He pushed himself away from the sink and walked quickly over to the door and opened it. He had been right. Jackie was standing in the hallway with a suitcase at her side. She glanced at him briefly and then up the stairwell, a worried expression creasing her brow. And then Dan heard a second set of footsteps descend the stairs.
He was a young man, maybe thirty years old, dressed in a pair of dark blue chinos, a black polo-necked sweater, and a blazer, and he was carrying another suitcase that Dan recognized as being Jackie’s. By the time that he had reached the bottom of the stairs, Jackie had already opened the front door and placed her suitcase against it to keep it open. She took hold of the man’s arm and ushered him quickly towards the door.
“Who is this, Jackie?” Dan asked, walking slowly up the two steps from the kitchen and along the passage towards them.
“Come on, Stephen, for God’s sakes, let’s go,” Jackie murmured urgently at the man.
Dan heard every word. “Stephen. Oh, for heaven’s sakes, it’s the wonderboy Stephen.”
Stephen turned and gave Dan an uncertain smile.
Dan let out a long whistle as everything became clear in his mind. “So, Jackie, this is your reason for feeling so guilty, is it? The wonderboy Stephen.” Dan looked hard at the man. “Tell me, Stephen, how long have you been bonking my wife in my own house?” The smile slid from Stephen’s face and he turned to look at Jackie for support.
“I’ll be back for the rest of my things later, Dan.”
“Oh, will you? Well, you’d better get yourself a bloody great van, because you can take our bed with you as well. I would hate to deprive Stephen here of his shagpit!” He spat out the words only inches from the young man’s face, and he noticed with pleasure that he flinched as spittle shot into his eye. Dan shook his head. “Well, at least you had the decency to send the girls away so that they didn’t have to listen to you rogering each other all night.”
Jackie took hold of Stephen’s arm once more and guided him out of the house. “Come on, Stephen, let’s get out of here before he gets violent.”
But strangely enough, Dan had not one instinct towards physical violence. He just felt sad and tired and pretty much emotionally drained. He simply watched as Jackie and Stephen pushed and jostled each other awkwardly down the short path. They opened the gate and turned out onto the street, and Dan stood listening to the fast tap-tapping of Jackie’s high-heeled shoes and the clattering wheels of her pull-along suitcase on the pavement as she hurried away to put the greatest possible distance between herself and her husband and her home.
28
Despite the emotional turmoil and heartbreak that had been caused by Jackie’s departure, Dan did take Millie and Nina skiing at Christmas, having managed to pick up a cheap deal on a cancelled holiday in Andorra. It was the best thing he could have done. They were up on the slopes every morning at nine-thirty and they skied hard all day, thumping out their anger and frustration on the mogul fields until they heard the hooter sound out for the final cable car to take them down the mountain. And when they returned to the empty house in Clapham on New Year’s Eve, the excitement of a party at Rebecca Napier’s house that evening and the prospect of returning to Alleyn’s in just a few weeks’ time helped to keep the spirits of Millie and Nina buoyant.
The hallway floor was scattered with Christmas cards when they entered the house, and Dan simply collected them together and placed them on the hall table. He didn’t particularly feel like opening any of them. He knew that Jackie’s name would be written on every one. So they remained there until that evening when he stood on the front step, waving the girls off to their party. He shut the door, picked up the pile, and took them through to the kitchen. He took a beer from the fridge, sat down at the table, and began to open them. After the fifth one, he pushed the pile aside and took a long drink from his can of beer.
His eye was caught by one envelope that was not the lurid pink or Caribbean blue of a Christmas card. He reached forward and slid it out of the disordered pile and immediately saw the Seascape logo in the top left-hand corner. It was addressed to him in type. He waved the envelope around in front of his eyes, wondering if he wanted to open this one any more than he did the Christmas cards. Blowing out a breath of trepidation, he broke the seal with his forefinger and took out the letter. He took another large swig of his beer before opening it up and reading it.
Dear Dan,
I’m dictating this letter to Betty in the office, because my handwriting now looks as if an inebriated spider has fallen into an inkwell and then crawled across the paper. For this reason, you will probably find not one of my usual expletives written down, because Betty is a very good editor. (Patrick wants me to write here that that is not what he said, but I am not going to type that kind of a word. By the way, I hope that you are well and keeping your spirits up.)
I was sorry not to have had the chance to say goodbye, but Kate told me about the job and I am delighted for you, although I am sure that it would have tasted a good deal sweeter if you had not been faced with such a devastating domestic crisis on your return. I do hope that you and the girls are being able to cope all right. Anyway, Kate and I keep sending huge amounts of love and strength to all three of you down the airwaves!
We had Josh for Christmas and he was obviously quite subdued after learning about it all, but the children loved having him with us. I think that he’s heading off to Edinburgh for New Year with Maria José, so that should cheer him up a bit. I decided that he needed a bit of a boost just before Christmas so I sent him down to Oban for a couple of days to get a bit of work experience with Ronnie Macaskill. Ronnie kept him for a week! He said that the boy is a natural buyer and has ‘a good eye for a prawn’! Definitely his father’s son, Ronnie said. He also asked me to send on his best wishes to you, and said that if you’re ever wanting another game of shinty, all you have to do is pick up the phone!
