him to land on his ‘kill’ with surprising speed. His head rotated on his neck and his black eyes checked on Ben as if to say, ‘Good, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Well done.’ Retrieving the battered teddy, Ben tossed it across the floor a few more times, each time Barney pouncing as if his life depended upon it – which, in the wild, it would. Watching Barney cope with his wretched wing, Ben didn’t know whether to be glad that he’d never flown so couldn’t miss it, or sad he’d never know freedom.

  Finally, Ben backtracked to the front door and the letter. He stooped to pick it up then hesitated with it in his hands, tempted to rip it up.

  Instead, he ripped it open.

  Dear Ben,

  I know Mum and Dad are trying to get you to come and see me but you don’t want to. I understand. But I’ve been talking to a bloke in here who is a counsellor ‘on the outside’ and he advocates clearing what I can from my conscience, so I need to tell you this: I didn’t have an affair with Imogen.

  Ask Imogen what I mean, and she might explain – if you don’t come over all straight edged on her.

  I was scared of making things worse for myself so I didn’t explain before I was sentenced and everything’s difficult while I’m in here anyway, but see Imogen.

  Best,

  Lloyd

  Ben’s coffee grew cold while he read and reread his brother’s words, trying to make sense of it. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t explain then why suggest Ben dig it all up again with Imogen when they were less than two weeks from their divorce becoming absolute?

  Did he really believe that Lloyd felt the need to clear his conscience? His mind circled around the puzzle while he prepared his dinner, frying steak, onions and potatoes in a big pan and heating a tin of peas.

  As he ate his meal and darkness fell outside, his phone began to ring. When he saw it was his mother calling his hand hovered over the handset. Usually he let calls from either parent go to voicemail, listening to the message then replying with a text. But this time …

  This time he picked up.

  His mother sounded surprised but pleased. ‘Ben, darling! Is everything OK at your end?’

  Ben made a sudden decision. ‘I’m thinking of coming down to Didbury this weekend.’

  ‘Why – I mean that will be lovely,’ Penny stammered. ‘Are you … Um, what’s …’ She paused, then seemed to gather herself. ‘I’m thrilled, Benedict. Please do come. Your old room is always ready for you. How long will you stay?’ She sounded almost tearfully pleased.

  ‘Not sure.’ He was already half-regretting his impulse. His mum being obviously emotional at the prospect of seeing him again made him feel guilty about staying away. He tried to imagine being in his childhood home, eating meals with his parents, sleeping in his old room. Being expected to behave like a guest. ‘I could always go into the Travelodge or Premier Inn. It might be easier.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s not hard to have you stay. Your room’s waiting.’

  Ben had meant that staying in a hotel would be easier for him. It might be easier for his dad too, not to have to go to the trouble of hiding his preference for his golden eldest son while, via some convoluted reasoning, silently laying blame on his youngest.

  But Ben could imagine how agog Penny’s friends and neighbours would be if word got about that Ben had been in Didbury and had stayed at a hotel. That crowd from her gym could be far too bloody nosy. And if Imogen’s family found out … Wow. The gossip. The sly digs.

  ‘OK,’ he said abruptly. ‘All right for me to arrive tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. It will be lovely. Really lovely.’

  ‘Good.’ With mixed feelings of apprehension and guilt, Ben said his goodbyes then texted Gabe to ask him to owl-sit for the weekend.

  Ben woke early the next morning, his mind gnawing on the events of the evening before.

  His mum had been in one of her overemphatic moods, he thought, lying back on his pillows and staring at his bedroom ceiling. Ben had never quite understood what it meant when she was so bright and brittle. Even as a teen he’d sensed the strain behind it but had come to see it as a fact of life that he had a mum who sometimes crackled with nerves and a dad who was grumpy for no apparent reason. As he’d matured he’d sometimes wondered if his parents’ marriage was troubled, but there seemed no point lying in bed hunting for insight now.

