Chasing Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  ‘Think you’ll need to get that dress cleaned,’ offers one helpful onlooker and I gamely resist the childish urge to throw the chocolate balls at her, just so I can say, ‘Now yours does too.’

  I glance down at my watch. Three o’clock – one hour to go, and I admit I’m fresh out of ideas. I briefly debate whether to see if I can salvage any of the other favours that have obviously already made it into the children’s party, but I finally accept defeat. Dartmouth’s about ten minutes drive away so at least I have time to go home and change.

  Wearily, I belatedly close the boot to my car, but just as I start walking round to the driver’s side, a young woman comes running towards me, a large box held awkwardly in front of her.

  ‘I heard what happened,’ she pants breathlessly when she finally reaches my side. ‘I thought you might want these.’ She opens the top of the box so I can peer inside. Nestling in layers of tissue paper are exquisitely wrapped mini boxes of chocolates. ‘There are a hundred and fifty. Will that be enough?’ I look up at my saviour, completely lost for words. ‘They were left over from our conference yesterday,’ she continues with a smile, ‘I was just going to take them home and dish them out to my family, but I think your need is definitely greater than mine.’ This time I don’t resist the childish urge to hug her.

  The little boxes looked delightful on the tables, and if they had Taylor Roofing stamped on the bottom, well by the time any of the guests noticed, they were too well oiled to care…

  ~*~

  Admiral Charles Shackleford was a troubled man. It wasn’t often his conscience bothered him, although he had to say there appeared to have been a worrying increase in dialogue between his brain and his scruples in recent months. Right now, he was feeling something worse: Guilt.

  Hugo Buchannan was one of his oldest friends – in actual fact, while he was on the subject of soul searching, he had to admit the irascible Scot was probably one of his only friends. The other one was Jimmy. It was therefore quite fitting when he thought about it, that he was waiting for one to talk about the other.

  He was sitting on his usual bar stool at The Ship, his watering hole of choice – although that might also have to do with the fact that he’d been banned from most of the other pubs within a three mile radius. Pickles was snoozing happily at his feet and the Admiral would have been perfectly content with the world had it not been for this blasted conscience which had been showing far too bloody much of itself lately.

  There was no doubt, he was going soft. He wasn’t sure if it was Mabel’s influence or the arrival of the new rug rat. Either way, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he’d heard about Hugo’s stroke, wondering whether the bloody shenanigans last year had had something to do with his friend’s unfortunate decline in health.

  At that moment – just in the nick of time the Admiral privately thought as he wasn’t a man given to excessive introspection – Jimmy Noon pushed open the pub door, bringing with him the damp earthy smell of the English Summer. The Admiral nodded to his friend and pointed to the pint already waiting on the bar.

  ‘How’s Tory and the baby?’ Jimmy asked a trifle breathlessly as he levered himself up onto his stool. ‘Emily went over to visit the other day and she told me what a gorgeous little boy he is. She said Victory looked radiant.’

  The Admiral frowned. ‘Why did you ask the damned question if you already knew the bollocking answer?’ he demanded irritably.

  ‘You must be very proud Sir,’ Jimmy continued, ignoring his former commanding officer’s grouchy response. Experience told him that he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out what was souring the Admiral’s mood this time, and he resolved to simply enjoy his pint in the meantime.

  At length the Admiral sighed, causing Jimmy to feel the familiar fluttering of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘You’ve heard about old Scotty?’ he said and the small man nodded his head. ‘You were the one who told me Sir. How is he?’

  ‘Well he hasn’t popped his clogs yet,’ the Admiral responded, irritable at the implication that he might have forgotten their last conversation – which he had. Unfortunately he had to admit, if only privately, that his memory had been playing him up a bit lately.

  ‘Thing is Jimmy lad…’ Here it comes thought Jimmy as the Admiral paused to take a long draft of his beer. ‘The thing is….’ Another halt, causing Jimmy’s alarm bells to start clanging insistently.