Your dogs seem to have taken up permanent residence at Auchnacerie. The kids think they’re wonderful, although Biggles was definitely ‘persona non grata’ over Christmas, having grabbed the stuffing off the kitchen table before Kate had the chance to ram it into the turkey!
I managed to get out of hospital a week after you left. Can’t stand those places. I’m not much good at the minute, though. That wretched chest infection rather took its toll, so the walking sticks have been retired and I’m on wheels all the time now. But I’m still live and kicking, and Pete Jackson and Bob Murray, the guy who joined us from Ocean Produce, are managing to keep the business up and running.
But, Dan, what I really wanted to say in this letter was how much I have appreciated your help and your friendship over these past few months. I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a time in my life more. I will remember with great fondness our trips together to Mallaig and all the laughs that you gave me. Talking of which, remember that dreadful man, Maxwell Borthwick? (BMW and forklift truck ring a bell!?) Well, I think that I managed to deflate his ego once and for all. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was a wonderfully enjoyable experience!
Most of all, though, I want to thank you for the support that you gave Kate when I was in hospital in Inverness. This illness is a bugger (He made me put that—Betty) and sometimes it has been extremely hard for me to give the kind of support that Kate is in most need of. (Bad English—won’t let me change it!) You are a good, compassionate man, Dan Porter, and I feel blessed in knowing that it was you who was at Kate’s side when she needed most the strength and understanding of a true friend. And that’s exactly what you are—to all the Trenchard family.
Keep well, Dan, and I hope that very soon you saddle up your horse and ride back into Cowboy Country. We’ll have the steaks sizzling and the coffee pot on the stove when you do!
With very best wishes,
Patrick
Dan had to read it through three times before fully understanding the code that Patrick had adopted in his letter. He was now permanently in a wheelchair. He c
ouldn’t write himself. Pete Jackson and Bob Murray were coping with the running of the business, yet he went to all the trouble of going into the office so that Betty could type him out a letter. Why? Because he didn’t want Katie to type it. He didn’t want her to find out what he knew.
Dan tilted back the wooden chair and linked his hands behind his head. He knew now that he had made the right decision to return to London. Patrick had known instinctively what had taken place between him and Katie. He should have known that there was never the need to tell Lie No. 1 in the first place.
Although having been in constant contact with his mother since his return to London, Dan had never actually gone to see her. He knew that he had to tell her face-to-face about his marriage split-up, and he was just putting off the fateful day. However, he had always promised that he would bring in the New Year with her and her friends in Cavendish Rise, and it was therefore with a certain amount of foreboding that he let himself into her flat at nine o’clock that evening.
Looking up as he entered the stiflingly hot little sitting room, Battersea Gran levered herself out of the armchair from where she had been watching her television with the volume shut off.
“Hullo, love,” she said as he bent down to give her a kiss on either cheek. “Well, let’s have a look at you.” She stood back and studied him with as much pleasure as she might have done having just won the star prize on the Wheel of Fortune. “My word, that skiing holiday has done you the world of good. You’ve certainly got wonderful colour in your cheeks.”
“We were lucky. The sun shone every day,” Dan replied.
“Well, I’m sure that you’ll really be feeling the cold now,” she said, stepping forward and rubbing the arm of his leather jacket between her fingers to gauge its thermal qualities. “You know, Dan, you’re of an age now when you shouldn’t be bothering about dressing up in trendy gear. You should go and buy yourself a good cardy. That’s what your father always wore, and he hardly had a day’s illness in his life.”
Dan burst out laughing and grabbed his mother and gave her a long hug. “It’s great to see you, Mum. I really have missed you.”
“And I’ve missed you too, son.”
Dan took off his jacket and glanced at the television screen. “So what are you watching?”
“I think it’s the build-up to the big party in Edinburgh.” She smiled up at him. “I kept the volume down so that I could hear you arriving.”
“Josh is going to be there.”
“Is he?” Battersea Gran exclaimed, walking across to the screen and peering at it. “Do you think we’d be able to see him?”
“I doubt it. There are hundreds of thousands of people there. It’s the largest New Year’s party in the world, you know.”
“Really? I do hope he’ll be all right,” she said, continuing to squint at the screen. “It looks awfully cold up there. I hope he’s wearing lots of clothes.”
Dan raised his eyebrows behind her back. “Come on, Mum, let’s get settled in to watch it, then. Did you buy some drink?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, breaking away from the television and hurrying off towards the door.
“I’ll get it. You sit down.”
“All right, then. I got some cans of lager for you, and because you’ve been in Scotland, I bought you a bottle of whisky. It was on offer at the local supermarket for nine pounds. It’s all on the kitchen table.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll just have a glass of sherry, please, dear.”
Dan went through to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a can of beer and the glass of sherry.
