by Sharon Booth
Mum looked a bit guilty. "Sorry, love. I didn't think."
"No, well." I suddenly realised that it was Saturday afternoon, and she was putting on makeup. "What are you doing? What's with the slap?"
My mother flushed and acted a bit shifty. "Going out."
"Well, obviously. Going out where, though?"
"Helmston." She checked for lipstick on her teeth, then began to put all her cosmetics back into her makeup bag, finally closing the zip after a bit of a struggle with its bulging contents. "Meeting a friend."
"Which friend?" I narrowed my eyes. "And why are you getting all dolled up?"
"Well, honestly, can't I put a bit of makeup on without facing an inquisition?" Mum tried to sound indignant, but came across as defensive.
I folded my arms. "Are you meeting another bloke?"
"Another bloke! Charming. You make me sound like a right tart." Standing, she collected up the various tissues smeared with lipstick, mascara and foundation, and shoved them in the kitchen bin.
"You know what I mean. Olivia told me you've joined a dating website. Why didn't you mention it? And are you sure it's safe? I mean, you could meet any kind of weirdo on there. Are you meeting one today?"
"What, a weirdo?" Mum grinned. "I don't think so, no. At least, if he is, he's hidden it well."
"You've already met him?" My stomach fluttered nervously. "So, this is a second date?"
"Might be." She shrugged. "Or it might be the third, or fourth. What's it to you?"
"There's no need to be rude," I said sulkily. "I'm just trying to protect you, that's all."
Mum's face softened. "I know, love," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "Sorry. Just that, well, it's early days, and I don't want to jinx things. I feel a bit daft, to be honest."
"Daft?" I detected a distinct discomfort in her eyes. "What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing's wrong with him!" There was a flush of pink on her cheeks. "He's, er, a bit younger than me, that's all."
"How much younger?" I knew my voice was loaded with suspicion. Was the bloke some chancer, preying on vulnerable older women? "Are you sure he can be trusted?"
"Well, he's hardly after my money, is he?" Mum pointed out. "And yes, I do trust him. He's ever so nice, Marley. Nice enough for me to remove my details from the dating site, any road. I just think, well, what does a bloke like him want with a woman of my age?"
Reluctantly, I had to admit that she was hardly ancient. "You're only in your late forties, Mum. How old is he?"
She looked a bit vague. "Late thirties, or thereabouts."
"Thereabouts?" I eyed her sternly. "Don't you know?"
"He's thirty-six," she snapped. "Go on, say it. He must be blind."
"Don't be silly." In spite of my misgivings, I wanted to reassure my mother, who did actually look rather attractive now that I came to think about it. Her long, auburn hair had been blow-dried, and she sported a smart pair of trousers and a pretty rose-patterned tunic top. "He'd be lucky to have you." I realised what I'd said, and blushed. "I don't mean have you. I know you wouldn't—hell, you haven't, have you?"
Mum looked deeply offended. "No, I bloody haven't! What do you take me for? Besides, he's a gentleman. He's only kissed me once."
I tried not to feel nauseous at the thought. "Where are you going, then?"
"Told you. Helmston."
"Yes, but whereabouts? You can't just be walking around the market all afternoon, surely?"
"We're doing some Christmas shopping, and then we're having our tea at The Fox and Hounds."
"The Fox and Hounds?" I raised an eyebrow, quite impressed. "Wow. Classy."
It was, too. The Fox and Hounds had won awards for its cuisine, and you had to book well in advance to stand a chance of eating there. Whoever this man was, he obviously had taste.
"I know. I'm a bit worried. Will it be full of posh people, do you think? Will I have to know which knife and fork to use?"
"Is this bloke posh, then?" I enquired, suddenly hopeful.
"You must be joking!" Mum laughed, clearly at ease again. "He's just an ordinary bloke, like—"
Her voice broke off, and I looked at her sharply. Had she been about to say like your dad? I hoped not, given that my father had been an unreliable, heartless rake. The last thing my mother needed was a repeat performance of her marriage. "Like …?"
