Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Are you saying I didn’t love my own mother?’ Angela’s voice was even more shrill.

  ‘Ladies. Please.’ Rob, who’d seen a few spats in his time, was appalled by their behaviour.

  Mayday scolded herself silently. The expression on Rob’s face was warning enough.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Angela pressed her lips together. The last thing she wanted was an apology from Mayday, because it meant that she had to accept it graciously. Her instinct was always to carry on an argument to the bitter end, like a war of attrition, until the other party was worn into the ground.

  ‘We’re all upset,’ she conceded reluctantly.

  Mayday looked at her grandmother again. The baggy blue top and elasticated trousers she was wearing made her want to howl.

  ‘I don’t know how long the undertaker’s going to be, but I’d like to choose what Gran’s going to wear. If nobody minds.’

  Angela frowned. This practicality hadn’t occurred to her.

  ‘In the coffin, you mean? Won’t she just wear what she’s got on?’

  ‘No. Gran hated these clothes. She should wear something pretty. Maybe we should get her something new, from one of the department stores in Cheltenham?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Angela looked totally bewildered. ‘Mum was never interested in what she wore.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Mayday. ‘You never took any notice of what she thought of anything. She often pointed things out in magazines that she thought were nice.’

  ‘If it makes you happy.’ Angela threw up her hands in despair. ‘I’m more worried about where to have the funeral tea. This place isn’t big enough.’

  ‘We could have it at the hotel. We can do sandwiches and cakes in the lounge bar. Then everyone can have a drink.’

  Angela surveyed her daughter beadily for a moment. The temptation not to be bothered with any of the catering was great, but not as great as the fear that public sympathy might swing towards Mayday if they used the Horse and Groom. She didn’t want to be upstaged.

  ‘No. We’ll have it at Pantiles.’ This was the name of Angela and Roy’s ranch-style bungalow. Mayday had pissed herself laughing when someone had once added an extra ‘s’ to the sign on the gates. Although it was quite clear that Angela wasn’t pantiless today, as her black g-string was poking out of the top of her tracksuit bottoms. Rob’s eyes had goggled when he’d spotted it. ‘Roy will do us a bar. The boys can hand round sandwiches.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Mason and Ryan. What do I do about them? Should they go to the funeral? I don’t think they should. They’re too young to be subjected to a trauma like that.’

  Mayday didn’t like to say that it would take more than that to traumatize Mason and Ryan. The last time she’d been round, they’d been watching a pirate DVD called Electric Blue Asian Babes. But it wasn’t up to her. She looked out of the window and saw the undertaker pull up outside.

  ‘I’ll go upstairs and have a look in her wardrobe. See what there is.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela quickly. ‘You’re right. We should get her something new.’ She burrowed in her bag, pulling out her purse. ‘You pop into House of Fraser. Get her something nice. Their spring sale’s just started.’

  She thrust a wad of cash at Mayday. She didn’t want her going upstairs until she’d had a chance to root through Elsie’s drawers herself. She was pretty sure there wasn’t anything of any great value, but she wanted to be sure.

  By lunchtime on Tuesday, Mickey decided that he couldn’t get through this latest fracas on his own.

  He had had nightmares all night. The worst one being coming last in the Father’s Sack Race at sports day, and everyone laughing because he was so old. Lucy woke him at one point, asking what on earth it was he was moaning about in his sleep. He told her it was too much rich seafood, even though he had barely touched his supper.

  By the time he and Lucy had got rid of Bertie the night before, it had been too late to start bringing up the ghastly events of the day. Besides, Lucy had been so happy. As they lay in bed she’d burbled on about the wedding, and the email she’d had back from Sophie saying she and Ned would be back from Oz just in time. He couldn’t bring himself to burst her bubble.