“Don’t you want a tumbler for that?” she asked as he handed her the sherry.
“No, this is fine.”
“You’ll get germs drinking it like that. You don’t know who’s been handling that can.”
“I think I’ll survive.” Dan sat down on the sofa, and leaning back against the white lace antimacassar, pulled the ring off the can. “Mum, I noticed that there were only two glasses laid out on the kitchen table. I thought you were having a few people round tonight.”
His mother stared at the silent television without answering.
“Mum? I said that I thought there were others coming in to spend New Year with us.”
His mother turned to look at him, and he could see from the way that her lipsticked mouth drooped at the corners that there was something wrong.
“What’s happened?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing really, dear. Just a small misunderstanding.”
“About what?”
“About the residents’ committee.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, dear . . .”—she placed her glass of sherry on the occasional table next to her and settled her elbows on the arm of the chair—“when I got back from looking after Millie and Nina, I went around to the flat of the chairman of the residents’ committee, and asked him when the next meeting was going to be, and he said that I didn’t need to bother attending it. I said to him that of course I had to be there because it was my job to make the tea and the scones and everything. And he said to me that because I had been away for so long, they had decided to appoint someone else to that position. And do you know who they have chosen instead of me?”
Dan shook his head. “Who?”
“It’s that dreadful woman Nancy Smith in flat 5F4. I mean, Dan, she can’t even butter bread, let alone make a scone, and”—she waggled a finger at him to emphasise her point—“and she has only been in her flat for six months.” She threw herself back in her armchair and shot a purse-mouthed expression at him. “Now what do you think of that? It’s a blooming scandal, that’s what it is.” She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jersey and dabbed at her eyes. “I have been usurped, Dan.”
“It sounds like it.”
“And now nobody will speak to me.”
“I’m sure they will, Mum. It’ll all blow over in time.”
“It certainly will not, Dan, my boy. It’s gone way beyond ‘blowing over,’ as you put it.”
“Why?”
His mother did not reply, but instead crossed her arms and pouted her mouth.
“What did you do, Mum?” Dan asked, trying to suppress a laugh.
“I took the one course that was left open to me.”
“Which was what?”
“I demonstrated.”
This time, Dan couldn’t help but laugh. “You demonstrated?”
Battersea Gran leaned forward on the arm of her chair again, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Yes, and I have to say, Dan, that I made a very good demonstrator.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I went down to the local shop and I bought one of those magic marker thingies, and then I made up this banner on a dishtowel that your Auntie Vi once gave me. I’ve never used it.”
“What did you write?”
“UNFAIR DISMISSAL. MAKING TEA WAS MY JOB in big black letters. Actually, I got the size of the letters wrong, so I had to write MY JOB on the other side and then keep turning it around.”
“So when did you demonstrate?”
“At the next residents’ meeting. I arrived in the hall just at the right time, between Item Three on the agenda—the foyer flower rota, and Item Four—the sanitation of the dustbin area.”
“And what did you do?”
“I walked in, without so much as an invitation, sat down on the floor in front of the committee, and started turning my dishcloth this way and that and chanting, ‘Unfair dismissal. Making tea was my job. Unfair dismissal. Making tea was my job.’ ” She grinned excitedly at Dan. “It’s got a good ring to it, hasn’t it?”
“And did they take any notice?”
“They certainly did. I disrupted the whole meeting.”
“Well done, you, Mum. I’m really proud of you.”
She dabbed at her eyes with the handerkerchief once more. “But then, I can hardly bring myself to tell
you what happened next, Dan.”
“Well, if you can, I would very much appreciate it.”
She took in a deep breath. “I was evicted.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Thrown out I was, Dan. Like an intruder in my own block of flats.”
“And who was brave enough to carry out the eviction?”
“Stan Beardsley from the Fabric Committee. Dan, he used to be a commissionaire at the Hyde Park Hotel. I didn’t stand a chance. I mean, it was like calling in the professionals. He lifted me bodily from the floor and put me down in the corridor.” Her face crumpled, and in that instant, Dan realized where Nina had inherited her aptitude for looking totally miserable. “And I haven’t spoken to anyone since. I have been sitting in my little flat over the past four weeks without so much as one knock on the door.”
Dan looked at her, a frown creasing his forehead. “What do you mean, the past four weeks? Haven’t you been staying at Clapham?”
“No, dear, I have not.”
“But who’s been looking after Millie and Nina?”
“I suppose Jackie,” she replied tartly.
“But Jackie works, Mum.”
“I know she does, dear, but she said”—she faltered—“she said that she could manage without me.”
“She never did.”
“She said that she never wanted me in the house again.” Battersea Gran wrung her handkerchief in her plump little hands. “I’m sorry, Dan, I didn’t mean to tell you that. I know that she’s your wife, but we just had our differences, and try as I might, I could never seem to do or say the right thing.”
Dan put his head in his hands. “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry.”
“No, dear, it was probably my fault all along.”
A Risk Worth Taking Page 28