Home for the Holidays

by Sue Moorcroft

  It wasn’t because she felt Jodie had brought her problems on herself and, unintentionally, on everyone else. She’d been duped by a good-looking, practised rogue with, apparently, not a single scruple in his make up.

  It was because she suddenly saw that hers and her friend’s lives were about to diverge. Jodie was making a lifestyle change of magnitude, just as Alexia would do when she left the village – which she still hoped to do, somehow, some time.

  They were growing apart and their friendship would be affected. It would have been affected if Shane hadn’t been a bastard and they’d formed a family, too. Or if Alexia had taken up the wonderful job with Elton. It was a fact of life, Alexia thought an hour later, driving home after ministering cups of tea and satisfying herself that Jodie was OK to be left alone. In fact, she felt that Jodie had summoned up some inner strength from somewhere. Maybe it came from the baby.

  When she reached home she backed her vehicle up to the workshop and opened both sets of doors. The chairs didn’t take a moment to pull out and line up inside but the table wasn’t quite so easy. Although it wasn’t large, it was fairly heavy.

  She was considering whether to try it on her when own a figure came to the end of the drive and hovered as if waiting to be noticed. With a sinking heart, Alexia realised that the figure was Carola. She sighed. A lecture about the responsibilities of fundraising wasn’t what she wanted to round out a fun day.

  Apparently Carola couldn’t read sighs because she marched across the flagstones as if invited. ‘I’m sorry you and I have been at loggerheads lately,’ she began unexpectedly. ‘I think a lot of it has been my fault.’

  Alexia tried not to look astonished. Carola generally set her eyes on a goal and then expected others to help her achieve it. Alexia had never seen her offer any kind of apology for that. ‘The village hall means a lot to you, I know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carola bit the word off as if there was more she could say. ‘Anyway, what Gabe said about me helping – or not helping – struck home. He’s right. My husband always said I’m only ever happy if I’m Queen Bee. I’d sort of like to prove him wrong so I’ve come to offer to be a … what do you call bees that aren’t the queen?’

  ‘Drones?’

  Carola wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think that’s very me.’ She whisked out her phone and tapped and swiped until she’d pulled up the relevant information. ‘Drones are male. “Worker bees” are the females who aren’t queens. I’ll be a worker. Part of the hive.’ She returned her phone to her pocket and beamed expectantly.

  ‘Oh.’ It had been a long day and Alexia wasn’t sure she was correctly interpreting Carola’s remarks. ‘What is it you’re offering?’

  ‘To help you with The Angel. I’m very good at decorating and whatnot. I’ve done a lot.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ Alexia smothered a grin. Carola’s decorating was a village legend. She loved makeover programmes and learned skills to utilise liberally on her house up in the new village – or Little Dallas as it was less kindly known. Villagers insisted they were worried that if they let their kids visit Charlotte and Emily they’d come out stippled or stencilled. ‘Erm …’ Alexia tried to think of a way of saying, ‘We don’t want all those nineties paint techniques all over the place, thanks’.

  Carola tilted her head. ‘I can let someone else lead a project, you know. And I need something to keep me out of mischief.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Alexia agreed, perhaps too frankly. ‘OK, welcome aboard. Would you like to help me get this table out, please?’

  Although she looked surprised to be given a job there and then, Carola looked pleased, too. They pushed and pulled the table to a point where they could manhandle – or womanhandle – it into the workshop.

  Carola gazed about, taking in Grandpop’s tools racked on the wall and Alexia’s pots of brushes. ‘I didn’t realise you kept your grandfather’s workshop up.’

  ‘It’s going to get a lot of use over the next few weeks while I collect unwanted tables and chairs and refurbish them for The Angel. We’re short of dosh, in case you hadn’t heard.’

  Carola acknowledged the hit with a laugh. ‘But these chairs have had it. The back on that one’s all drunk.’

  ‘The glue was probably never much cop and it’s dried out.’ Alexia cast around until she found her rubber mallet. ‘Stand back.’ Turning the chair upside down so its seat was on her workbench she gave it several judicious taps. The back parted from the seat, then the components of the back parted from each other. Jumping up on the bench, Alexia grasped the rungs and heaved. Without too much protest the legs and rungs parted from the seat as a unit and from there it was easy to twist and knock until they were separate too.

