Home is Just a Feeling

by Lesley Hudnott

  ‘Home is Just a Feeling’

  by

  Lesley Hudnott

  Copyright © 2018 Lesley Hudnott

  KINDLE edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ONE

  Grateful and very pleased to finally shrug off the damp chill of the church, all I could think of, as the tepid warmth of the early spring afternoon wrapped itself around my shoulders like softest cashmere, was how much the organist had resembled a mole; a very large one at that. During the service I had fixated upon Mrs Mole as her large paws pummelled the keys into submission, bright red nail polish and chunky wedding band gleaming all the while. A few rustic jugs of flowers, whilst lending a cheerful touch, had sadly been no match for the general gloom of the place. The funeral attendees were few, with no discernible sense of a life being celebrated despite the vicar’s best efforts. As my handful of soil clattered, eventually, onto the coffin, I could summon no emotion whatsoever. Even resentment didn’t seem worth the bother.

  Welcoming the light, gentle breeze I slowly yet purposefully walked towards the old lych gate. Sensing a few pairs of eyes watching to see if I hesitated, however briefly, at another grave, I continued straight ahead. A few steps behind Mrs Mole, the tail of whose tight black velvet blouse struggled to cover her ample derriere, I playfully wondered if she had also dug the grave.

  A kind soul had switched on the heating in the church hall. Gratefully sipping hot tea and wondering how soon I could decently leave, I saw my father heading my way, the permanent surliness etched into his face today tempered with something else; grief, perhaps? To my relief, someone cupped his elbow and led him to a small table where more tea and sympathy doubtless awaited.

  After an age, people started to leave. Wishing to be seen to be saying and doing what they felt was expected of them at such a time, sympathy, help and company were duly promised. Looking around once more, I also left. That was that. My mother had been buried.

  Within twenty yards of my car, duty done and my mood lightening with each step, there came on the breeze my sister’s whiny tones. My gentle stroll quickened to a power-walk.

  “Cass!”

  Keep walking.

  “Cassie!”

  Keep going, pretend you can’t hear.

  “CASSIE!”

  Oh, hell.

  I turned around just as my sister grabbed at my jacket. “Steady on, this wasn’t bargain basement, you know!”

  Merry glared at me as I smoothed my sleeve, snapping, “Look, I need to speak to you. I have something for you. It’s not with me now, I didn’t dare bring it. Shall we meet at The Lion later on, say, about eight o’clock?”

  Mildly curious, I said that I would be in the lounge bar.

  “Naturally,” came the caustic reply.

