by Sue Nicholls
Lucas’s lips curved into a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘As soon as she had the knowledge, her cooking took off. I’d come home and the house would smell of coriander or roasting fennel seeds, and she would present me with some marvellous meal, a hybrid of her Italian childhood and my Ghanaian one.’
‘I wish I could remember that.’ Lucas stuck his thumbs into his jean pockets and tried to swallow a blockage that seemed to have put itself in his throat. ‘What happened to her? I know really, but may I hear it as an adult?
‘You sure?’ Mick looked at Lucas’s face. ‘I’m not convinced that this is an appropriate time.’
‘I suppose not, but would you mind?’
‘She went to the restaurant very early in the morning. Nobody could work out why - perhaps she couldn’t sleep - but her bed hadn’t been slept in.’ Mick hesitated before continuing, ‘There was a gas leak.’
‘You’d think she’d have noticed that the day before.’
Mick nodded. ‘You would, wouldn’t you? Perhaps it started after she left the evening before, or the cooking smells disguised it. Gas must have trickled out all night. The fire investigators decided the spark from a light switch ignited it.’
‘I remember the restaurant afterwards. The roof blew off, didn’t it?’
Mick took a long slug of his beer. ‘You ready for another?’
‘In a tick. Do you think it was an accident?’
Mick frowned. ‘It was undoubtedly an accident. Why would you think otherwise?’
‘It seems so unlikely that she wouldn’t notice a gas leak. It’d have to be quite a big one to fill the whole restaurant like that.’
Turning away, Mick muttered, ‘I can’t talk about this anymore, Luc. We may have split, but I still loved your mother. Why would anyone want to kill her?’
But Lucas pressed on, ‘Do you think Max Rutherford had anything to do with it?’
Mick frowned. ‘Why would he kill her? I don’t think he even knew her.’
Dad was right. Who would want to kill Mum? Sam had a misty memory of his mum: a Latin-featured, loving person, full of life and attitude. Not someone to attract hatred.
28 SAM
With the hum of distant traffic in the background, Sam and his dad, wrapped in coats and scarves, strolled along a familiar woodland path at the top of Chelterton Park. The walk was one that as children, Sam and Josh had enjoyed many times with their fathers and siblishes. They would play hide and seek between the trees, and Kitty would bring her dog, Topsy, who would follow the child, infuriating her by giving away her hiding place.
Now, they were all older, but Maurice was deteriorating faster than Paul and Mick. Recently, Sam read on a medical website that deterioration of the senior brain can be slowed with stimulation and exercise. Worried about Maurice’s future independence, Sam now insisted upon a regular walk and, because they were planning the upkeep of Maurice’s unruly back garden, Sam hoped he was also achieving some mental stimulation.
‘You don’t have to do it, boy,’ Maurice grumbled. He tugged the fingers of his right hand through the grip of his left, again and again. Over the years, this nervous habit had polished his forefingers to a shiny brown.
‘I know,’ Sam nodded, his wandering eyes seeing photo shots in the dark twiggy horizon, silhouetted against the cloud blown sky, ‘But I’d like to. It won’t take long to sort it out.’
This was not in the least true, and Sam’s photographic fantasies were replaced by the memory of tussocks of grass and dandelions in Maurice’s so called ‘lawn’, and his borders of tangled bramble and nettle.
It would be impossible to cut the grass yet because the weather had been so poor. For the past three days, rain had pounded without remorse on the ground turning it into a quagmire. On the upside, the moist soil would make pulling up the weeds an easier matter.
His thoughts moved to the front garden. It was as bad as the back and contrasted with the beautiful displays of the retired neighbours on either side. Both Maurice’s gates were in a sad state of repair. The little one at the pavement, sagged from its hinges, and at the side of the house, separating the front garden from the back, the tall grey slats of the gate looked as though a wild animal had chewed chunks from their edges. This was not a task for Sam. He was no carpenter and said as much, now.