"Like David," Mum finished, giving me a look that showed she knew exactly what I'd been thinking.
"Not much older than David, either," I said wryly.
"Oh, don't say that!" Mum looked stricken. "God, that makes me sound awful. Like some sort of cougar."
I spluttered with laughter. "Hardly! Anyway, he's thirty-six, Mum, not nineteen. I'm sure he's capable of resisting your obvious charms, if he wanted to. I don't think his irate mother will turn up on the doorstep, demanding you leave her baby boy alone." I eyed her curiously. "Have you met his mother?"
"No. His parents live in Bridlington," Mum said. "Nice, normal family, from what I can gather. I know he's got an older sister, but she's living in Wolverhampton, so he doesn't see much of her. At least they all sound decent. Not like your father's weird lot."
I bit my lip. If my mother was basing her prejudice on my father's actions, and Great Uncle Charles's charming personality, I could hardly defend the Jacobs family, even though I hated the thought that Grandad was being lumped in with them. "So, when will you be meeting them?" I asked.
"It's early days. No need for all that, yet."
"Yet?" It all sounded quite promising. Or worrying, depending on the viewpoint. "And when do we get to meet him?"
A definite tension filled the air. "Someday. We'll see how things go," Mum said eventually. She glanced at her watch. "Not to be rude, Marley, but I have to get off."
I stood up, collecting the bag of baubles. "Right, well, have a lovely time." I kissed my mother's cheek, noting the whiff of Anais, Anais. Things really must’ve been serious. "Just be careful. Keep your mobile with you, at all times. Any sign of trouble, ring me, okay? And don't let him talk you into doing anything you're not comfortable with."
Ugh! What a thought.
Mum laughed and pushed me gently. "Shouldn't this be the sort of conversation I have with you? Not the other way round. See you soon. Take care."
"You, too." I headed to the front door, then turned and hugged her, feeling quite emotional. "Have a lovely time, Mum."
Clearly surprised, Mum nodded. "Thanks, love."
I stepped outside, stung at the contrast between the biting cold air and the warmth of my mother's cosy kitchen, and shivered. "And turn those bloody tree lights off before you go out," I warned. Horrible cheap tat. It wouldn't surprise me if they went pop at any moment.
Chapter Eight
Kit ended the phone call and leaned back in his chair, feeling drained. He needed some air. He didn't mind how cold it was. He felt stifled, unable to breathe properly. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed the keys, and left the house, not even sure where he was heading.
He'd been longing to talk to Jack for days, but when it came to it, he'd barely said a word. He'd let his brother ramble on, giving him all his news. How could Kit interrupt him, for God's sake? It wasn't the time to tell Jack that he felt like he was suffocating—that he was drowning in panic. He hadn't felt any better when the call ended, either. If anything, he felt worse. And then he'd felt guilty, which only made things seem even darker.
He walked, head down, barely noticing where he was going. It was only when he almost collided with someone's dog that he looked up and realised he was standing at the top of Bay Street in Kearton Bay. Bloody hell, it was freezing. Why was he heading towards the sea, in this weather?
Kit hesitated a moment, then thought that maybe the beach was just the place he needed to be. As a kid, he'd loved visiting the sands. The lapping of the waves, the cry of the seagulls, the salty tang in the air—they’d seemed like the perfect remedy for any problem. Who knew, maybe it would clear his head, put th
ings in perspective? Maybe things weren't as bad as he imagined. Maybe Jack would come home soon. Maybe there would be good news all round. Maybe.
Rubbish. He was kidding himself, and he knew it. ‘Dire straits’ was how Colin had put it. There might just be enough money left to cover January's wages.
He strode down the steep road that led to the beach, his hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets. His breath came out in clouds of steam ahead of him, and he was beginning to wish he'd worn a scarf and gloves.
The street was almost empty, although he could see people huddled inside some of the shops. The fish and chip shop was the only one with its door wide open. The tempting aroma of fried food and vinegar made his nose twitch and his stomach growl, and he realised he hadn't eaten all day.