  Come the morning, he was knackered. He scrambled out of bed and into his clothes of the day before, making his escape as quickly as he could, just about managing a cup of tea. He was at the brewery by eight o’clock. He sat in the car park for a while, looking at the familiar buildings clustered around the millpond. It was hard to believe in an hour’s time it would spring into life. Sacks of grain would be upended and liquor poured into the huge vat ready for another day’s brew, and the air would soon fill with the rich scent of hops and malt. Lorries bearing the Honeycote Ales logo would whiz in and out, ready to take on board their cargo of silver barrels and wend their way across the Cotswold countryside. The walls would ring with shouts and laughter and the sound of the local radio.

  Mickey’s life had followed this soothing rhythm nearly every day for over thirty years. There were men who had been working here over fifty years, since they’d left school at fourteen or fifteen and were now hovering on the brink of retirement. He had as much responsibility to them as he did to Flora. More, in fact. For most of them, the brewery was their life. Their income, their social structure. It might be a bit of a cliché, but Honeycote Ales was like a big extended family.

  He remembered the last time he had faced a similar dilemma, when Graham Cowley from the bank had called him in and told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t get his act together. He had been so determined to make sure that didn’t happen again. He hadn’t blotted his copybook at all; his behaviour had been beyond reproach. Although Mickey knew deep down that it was Keith who was in the driving seat, making the important decisions, it was still him who was perceived as the figurehead. He was a Liddiard, after all. It was his great grandfather who had brewed the first drop of Honeycote Ale over a hundred and fifty years ago. The men still looked to him for guidance, advice and reassurance. It was Mickey who was down amongst them, remembering birthdays, enquiring after poorly spouses, sending flowers to the hospital when one of the young lads’ wives gave birth, organizing the annual football match between the brewery and the pubs. His role was vital, as it was that sense of camaraderie, of pulling together, of knowing you were being looked after, that made the brewery such a special place. Its employees took huge pride in their work, which was rare enough these days. Mickey had a long list of people waiting for jobs, but as people rarely left voluntarily there were few vacancies.

  And that, Mickey knew, was down to him. Keith was good at figures, at deals, at spin. At getting good terms from their suppliers, and good contracts from their customers, and spotting a PR opportunity. But he still didn’t know the name of everyone on the floor. The workers liked him and respected him, but he wasn’t as approachable as Mickey. He didn’t really get his hands dirty - not like Mickey, who jumped in immediately when someone was off sick and took their place without question.

  Sitting there, looking at the golden stone of the buildings, he realized he had let them all down. He’d been asked for more money than most of them would see in a lifetime. And he couldn’t help feeling aggrieved. This was a crime he had already been hung for, but he couldn’t ignore it and walk away. But that, Mickey knew, was life. You could keep your nose to the grindstone and your conscience clear, but you never knew quite what was round the corner. He shut his eyes, which were suddenly heavy with the sleep that had eluded him most of the night.

  The next thing he knew, Elspeth was banging on his window, looking concerned. He wound down the window sheepishly.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Liddiard?’ she asked him anxiously, her eyes darting around as if looking for a hosepipe attached to the exhaust.

  ‘Just dropped off for a second,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Didn’t sleep too well last night. Dodgy prawn.’

  He
felt guilty blaming Lucy’s faultless cooking, but Elspeth was a great one for making mountains out of molehills, and he didn’t want her getting any hint that anything was amiss. He followed her, in her prissy floral dress and navy court shoes, into the brewery and promptly shut himself away in his office. He looked at his computer, wondering if the internet might give him some guidance. There must be blokes like him all over the country being hit with requests for money for children they didn’t know they had. What should he type in to the search engine? He knew there were a couple of lads at the brewery who’d been stung and were shelling out maintenance, because it was docked from their pay packets. He felt for them, because the mothers were always so difficult, happy to take their money but not so amenable when it came to visiting rights and access. But he couldn’t exactly go and ask them for advice.

  By lunchtime, after hours of staring at a blank screen, his head was splitting. Kay hadn’t rung to say it was all right, that she’d discovered a secret bank account of Lawrence’s and he didn’t have to worry. Not that it was just the money. Mickey couldn’t get the image of Flora hanging upside down on the climbing frame out of his head - her long brown curls hanging down, the curls that he knew held traces of his DNA.

