Home for the Holidays

by Sue Moorcroft

  Ben left the frosty evening behind him and stepped into the warmth of The Three Fishes. Alexia was there before him, laughing and joking in the middle of a group beside a Christmas tree someone had felt the need for though it wasn’t yet the end of October. He hesitated. Alexia looked so much at one with her own tribe; following the eddying conversation and using names with easy familiarity.

  He recognised the skill of fitting in. There had once been pubs in Didbury where he’d exercised it himself. Ben shifted the weight of the messenger bag on his shoulder. He didn’t feel the need to wear that puppy-dog look that Sebastian was wearing at the fringes of the group, but he had to acknowledge Alexia looked good, hooking her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and leaning on the bar while she listened to a woman with a rope of red-blonde hair, tilting back her head and laughing.

  Just when he was giving serious thought to reopening the door and fading back through it, Alexia caught sight of him and waved. As she didn’t make a move to join him he had little choice but to skirt the edges of the group to reach her.

  ‘Come and meet my friends,’ she urged. ‘This is Ratty and Jos, from the garage by The Cross, and Tess and Miranda.’ She introduced about another half a dozen people but, apart from the men from the garage, which Ben passed whenever he drove or walked to Gabe’s, he knew he didn’t have a hope of remembering names. They were drifting off, anyway, reminding each other that they had a table booked in the dining area.

  Ratty lingered, hand-in-hand with the woman with the long plait. ‘Are you the wizard in the woods?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Can’t be. No pointy hat.’

  The woman, Tess, gave Ben a soft smile. ‘But you have an owl? One of Gabe’s rescued creatures? He told me about it. The thing is … well, I’m an illustrator and it would be brilliant for me to get some sketches of a baby owl. I work on children’s books. Heavy hinting going on here …’ Her smile turned winsome.

  Ben laughed. Several minutes later he found he’d agreed to Tess visiting him at Woodward Cottage armed with her sketchbook, had taken her card, given her his phone number and promised to tell Gabe from her that he was to get better soon.

  Ben stared after her as she and Ratty wove their way between the backs of Saturday evening drinkers and were lost to view. ‘I hardly know anyone in the village but they seem to know me.’

  Alexia shrugged. ‘Don’t come to an English village if you crave anonymity.’

  ‘At least the villagers seem friendly tonight.’

  She rolled her eyes and fanned her face with her hand. ‘And that’s a huge relief, let me tell you.’

  They turned to the bar. Alexia requested a ‘big cold glass of chardonnay’ and he ordered a pint of Courage Best as a nod to his Reading-area roots.

  When they’d settled at one of the nearby brass-topped tables she raised her glass. ‘Happy Divorce Day, for good or bad.’

  He returned the toast. ‘I’m not sure “good” or “bad” are the right categories. Let’s just say it’s for the best in the end, no going back, blah blah.’ Putting down his glass he flipped open his bag and drew out a dusty book. Its cover showed patches of its original blue but most of it had faded to grey. ‘I went up in the loft after you’d left and found these old photos of The Angel when she was still a pub. They look like professional shots.’

  Lips parting in awe Alexia took the album with gentle, reverential hands and opened it. Each page bore one or two photos, black and white but yellowing with age under their gloss. ‘Wow. Gold dust.’ She turned a page. ‘There are eleven people in this shot and only one of them a woman. Her blouse and skirt cover her from neck to ankles.’ The men wore caps and high-buttoned jackets and held large tankards. All stood, unsmiling and unnaturally stiff, around the polished bar with its acid-etched glass screens.

  Ben followed Alexia’s progress through the pages. ‘The album certainly reinforces what was lost when Shane and Tim’s thieving hands wrenched that history away from its rightful home.’

  ‘Too true. See this picture of the bar in the Bar Parlour with all the bottles on the back wall and the advertising mirrors? We had some of those mirrors until Shane did his dirty work.’ Slowly she travelled the pages, careful not to touch the photos themselves. ‘I wish we were still able to give The Angel the sympathetic restoration she deserves. By Christmas she’d have looked like this again – with a little updating of things like gas lamps.’