  ‘What we have now are chair parts. I’ll do the same to the other one, then the whole set needs rubbing down.’

  Carola looked absolutely rapt. ‘And what then?’

  ‘I’ll paint them, probably a sea green that will look just right in the café. I know where to get trade paint and I can mix it myself. It won’t matter that all the tables and chairs I scavenge are different shapes and sizes because they’ll all be the same colour. It will be an eclectic look.’

  ‘Oh, may I do it too?’ Carola clasped her hands beneath her pointy chin as if she was prepared to beg if necessary.

  It wasn’t. ‘You absolutely may,’ said Alexia quickly, before the older woman could think better of it. ‘And if anyone tells you they’re getting rid of suitable tables and chairs, ask if we can take them. Whatever’s wrong with them, I can salvage.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Carola breathed happily. ‘We ought to go into business and call ourselves Scavenge and Salvage.’

  Alexia tried and failed to imagine herself going into business with Carola. ‘Mm. Let’s concentrate on this for now. If we swap phone numbers I can let you know when I’m beginning on these. Maybe tomorrow evening, after work.’

  Carola looked discontented. ‘Do I have to wait till then? How about I visit a couple of recycling centres tomorrow and see if I can pick anything up?’

  ‘If you want.’ Alexia stacked the chair parts on the bench and began switching off lights, ushering Carola out ahead of her. She suddenly felt as if she could sleep for a week. ‘But we have almost no money and recycling centres generally sell rather than donate. Why don’t you begin by asking Melanie at the shop if you can put a notice up asking people if they have any old stuff they want to get rid of? Put a note on the village Facebook page, too. Some people just stick things in spare rooms if they don’t have a vehicle big enough to take them to the tip.’

  ‘I could use my husband’s Land Rover Defender to pick stuff up. It’s pretty roomy.’

  Alexia glanced at her as she locked the workshop door. Carola’s husband was a shadowy figure in Middledip, away for long periods and commuting to London the rest of the time. Presumably he had such a vast vehicle just because he lived in a village. ‘That would be fab if he doesn’t mind you using it.’

  ‘He’s never here to mind.’ Carola zipped up her coat. ‘Let me know about tomorrow evening.’ She marched briskly away in the direction of the new village, her fine blonde hair blowing in the wind, leaving Alexia free to let herself into the warmth of her cottage and run a hot bath.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ben scraped most of Gabe’s meal into the scrap pail for the chickens. Gabe had eaten about four mouthfuls then, in his words, ‘coughed them up again’.

  When Ben had finished washing the supper plates he picked up his phone. He’d promised to contact Alexia but he cringed whenever he thought of this morning. He’d casually kissed her and her scent and warmth had reached out and clonked him over the head. It wasn’t only his head affected, either. He’d driven home with discomfort in the jeans department like an out-of-control adolescent.

  And he had no idea why he’d kissed her except that she was helping Gabe and for an instant to drop a ‘thank you’ kiss on her head had seemed comfortable and natural. A heartbeat la
ter it had seemed bizarre and moronic. When he returned from picking up his stuff he’d continued to act like a moron, all distant and busy as if Alexia were an inconvenient caller holding him back from an urgent rendezvous with his laptop. In fact, all he did when she’d gone was look at the website for Spring Hill Prison and wonder how Lloyd was managing to exist cooped up in there.

  He sighed. She’d probably agree with him. He was a moron.

  He dialled her number and was almost relieved when she didn’t immediately answer. He’d even had time to decide that the call would go to voicemail and was starting to compose a brisk message … when Alexia picked up.

  ‘Hello.’ She sounded breathless. Beneath her voice was another sound, faint but unmistakeable. The sound of water lapping.

  ‘Is now a good time to give you a Gabe update?’ he asked tentatively.

  The sound of water again, this time louder, a distinct slosh, and a squeak followed by a muttered ‘Oh, shit!’ Then, ‘Are you still there? I almost dropped the phone in the … um.’