  There was only one person in the world he could share his secret with.

  He found Patrick in the main brewery office, which contrasted starkly with the tradition of his own. The walls were painted a bright white, the lights were modern, and there were colourful prints on the walls, glass-topped desks, flat-screen computers and green leafy plants in stainless-steel tubs. This was the hub, where his son kept track of all their tied houses, where Mandy worked on PR and where Elspeth controlled operations.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Sure.’ Patrick logged off his computer with a click of his mouse and pushed his chair back, looking up at his dad expectantly.

  Mickey cleared his throat, looking round the office. As it was lunchtime, there was no one else in, but either Mandy or Elspeth could appear at any moment.

  ‘Do you want to . . . come into my office? It’s a bit . . .’ Mickey made a face to indicate that the matter was delicate.

  ‘OK.’

  Patrick got to his feet, and Mickey felt his heart sink, even though he didn’t think it could sink any further. Patrick looked so young. He’d worked his arse off for the brewery over the past few years. Here he was, about to marry his childhood sweetheart, a happy event that should be filling everyone with hope and optimism for the future. But no, along comes his father and pisses all over his strawberry patch. If Mickey could have found someone else to burden with his problem, he would have.

  Patrick followed Mickey into his office. Mickey promptly shut the door firmly.

  ‘Must be serious,’ observed Patrick. Mickey wasn’t usually a closer of doors. He was usually only too eager for any passing distraction.

  ‘That phone call in the middle of our meeting yesterday? It was Kay. Oakley.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Long time no . . .’ The look on his father’s face made Patrick realize it wasn’t a social call. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘In a word? Money.’

  ‘Surely she’s not blackmailing you? You and Kay were finished, what - five years ago? She’s got no hold over you.’

  Mickey sighed.

  ‘Tell me she didn’t take pictures?’ Bloody Kay, thought Patrick. He thought there was more to her than that.

  ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. There’s a child involved. A little girl. Who is, apparently . . .’ Mickey paused, not for effect, but because he couldn’t quite spit the words out. ‘Mine,’ he managed at last.

  Patrick wasn’t easily shocked. In any other circumstances, Mickey would have chuckled to see him so totally floored.

  ‘She was pregnant. That Christmas. If you remember . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. I know. But I thought . . . well, we all thought, didn’t we? That it must have been Lawrence’s in the end. Even though he denied it at first.’ Patrick was struggling to remember the chain of events. Largely because so much had happened, so quickly, that Kay’s predicament had taken rather a back seat. She’d left the scene, after all. She and Lawrence had buggered off to Portugal. Out of sight, out of mind. ‘So why come running back to you now? I suppose she’s up to her old tricks and Lawrence has kicked her out.’

  ‘Lawrence is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Car crash, apparently. On one of those treacherous cliff roads. She implied it wasn’t an accident. That he was involved with some dodgy types.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. He was a bit of a tough nut.’

  ‘A bankrupt tough nut. Apparently.’

  Patrick whistled softly. ‘That does surprise me.’

  ‘Leaving Kay a penniless widow.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Patrick, getting the picture. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I’m beginning to rather wish I hadn’t.’ Mickey made a dry attempt at humour.

  Patrick didn’t need anything spelling out to him. Adrenalin surged through his veins, and he felt his heart start to pound as the instinct to protect his family kicked in straight away.

  ‘You’re sure it’s yours?’ he demanded. ‘It seems bloody convenient. You’re sure she’s not just trying it on?’

  ‘Christ. I don’t know. If she says it is, I suppose it is. I can’t work it out. You know I’m crap at maths.’

  ‘Well, me too. How old is the kid, exactly?’

  ‘Flora,’ said Mickey. ‘Her name’s Flora.’

  Patrick frowned. ‘Don’t go getting emotionally attached.’

  ‘We’re talking about a child here! Possibly mine.’

  ‘You’re an idiot. Didn’t you use anything? You used to warn me often enough—’

  ‘She told me she couldn’t get pregnant!’

