Trouble Brewing

by Jane Tara

  It was inconceivable that two such different people would be drawn together so powerfully. But from the moment they laid eyes on each other, Alf and Batty had been pathetically and frustratingly inseparable. From the first kiss, a glazed look settled across his eyes, a fogginess that was bound to worry a mother. And every plan she had for her son had gone up in smoke.

  In fact, that was her first thought. Pot! Within weeks of meeting Batty, Alf’s behavior had completely changed. He said it was because he was finally free to be himself, but Eleanor was still certain it was drugs. How else could one explain the dramatic changes that took place? The way Alf quit university to become a chef, proclaiming that it was what he always wanted was ridiculous! Wouldn’t Eleanor know what her own son wanted? His sudden habit of grinning like an idiot savant? And the constant laughter – what was he, a hyena? Not to mention that look in his eyes …

  But after thirty years of marriage the glazed look had remained and, as far as Eleanor knew, her son had never strayed from Batty’s side. That in itself was rather odd. Her own husband, Edward – God rest his evil manipulative soul – partook in numerous affairs. All men did. They couldn’t help themselves. They hunted while women gathered. Men had affairs and women shopped. It was primal. So why the hell was her son the faithful type?

  The thought had bothered Eleanor for close to three decades and the only explanation she could come up with was that he had been the unwilling victim of some sort of witchcraft. A spell. It was obvious, but she would never point a finger at Batty because she didn’t want Batty to point a finger back. She didn’t want to wake up with mottled skin, or bushy nasal hair, or a love for Lycra. Who knew what spells the woman had in her repertoire.

  Eleanor entered the pub and looked over at her daughter-in-law and huffed, as she always did when she looked at Batty. There was no doubting the woman’s beauty. At fifty-one she was as stunning as she had been at twenty-one – perhaps more so. She certainly wasn’t a classic beauty, but with her mass of hair, her pale, freckled skin and slim curves, she exuded an air of earthy sensuality. She was a quirky beauty with an undeniable presence. It had taken Eleanor quite a while to put her finger on what it was about Batty Shakespeare that was so unusual – apart from the witchy psychic thing – and finally she realized it was that Batty drifted through life without that quality that afflicted others: the desire to impress. And by doing so, she normally impressed people more than if she’d tried.

  Never once had Batty played the games most daughters-in-law play. It was as though it didn’t bother her one way or the other if Eleanor liked her. Eleanor had secretly looked forward to a few intimidating mind games with her future daughter-in-law, but from the moment this urchin roared into her life she neither encouraged nor discouraged a friendship.

  Behind the bar with Batty was the one thing that made it all bearable: Nell, Eleanor’s favorite granddaughter. Nell was the third Confucian monkey. All three Shakespeare were gorgeous, with pale skin and flaming red hair. But while Calypso was tall and sexy and as restless as the wind, and Batty was freckled and wild with frizzy hair and a laugh that had actually curdled cream, Nell was neat and organized and blessed with a sense of normality that her mother and sister lacked. She never blurted out indiscretions at dinner parties, or read people’s palms at weddings. In comparison to her mother and sister, Nell had her feet planted firmly on the ground. Given the right man, Nell would blossom and might even forget about all the eccentric hoo-ha that surrounded her. Unfortunately, she was extremely picky when it came to men, which, considering her background, Eleanor felt was a luxury Nell couldn’t afford. Nell said there was no point getting serious until the right one came along. Eleanor had tried to explain that women rarely married the right one, just the best one on offer at the time. But Nell would smile and mention her parents and even Eleanor had to admit that they did stand out as two people who together made a whole, even if it was witchcraft that had made them that way.

  Nell’s behavior baffled Eleanor. Most young women were desperate to marry. They shopped for men like it was the Selfridges summer sale. They’d grab anything that looked like a half-decent fit, whack him on their Relationship Visa and worry about the debt he incurred later. As far as Eleanor was concerned, Nell took the dating process way too seriously. It was as though the girl lived in a world without divorce.