  He yawned his way into the shower and, once dried, packed a change of underwear, his toothbrush and a clean T-shirt, the absolute minimum necessary for an overnight stay. It took longer to pack Barney and his food up ready to drop him off at Gabe’s on his way out of the village.

  Gabe was waiting when Ben drove up the track, the wind blowing his ponytail over his shoulder. ‘So you’re going to see your parents?’

  Ben heaved out Barney’s tub from where he’d wedged it in the footwell of the truck then pulled out Lloyd’s letter. ‘This arrived yesterday.’

  After unfolding the sheet of paper, Gabe scrunched up his forehead. ‘My goodness. Fancy Lloyd seeing a counsellor. He doesn’t seem the type.’

  ‘My thoughts too. My visit to Didbury is a fact-finding mission.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gabe refolded the letter and handed it back. ‘Good luck. Let me know how it goes. You know where I am if you need me.’

  Warmth crept through Ben. ‘I do know. Thanks.’

  Ben’s journey took him south and west, pootling along roads clogged with traffic. When he finally turned off the M40 towards Reading he needed no signposts to take him along the lanes towards Didbury.

  Finally, he parked by Didbury Town Football Club, which had been alone on the edge of town when he was a teen but now had a supermarket and a retail park for neighbours. He took out his phone.

  Imogen answered his call on the second ring. ‘Ben?’

  Ben could hear tentative pleasure in her voice but he kept his neutral. ‘I’m in Didbury and I’m hoping we can talk.’

  A catch in her breath. ‘What about?’

  ‘Can we meet up?’

  ‘Well, yes! When?’ She sounded as if she were smiling.

  Though troubled that she was probably reading non-existent subtext into his suggestion, he remained focused on his aim. ‘I could pick you up now. We could have lunch.’

  She hesitated. ‘I’d rather meet you somewhere.’

  ‘You’re OK to drive?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘I have an adapted car now.’

  ‘Right.’ She didn’t sound as if she were asking for sympathy so he didn’t offer any. ‘I noticed a chain pub called The Crow’s Nest on the outskirts of Reading.’ Far enough from Didbury to make stumbling upon family or friends unlikely; so new that they’d never been there together.

  They agreed the details and an hour later he was waiting inside a pub that seemed entirely lined with wood and faux ship’s rigging. Unlike The Three Fishes, The Crow’s Nest hadn’t given itself over to Christmas yet and there wasn’t a tree or strand of tinsel to be seen.

  To ensure he didn’t miss Imogen’s arrival, he’d chosen a seat in a slightly raised area named the Lower Deck (further flights of stairs led, according to the signs, to the Upper Deck and the Crow’s Nest).

  Imogen arrived promptly, stepping through the big double doors and glancing
around. She looked too slender, almost fragile, in a loose, long-sleeved top in a shade of gold that complemented her chestnut hair. She was wearing her hair longer than he was used to – probably to hide the scarring on her neck. Her eyes were still wide and blue, her lips a perfect bow. He lifted his hand to get her attention and a smile broke over her face as she glided up the steps to join him. The way she moved awoke memories of happier times. Hard on the heels of those memories, though, followed all the reasons they’d become tarnished.

  He rose to meet her, suddenly realising he had no idea of the etiquette of greeting someone you used to be married to. When Imogen had first been injured, hugging or even kissing cheeks would have been physically uncomfortable for her so they’d never begun a pattern. Even now she might not like him coming into contact with the arm that hung crookedly from her shoulder as if she were ninety-four and arthritis had gnarled the limb. She was probably self-conscious about it and it was a glaring reminder of the accident that led to the end of their marriage.

  Much better to simply smile and say, ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Too intrigued not to,’ she answered honestly, taking her seat.

  Lunch proceeded along civilised lines. One glass of wine each. Salad for Imogen. Steak sandwich for Ben. Imogen propped her injured arm on the table and ate with her fork in her right hand, pointing out, unnecessarily, that her left arm was ‘pretty screwed’. The skin on the back of that hand looked smeared, like brush strokes in an oil painting. That’s what happened when you were the passenger in a car that landed on its side and dragged you along the ground and into a hedgerow littered with rocks and tree roots.

