by Sue Nicholls
But the business blossomed, and Mick and Lucas worked shoulder to shoulder as a contented team. Despite their excellent relationship, Lucas had one gripe: he wished his father took a less detailed interest in his non-existent love life. Lucas had personal reasons for avoiding women.
‘Everyone was there that night,’ Kitty mused, still remembering the opening night.
Sam said, ‘That woman who worked for Mum was there. What was her name?’ He wrinkled his forehead. ‘Remember? She used to give us strawberries behind Mum’s back.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Liz.’
‘Where did you dredge that up from?’ Kitty asked.
‘I’ve got a pretty decent memory for names.’
‘Are you sure that was her name?’
‘Fairly.’ Sam nodded in thought. ‘Yes. Liz.’
Kitty noted the name. Her speedwriting now crawled across page after page of her notepad, but looking round at the faces of the others, she wished she could have got the information without hurting them.
15 KITTY
Scanned pages of the Chelterton Herald cascaded down Kitty’s screen making her eyelids droop. She jerked awake and leant on the table. A shot of Millie smiled out at her, posing outside her restaurant. The name on the sign - Feast - showed up clear and bold. Millie was so young - about the age Kitty was now - and she looked happy and proud. It was a blessing she could not see into her future. With a stab of sadness, Kitty gazed at the black-and-white image. So much hope and potential, wasted. She made a note of the publication date.
In a later edition, another piece about Feast reported on the restaurant’s successful first night. A picture showed the restaurant full of customers, and in another, Kitty and the others were arrayed inside, raising their glasses at the pre-opening celebration.
A twinge in her back sent her to the armchair. She propped her socked feet on the coffee table and leaned back into the cushions with the machine on her knees. Despite the picture’s news-print fuzziness, it was easy to see who they all were. Luc looked about four years old - no wonder he couldn’t remember much. The others were not much bigger. Millie stood proud and excited behind a gleaming black bar, raising a toast to the success of her venture. All that hope; children being chastised for touching things; Kitty’s own small, sticky hand, held safe and firm in her mother’s cool, dry one. In that moment, it all poured back.
She took in a breath and puffed it between her lips, then noted down Liz and Daisy’s surnames. Further scrolling revealed one unexpected result. Liz later opened her own restaurant in the nearby town of Kingsthorpe.
Not one to hang around, Kitty shoved her phone and notebook into her leathers and climbed astride the Matchless. In the cloudless afternoon, the mellow tones of the old bike throbbed between hedges as it carried her round gentle bends between furrowed, earthy fields and under skeletal branches.
Kingsthorpe was similar in size to Chelterton, but was more upright than meandering, more Business than Tourist. She parked on a small, tarmacked triangle near the centre, close to Liz’s restaurant, and appraised the single-fronted enterprise with its outside tables under a striped canopy. The sign-painted window identified it as One the Square. A middle-aged couple huddled in coats at a table beneath the awning, determined to enjoy the rare winter sunshine. They were laughing, gazing into one another’s eyes, their food untouched. What might their story be? Illicit affair, second marriage, long and romantic first marriage?
Kitty pulled off her gloves and tucked them inside her jacket. The pair did not look up as she passed. Inside, a low buzz of conversation rose from twenty or so haphazard tables that stretched into the deep space. On her right, a chill counter held an enticing array of salads and desserts. The smell of bacon reminded her how hungry she was, and her eyes searched the room to catch the eye of the forty-something man, scuttling about, grinning and chatting to customers.
He noticed her waiting and wove, smiling, between tables towards her. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted in an accent that suggested a public-school education.
‘Hi.’ Kitty looked past him at the busy restaurant. Can you fit me in? I’m starving. No breakfast.’
‘I’m sure we can.’
She followed him to a table and accepted a laminated A5 menu. The fellow left to take payment from the man from outside. Through the window, his partner was gathering her belongings.
Kitty’s stomach rumbled, and after requesting a full English from an open-faced lass named Emma, her mind returned to her purpose. She wondered about Liz’s age. In the old newspaper image, Liz appeared about fifty. Blimey, she must be in her seventies by now. It seemed unlikely she would still work in this restaurant.