Maurice said, ‘Paul might help - he’s handy,’
‘Paul has enough to do. He’s about to get married. He doesn’t want to be running around after you.’ Sam fired a breath down his nose. ‘Could you afford to get someone in?’
‘I suppose so.’
Knowing that his father would do nothing about the gate, Sam stared into the woodland beside the path, wondering if Josh would help.
Something between the trees attracted his attention. Something just visible between the scrubby hazels and skinny Silver Birch trees. He stopped. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ Maurice bobbed his head round Sam to see what he was looking at.
Sam took a step towards the edge of the path and squinted into the gloom. ‘It’s a wheel, I think. I seem to…’ He left the path and climbed into the woods, keeping his eyes on the object. Beneath his feet, treacherous mud and leaf mould squelched under his shoes making them skid sideways, and he grasped branches to keep his balance.
Behind him, his father quavered, ‘What is it? What have you found? Probably rubbish. Kids come out here making a racket, cutting trees and making dens. Probably a den, is it? A sofa?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sam called back as he reached the spot where a wire wheel, part of some larger contraption, rose like mechanical lava from the clumping, blackish leaves.
Maurice shouted from the path, ‘I need to get back, boy. Can we talk about the garage?’
Ignoring the urgency in his father’s voice, Sam ducked under the branches to scrape away leaf-mould with his foot. Whatever was attached to the wheel had been wrapped in a black, plastic sheet. He wondered if he could he get the whole structure out. It was worth a try.
Maurice hollered again, ‘Come away, Sam. I’m getting cold.’
‘Won’t be a minute, Dad,’ Sam called back and gripped the wheel. Ignoring the discomfort of its rusted spokes digging into his fingers, he braced his feet against a root and with a grunt, applied all his strength. The surrounding ground moved a centimetre, but the contraption remained stuck. Whatever this was, it was big, and it would take more than a tug to remove it. But Sam thought he recognised it, and something told him it was important. He stumbled back to Maurice, brushing muck from his fingers.
‘Rubbish, was it?’ Maurice’s face stretched into an anxious smile that exposed long teeth in receding gums.
Sam nodded. ‘I expect so. Shall we go?’
~~~
The up and over door of Maurice’s garage groaned, and snagged on the empty cartons and crusty dust sheets piled inside. Years of indiscriminate dumping had rendered the space inaccessible, but the mess was nothing an afternoon’s work would not cure, and Sam relaxed and threw his dad a wide grin. ‘This isn’t a problem. I’ll put it in your car and take it to the tip when I’m next free.’ He rubbed his mucky fingers on his backside and said, ‘I need to wash my hands. Let’s have a cup of tea and find your calendar.’
‘OK. And I can show you the dating website.’
Sam halted in the middle of pulling down the door. ‘The what?’
‘The Dating website?’ His father poked his hands into his pockets and grinned. ‘You said I should join one, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but…’ Sam stopped. ‘That’s brilliant. Good for you.’ He banged the garage shut and swept a Walter Raleigh bow. ‘After you, oh romantic one.’
With the kettle boiling, Sam pulled his chair beside his dad’s.
At the computer, Maurice gripped the mouse as though it might escape and said, ‘There are so many questions. I can’t decide how to answer them.’
Sam ran his eyes over the webpage and his hope plummeted. Was Dad romant
ic? Bloody hell, the mind boggled. Did he want a physical relationship? Don’t even go there. If Maurice answered these intimate questions truthfully, Sam doubted he would ever interest a woman? He decided this was not his area of expertise and stood to make their tea, saying, ‘You ought to do this on your own, Dad.’
‘But should I tell the truth, boy?’
Sam was tempted to tell his dad to lie, but then he thought, Twitch must have seen something in him, once. ‘Think back to when you met Mum. What were you like then?’
‘Well, I was more interested in sex for one thing.’ The phantom of a smile wafted over Maurice’s face and Sam wondered when his dad had last smiled twice in one day?
‘OK, but apart from that, did you take Mum out? Where did you go? What did you enjoy? How did you behave?’ He put a mug of tea on the table for his father and said, ‘Think, Dad. Your circumstances are different now, but you could do that again, couldn’t you?’