Ten minutes later, bag of chips in hand, he continued his journey toward the beach, walking down the slipway and stepping onto firm sand. There were a few hardy souls around, which didn't really surprise him. They were a tough bunch round here. He sat on a rock, ignoring the moss and seaweed that adorned it, and tucked into his chips, eyeing a nearby seagull warily. He knew how aggressive they could be, and they loved chips. To his relief, it flew away, clearly tempted by something more accessible.
Glancing around, he remembered childhood holidays spent playing on that very beach. He could almost hear the laughter, as he and Jack had hunted for crabs in the rock pools, plodded up and down the sands on donkeys, and dunked each other in the rolling sea. Kit shivered at the thought. He wouldn't be going anywhere near the sea today, that was for sure. It looked pretty threatening, and he'd bet it was icy cold.
Maybe, he thought, he'd go into the local pub and have a pint. The ancient white building stood atop the sea wall. The Hare and Moon pub. He remembered it served a good selection of local beers—at least, it had the last time he'd gone in there. Although, that was … what, seven years ago? He remembered the landlady. Very attractive. Very sympathetic to a young man in his early twenties, who'd just lost his father and didn't have the first idea how he felt about that. She'd straightened him out, somehow. Made him see that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, he decided he'd go in there for a pint, after all. He deserved it.
Finishing his chips, Kit closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with sea air. Even now, he didn't feel any grief over his father. What he did feel, in spite of the voice of common sense telling him he was being an idiot, was a kind of fear: the fear that, somehow, his father knew he'd messed everything up, and that he'd been proved right at last. Christopher Carroll would never amount to anything. He was too soft, too stupid. James Carroll had always insisted that his eldest son wasn't fit to be in charge of Carroll's Confectionary, and, it seemed, his warnings had been justified at last.
Screwing up his chip wrapper, Kit stood and headed back up the slipway, dropping the paper into the nearest bin. It was odd how, during all those years when his father had ranted at him to toughen up, to work harder, to be better, he'd hated the factory with a passion. His one consuming thought had been to get away from it. His hatred for the place had given him the courage he’d needed to defy his father and walk away from his university course, leaving everything—and everyone—behind. When his father died, and his mother swanned off to Italy to live in her swanky new home, he'd been relieved to hand the reins over to a willing Jack and disappear. It had taken a lot for him to come home, to step inside that factory and brush aside the ghosts of his father, and his equally domineering grandfather.
Yet, now.... He shivered. Now, the factory was facing disaster. He might actually be the one to lose it, just as his father had predicted, and suddenly all he wanted to do was save it. It wasn't just his future in jeopardy, after all. He could go back to his old life any time he wanted. Funny how that no longer seemed appealing. He would give anything to put things right at Carroll's and give all his employees a secure future.
Trouble was, he couldn't see it happening. Not now. Life was looking pretty bleak from where he was standing. As bleak as the North Sea in December, and that was just about as bleak as it got.
God, he needed a drink.
As he moved towards the steps that led up to the bar, a tall, dark-haired man walked around the corner from King's Row, arm in arm with a woman with pink-streaked hair. Just in front of them ran a little girl, pigtails flying, face bright red, eyes sparkling.
"Slow down, sweetheart," the man said. "You'll fall. if you're not careful."
The little girl stopped and pointed up to the pub door. "Want to see Father Christmas!"
Kit glanced up and saw, for the first time, a notice pinned to the door, advertising a personal appearance by Santa, himself, that afternoon. So, Father Christmas enjoyed a pint, too? Interesting.
"Hurry up!"
"All right, all right, we're coming. Give me your hand, while we go up those steps. No, Violet, come back here! Give me your hand now."
The little girl duly obeyed and took her father's hand, and watching them, Kit felt a sudden lump in his throat.
Turning away, he began walking back up Bay Street. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by children. He would find another pub. God knows, there were plenty of them around here. If he wanted to drown his sorrows, he was spoilt for choice.
***
David opened the door, looking bleary-eyed and scruffy, his fair hair sticking up on end as if he'd only just got out of bed. I looked him up and down suspiciously. "Have I interrupted something?" I said warily. "You weren't—you know—busy?"