After gobbling down her breakfast, Kitty joined the well-spoken man at the till. He stuck her debit card into the machine with a professional smile. ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’
‘Actually, I’m looking for someone I used to know.’ Kitty met his brown eyes. ‘She worked in my stepmother’s restaurant in Chelterton when I was a child.’
When she gave him Liz’s name, his eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s my aunt. This place belongs to her, but I’ve managed it since she retired, ooh, it must be ten, twelve years ago, now.’
Kitty handed over her business card, and seeing her occupation, his smile dropped. ‘You’re not really a friend, then.’ He handed back the small rectangle, but Kitty stopped him.
‘Yes, I am. Millie, who owned Feast, was one of my stepmothers. She died in an explosion. Later my own mother was murdered.’
‘I heard about that.’ His frown relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Kitty shook off his sympathy. ‘I’m hoping your aunt can clarify what happened back then.’ She leant on the counter. ‘The man who killed my mother is now free and claiming his innocence.’
The fellow flapped Kitty’s business card like a fan, saying, ‘Leave this with me and I’ll talk to Aunt Liz. Come back at six when I’ve closed. If she wants to meet you, I should know by then.’
At two minutes past six, the streetlamps were lit, and a low light glowed inside the premises. Kitty tapped on the window, and Liz’s nephew looked up from counting cash at the till. His smile was more welcoming this time. Inside, the empty tables and the floor had been cleaned but the air still smelled of cooking.
Kitty remembered her manners. ‘Thanks for your help with this. I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.’
‘It’s Tom. Tom Bishop. When I told Aunt Liz about you, she was delighted.’ He snapped an elastic band round a wad of notes, and said, ‘She’s often wondered about you all; hoped you’d recovered from your terrible ordeals.’
‘Will she see me?’
‘She can’t wait.’ Tom slid a scrap of paper across the counter towards Kitty. ‘This is her address. It’s only a quick walk away. She wants you to go straight round.’ He passed her a flimsy box. ‘Give her this and you can have cake with your tea.’
With the cakes in the carry-box of her bike, Kitty followed Tom’s directions to a semi-detached bungalow with bare winter borders and a lawn that had been recently mown. The pristine front door was dark green, and the cream rendered walls were equally unblemished. Streetlights reflected from a bow window to her left as she thumbed the bell.
Although Liz looked older, she still emanated the energy and brightness of eye of the lady who sneaked Kitty treats with a wink and a finger to her lips. Kitty experienced a surprising wave of emotion.
‘Kitty. Come in, darling. You’ve no idea how happy I am you’ve come.’ Kitty returned her tight hug with brimming eyes. Liz pulled away and searched her face. ‘You have your mother’s cheekbones. Come on into the kitchen and let me look at you.’ As they passed the sitting room, Liz grabbed a tissue from a box and passed it to Kitty without comment.
While Kitty recovered her composure, Liz scurried around, making tea and filling Kitty in on her history. ‘When my job at Feast folded, I spent a few months at home feeling sorry for myself - and all of you. I c
ouldn’t interfere.’ She looked behind her at Kitty. ‘I didn’t know you well enough. I’ve experienced the loss of someone close. Everyone’s so kind. They all want to help but they can’t, and sometimes their kind intentions can be overwhelming.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Kitty shrugged. ‘You probably did the right thing. I haven’t thought about you since that time.’ Her head shot up. ‘I’m so sorry. That sounds harsh…’
‘No. You were a child. No reason for you to think of the woman who helped someone else’s mother in a restaurant.’
‘I wasn’t expecting those tears. It’s weird how you can think you are in control, then something sneaks up on you.’
Liz brought two mugs and a plate bearing the cakes. She sighed. ‘I have no willpower. I’m trying to diet, but Tom keeps sending me cake.’ She gave her hips a pat. ‘Since retiring I have spread.’ She looked at Kitty. ‘You - lucky girl - have inherited your mother’s figure.’
Kitty helped herself to a large slice of Bakewell Tart, and Liz cut one in half for herself.
Kitty asked, ‘Are you still involved in running One the Square?’