Maurice’s sat up straight and said in a doubtful voice. ‘I could.’ Then with more confidence, I could.’
Sam nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it and take another stroll round the garden. Are there any tools?’
Maurice was already planting heavy fingers on his computer keys. ‘In the garage. On the right.’
Holding a garden fork out of sight of the kitchen window, Sam popped his head through the back door. His father was still engrossed in his task, frowning at his screen with the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. Maurice did not appear to be concerned about the buried item in the park, and for this, Sam was grateful. But he had to know if his instinct was correct, so he said, ‘I’ve remembered I need to get some food in for this evening. Kitty’s coming over for a bite. I want to avoid the school kids coming out, so I’ll pop off now. See you later.’
Maurice raised a hand without looking up, ‘OK Boy. See you in a while.’
With a garden fork over his shoulder, Sam strode to his car.
It was not a big hill, more a long slope, but the children, seated one behind the other, arms wrapped round waists and legs jutting out like herringbones, shrieked with terror and excitement as the long wooden trolley bounced over tussocks and slowed to a halt near the fence.
Paul, waiting at the bottom, groped between the wire-wheels for a rope and turned the cart in a wide curve. Seated behind Kitty, Sam looked up to see his dad grinning down at them. As Paul flexed his body and heaved his five excited passengers back towards the top, Maurice loped down to help.
The contraption lay exposed like an unearthed skeleton at an archaeological dig. Sam gazed down at it in its grave among severed tree roots. It had once been parcelled in black plastic sheeting, secured by tape, but now, the disintegrating covering lay beneath it like a slack cloak, exposing its wooden base, slimy with green algae. Sam propped his dad’s muddy fork against a tree and squatted at the edge of the crevasse. Leaning forward, he tried to spin a wheel, but although in reasonable condition, the axle was swollen with rust and the spokes remained fixed. Near his knees, a grimy, blue rope had been tied to the front. Was this the rope Paul had used to pull them up Little Callan Hill? Was that rope blue? Sam groped in his mind to recall the day, and to explain the cart’s appearance here. One of the adults of his childhood had told him it was stolen. He could not remember which adult; it could have been his father or Paul. That it was Mick, seemed improbable. Mick was around less than the other fathers because of the antisocial hours demanded by his job as chef in a big hotel chain.
Sam got to his feet, grasped the end of the rope and heaved. At first the vehicle only moved a fraction, and hoping it would not disintegrate on its way out of its hole, Sam turned his back on the hole and with the rope over his shoulder, clasped it in both hands, wedged his feet against a tree root and gave one massive heave. With a rush, the kart bounced from captivity, over roots and dead leaves, showering mud into the air and firing Sam onto his face.
He scrambled to his feet and brushed dirt from his knees and palms. Having got this far he was determined to get the thing to his car, and after that, up to his flat. He wanted a good look at it.
29 LUCAS
In recognition of a welcome warm snap, Lucas and Mick had arranged tables outside their restaurant. Saturday lunch-time shoppers occupied every seat. Inside and out, Churchills was alive with low conversation and the scraping of cutlery on china. And along the pavement stood a queue of perhaps ten hopeful diners.
In the kitchen, heat radiated from the cooker. Under the flaming grill, lamb kebabs spat and browned. Despite the number of diners, Mick and Lucas were managing a discussion on a well-worn subject.
‘If we opened upstairs, they’d all fit in.’ Lucas shook whitebait from the fryer and dropped it onto a paper towel.
Mick compressed his lips. ‘It’d be expensive, we’d need to borrow. I’m not comfortable about you accruing debt in the current climate. Why don’t you consider the offer from Masons, then you could relax and live a little?’
‘Mum borrowed money, didn’t she?’ Lucas glanced at his father, who was tasting lemon sauce.
Mick plated up the two portions of kebab, added a Greek salad and set the jug of sauce beside them. ‘Service,’ he shouted. To Lucas he said, ‘Your mother did many things I would have preferred her not to, but in light of what happened, so soon after she had spent all that money, we can’t know whether her investment would have paid off.’
