by Jan Ruth
‘You know why. I’ve nowhere else to go!’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he said, and thankfully moved the blade to a safer distance. ‘So, here’s what I’ve decided. My marriage is hanging by a thread. I’m reduced to a payer of bills, just like Helen.’
A brief, muffle of protest from Fran, but George raised his hand. ‘Let me speak, please. I’m taking voluntary redundancy. The bank’s finished! I’ve already jumped, long before I was pushed.’
‘They’re closing the bank?’ Fran whispered.
‘I could have moved to another branch and carried on working, but I was tempted by the package they offered.’
‘What will we do?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ve procured a two-bedroomed flat on the river estate, so I shall go and live in it. Ironically, it used to belong to the livery yard, just down the road. I suggest you get Chathill on the market before it’s totally worthless; then, my darling wife, you and my darling brother may share the pathetic proceeds between you.’
‘What about Becca?’ Al said, barely taking anything in.
‘My dear daughter is welcome to join me. There’s even room for her horse at the aforementioned livery yard. But the rest of the menagerie out there,’ he said, gesticulating wildly towards the window, ‘Can go find another mug. And that includes you, Al!’
‘Becca will want to stay here!’ Fran protested.
‘She can. And then she can go live with you in your council flat.’
‘You can’t do this to us!’
‘What, exactly? Stop us going bankrupt? Stop paying the bills for this ramshackle excuse of a home? I think you’ll find I can, and I will.’ George took a long, careful look at her then plunged the knife into the Christmas Cake. ‘I’ve simply had enough. Got it?’
Fran looked broken, crushed by his words. Strangely though, George squeezed her shoulder in passing. And his voice was low, caring almost. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I really don’t know what else to do. Some might say I’m being cruel to be kind. I hope you’ll see it like that too, eventually.’
His gaze swept across all their dumbfounded faces, and they stayed silent, locked in their own thoughts as his footsteps clumped up the threadbare stairs. The sound of a heavy suitcase was dragged across the landing.
Chapter Fourteen
Kate.
She had no idea what to say or do. It was awful, sitting there like a dummy while someone else’s personal drama unfolded around her. On the other hand, maybe it was just as well George had exploded when he did. Although it had been uncomfortable, listening to him leave his wife, perhaps he’d done it to warn her, to expose the historical complications with Al.
They all three stared at the floor, deep in thought, Al chewing a nail.
George heaved his case over the stair-gate, cursing at the roaming dogs in the way. He loaded it into his vehicle and then began to remove items from his office. It didn’t take very long and then he stuck his head round the door, as if he was just popping out for some milk.
‘I’ll call the agent shall I? I’ll speak to Becca, too.’
No one answered him, so he just nodded and left. Only when the engine noise of the BMW died to a distant hum, did Fran come to life.
‘What shall I tell Becca?’
‘We’ll tell her together, don’t worry,’ Al said.
‘Together? Will we, Al?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’ll want to go to Billy Williams’ livery. He’s got a big indoor menage and thirty acres of grazing,’ she said, as if this was the most important conclusion she’d drawn. When she went from the room, Al looked at Kate properly for the first time, sweeping his over-grown hair back with a tired sigh. She wished he wasn’t so handsome, it was far more difficult to be cool and detached in the presence of such rakish good looks.
‘I didn’t see that coming, did you?’ he said.
‘George? In a way, yes. Look, I don’t know what’s gone on between you and your brother,’ she said, then when he made no reply, ‘Is there history between you and Fran, is that it?’
Her mobile rang. A glance at the screen told her it was Tia, and there was no way she could ignore it. ‘Hello, love! Are you all right?’
‘No.’ It was a muffled, tearful no.
Kate got to her feet and Al pulled the table back so she could get out and stand by the window, the signal hotspot. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at home; when are you coming back? I need to talk to you.’
‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’ The call ended abruptly, and she must have pulled a face.
‘Problem?’ Al said.
‘I have to go, yes. My daughter needs me.’
‘What, now? Right this minute? Kate?’
She ignored him and went to her room and sat on the bed, trying to decide if she was over the legal driving limit. She felt incredibly sober, although she knew through experience that two large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc were not to be trusted. The fact that maybe Al was not to be trusted either, made her feel ashamed and embarrassed, which was faintly ridiculous. It was also ridiculous that she’d considered her daughter’s crisis to be a well-timed life-saver.
Above all, she felt incredibly let-down, as if she’d been teetering on the brink of something magical, and then someone had come along and told her it wasn’t magic at all, it was a clever illusion done with mirrors. A cruel trick played by the sad clown in a circus of fools. Like being told that Father Christmas didn’t exist, all those rug-pulling moments that build throughout childhood to culminate in the big one; the truth about love.
She began to throw her belongings into her case, zipping sponge bags with too much force. If she was stopped and faced with a breathalyser test, then so be it. Tia had clearly got herself into trouble over a man and the fact she was asking for help was some kind of miracle.