  And Alexia would have had the future she deserved, Ben thought. The project would have become the cherry on top of her portfolio and she’d have followed her career curve to pastures new, fulfilling her potential in a way she never would here in Middledip.

  They could have more easily forgotten their one-night stand. But then no one would have asked Ben, ‘Are you all right?’ and seemed to care about his answer and Ben would probably have had no one to share a Divorce Day drink with.

  ‘Look at this group shot!’ Alexia giggled, stirring Ben from his thoughts. ‘They’re all lined up behind the bar so I think they must be the staff. The women look like nursemaids and the men have winged collars under their waistcoats and aprons. Look at the moustache on this guy; it would do a walrus proud. And the chef’s hat is about two feet tall! Do you think this woman could be the landlady? She looks a scary old grump, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She does.’ Ben craned his neck to view the photo in question. ‘I can imagine her rapping out, “Time, gentlemen, please!” and everyone meekly shuffling off home. I think the same lady’s in some framed photos I left in the Bar Parlour because they’re so fragile. There’s a great one of men in the yard, too, rolling barrels around, lots more droopy moustaches in evidence.’

  A man from the next table interrupted. ‘What have you got there, ’Lexia? Old photos? Wow, is that what The Angel used to look like inside?’ The rest of his table were soon crowding round oohing and ahhing, underlining Ben’s earlier point about the villagers having seemingly returned to their usual levels of friendliness. Tubb appeared with the air of one who considered everything in the pub to be his business and soon half his customers were jostling to view the album too. Alexia, refusing to pass it around for fear of damage, slowly turned the pages for them.

  Ben sipped his pint and watched her chatting and laughing and joining in the hazarding of opinions about the people in the pictures and whether anybody present could claim to be a descendant. Was it entirely bad that Alexia had failed in her bid to transplant herself from this village? The friendship and fellowship this evening wasn’t granted to everyone, no matter how long they’d lived in a place or how small it was.

  Eventually the interest died down. People drifted back to their seats and Alexia shut the album, giving the cover a last stroke before handing it back. ‘Have you shown Gabe?’

  ‘He was too stuffed up and croaky to be bothered. I bought the village shop out of Lemsip and cough syrup for him and ended up promising to feed his animals for a few days. It means getting up early to get over there and let the chickens out.’

  Alexia’s brow crinkled in concern. ‘Poor Gabe! I hope it’s not flu. I can let the chickens out in the mornings, if you like, and do the feed and water. Does he have enough food for himself?’

  ‘He says he doesn’t fancy anything and just wants to be left alone in bed. Wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him what else I found in the loft, told me to bugger off and do what I wanted with it.’

  Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. ‘What else did you find?’

  This was what Ben had been waiting for. He fished in his pocket for his phone and called up his camera roll. ‘It’s a bit of a treasure trove. I guess it belonged to the landlady who died.’ He tilted his phone so Alexia could see for herself. ‘I believe some of this ceramic stuff’s Clarice Cliff. And there’s a proper old trunk, the kind that people used to take on long sea voyages, with a wedding dress in it. Then there are oil paintings, silverware and I don’t know what else.’

  It seemed Alexia’s evening for saying ‘wow’
and she said it over and over again while she swiped through the images he’d collected. ‘Presumably it all belongs to the old landlady’s relatives?’

  Ben took a draught of beer. ‘Not at all. Gabe was definite about that, between bouts of coughing. Because the relatives didn’t want to clear anything or send in a house-clearance company Gabe bought the property with contents. It’s all his now.’

  Dark shining eyes lifted slowly to Ben. ‘This stuff must be worth money.’

  Excitement fluttered in Ben’s chest. ‘I’m sure it is. I’m going to contact the specialist auction house in Peterborough for valuation. I reckon it could add thousands to Gabe’s pot. Anything the auction house turns its nose up at I’ll list on eBay.’

  ‘Oh, Ben,’ Alexia breathed, ‘this could make a real difference.’

  It took Ben a second to kick his brain into gear to answer. That breathy Oh, Ben had transported him back to their encounter. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he managed ‘Anything that brings in money has to be good.’