  Totally oblivious to his friend’s consternation, the Admiral finally finished in a rush, ‘The thing is, I can’t help but wonder if the bit of a problem we had last year might have had something to do with… you know… with old Hugo’s date with the scab lifter.’

  Jimmy stared at his friend in astonishment. The Admiral had what could only be described as a look of fear on his face. This was such an unprecedented turn of events that Jimmy was, for a few moments, rendered completely speechless. The Admiral shook his head sadly, mistaking Jimmy’s silence for acquiescence. ‘I know Jimmy lad, you’re right, I couldn’t have put it more plainly myself.

  ‘Well, it can’t helped, Mabel and Emily are going to just have to accept it.’

  ‘Accept what?’ asked Jimmy, still reeling from the thought that the Admiral was actually worried about someone else. Very worried indeed.

  ‘Come on Jimmy keep up,’ Charles Shackleford responded impatiently, waving at the barman to bring them both a refill. ‘It’s obvious. We’re the ones who nearly got Scotty juggling halos, so it stands to reason it’s our job to nurse him back from the brink…’

  Chapter Five

  It’s Monday evening and I’m knackered. To be fair, it’s a good knackered. Saturday’s wedding went off smoothly without any more references to wedding tackle, chocolate or otherwise. Mr. Smeelie’s funeral was a suitably respectful if sombre affair after I managed to bribe the printers to correct the small, though crucial spelling mistake on the order of service. I’ve now promised them first dibs at doing the service booklets for little Isaac’s christening, which I assured them will definitely be happening in the not too distant future.

  I have no doubt it will take place sometime before he’s twenty one.

  So now, with all work related issues dealt with, I’m back to waiting for Jason to call and stressing over whether I’m really up for an eight hundred mile move to a heap of ruins in the wilds of Scotland. I really want to call Tory, but there’s a new unwritten rule – no phone calls between four pm and eight pm due to Isaac’s bath time routine. I glance down at my watch. Six thirty, so another one and a half hours until I can bend her ear. Although to honest she tends to resemble an extra off The Walking Dead once her first born’s in bed, so I’m unlikely to get much in the way of solid advice.

  The fact is, I’ve not actually gotten around to telling her about Jason’s plans to renovate Bloodstone Tower yet, and I’ve not quite worked up the nerve to speak to Noah about his potential involvement. It all feels so unreal, and perhaps if I don’t say anything, I can convince myself it’s not happening.

  Of course there’s one other person I could talk to. Aunt Flo has always come up trumps when it comes to giving wise counsel. Maybe I should phone her. Another crisis might just be the ticket to biting off the first tiny chunks of the elephant in the room.

  Taking a deep breath, I call her number. I have no idea why my heart is beating so fast or hard, it’s not like we haven’t spoken over the last few months. The problem is, it’s never been about anything remotely important. We’ve been like two acquaintances who bump into each other every Sunday at church. I half hope she’s not in, but after a few more seconds, just when I’m about to put down the phone, my aunt answers.

  ‘Aunt Flo, it’s me, Kit.’ My voice sounds a bit faint, almost breathless. There’s an imperceptible pause on the other end before Aunt Flo answers, her voice as warm and welcoming as always. ‘Sweetheart, lovely to hear from you. How’s your business going?’

  I feel the tears gather in my eyes at the kindness
in her tone, and have to fight the urge to break down and bawl down the phone like a child. Instead I swallow convulsively and focus on her question. ‘All going quite well actually except for a couple of hiccups this weekend.’ Then I find myself telling her the story about the chocolate penises and poor old Mr Smeelie’s order of service. Before long Flo is laughing ribaldry down the phone and it feels almost like old times. Almost.

  ‘So what about you and Jason?’ she goes on to say eventually, catching me off guard. ‘How’s your relationship with the dashing captain going?’ I take a deep breath before saying impulsively. ‘Are you busy? Can I come over and see you this evening?’

  ‘Of course sweetheart, you’re always welcome, you know that. Why don’t you stay over and I’ll open a bottle of wine? Have you eaten yet? I have a big pot of chilli simmering on the stove and there’s far too much for me and Pepé.’