  Ready to drive away, I caught sight of Merry in the rear-view mirror, just as she turned the corner on her return to the church hall. There was something different about her but I couldn’t think what it was; still, I hadn’t seen her for about five years and people change.

  ~~~

  Within the hour I had returned to The Lion. Having enjoyed yet more tea, I now wallowed in the relaxing warmth of a scented bath. Unrealistically having hoped to avoid any family interaction today, the prospect of an evening with my sister somehow unsettled me. Still, I was mildly curious as to what she would bring.

  An hour later, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and lying on the bed, my thoughts turned to an old school friend. Well, at that period in our lives we were more comrades in adversity than anything. I always felt that someone named Honeysuckle should have had long blonde hair instead of wild, ginger tresses, and wafted gracefully through a pampered life in peachy-pink gauzy dresses. At fifteen, her face peppered with acne, Honeysuckle Ellis weighed around sixteen stones. My situation was similar and so we chummed up. Rarely picked for any teams, we spent our exercise classes in the school library or ambling around the edge of the sports field, depending on the weather. An abiding friendship had developed from shared dreams of weight loss, flawless complexions, becoming models or fashion designers, and generally taking the world by storm.

  Today, I imagine nutritionists, dieticians, doctors and, quite possibly, social workers would have quickly whipped us into shape, but that was then and all we had were our extravagant dreams.

  These days, I was all womanly curves and pleased with what a last-minute check in the cheval mirror revealed, as my dark amethyst knitted sheath dress skimmed and gently draped instead of clinging. Oh, the joy of buying one size larger and appearing a little trimmer! After all, the label is on the inside.

  The Lion’s restaurant was busy, but the lamb casserole was well worth the wait, as was the slice of lemon cheesecake I allowed myself as a treat.

  Later, having nursed a still mineral water for nearly twenty minutes, I decided that Merry must have had second thoughts about our meeting. An early night would suit me, though, as a long drive beckoned the next day.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t our Cassie! Wow, girl, you’re looking great!”

  Chef and I stood apart for a few seconds, appraising each other, before embracing with the sort of wonderful, welcoming bear-hug that best friends do so well.

  “You, too. Love the toque! Go on, do a twirl!”

  “My professional touch, don’t you know! It’s really lovely to see you again, Cass, I wasn’t sure if you’d be home for the funeral. Frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed you if hadn’t come.”

  I made a face somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “I thought I ought to, though don’t ask me why. You haven’t seen Merry, I suppose? She was meant to meet me here.”

  “Afraid not, looks like you’ll have to make do with me. I’ve finished for the evening; give me five minutes and we’ll get a bottle of wine and have a catch-up, shall we?”

  All thoughts of an early night vanished as we headed for a couple of plush velvet fireside chairs. Wine poured, we stared into the crackling fire as we launched into the old familiar chatter and gradually put the world to rights. Then, somehow, the tone of our conversation changed.

  “I feel there’s something you’re not telling me.” Even allowing for the fire glow, my friend’s face seemed to flush a little more.

  “Crikey, Cass, what on Earth makes you think that?”

  “Just a feeling. I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

  Chef looked decidedly uncomfortable. “You and your damned feelings. Yes, you are, yet again. Look Cass, I really didn’t want to be the one...It’s Merry, she’s p
regnant.”

  “Pregnant? Crikey, when? Who’s the father, do you know? I thought there was something a bit different about her today, but I couldn’t place it. She can’t be that far on. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure alright, and Cass, I think we both know who the father is.”

  TWO

  The Lion was the oldest of the three hotels in Heatherbridge and I always stayed there on my infrequent visits, the last one being five years ago for another funeral. The hotel’s popularity stemmed, I always believed, not just from the delicious fare, but something quite inscrutable. The Lion’s air of faded grandeur and gentility seemed to invite patrons to “up their game” on entry. Over many years I had observed more than a few decidedly uncouth men and women become quite gentlemanly and ladylike once enveloped by the hotel’s subtle welcome. Setting the benchmark for high standards, The Lion stood as a wonderful and unashamedly old-fashioned tribute to a bygone era.

  Next morning, and taking full advantage of the luxurious bathroom goodies provided, I let a refreshing shower try to compensate for lack of any meaningful sleep. Chef had been correct, we definitely knew the identity of my sister’s baby’s father.

  Teaming black, wool crepe slacks with a mid-grey sweater, I added a longer- length charcoal wool blazer. A chunky, bright turquoise necklace completed the ensemble. The cheval mirror was fast becoming a good friend!

  The Rose Room, that I always requested, was situated at the rear of the hotel and afforded a view of the old, quite sizeable, walled garden. A new patio, graced by wrought iron furniture, was situated to take advantage of any sunshine, while a new conservatory now ran almost the length of the opposite wall.

  Drawing back the dusky-pink curtains, I gasped to see the unexpected overnight snowfall. Focusing the camera that always travelled with me, I captured some lovely shots of the blanketed garden, outlined trees, and the central Tudor-style knot garden. I would not be heading home today. Perhaps I ought to contact my sister...

  Later, having breakfasted in The Orangery, as the conservatory was known, I was idly flicking through a newspaper when George Shepherd, The Lion’s owner, approached with a tray of coffee. We were old friends, he having given me my first job; Saturdays and school holidays dish washer.

  Discussing at length the hotel’s refurbishments, I was not surprised to learn that the knot garden was the chef’s idea. “It’s filled with herbs, Cassie; smells lovely on a summer’s day!”

  A lengthy catch-up later and about to pick up the tray, Mr. Shepherd suddenly reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot. This was lying on the desk for you this morning.” Handing over a padded buff-coloured envelope, his eyes crinkled with humour. “I don’t know, you’ve only been here a day or two and already you have a secret admirer!”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Merry was supposed to meet me here last night but she didn’t show up. She was bringing me something, I expect this is it. I imagine you’ve heard her news, everyone else seems to have.”

  Confirming that he had indeed heard about Merry’s pregnancy, George Shepherd made to leave, but not before innocently remarking upon something that shocked me to the core.

  ~~~

  In my room, I opened the envelope to discover a small, flattish, round brass box with what resembled a combination lock. The envelope gave no clue as to the sender’s identity, but the box certainly looked like nothing my sister would own. Unable to open the lock and unwilling to force it, I placed it in my shoulder bag prior to phoning Lucy, telling her I would not be home today.

  Duffel coat on and boots zipped up, I descended the wide oak staircase, beneath the studious gaze of “The Watchers”. Mr. Shepherd was manning reception and, as I booked for another day or so, I thought he seemed a little frailer than at breakfast. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

  Thoughts and memories homed in on me like missiles as I headed for the rougher end of Heatherbridge, knowing exactly the welcome, or lack thereof, I would receive. Rarely pleased to see Merry, today was almost an exception as we literally bumped into each other outside the “Lovely to See You” coffee shop.

  “I was on my way to see you, to drop off what I couldn’t bring yesterday evening.”

  “Couldn’t bring?” Noticing my sister’s threadbare coat and holey mittens, I suggested coffee. Settled at the back of the small cafe with large mugs of tea and, for Merry, an enormous doughnut overflowing with jam and cream, I couldn’t help but notice how she constantly looked around her, jolting at any unfamiliar sound.