‘Not anymore. Tom does a splendid job managing it for me. I’m very lucky to have him. He had an excellent education and could probably have got a job anywhere, but he enjoys being his own boss.’ She nibbled her cake. ‘He has great plans for expansion and longer opening hours. He reminds me of Millie - cheerful and enthusiastic.’
‘He’s your nephew, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. My brother’s boy. Dick’s a successful man,’ Liz pulled her jaw down. ‘I don’t imagine running a little restaurant was what he had in mind for Tom.’
Kitty told Liz about her own life, the small talk a preamble to her actual reason for being here. Still, she was glad to chat. It reminded her how comfortable she had been with Liz. ‘Did Tom tell you why I wanted to meet you?’ she asked, at last.
‘He did and I’ve spent the past hour trying to remember rough dates.’ Liz passed Kitty a sheet of paper. ‘I wasn’t sure what you wanted, but I thought the comings and goings of various people might be helpful.’
‘That’s great.’ Kitty flicked her eyes over the page and stopped at the name James and beside the name, scrawled in brackets, summer? Another note read, Single diner. Millie got twittery.
‘Can you read my writing? I’m told it’s terrible.’
‘It’s fine. You can interpret most things in my job.’ Kitty ran her eyes to the end of Liz’s document. There he was again: James called in after closing time. Chatted Millie up
‘What do you mean, Millie got twittery?’
Liz nodded. ‘She was attracted to him. I noticed it when she came into the kitchen that first time. She was flustered.’
Interesting. Millie became ‘twittery’ with a man. Did they date, Kitty wondered, and who was he?
She ran her eye down the page again. There were references to various regular customers; Mick called for his children; Paul did the same, and, Paul helped with the upstairs conversion. Maurice did not seem to make an appearance, and Kitty queried this.
‘No. I didn’t meet Maurice. He was Josh and Sam’s dad, wasn’t he?’
‘Still is,’ nodded Kitty.’ She refrained from commenting that he was still bloody hopeless. ‘All our fathers are alive and kicking. Mine’s about to become a dad again.’ She grinned at the look on Liz’s face. ‘He’s a grown man - he’ll cope. He was a great dad to me.’ She pushed Paul’s fiery temper and excessive drinking from her mind.
Liz leaned across and patted Kitty’s hand. ‘So, you’re OK, then?’
‘I’m fine, Liz. Glad I’ve found you, though.’ She stretched over and helped herself to the other half of Liz’s slice. ‘I seem to have found a great source of sugar.’
‘Be careful,’ warned Liz. ‘You too could have a figure like mine.’ They smiled at one another.
16 MAX 1992
‘Morning, Julie.’ Max gave the new receptionist his most charming smile thinking how attractive she was.
‘Morning Mr Rutherford,’ Julie simpered from the desk, her new wedding ring shiny on her finger.
The high Georgian bay windows of his consulting room cast a cool light onto the desk. Beyond the windows, a long lawn stretched some hundred feet, ending at a bed of shrubs and leafless trees. Inside the room, cream-coloured walls and pale grey drapes invoked a calm atmosphere. In the hearth, low flames tasted two glowing logs. Max nodded his approval.
The phone on his desk rang, and Julie announced that his new client had arrived. Max glanced at the clipboard on his desk to remind himself of the name. Paul Thomas, divorced, angry. He knew little more than this, so he placed the board onto a nearby coffee table, and stood behind an armchair, pulling his face into a reassuring smile.
Max studied Paul as he entered - body language was everything in a first meeting. Although his client’s expression was mild, the muscles in his shoulders were tense, and his fingers were clenched into fists. Light from the window highlighted a sheen of sweat on Paul’s forehead.
Experience had taught Max that his clients required time to express themselves. However, the most immediate requirement for this man was to put him at ease in this unfamiliar situation. With a neutral expression, and making sure he stayed well outside Paul’s personal space, Max said, ‘Mr Thomas, how do you do?’
Paul nodded from just inside the door.