  Ten minutes later I’m driving through Stoke Fleming feeling as though a lead weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I determine there and then that I will no longer allow the issue of my barking mad father to get between me and the one person who’s loved me since the day I was born. If Aunt Flo left me with her brother and his wife, she must have had a damn good reason. She would never have done it otherwise. Maybe she’ll tell me, maybe she won’t, but I’m so tired of the rift between us.

  As I pull into Flo’s drive, my aunt comes to the door, Pepé in her arms. As soon as he sees me get out of the car, the little dog immediately squirms to get down, running up to me barking joyfully and giving my leg a happy little hump.

  ‘Hi Peps,’ I murmur, bending down to pry him off my leg and give him a fuss. Mating with any available appendage is Pepé’s way of saying hello. It’s mostly endearing, but occasionally bloody embarrassing…

  I walk towards my aunt who’s remained by the door. Her stance is slightly wary, but there’s a warm smile on her face. As I reach her, she searches my face then holds out her arms. With a small sob, I allow myself to be folded in her familiar embrace.

  After a few seconds, she pushes me away from her to look back at my face. ‘Something’s wrong sweetheart,’ she states matter of factly. ‘Come in and tell me about it.’ Then, putting her arm around my shoulders, she guides me into the cosy interior of her cottage.

  It’s well past nine before we finish supper, and as usual, Flo insisted that conversation while we ate be kept light and fluffy to aid digestion. In her opinion, important matters are best discussed over coffee and liqueurs. Her cooking was as eclectic as always and I could swear there were prawns in my chilli con carne. We ate sitting outside on the patio, overlooking the breathtaking beauty of Blackpool Sands, and basking in the warmth of the late evening sun.

  Now as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, it’s turning a little chilly, and Flo comes back with blankets to go with our Irish coffees. Wrapping mine gratefully around me, I reflect ruefully that she obviously thinks we’re going to be here for some time. Taking a sip of my coffee, I look down to see Pepé whining softly at my side, and lifting up one side of the blanket, I pat my knee. Without hesitation, he jumps up and settles himself under the cover with a small contented sigh. If only life was that simple…

  ‘So sweetheart, what’s bothering you?’ Predictably my aunt comes straight to the point and I look down at my cup before answering.

  ‘Jason’s leaving the RN,’ I say eventually, still staring down into my coffee dregs.

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ she asks softly, and the slight confusion colouring her question causes me to look up and shake my head.

  ‘It’s not that. God knows I’m not really cut out to be the partner of a naval officer.’ I cringe as I remember the First Sea Lord’s dinner. ‘It’s what he wants to do instead.’

  Flo waits without speaking and with a sigh I tell her about Jason’s plans to revamp his family home.

  ‘The thing is, he wants me to go with him,’ I finish in a rush. ‘I mean, he won’t actually move for another few months, but he wants to get the ball rolling as soon as possible. Noah’s not exactly short of cash and I think he’s given Jason carte blanch to do whatever he thinks necessary.’

  ‘Wow,’ Aunt Flo murmurs softly when it’s clear I’ve nothing else to add. ‘It’s an amazing opportunity sweetheart, and very exciting.’ She pauses and leans forward to peer at me in the gathering dusk before continuing drily, ‘Although I have to say you have the same look on your face now as you did when you found out you had to have your appendix out.’

  I bend forward and wrap my arms around Pepé’s softly snoring outline. ‘You know me Aunt Flo, I hate change, and this one’s a whopper. What if I up sticks, move all that way and it doesn’t work out between me and Jason? What if I hate Scotland? The weather’s awful and there are those horrible black midgey things that get everywhere. What if he wants me to do the cooking? You know I hate cooking – the only one worse than me at it is Tory. What if I…?’ I finally grind to a halt as I catch my aunt shaking her head ruefully. ‘How can I leave all my friends Aunt Flo?’ I finish softly, the tears finally flowing, ‘How can I leave you?’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re not thinking of going to the other side of the world. It’s Scotland, not the Gobi Desert; and you’re not leaving your friends. Do you think Tory would ever let you leave her for good? I mean her husband is going to be involved for goodness sake. And Freddy? Come on Kit, you know Freddy, he’d be in if he fell in…

  ‘And as for me, well, you couldn’t pay enough to keep me away. I haven’t had so much excitement since I sold my first book, and I wouldn’t mind having a hotty in a kilt as my next fictional hero. The Scottish Highlands will be just the place to get my creative juices flowing.’