  “That doughnut’s the first thing I’ve managed to keep down for ages. I suppose you’ve ‘heard all about it,’ as they say.” I nodded, also imparting what George Shepherd had told me earlier.

  I don’t know which of us was more surprised when Merry suddenly crumpled into a quietly sobbing heap. The raw, naked fear in her eyes stopped me in my tracks as we sat there, both our mouths briefly agape. Instinctively, I reached out and placed a hand over hers. Surprisingly, she did not pull away.

  “Well,” I muttered gently, “who gave you that whopping great bruise, Merry?”

  “Go on, have a guess. Who do you bloody well think?” A little of her usual spark was returning and for once, as I now glared at my sister across the table, I was glad. Roughly proffering a carrier bag, stapled across the top, Merry explained why she missed our meeting the previous evening.

  “I was getting ready when suddenly, all hell broke loose. They were both tanked up, as usual, when Craig asked where I thought I was going, dressed up like some tart. I said I was meeting you at The Lion; stupid, I suppose, but what else could I say? Jeez, Cass, all my friends thinned out a long time since, and who could blame them? I never go anywhere unaccompanied by one of those wasters these days.” My face was as impassive as I could manage. “I’ve been sent alone for their booze today only because it’s too bloody cold for them. They’re the nastiest devils, Cass, and if they knew I was seeing you, my life wouldn’t be worth living, not that it has been for a long time. Anyway, Dad waded in, stirring it up as usual, how he wouldn’t have put up with any nonsense from mum and, to prove his point, got up and walloped me across the face.” My sister’s eyes filled with more tears. “Then Craig gave me a bloody good hiding and ripped my only decent dress from me, before dragging me upstairs and locking me in our room. So, that was that.”

  “Our room, our room? What the hell is that all about, Merry?”

  “Craig started sharing my room a few years ago; said he might as well now. I loathe it but if I say anything they both knock the daylights out of me. Look, Cass, you have to promise me not to say anything to anyone, okay? They’ll kill me, they will. God knows they’ve threatened enough times. Promise, Cass, promise?”

  I promised.

  “Does Dad know about the pregnancy?”

  “Oh yeah, this and the other four.”

  “Four? I heard there were two.”

  Merry gave a brief, humourless smile. “Well, George Shepherd obviously doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does. When Craig found out about the four abortions he and Dad went ballistic. They keep me almost under house arrest now so I’ve got to have this one. Hell, it’s not like either of them like children, the bastards just want to see me suffer, not to mention the poor brat. How some people can be so damned cruel is beyond me.” My sister’s eyes once again filled with tears.

  Remembering my own suffering at Merry’s and Craig’s hands throughout childhood, the irony of her last comment was not lost on me. Folding my hands, I listened as my sister continued.

  “I knew this woman, retired nurse, she seemed decent enough. Someone recommended her. I know it’s all a bit ‘backstreet’ but I was desperate and didn’t want any questions about the father. I don’t think they do ask, mind, but...well, just in case. I reckon her daughter dobbed me in, we never got on at school. Anyway, the woman’s dead now, thank God.”

  “Crikey, Merry, that’s a bit much.” I wanted to add “Even for you,” but thought better of it.

>   “Listen, not only did she charge plenty, the cow blackmailed me for months afterwards. It was murder trying to pay her and squeeze money from the housekeeping for their booze. She tried it on with a few others, so I heard. One morning she was found strangled in one of the back lanes. They never caught whoever did it. Still, good luck to them I say.”

  Even though our conversation had barely been above a whisper, I was thankful that we were the cafe’s only customers that morning. Consequently, we both jumped at the sudden “ding” of the bell as the door opened.

  “Well, well, what have we here? Enjoying yourselves are you, ladies?” His words were spoken with the quiet menace I remembered so well. Our brother Craig barely glanced at me as Merry, trance-like, arose and trundled her alcohol-laden wheeled bag towards him. None of us said a word. Roughly grabbing her arm, Craig quickly and silently ushered Merry from the café. I could only imagine the hell to pay when they arrived home.

  I settled our bill, also buying a couple of filled rolls to eat later, in my room. I was in no mood for the bright, convivial atmosphere of The Lion’s dining room.

  THREE

  The church clock chimed three as I left Coolridge and Sons, Heatherbridge’s bookshop. Until recently run by Gerald Coolridge, the shop was sold on his demise; brought about, the story went, by a large dictionary landing on his head during stock-taking. Having spent three months in a coma, the unfortunate Gerald expired on his seventy-ninth birthday. The new owners had kept the old name above the door. A pleasant, helpful couple, Cherry and Joe Walters smiled appreciatively at my selection.

  A watery sun had rendered much of the snow to slush, making my stroll back to The Lion less hazardous as I window-shopped along the way, trying to take my mind off Merry and her dire situation.

  Presently, sprawled across my bed and failing to make much sense of the day thus far, I gave myself up to a long, deep sleep.