  Patrick could feel panic claw at his gut. ‘You’re still supposed to use protection. Haven’t you heard of safe sex? Hasn’t the message got through to your generation?’

  ‘It would seem not,’ Mickey snapped. ‘Anyway, I don’t think Kay was exactly a high-risk category.’

  ‘That depends on what risk you’re taking.’

  ‘There’s no need to be a smart arse. I came to you for advice. Not a lecture.’

  The two of them fell silent for a moment.

  ‘What have you said to her?’

  ‘Not much. I was too gobsmacked. She told me she’d give me some time to think about it—’

  ‘That’s kind of her. Considering she’d kept it quiet for so long.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ Mickey started, not sure what he was trying to say. ‘I don’t think she enjoyed telling me. I think she’s desperate. I think this is a last resort.’

  Patrick looked at his father pityingly. For all his worldly ways, Mickey had a naïvety that made Patrick want to throttle him sometimes.

  ‘So this is just about money, is it?’

  ‘Child support,’ said Mickey. ‘Not blackmail. It’s money she is entitled to.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s she asking for?’

  It was such a simple sum. Time and again he’d gone over the calculations in his head and come to the conclusion that, outrageous though it sounded, it wasn’t.

  ‘Half . . . five . . . um . . .’ No matter which way he said it, it was a small fortune. ‘Five hundred grand.’

  There was the tiniest twitch in his son’s cheek muscle. ‘Quite a reasonable opening gambit,’ he observed. ‘She’s obviously not taking the piss completely.’

  ‘Shit. Do you really think she’d get that? In a court of law?’

  ‘Funnily enough, it’s not something I’ve given a lot of thought to. But the papers are always banging on about how much it costs to bring up a child. And we’re not exactly paupers, are we? I mean, I know the brewery’s struggling. But on paper . . . if our assets were liquid . . . which is what they’d look at . . . I guess. I don’t know,’ he finished finally. ‘But I’m sure Kay does. S
he’ll have done her research.’

  Patrick wasn’t saying what Mickey wanted to hear. He’d wanted instant reassurance that her claim was ridiculous. That there was some clause saying that you couldn’t just go back to the natural father five years later bleating for money, that there was a time limit and Kay had missed it. By turning to Patrick he’d hoped for some temporary respite, a straw to clutch at. But instead, Patrick was making the situation seem even worse.

  ‘What’s Lucy going to say?’

  Mickey groaned. ‘I don’t know. And that’s the thing that really worries me, to be honest. She hasn’t been herself lately, with Sophie and Georgina gone. She was just starting to perk up, because of the wedding. I just . . . don’t know how to break it to her. She’ll be devastated.’

  Poor Lucy, thought Patrick. Of everyone, she was the one who was going to suffer for this. It was humiliating, everyone knowing your husband had fathered a child by someone else. She didn’t deserve the inevitable gossip and speculation. Everyone had always known that Mickey was a bit of a lad and had an eye for the ladies. But living, breathing biological proof of infidelity wasn’t funny.

  He strode up and down Mickey’s office, chewing his knuckle, deep in thought. He cast his mind back to that Christmas, which had brought about so many changes for them all. Some good. Most of them good. Like him getting together with Mandy, and Keith buying into the brewery. And Sophie and Ned finally admitting that they fancied each other like mad. And James proposing to Caroline, though they were looking a bit rocky at the moment. Well, more than a bit, if he was absolutely honest.

  Most vividly of all, however, he remembered his own brief fling with Kay. How he’d offered himself up to her as a replacement lover, on condition that she gave up Mickey. She’d been only too eager to accept the deal. And if he said so himself, he wasn’t a bad consolation prize. Patrick took pride in his skills; if he remembered rightly, she’d been pretty appreciative. He’d blown her mind on more than one occasion. And although it hadn’t exactly been a chore, for Kay was very attractive, he thought he’d done a pretty noble thing. For he’d felt sure Kay and Mickey’s affair was going to end in disaster, and the one person he’d wanted to protect out of all of them was Lucy.