Lucas turned to Mick. ‘Dad, I don’t want to get heavy, but this is my restaurant. I have thought about Masons’ offer and I won’t be accepting it. A builder’s coming to quote for the upstairs job tomorrow afternoon, after we close. It’s a simple matter of plastering, electrics and furniture.’
‘And creating a new stock-room.’ Mick interjected.
‘True, but that would be better downstairs, anyway; nearer the kitchen.’ Luc did not wait for Mick’s reply. ‘Dad. Please. I’m only researching it. I need figures and projections before I can decide anything.’
Mick shrugged and opened the fridge. ‘You should add in the cost of a food lift as well if you don’t want staff tripping up and down the stairs.’
Josh did not like arguing, so he changed the subject. ‘Did you ever visit here when Mum ran it?’
Without turning round, Mick breathed, ‘No. I never did.’
‘So, you don’t know what the food was like?’
‘It must have been good. Celebrities came here to dine.’
‘Celebrities? I had no idea. Like who?’
Mick crossed the room to peruse a metal strip, where the last few food orders were clipped. ‘Well, I believe the Duke of Westminster popped in regularly with his family and cronies.’
Lucas wondered where the Duke was now. Perhaps he was soaking up the sun in Juans les Pins or, like Millie, lying cold in his grave.
Service grew less frenetic. Those kebabs had been the last mains to go out, and apart from a few desserts and an occasional order for the board of local cheeses with Churchills’ home-made spicy chutney, Mick and Lucas could clear up and prepare for the evening.
Lucas’s breast pocket vibrated. It was Megan, the girl from the tennis club, and he tutted. After their date, he had told her that relationships for him were impossible because of his antisocial commitments. Apparently, she would not take the hint. He had to admit that she was a gorgeous looking girl. Strong and slim from playing tennis, with golden skin and straight blond hair. Such a shame he was unable to make a go of things. He sighed and answered. ‘Hi Megan, how are you?’
‘Good, Luc. Looking forward to dinner tonight.’
‘Oh? Where are you going?’
She laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m ringing to invite you to have dinner with me. I can actually cook, and I think it’s time someone fed you for a change.’
‘Tonight? I can’t do tonight.’
Mick waved a hand in front of Lucas’s face and yelled so that Megan would hear, ‘Yes you can. I’ll manage. Tom can come in - he’s always asking for extra work.’
Lucas frowned at Mick’s cheery intervention and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘There you are,’ said Megan. ‘Sorted. See you at seven thirty.’
~~~
He was not hungry; in fact, as he rapped on the front door of the 1930s semi, he felt nauseous.
Megan’s voice came from deep inside. ‘Give it a shove. It gets stuck.’
He launched into the hallway and met the aroma of garlic and a view of dishes and pans exploding from the kitchen sink at the end of the passage. ‘Something smells good,’ he said, and stuck his head into a compact kitchen, where food and implements littered every space on the brown Formica countertop.
Megan beamed at him from the cooker and gestured at a nearby bottle of gin. ‘Pour us a large one. Sorry about the mess - I’m what you might call an artistic cook.’ She gave a loud laugh, and her joy was so infectious that Lucas laughed with her.
He cleared a space and sloshed alcohol into tall glasses. With the ice cubes cracking in the fizzing concoction, he placed a tumbler next to Megan’s elbow, saying, ‘Don’t knock it over.’
She turned down the heat under a pan, and they faced each other in the ‘decorated’ kitchen and raised their glasses, smiling.
After a huge gulp of liquor, Lucas felt more optimistic that their evening might be more OK than he had imagined. He put down his glass and said, ‘I can’t help it. I have to clear this up.’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Megan slapped herself on the wrist. ‘No. Naughty girl. He’s a guest, and he does this all day long.’
Lucas grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I do it in my sleep. It’s still very nice to have a meal cooked for me.’
Megan took another sip of her gin. ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind, it will be more relaxing later.’