She dropped her bags at the bottom of the stairs, then saw Fran in George’s study. She was sat at his desk, engrossed in sorting through a huge box of black and white photographs. Deep in thought, Kate entered the room and looked over Fran’s shoulder. There were lots of family pictures; George and Al, standing side by side in school uniform, astride fat ponies, carrying fishing rods. There were country shows going back over the years, horse-drawn ploughs and the first motor cars, dates scribbled on the back.
And there were wedding photographs. George, slim and dark and linking arms with his bride. Al, in a crumpled linen jacket, standing to one side with both sets of parents. Fran trailed her finger over all of their faces.
‘I married the wrong brother, didn’t I?’
Kate, about to say her goodbyes, was further thrown by this. Fran looked up with enormous, intense eyes. ‘My mother wouldn’t allow it, you see. She wanted me to marry George. He was by far the better bet, she said. He’s a bank manager. You can’t go wrong there, that’s what she said.’
Above the desk and reflecting her pinched face, there was a mahogany glass-fronted gun case holding a single shotgun. Beneath the gun there was a row of little boxes, presumably for holding shot. The cabinet was likely antique and despite the dust it looked like an attractive piece of furniture, although she couldn’t help feeling relieved that it was locked.
She mumbled a reply to Fran, but her immediate thought was to get out of the stuffy little room with its box of old photographs. She slung her handbag over her shoulder and picked up the hurriedly packed holdall. A glance into the sitting room opposite revealed Al sitting exactly where she’d left him. He didn’t look up as she opened the front door and walked briskly to her car.
Five miles down the valley road and the tears started. How pathetic was that? By the time she turned the lock in her own front door, her face was a blubbery mess. Her daughter emerged from the snug, holding a mug in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. She was wearing a dressing gown, wet hair bundled up in a turban and sporting a pink face-pack. When she spoke, she sounded like a bad
ventriloquist, talking through gritted teeth.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’ve made a fool of myself, over a man.’
Tia’s mouth opened and some of the mask cracked and flaked off. ‘You have? No way!’
‘Have we got any booze in?’
‘I think there’s some brandy?’
‘Fine. Perfect.’
She scuttled off while Kate removed her coat and fiddled with the central heating thermostat. She felt chilled to the bone. Tia returned minus the face-pack, rubbing at her hair, a damp strawberry blonde tangle. Kate stacked up the logs in the burner, and they sat, side by side with drinks. Her daughter wanted to know everything about Al, refusing to speak until her mother had bared her soul. Kate was more than happy to talk it out and filled in an extensive overview for her, but Tia quickly lost interest with the more abstract detail.
‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘No! Why does everything come down to that?’
She seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘So, how have you made a fool of yourself?’
‘I started to develop feelings for him.’
‘Big wow.’
Kate sighed at this, irritated by Tia’s usual lack of sensitivity but mostly, completely surprised by the conversation they were having. ‘Anyway,’ she said, desperate to change tack. ‘I thought you had some sort of crisis?’
‘It’s nowhere near as interesting as yours. I’ve never seen you like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sobbing, opening up, talking.’
Kate nodded and looked at the ball of tissue in her lap. ‘I know. I know I’m not very approachable, but maybe we can… maybe I can change that.’ She lifted her head to look at Tia, disappointed, but not entirely surprised to see an expression of pity. ‘Anyway, that’s been my Christmas. What’s this problem of yours?’
‘I’ve lost my job.’
‘Oh, me too.’
Tia’s eyes widened. ‘…Over a stupid prat of a man.’
‘Same here.’
‘He posted a nude picture of himself with it all hanging out-’
‘Please, spare me the details.’
‘… On my Facebook page, next to the playgroup Christmas party. How was that my fault?’
‘You seriously want me to answer that?’
‘A couple of the yummy mummies saw it and I got suspended. So I told them to shove it.’
‘Was he worth it?’ Kate asked, pausing before she lifted the glass to her lips, keeping her eyes facing forward onto the print of Greg adorning the chimney breast, as if the answer might be there. Through the glass of the brandy balloon, he looked distinctly distorted and wavy.
‘No,’ Tia said. ‘Was he fuck.’
This admission was followed by a heaving sob.
*
Within a matter of days, Tia reverted to her prickly self. The atmosphere in the house changed from being a cocoon of cosy chats and wound-licking, to bored sniping. They even exhausted bitching about Julie, Tia’s step-mother, and although Kate had never lowered herself to do this in the past, the way it united them as mother and daughter, was secretly satisfying.
In a way, bitching about Julie released some of the bitching she really wanted to do about the dysfunctional situation at Chathill. She couldn’t decide whom she was the most cross with. All the months she’d wasted worrying about telling Fran about Greg, and now it seemed Fran’s marriage was also based on some sort of lie. The hypocritical nerve she’d had too, warning her off Al! She felt sorry for George and Becca, maybe even Helen too, although she didn’t have enough facts to have a real opinion there.
Tia was irritated by Kate’s dithering, the way she picked the phone up, then put it down again.
‘If it bothers you, just drive over there!’
‘I feel awful. About just dropping everything in everyone’s hour of need; but then I think should remain impartial.’
‘Don’t go over there, then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know what to do! Stay away… I think.’
‘What’s the big deal?’ Tia said, already bored with her mother’s pretend love life. ‘Why don’t you just call him?’