  ‘Especially as he doesn’t want you to risk your savings.’

  Ben frowned. ‘I’m tempted to pretend the stuff from the attic fetches more than it does and get some money to him that way.’

  Alexia snorted a laugh. ‘Sort of reverse stealing?’

  Unwillingly, Ben found himself smiling. ‘It sounds crazy put like that.’

  She became serious. ‘But the situation makes you consider just about anything, doesn’t it? I’ve been researching getting The Angel on a property makeover show.’

  Ben’s attention was caught. ‘Is it worth a shot?’

  Draining the last of her wine, Alexia glanced round at the bar. Tubb caught the glance and raised his eyebrows, pointing at their glasses. Alexia nodded, and, in seconds, refills stood on the bar. All she had to do was hop up and pay for the round, carry them back to the table and pick up the conversation. ‘There are a lot of property shows still around, even though the bubble’s supposed to have burst. All of them require the subject of the programme to have their own budget. And they all work with the subject’s main dwelling, not commercial property.’

  ‘Ah. Nothing to be gained.’

  She shook her head, propping her chin on her hand. ‘There’s even a programme that specifically rights builderly wrongs but, again, works with householders who have their own budget. So unless you can do a bit of abracadabra, Wizard of the Woods, it’s a non-starter.’

  ‘I forgot my book of spells.’ He sighed. Around them, the pub buzzed with Saturday evening chatter. Because it was a nice pub in a nice village the only raised voices came in the forms of bellows of laughter or good-natured barracking around the dartboard. Ben stretched out his legs beneath the table and settled deeper into his seat. ‘Has The Three Fishes ever had a bar brawl?’

  Alexia glanced around with an affectionate smile for their surroundings. ‘Not to my knowledge. It’s pretty cosy. Aren’t there pubs like this where you come from?’

  ‘Not really. Didbury has its fair share of rough diamonds.’ Like Imogen’s family, a little voice reminded him, making him smile ruefully to himself.

  Imogen. He was officially divorced from Imogen. Realisation hit him anew. He was no longer a married man. It took a bit of getting used to. He was sitting across a table from a woman he’d already … encountered, and he need have no guilty conscience about it. He could officially date. Officially take himself off to wherever the nearest club was and see who he could pull. Go home with. Get naked … And thoughts of getting naked brought him back to Alexia who, he suddenly realised, was gazing at him, one eyebrow arched.

  ‘What?’ he demanded, hoping he was managing to meet her gaze without thoughts of her nakedness showing on his face.

  ‘Me, what? You, what! The weirdest expressions have been crossing your face. Do you have stomach ache?’

  ‘Sorry if I zoned out. I was just taking a reality hit I suppose.’

  Instantly her expression softened. ‘We’re supposed to be marking your divorce but we’ve hardly mentioned it.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk about it,’ he put in swiftly.

  She dimpled at him, eyes narrowing. ‘I could really make you uncomfortable by asking avidly if you’re on the lookout for someone new, couldn’t I?’ The absence of wine in her glass suggested that she’d been letting the alcohol do its job in terms of relaxation. A slight flush edged her cheekbones and her eyes were dancing. ‘You’d think I was either going to put myself on your list of hopefuls or start matchmaking between you and my mates.’

  It was so exactly what he did think that Ben was surprised into a laugh. ‘Some people see divorce as a sign that they’re not cut out for relationships.’

  She was obviously enjoying teasing him. ‘But you have money in the bank. When you’ve finished your contract on the Carlysle estate you could buy a house or another business. Find another wife.’

  ‘What about you?’ he countered. ‘You could look for another boyfriend.’

  Her eyes looked nearly black in the soft lighting of the bar. ‘I don’t want a boyfriend. The Angel’s refurbishment is still going to gain me commercial experience and a lot of urban properties have commercial premises on the ground floor and residential above. By the time The Angel’s up and running I’ll have a record of working with the local planning authority on non-residential and adapting to a changing situation in getting the new kitchen plans passed by the Environmental Health Authority. I haven’t given up on finding the vehicle to ride out of the village on.’