  Eleanor had been fortunate that her husband had dropped dead at a reasonably young age. Divorce had not been an option back then, although she’d certainly envied those wild women who did dump their men. Edward – God rest his hideous soul – had been a pig of a man. He was mean, controlling and, after one too many drinks, violent. Not that anyone ever knew any of that. Some things were best swept under the carpet. Eleanor hated the way people aired their dirty family secrets; she preferred to cover her bruises and carry on. She pretended to mourn when he died, but privately she celebrated. She’d been resigned to a life of misery with Edward when he suffered a massive heart attack. She remembered thinking at the time how surprising it was that he even had a heart.

  Of course, no one had ever known Edward’s true colors, not even Alf. She clung to her widowhood tightly, and everyone thought it was because no one could compare to her good, solid, upstanding husband. But the reality was, Eleanor would never again forsake her freedom. She didn’t need to. While she wasn’t filthy rich, she was comfortably wealthy. Alone, she was able to enjoy the best of both worlds: her husband’s solid name and money, and the freedom his death brought her.

  Eleanor watched as Nell chatted to her mother. She had such a lovely nature. Not like the other one. Calypso was too wild for her own good. Yes, she’d been through some difficult times, but that didn’t give her the right to behave like a sex-starved tinker. Eleanor had tried for years to turn Calypso into a lady. She’d bought her some lovely clothes, which Calypso swiftly rejected. Eleanor had set her up with a couple of young men from excellent families, but Calypso basically chewed the poor boys up and spat them out. She’d subtly suggested that perhaps Calypso shouldn’t drink so much, to which Calypso responded by sculling a beer and promptly pouring a fresh one. She’d tried in vain to explain that worthwhile men simply didn’t respond well to such independent women, but Calypso laughed at her. Eleanor finally accepted that her oldest grandchild never listened, and was a lost cause, so she’d given up trying to help her. But sweet little Nell was a lady, which was rare nowadays, and could have such a wonderful life if she simply tried a little harder. She was smart, and had chosen a lovely career path. There was nothing weird about working in a museum. And the men one met there were certainly of a higher caliber than those who frequented pubs. Which was why Nell had to break free from the insanity of the pub. It wasn’t just her mother and sister, but also the clientele.

  Batty noticed her mother-in-law hovering by the door. “Hello, Eleanor! Are you coming in?”

  Eleanor entered, paused briefly so both Batty and Nell could give her a kiss, and then made her way toward the dining room. Nell and Batty followed, bracing themselves for the chore ahead.

  “Where’s my son?” Eleanor asked.

  “He had an appointment,” said Batty. “He’ll be back soon.”

  “What sort of appointment?”

  Batty’s green eyes flashed angrily. “He had to meet with a toilet paper supplier. We need something softer on the bum.” Batty took Eleanor’s coat and handed her a menu. “There’s a wonderful ricotta—”

  Eleanor cut Batty off. “Just the usual dear.”

  “Good idea, Eleanor.”

  Batty headed into the kitchen.

  Eleanor turned to Nell and smiled. “Let me look at you.” And then she patted her pocket.

  “You left your glasses at home. They slipped between the cushions on the lounge,” said Nell.

  “Right,” said Eleanor tightly. “You’ll just have to be a bit blurry today.” She hated it when her granddaughter used her gift. For a while there it had looked like Nell had been born without any psych
ic abilities at all. While Calypso communicated with the dead from birth, Nell didn’t display any signs whatsoever until she was four years old.

  Eleanor remembered the heart-breaking day things changed as though it were yesterday. She’d been taking a rather embellished trip down memory lane, telling Nell a particularly touching tale of her and dear dead Grandpa Edward’s first date. Nell was enthralled, listening intently, when suddenly she began to giggle and nod her head.

  The more Eleanor elaborated, the louder Nell laughed, until finally Eleanor demanded to know what the joke was.