  In the bath? ‘Can you talk?’ he asked, imagination whirring into action to produce images of Alexia wet and naked. In fact, he didn’t need his imagination as he had those images all ready in his memory bank.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve treated myself to a glass of wine and it’s probably made me clumsy. I’ve been anxious about Gabe. How is he?’ she gabbled, as if keen to steer the conversation on to safer waters.

  The distracting image evolved to her naked, wine in one hand, phone in the other. Wet. Rosy with the warmth. He had to moisten his lips before he could reply. ‘I took stock a few hours after you left –’ that’s right, make it sound as if you didn’t hint her out of the door ‘– and Gabe seemed worse rather than better.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he answered grimly. ‘I called 111 again and a doctor came and diagnosed a severe upper respiratory infection. He left a prescription for antibiotics so I had to hotfoot it to Bettsbrough to get that filled out. Gabe’s had the first dose and the second’s due at bedtime. I’m hoping he shows signs of improvement by the time I have to go to work tomorrow.’

  She hesitated. ‘What will you do if he doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same. I can give him one dose before work but I’m worried about him rousing enough to take his medicine in the middle of the day. I suppose I could ask the bailiff at the Carlysle estate if it’s OK to take a day’s holiday or unpaid leave but I have a team lined up to work in the coppice out on the other side of the home farm so it wouldn’t go down well. I think I’ll just have to ask for a long lunch hour to rush back in, instead.’

  ‘I could swing by between one thirty and two. I have an appointment in Bettsbrough in the morning and then in Crowland in the afternoon.’ Another faint sloshing of water.

  He broke out into a mild sweat. ‘That would be great! But I wasn’t hinting just because you’re self-employed. I know being your own boss means less spare time rather than more.’

  ‘But my time can sometimes be administered flexibly.’ That watery sound again but louder this time. A distinct splash and an ‘oops!’

  Words came out of Ben’s mouth uncensored. ‘I’m sorry, have I interrupted you at a bad time? I should have texted first.’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ She cut him off hastily. But then a giggle escaped. ‘OK, it’s not the best time.’

  He felt an answering smile tug at his lips. ‘Would you have answered this if I’d made it a Facetime call?’

  This time she laughed out loud. ‘No! Stop trying to embarrass me and tell me where you’re going to leave the key for me tomorrow.’

  Ben did so, and that he’d see to the chickens in the morning, as, staying temporarily with Gabe, he’d be on the spot, and hopefully Gabe would soon be capable of chicken wrangling again himself. He rang off, still smiling.

  A rustling from the tub told him that Barney was awake and Ben watched him launch himself at the smooth sides of the tub until he finally managed to scrabble his way out, pausing to settle his feathers and check Ben had noticed he was now a hard owl to keep down. Ben laughed. ‘Don’t look so smug. I already knew you could do that. Just try not to make too much mess.’

  ‘HEHHHHH!’ said Barney. He tipped his head on one side to give Ben a last look before hopping across the floor to pounce on a shoe. Then he looked up at the kitchen door as if waiting for the handle to move.

  Ben folded his arms. ‘If you’re waiting for Alexia, she won’t be here tonight.’ Barney turned his head right round to stare at Ben as if in disbelief. ‘Sorry if you’re disappointed. I’m pretty sure she’s in the bath. I’m trying not to think about it but as that’s where our “encounter” began I have some pretty reliable footage in my memory. And it’s running riot.’

  ‘HEHHHHHHH.’

  Ben sighed. ‘You’re right. I need to control my thoughts. But I didn’t know she was going to hang around looking desirable and being kind to my uncle, did I? She should have had one foot out of the village by now.’

  Barney spread his good wing out like a mantle to cover the shoe then poked his head underneath to peek at it.

  Ben pushed away from the kitchen cupboard he’d been leaning on. ‘She’s an unusual person. No matter how much she has on her plate she seems to be able to pile it a little higher if other people need help.’

  Barney folded his good wing and hopped off the shoe to sidle up on the scraps pail.