  Ben was reminded forcibly of Barney. Two beautiful creatures with similar injuries, unable the live the lives they should have had a right to.

  Her smile was bright, though. ‘How are things going for you? I hadn’t expected …’ She paused, sipping her wine. ‘It’s good to see you. You look in great shape. Have you joined a gym?’

  He shrugged, feeling awkward at the warmth in her voice. ‘Just doing the same kind of work I’ve always done.’ He told her something about working for the Carlysle Estate, trying to keep things light and friendly. She knew Middledip itself from visits to Gabe, of course.

  It was over coffee that he brought up the purpose of his visit. ‘I’ve had a letter from Lloyd.’

  Imogen’s teaspoon halted mid-stir. The shutters came down over her eyes and her earlier animation drained away. ‘Oh.’ Then she changed it to, ‘Oh?’ as if in polite invitation for him to continue.

  Ben cleared his throat. ‘He says you and he never had an affair and I should ask you again what happened.’

  Her gaze dropped to her coffee and she recommenced her stirring.

  ‘So … I’m asking,’ he pointed out, after the silence had stretched into several seconds.

  Her gaze had fallen on her hand. The left one. ‘There’s no point to this, Ben.’ Her voice was low and dreary.

  He waited. The colour had leeched from her face and yet she was still beautiful. He pitched his voice low. ‘You told me you weren’t having an affair and I’m afraid I found it hard to believe. But now, as Lloyd seems to feel strongly enough to write and suggest it, I’m here to ask you again. If you weren’t having an affair then what were you doing with Lloyd and why did you lie to me about your plans for that weekend?’

  Listlessly, Imogen stirred and stirred at her coffee, a tiny frown pinching the skin above her nose. ‘We’ve done all this. My word wasn’t enough for you before so why should it be now?’

  ‘Perhaps if you told me what you were doing. Rather than what you weren’t.’

  She half laughed. ‘Airing the rest of the story isn’t going to improve things between us now.’

  He made an effort to meet her suddenly penetrating gaze but couldn’t find it within himself to disagree. The gulf between them was too great to be bridged, whatever she disclosed. He was pursuing the truth because he felt he deserved it and the need to know was like black bile lapping inside him, not because he was going to suggest stopping the divorce.

  She rose suddenly, tucking her handbag awkwardly between her bad arm and her body. ‘Sorry, but I have urgent need of the ladies’ room.’

  Though churning with frustration, Ben had little option but to watch her hurry down the steps, pausing to ask something of a waitress then nod her thanks and set off purposefully into the depths of the pub.

  He drank his cooling coffee thoughtfully. Until he’d mentioned the letter she’d seemed positive, even anticipatory. He’d evidently upset her and he was beginning to seriously suspect that he’d even dashed her hopes. But if he’d been unable to live with her secrets before then why would he be able to now? Trust, to him, was a minimum requirement in a relationship, but she couldn’t trust him with the truth and he no longer trusted her at all. He checked his watch.

  Minutes ticked past. After a quarter of an hour he felt concerned enough to approach the long bar on the lowest level and ask a female staff member to enter the Ladies to check that Imogen was all right. ‘No problem,’ the girl told him brightly. She was about twenty and wore her hair in a ponytail that hung over the shoulder of her black polo shirt.

  Both sets of ladies toilets were duly checked.

  No Imogen.

  ‘I see.’ Ben felt like an idiot. ‘Is there a back way out of this pub?’ The front door had been in view all the time he’d been waiting.

  The young barmaid’s widening eyes suggested she was beginning to get the gist of what had happened. ‘To the beer garden, yes.’

  His cheeks burned. ‘I’d better pay the bill for table twenty-one.’

  She skipped back behind the bar and tapped a few buttons on the till. ‘Erm … it’s been paid.’