  “Grandfather says you’ve just spun enough crap to fertilize a garden.”

  Eleanor froze mid-meanderings and stared at her granddaughter in horror. Edward had said exactly the same thing to her too many times to count.

  “And he said don’t forget to mention the bit about the garden shed because that was the highlight of the night.” Nell’s red head bobbed up and down as she nodded to instructions inaudible to her grandmother.

  Eleanor spilt her tea all over her shoes and cried. No one, no one, had ever known about the shed. That after seventeen miserable years of marriage and a son together that was the first thing her dead husband mentioned from the other side was enough to break her heart. Although it did confirm to her what a complete bastard he was, and that even death hadn’t changed him.

  So Nell had the gift as well. Although, why it was called a gift was beyond Eleanor. A gift was a Royal Doulton figurine or a cashmere scarf. Nell’s ability to converse with the dead was a painful fact of life, not something to celebrate.

  Eleanor sighed. Life had stopped playing by the rules the moment Batty Shakespeare first shook her hand and giggled how good it was to see her again. Again? Please! Reincarnation was for heathens. Yet it had unnerved her and every day since had been a roller-coaster ride.

  Eleanor stared at Nell. She was incredibly pretty. Not devastatingly gorgeous like Calypso, who was way too sexy for her own good. Nell was “lovely,” although she did need a makeover. Eleanor made a mental note to take her shopping for clothes soon. She wasn’t a student any more. The retro Audrey Hepburn thing was all very well and good for Audrey Hepburn, but on Nell it simply looked quirky. And let’s face it, classy would win over quirky any day in the eyes of a decent man.

  “How’s the job hunt?”

  Nell folded her napkin. “Okay. I’ve had a couple of interviews.”

  “Are you still at Highgate Cemetery?”

  “Only the weekend tours.”

  “You’ll never get real work if you’re spending all your time as a volunteer.”

  “It’s only a few hours on a Sunday, Gran. Besides, I’ve had more hours at the BMR lately.”

  “Really, Nell, you can do so much better than that. All that education and you waste your time at a small museum that’s full of overrated love stories.”

  “The British Museum of Romance is dedicated to educating everyone about Britain’s greatest love stories. Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb, Shelley and Mary Godwin, Winston and Clementine Churchill …”

  “Who were all mostlikely miserable together. No point romanticizing them, Nell. The men were probably bastards and the women no doubt suffered them.” Eleanor sighed. “I simply think you’d be better off in one of the more reputable museums.”

  “I love the BMR. I wish I could work there full time, but I don’t think Percy can afford me.”

  “See, the fact that it’s under funded proves my point. What type of man fills a prime piece of London real estate with relics from other people’s marriages?”

  “Underneath his dithering exterior, Percy is a true romantic.”

  “That place must be worth a fortune,” said Eleanor, referring to the Hampstead house that Percival Smyth had converted into the museum. “Did he buy it?”

  “He inherited it. And I think it’s wonderful. Percy cares more about history and love than money.”

  “Obviously, if he can’t afford to hire you full time. Honestly, Nell, Percy is an old fool who’ll do your career no favors.” Eleanor pretended to have an idea, even though she’d been plotting this introduction for months. “You know Marjorie DeHart’s grandson is one of the curators at the National Museum. He’s in the Medieval department apparently. I could see if there are any job openings for you.”

  Nell shook her head. “No. I want to do this on my own. No pulling strings.”

  “You make me sound like a puppeteer.” Eleanor patted Nell’s hand. “What if I see if there’s anything available? I won’t pull strings to get you a job, just an interview. Could I do that for you?”

  Nell thought about it for a minute. It would still be up to her to get the job and up to her if she took it. And if it got Eleanor off her back …

  “Why not? That sounds great.”

  Eleanor relaxed in her chair and smiled. She felt better than she had in weeks. “So now that we are sorting out your life, how about I also see if Elizabeth Nelson’s grandson is single again?”