  Ben groaned, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. ‘I’m knackered. I’ve seen to the chickens and that grumpy bloody pony but I can’t veg out in front of the TV till I’ve filled the range and seen if Gabe wants anything. And I ought to tell Mum that he’s ill. After all, she’s his sister.’

  But Barney had lost interest and was making himself very tall – for a barn owl – to peer into the scraps pail.

  Once he’d moved the pail outside to save himself a clear-up job when Barney inevitably knocked it over, Ben went upstairs and crept into Gabe’s room. It smelt musty and stale. Gabe stirred at his approach. ‘How are you doing?’ Ben whispered.

  Without lifting his head from the pillow, Gabe nodded, his hair lying in untidy strands around his face. ‘’Bout the same. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Great.’ Not feeling particularly reassured, Ben refilled Gabe’s glass with fresh water then left him in peace to doze.

  Back downstairs, he rang his mother. She sounded pleased to hear from him but wary at the same time. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Their agendas, unfortunately, weren’t neatly aligned but at least now he felt he was making the call under a truce, uneasy as it might be, so he didn’t have to brace himself as he would have a few weeks ago.

  ‘I just called to tell you that Gabe’s not well.’ Quickly, he ran through the events of the past couple of days while Penny said ‘oh, dear’ a lot.

  ‘Am I needed?’ she enquired delicately, when he’d finished.

  He debated. If his mother came to Middledip to keep house for her brother for a few days it would release Ben to disappear back into the comfortable and solitary world of Woodward Cottage and the woods. He could put Barney in his new aviary for significant periods each day and they’d both be more comfortable.

  But then Gabe’s property was not the well-kept house on the edge of town his mum was used to. He tried to envisage her cleaning out the chicken house or shoving Snobby out of the way when he stubbornly blocked the path to his hayrack and tried to eat the hay out of your arms instead. Even keeping the range burning could be a mission. ‘Thanks, but I can cope for now. Shall we keep that idea in reserve? Uncle Gabe’s got his medicine so by the time you’ve settled here he could feel a lot better.’

  He moved on to the next subject. ‘But while I’ve got you, has Lloyd’s release date been confirmed?’

  Instantly Penny’s voice became guarded. ‘He’s got an automatic release date – which normally comes around the midpoint of a sentence – so he can serve the remainder in the communit
y, but I’m not sure how definite anything is until it happens. You know. Behaviour has an effect.’

  ‘Is he getting in trouble inside?’ Ben was pretty sure Lloyd was too savvy to do anything that would increase his sentence even by a day. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Barney as he began today’s assault on Mount Pan Rack, good wing beating to propel him onto the first level and bad wing and the resident saucepan getting in the way of him achieving it. Settling back down onto the floor, Barney pooped, as if to signal his displeasure.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ A pause, then Penny added, ‘Do you mind me asking why you want to know?’

  ‘I think I ought to speak to him – but not until he’s out.’

  A longer pause. Barney rotated his head to gaze at Ben as if checking whether he’d noticed the poop. Penny drew in an audible breath. ‘I was hoping you’d …’

  ‘Just let it go?’

  ‘Not rouse any sleeping dogs that might send your brother back into jail,’ Penny corrected softly.

  Ben imagined her biting her lip, the strain of having a son in prison etched on her face. He preferred to picture her as she’d been at the Thai Garden when the subject of Lloyd had been cleared out of the way and she’d chatted instead about her gym buddies and what was happening at work, a couple of Tiger Beers helping her to relax. His dad had watched her and smiled. How nice it would be if she looked that way more often. ‘I’ll try my utmost not to do that,’ he promised.

  When he’d ended the call, and as he was getting out the kitchen roll to clear up the owl poop, he resumed his chat to Barney. ‘Once he’s out, I don’t see anything wrong with asking him for the truth, do you, Barn? I’ll just do it where those sleeping dogs won’t be able to hear his answer.’

  Ben settled down in Gabe’s rocking chair and switched on the little kitchen TV for company. He’d fed the range half a scuttle of coal and was reluctant to go to the additional trouble of lighting the fire in the lounge.