‘Would you take a seat?’ Max signalled a selection of chairs varying in formality from upright dining chair to squashy armchair, and Paul crept in and chose a straight-backed carver with wooden arms,
Max pulled over a similar seat and the coffee table and positioned himself at a slight angle so as not to confront his client. He leaned forward to lift his clipboard and Paul pulled back. Max smiled. ‘My name’s Max,’ he said without reacting. ‘I’ve owned this practice for three years, and for five years before that, I was a social worker.’
Paul nodded. ‘Paul Thomas.’
‘May I call you Paul?’
Paul nodded again and Max went on, ‘I won’t ask too many questions now, but if you feel you can, it would be good to hear why you’ve come to see me.’
A profound silence followed, interrupted only by the crackle of the fire and a muffled cawing of rooks in the trees outside. After a measured three minutes, Max offered a prompt. ‘I understand you need help with your marriage breakup.’
Paul nodded.
‘How long ago was that?’ Max poured them both glasses of water, and Paul took two gulps.
‘Four months.’ His eyes lifted to meet Max’s and the pain and anger in them pulled at Max’s heart.
A colleague at work recommended you,’ Paul dropped his eyes again. ‘I’ve been angry.’
Max gave a reassuring smile, ‘Congratulations on taking this step, Paul. Together, I hope we can work out the root of your anger and make you happier. Everyone wants to be happy, don’t they?’ This was not a question, more an invitation to agree.
‘Yeah.’ Paul relaxed a little and put his elbows onto the arms of his chair.
Encouraged, Max asked, ‘May I take a few basic details first?’ He unclipped the notes and slid them underneath the preliminary meeting form. When Paul had given his contact details, his workplace and age, Max brought the notes back to the top.
‘Tell me about life. How are you getting on now?’
Paul stumbled to express his feelings but gradually his sentences gained momentum and soon phrases were gushing from him. ‘I’m Cross. No. Bloody furious. She took my life and screwed it up; threw it in the bin as if it didn’t matter. Then she swanned off with my kid. I couldn’t do a thing to change her mind; there wasn’t time. She said they were leaving, then they left. After she told me, I nearly killed myself on the motorbike.’ Paul’s was now shouting.
Max directed a calm face at him. ‘Did you do that on purpose?’
‘No. Poor judgement. I was so angry. I shouldn’t have been driving at all; I’d been drinking; but I needed
to get out of there.’
‘Anger would be a natural response to an experience like that.’
Paul’s dropped his voice and thumped the arm of his chair. ‘But I do things that make it worse.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, spoiling my daughter’s birthday party, and stomping around at work. It’s Fee’s fault.’
In Max’s life, most woman had been at fault, but he refrained from expressing this opinion and asked, ‘Any friends you could talk to?’
Paul paused. ‘I did have mates. Pete, Phil and Chris. We lost touch after Fee and I got married.’
‘Any reason for that?’
‘Not sure. Fee didn’t much like them. We saw them at the beginning, but it stopped.’ Paul was surprised. ‘I’ve never thought about that before. We used to meet every Friday night.’ He lapsed into thought then said, ‘Not sure they were the kind of blokes I’d share this with, though.’
Max nodded and waited, but instead of continuing, Paul glared at him.
‘What do you want me to say? All I know is that Fee’s a scheming cow, and I’m the gullible fool who’s been taken for a ride. I’m a complete IDIOT!’
Progress. Max wrote on his pad: Feeling persecuted. Low self-esteem.
‘And I want my kid!’ Paul howled.
Max wrote: Contact with daughter restricted, before saying, ‘It’s OK, Paul. You’re doing fine. I understand that your wife left you suddenly and took your daughter with her. What is your daughter’s name?
‘Kitty - she’s only six.’
Max passed him a box of tissues. The wife sounded calculating, but from experience, he knew he must take nothing at face value, especially at this early stage. He asked, ‘Did she give her reasons for leaving?’
‘Can’t remember.’
Max dipped his head. ‘What do you expect from me, Paul?’
‘I dunno. A woman at work thought you’d be a help. Probably bollocks. She talks a lot of bollocks if I’m honest.’
‘Everything will be up to you. We can talk about your childhood, your marriage and so on, and perhaps you’ll make sense of why this has happened. I can’t promise miracles, but sometimes sharing can help put things into perspective. People discover things about themselves.’