  Her words simply serve to make me cry harder, and at my distraught wailing, Pepé pops his head anxiously out of the nest he’s made. Cuddling him to me I rock backwards and forwards, allowing the tears to track unheeded down my face. I don’t even know any longer what I’m crying for. It’s as though everything that’s happened since I lost the gallery has culminated at this precise point.

  As I sob into Pepé’s increasingly soggy fur, Aunt Flo just hands me a tissue and sits quietly, giving me time and space to get myself together.

  Finally, just before Pepé needs to start paddling, my sobs turn into hiccupping gulps, and my gulps into sighs. Lifting my head up, I blow my nose into the sodden tissue. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I murmur jerkily, ‘I have no idea where all that came from.’

  Without answering, Aunt Flo gets up and busies herself turning on the heater and lighting candles to banish the gloom. By the time I’ve finished mopping myself up, we’re surrounded by soft flickering candlelight, and the warmth of the electric heater is doing wonders towards drying Pepé’s fur. Aunt Flo disappears into the house just as the last of the sun’s rays vanishes over the horizon, leaving the sea to merge in with the sky, now a mysterious dark purple.

  Sighing, I snuggle down into my wrap, enjoying the brief feeling of weightlessness that comes after a good cry. After a couple of minutes, my aunt returns with another bottle of wine and two glasses.

  ‘It’s time for us to have that talk sweetheart.’

  ~*~

  Jason Buchannan finally turned off the engine and sagged wearily back into his seat. He didn’t know what the actual time was but he knew it was late. The almost perpetual twilight that passed for night this far north during the summer months made it a little disorientating. Glancing down at his watch, he groaned. Eleven thirty. Probably too late to call Kit now.

  He’d been at the hospital for most of the day and it was becoming increasingly obvious that he wouldn’t be able to bring his father home without someone to look after him full time – at least for the first couple of months. The problem was, getting someone to come to such a remote location was going to be tough in itself – without the added complications of Bloodstone Tower’s less than salubrious facilities. Jason ruefully eyed the pile of bricks in front of him. The alternative was to
put his father in a nursing home, and he just couldn’t do it. Jason had never seen his father look so vulnerable and actually found himself wondering if Hugo Buchannan had always been that small.

  Sighing, he finally got out of the car and headed round the back to the kitchen entrance. The light was still on in the archaic cavern which housed their cooking facilities, and through the window Jason could see Aileen sitting at the table. Frowning he noted there was someone with her. That was all he needed – more small talk. Grimacing, he let himself in and tried to plaster a smile on his face as the two seated women turned to face him.

  ‘Weir ya been laddy? I was proper riled – thought you might’ve ended up in the loch somewhere.’ Aileen got to her feet as she spoke and headed over to the kettle. ‘There’s a wee dram on the table to go wi ya coffee,’ she threw over her shoulder as she poured in some more water from the sink.

  ‘You’re a star Aileen,’ Jason murmured, relaxing for the first time that day. Sitting down at the table he poured himself a large whiskey and took an appreciative sip. The occupant of the other chair eyed him curiously, but both waited patiently for Aileen to make the introductions.

  ‘This here’s ma niece Nicole, she’s up fro’ London for a short holiday.’

  Jason smiled wearily, ‘Hi Nicole from London, is this your first visit to The Highlands?’

  Nicole gave an answering smile. ‘No, I’ve been here lots of time, but not for a while. I think the last time was when I was twelve wasn’t it Aileen?’

  ‘Aye, about that,’ responded her aunt, returning to the table to place Jason’s coffee in front of him.