He looked incredulous. "Are you kidding? Chance would be a fine thing. Tommy's been sick all night, so it's been a bit of a bugger, to be honest. We're both knackered. Meanwhile, Tommy's now right as rain and demanding chocolate biscuits, so there you go." He shook his head and opened the door wider. "Sorry. Come in."
I hesitated. "It's not anything contagious, is it?"
He shrugged. "Well, Sam and Max are fine, and me and Livvy haven't thrown up, so it's up to you. Take your chance, or run, but hurry up and decide, because Liv's just dishing up dinner."
"Dinner?" I stepped inside, and David closed the door behind them. "Bit late, isn't it? It's nearly three o'clock."
"We've been a bit preoccupied." He tutted. "All right, we fell asleep. Sue us."
Olivia was at the cooker, looking harassed. Her brown hair was escaping the confines of its ponytail, and her face was bright red, likely due to the steam pouring from various pans on the hob. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, not looking at all pleased to see her precious big sister.
"Charming." I placed the bag containing the Christmas decorations on the table. "I come bearing gifts."
"What sort of gifts?" David rummaged in the bag and held up a silver cherub. "Er, thanks."
"They're the ones I bought for Mum," I explained, pulling out a chair, in spite of Olivia's obvious disapproval. "You won't believe this, but—”
"She decorated the house yesterday." Olivia reached into the top cupboard and pulled down a colander. "Sorry. I meant to phone you."
"You knew!" I sighed. "I don't get it. Since when did Mum bother with decorations?"
"Since this new bloke went round last night and helped her do it."
My eyes widened. "He did? That explains a lot. Who is he? Have you seen him?"
"Nope. Don't even know his name, do you?"
I realised I hadn't even thought to ask. "He's thirteen years younger than her, did you know that?"
David grinned. "Good for her. She's got sixteen years of sex to catch up on, after all."
"I know how she feels," Olivia muttered.
David looked appalled. "I was tired! Give me a break."
"Oh, please, just stop," I begged. "Honestly, what with you and our mother, it's disgusting."
"Jealous," Olivia said. "Are you staying for dinner, or do you have to get off?"
"Talk about hinting." I rattled the bag. "You haven't even looked at these."
"I'm busy. Have you eaten?"
"No," I admitted, "but don't go to any trouble for me."
"I always make too much, anyway," Olivia assured me. "Tell you what, you put the kettle on and make us a cuppa, while I dish this lot out, okay?"
I removed my coat and handed it to David, who promptly opened the hallway door and threw it on the stairs.
"You really must get a coat hook," I rebuked him.
"We have. We've got two, actually. They're in the cupboard under the stairs. The drill's broken."
Tutting, I switched on the kettle and busied myself making tea, while Olivia dished out shepherd's pie and a rather soggy assortment of vegetables in a haphazard manner. After pouring gravy over the lot, she slammed down the jug and yelled, "Dinner, boys!"
I winced. "Do they want juice?"
"Ask them," was Olivia's retort, as she carried plates over to the table before pulling Tommy's highchair over.
Sam, almost five, with his father's fair hair and blue eyes, peered round the door. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he ran to my side, throwing his arms around me. I stood there, rather nonplussed, then ruffled his hair awkwardly. "What's wrong with him?" I demanded. Sam was always an affable child, but this was a bit over-the-top.
"Dunno. Hope he's not getting whatever Tommy had," was David's response.
I stepped hastily away from Sam's clasp. "You feeling all right, Sam?"
He nodded. "Auntie Marley, have you bought my Christmas present, yet?"
Ah! It was beginning to make sense. I exchanged knowing glances with David. "No, not yet. Why?"
"Cos there's this super cool new toy on telly, and I want it."
"Sam, what have we told you?" Olivia placed the salt and pepper pots on the table and eyed him sternly. "You've already made your list, and it's gone to Santa. Too late for any more additions."
"But Auntie Marley buys us presents, too," Sam protested.