  *

  Batty felt like screaming. Eleanor was organizing Nell’s life and Nell was sitting there allowing it. Nell often said it was simply easier to let Gran think she was getting her own way, but she usually was. Batty adored and worshipped her daughter, but by Goddess she needed to develop some backbone. And to top it off, Alf still wasn’t here to deal with his mother. Heads were going to roll when she got him alone tonight.

  “Sorry I took so long, love. Got delayed at this meeting and—”

  Alf’s entrance couldn’t be better timed.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Batty snapped.

  Alf looked guilty. “I told you, I had a meeting …”

  “A meeting. A meeting? What sort of meeting, Alf Patterson?” Batty realized she was screeching and immediately lowered her voice. “Your mother is in the restaurant bulldozing our daughter. Deal with it.” And she stormed back into the main bar.

  She grabbed a cloth and wiped down the counter. “A meeting. I’ll give him a bloody meeting,” she mumbled as she took her frustration out on the lacquer.

  Batty realized someone was watching her. She looked up and saw Taran standing by the door. They stared at each other for a moment, and all thoughts of Alf’s betrayal vanished. “Is Calypso okay?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me that.” Taran approached the bar and sat. “She has a habit of disappearing.”

  Batty nodded, relieved. It was nothing new, but still a concern. “You make her nervous.” She poured him a beer and placed it on the bar.

  “Thanks,” said Taran. He watched her over the rim of his pint glass as he took a sip. “Bad day? You were pretty aggressive with that cloth.”

  Batty was thrown. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Taran nodded.

  Batty watched Taran with growing interest. He wasn’t at all upset by her brush off. Unlike most people, silence didn’t seem to bother him. And he was without a doubt the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was at ease in his own skin and the shadows that lurked around him added an air of mystery, but not ill intent. He seemed to be as comfortable with his own darkness as his light, which was a rare thing. Most people either ignored their shadows, or allowed them to rule. It was a rare man who lived comfortably with them. Batty had only ever met one person with such a compelling presence before, and that was Calypso.

  “Would you like something to eat, Taran?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I can get Alf to fix you something.”

  “I’ll organize it. You have enough work to do.” He stood and gave her a wink. “And judging by the way you were cleaning that bar, it’s best if you steer clear of your husband.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  Taran shrugged as he walked off. “I wouldn’t worry about it. My mother cleans like that on a regular basis.”

  *

  Taran made his way through the lounge and into the kitchen. He could hear Alf talking to someone, so he entered. By the ti
me he realized Alf was on the phone, it was too late to turn back.

  Alf’s voice echoed throughout the kitchen.

  “I’d appreciate it if you called me on my mobile … I don’t want my wife picking up.”

  Taran turned to leave, but Alf spotted him. His face fell. He finished the conversation, eyes locked on Taran as he did. As he hung the phone up Taran tried to backtrack out of the kitchen.

  “No point asking if you heard all that,” said Alf.

  Taran wished the floor would open up and swallow him. “Sorry, Alf, I just wanted a sandwich.”

  “And instead you were handed a secret to keep.” Alf smiled wryly.

  “I know this is probably none of my business, Alf, but—”

  “You’re right, son, it’s none of your business.”

  “You should tell Batty. Don’t let her hear this from anyone else.”

  Alf turned away and started making Taran a sandwich. “I’ll tell her in my own time.”

  “She’ll work it out for herself.”

  “She won’t. Gifted though she is, she can’t read family.”

  Taran rocked back and forth on his heels.. “Do you mind if I ask how long this has been going on?”

  “You ask too many questions.” Alf handed Taran the plate. “Son, I need to work it out first. This will hurt her enough. I’ll tell her when the time is right.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Taran returned to the bar and but could only pick at his lunch.

  Batty watched him for a few moments, then asked, “Has Callie told you anything about why she’s wary of getting too involved?”