  Anger licking inside him, Ben muttered his thanks and turned away, eager to escape the interested looks he was attracting from the other bar staff. He could imagine them giggling over the pints they pulled for punters after he’d gone.

  Probably it was a blind date and he was acting like an idiot.

  Yeah, probably got him off Tinder. She should’ve swiped left.

  She paid the bill before she legged it. She must have really wanted not to hear from him again.

  He wondered whether even one of them would say, ‘But why didn’t she just tell him she was leaving? Sneaking off isn’t cool.’

  He thrust his way through the doors. Once back in the truck he yanked his phone from his pocket. Not trusting himself to call in case he said something he’d later regret, he fired off a text.

  Ben: WTF?????

  Then he snapped the radio on and seethed for ten minutes until his phone bleeped on an incoming message.

  Imogen: I’m sorry. Just leave things as they are. No idea why Lloyd should start raking stuff up now. It’s stupid. x

  Ben sat on, phone gripped in hand, angry and baffled. Through the windscreen he watched people arriving, leaving, selecting their parking spots or squeezing in or out of their cars. Confronting Imogen had only left him with more questions and no answers.

  The need to know the truth ate at him. For the first time since the sentencing he gave serious thought to visiting his brother in jail. He tried to imagine going through the process he’d seen on TV: handing over personal effects, being ushered through doors that were immediately locked in his wake. Talking to Lloyd across a table in a stale-smelling room filled with other inmates and prison officers in uniform. Lloyd looking diminished by his incarceration but, knowing him, trying to pretend prison was a perfectly OK place to be.

  But since when could he rely on the truth from Lloyd? He was good at putting a spin on things to make you see what he wanted you to see.

  He started the engine, relieved to have talked himself out of it.

  Chapter Ten

  His parents’ house, a 1930s double-fronted detached, looked exactly as it had as long as Ben could remember – a cube with bay windows topped by a pointed roof. He parked on the drive, pulled his b
ag from behind the seat and jumped out before he could change his mind.

  Out of habit he made sure not to step on the inset of herringbone tiles on the front step. Penny liked them to shine. The door key still swung on his keyring so he let himself in. Before he could call out that he’d arrived, his mum bustled out of the kitchen. ‘Ben! It’s good to see you.’

  Her hug was warm enough. He had to stoop to return it, feeling a tug of guilt that he hadn’t visited, that in the nearly six months he’d been living in Middledip he’d avoided calls and been lax in replying to messages. ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ he said gruffly.

  Then Victor, his father, was in the hall, taking Ben’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Benedict.’

  They all paused to look at each other. So much to say. Or so little.

  Penny fluttered into action. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee. I bought Jaffa Cakes. Did you know they do black cherry, now, Ben? Dad loves them. Don’t you, Victor?’

  So his mother was in bright and brittle mode again. Ben followed her into the kitchen. ‘It was Lloyd who liked Jaffa Cakes.’ He took a seat at the oak table at the side of the room. Then, in case he’d sounded childish, added, ‘But I’ll give one a try.’

  The discussion of Jaffa Cakes and whether Ben had ever liked the original orange variety took three minutes. Three minutes in which Ben wondered why he’d arranged to visit for the weekend when he could so easily have made the trip in a day. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his parents. He did. But resentment had built a wall between them and he might just be about to build it higher.

  Then he looked at his mother’s smile and his conscience gave him another hard dig. He’d spent so many months feeling aggrieved that he’d made no allowance for human frailty. Yes, his parents had suggested that if he’d acted differently Lloyd and Imogen wouldn’t have been in that car together, but people made unguarded comments when upset.

  He made up his mind to treat this trip to Didbury as a normal family interaction: a son visiting his parents. Build a bridge for once instead of a wall. They could enjoy a nice afternoon and evening. He was pretty sure his mum would have something in mind that, if not fatted calf, would constitute a special meal. If it proved to be one of Lloyd’s favourites instead of his he wouldn’t remark on it. He’d sleep in his old room tonight and tomorrow he’d leave with a smile.