‘It’s complicated, that’s why.’
Good grief, had she just said that?
It didn’t help that she and Tia were both unemployed and suffering from not having enough to do. The dismal days after New Year were like no-man’s land with Kate staring out of the window and Tia searching the Internet for a new life. The latest idea was a European au-pair job; preferably for an A or B list celebrity couple who travelled a lot, and included the use of a swimming pool and a decent car as part of the package.
‘Problem,’ she said, after twenty minutes. ‘I can’t speak another language.’
They went to the local job centre.
There was the usual spate of cleaning and care-in-the-community opportunities, and then numerous dodgy tele-sales jobs. One, temporary position for the council in the housing benefit office. Tia made exaggerated groaning noises and Kate sympathised, albeit silently. Basically, there was nothing with an exciting enough prospect to take her mind off Al, let alone something to tempt her daughter out of inertia.
Ironically, Bargain Home Stores were advertising for senior sales staff and Tia suddenly wanted to know how her boring conventional mother had come to lose her boring conventional job. When Kate told her about Freddie Fun-Pants she curled her lip.
‘He sounds a right jerk.’
Later, as Kate began a pile of ironing, Tia made herself a new Facebook page. ‘I need to know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘Jobs and stuff.’
‘You need to drop those silly friends of yours. Prospective employers check these days, you know.’
‘I’ve got full privacy, no tagging or posting. No photographs.’
‘Right, good,’ she said, amazed that her daughter hadn’t exploded in the face of her motherly advice, although it was doubtful she was actually listening. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, phone lodged under her chin.
‘Is this him?’ she said suddenly, tilting the screen towards her. Kate nodded in confirmation, the suspended iron hissing like an angry goose. She was surprised at the way it made her feel to see his headshot; tawny windblown hair, serious expression, silly hat. Tia raised one, perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Actually, he’s quite fit. For an older guy.’
*
A couple of weeks later, fully reunited with the World-Wide-Web, Tia announced she was going back to central London, this time to share a grotty-looking house. The other occupants consisted of two university students with rich parents, an exotic club dancer (sex indeterminate) and two smiling ethnic characters, apparently making a fortune exporting baby milk formula to China. Kate was quickly exhausted and puzzled by all of it but didn’t bother voicing any questions.
Tia showed her the house on an Internet house-share site.
‘Oh, it has a little garden.’
‘It’ll be full of shit.’
‘I see. And the prospect of this is better than staying here?’
‘Hell, yeah.’
She dropped Tia at the station and waved her off, tall and resolute again in just ten days. At least she’d signed to a reputable employment agency for nannies. Alone again, Kate turned the car towards Conwy, then on a whim took a left along the valley. It was bitterly cold and the smell of frozen rain filtered into the car. The sky was split open over a distant Moel Siabod, a dull illumination promising a few seconds of sunlight but generally the day promised to be cold and wet.
There was a For Sale board on the main road, nailed to a tree at the top of the drive and it gave her an unhappy jolt to actually see it. It was unlikely that anyone would buy Chathill and restore it to a working farm, it just wasn’t cost-effective any more. The small parcel of land it had managed to cling to was probably its most valuable asset. At best, a property developer would buy it for a pittance and sell it as a ‘substan
tial family home with paddocks’. Or, demolish it and build three smaller, starter homes. After a protest of sorts, the locals would say it was the end of an era.
The box of old photographs had her wondering at the nostalgia of it and the terrible heartbreak it would wrench, severing generations of a family to rubble. George’s heritage. The only roots Al had ever known. The only life Fran had ever wanted.
Continuing on, Kate took a left at the next cross-roads and dropped down into a small hamlet which consisted of nothing more than a closed-up pub and a few detached properties. There was a smart sign for the livery yard at the start of a single-track road, crisscrossed by bridleways, and the roof of the indoor school was just visible through the leafless trees.
Close to the river front, there was a circle of newish-looking houses, and a flat above the double-fronted newsagents cum post office. George’s BMW looked too big for its surroundings, but at least it made an easy landmark. He must have been staring out of the window and came to the door the second she pulled in. He looked awful.
‘Kate, love. I’ve been meaning to phone, apologise.’
‘No need.’
She followed him up the narrow stairs and through the front door of his flat. It was surprisingly light and spacious, with stunning views of the swollen river and the dense, wooded hills beyond. He showed her the bedrooms, the second one clearly identified as Becca’s, dominated by a new desk complete with computer, although there didn’t seem to be many of Becca’s personal belongings and the still-wrapped horse-themed bedspread sat on top of a pile of bedding and pillows, clearly unused. The furniture throughout was shabby, but the kitchen and bathroom were both clean and modern, with gleaming white fittings and she imagined how much this would please George. He bustled about, finding cups and filling the kettle. Neither of them knew what to say, how to start a conversation.
‘How is Becca?’
‘Fine. She’s not sure about living here though. Too much too soon, I expect. Or, it could be that she prefers life with Uncle Al. After all, I no longer fit down Christmas Tree chutes or have a dressing-up box to rely on in times of adversity.’