  Surprised, probably because of his own assumptions that her plans going to hell would mean she’d stay in the village, he went to ask more, but a woman with a dripping umbrella hurried in and interrupted with a flurry of low-voiced exclamations. ‘Alexia, would you talk to Jodie, darling? She’s so down. She won’t talk to me but she says she’ll talk to you if I fetch you.’ Her beige coat was beaded with raindrops and she wiped her damp, dyed-blonde hair back from her face.

  Alexia hardly moved, aside from her eyes cutting left to regard the woman. ‘Jodie and I haven’t talked to each other since she left nearly two weeks ago, Iona, and I’m having a drink with a friend at the moment. Ben, this is Iona, Jodie’s mum.’

  ‘But—’ Iona began, obviously more focused on her mission than on observing social niceties.

  With a little shove Alexia sent her wine glass across the table towards Ben. ‘Your round, isn’t it?’

  Ben, having no confidence that he could commune wordlessly with bar staff, rose to order drinks in the traditional way. ‘Would you like a drink, Iona?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She scarcely looked at him. All her attention was focused on Alexia, a perplexed frown above her eyes.

  When he returned to the table Iona had gone. ‘All right?’ he asked cautiously, observing Alexia’s set expression.

  Tonelessly she replied, ‘Fine, thanks.’

  He set himself to distracting her from what were evidently difficult thoughts by fishing out the album of photos again and passing uncomplimentary remarks about the long-ago po-faced people in the pictures, but he didn’t get much of a reaction.

  In fact, the happy, teasing Alexia seemed to have vanished along with Jodie’s mum.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alexia woke with the heaviness of head caused by drinking four large glasses of wine. She also knew a heaviness of heart from acknowledging that she could have been nicer to Iona. She’d contact Jodie later.

  A pint of water and a couple of paracetamol helped the head, and the heart was buoyed by a pot of tea and a bacon sandwich. She pulled on her coat and boots and braved a gusty morning to let Gabe’s chickens out of the coop. Once they were contentedly clucking and pecking at the feed she cast around their run she knocked on Gabe’s door.

  No answer.

  She knocked again then tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge.

  She tried his phone. No answer.

  Heart picking up uneasily, she texted Ben.

  Alexia: Have seen to
hens. At Gabe’s door but can’t get reply …

  Ben: On my way.

  She whiled away an anxious ten minutes peeping fruitlessly through windows, pausing to pet Luke the cat, who was pacing outside the back door as if fully aware he ought to have been let in by now. Luke was the kind of cat who’d let you stroke him if it made you feel better and Alexia felt a shade calmer for smoothing the glossy black fur and hearing Luke purr like a distant engine.

  As if in reply came the sound of another distant engine, though rapidly nearing. Ben’s truck appeared, jolting along Gabe’s track faster than looked comfortable. He pulled up, shut down the engine and hit the ground running.

  Hair blowing into her eyes in the wind, Alexia jumped back to give him access to the door. Neither spoke as Ben fumbled for the right key and got it to turn.

  Bursting into the silent and unusually chilly kitchen Ben crossed straight to the door to the hall calling out behind him, ‘You’d better stay here. He’ll be mortified if you charge in and he’s not decent.’

  Alexia slithered to a halt. Although she couldn’t argue with his reasoning, the hurrying of her heart echoed the receding sound of his feet racing up the stairs and she felt as if he was keeping her out in case something bad had happened.

  To occupy herself she located Luke’s food in a cupboard, spooned some out and topped up his water. The black cat settled down enthusiastically to the task of emptying the dish, curling his tail delicately across his paws.

  Alexia opened the door to the hall and strained for noises from upstairs. After a moment she caught Ben’s voice, muffled but calm, and breathed more easily. For Ben to be speaking, Gabe must be capable of hearing. But then came an explosion of coughing, the endless, gasping, helpless kind that made you feel sick to listen to. Gabe.

  Alexia hurried to put the kettle on but found the range out, which explained the frigid air. A quick investigation proved that the ashpit was full to bursting. Gabe must have been ill for days and not felt like attending to the clinker and ash. She felt a lurch of guilt for not making time in her busy week to check whether he needed help.