Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  ‘About all this?’ says Artem, alarmed.

  ‘No, ’course not. Just the f— the china thing.’

  Artem grunts and turns away, reaching for a biscuit.

  Dismissed, Ben slouches out, raising a hand in farewell to Finbar on his way to the front door. The old man stops his brushwork and unfolds himself from the stairs, following Ben out into the front garden.

  ‘Where’s the bicycle?’

  ‘Oh, back at Daria’s. Just gonna collect it.’

  Finbar puts his hand on the gate to stay him. ‘My boy, we all make mistakes. “Though you break your heart, men will go on as before.” Not a bad philosophy.’

  ‘You say so.’ Ben just wants to get away from all these witnesses to and reminders of his stupidity, to immerse himself in creating something in the kitchen, not trying to repair what he’s helped destroy. The weekend’s events are made worse by the fact that, of all the people in his life, it’s his supportive and loyal aunts he has so grievously wronged. The annihilation of the cherished figurine is a tangible—albeit fragmented—symbol of everything he has ruined.

  ‘It’s many a year since I was last in Edinburgh,’ Finbar is saying, scratching his beard. ‘A fine city, Auld Reekie. Half alive and half a monumental marble, that’s what Stevenson said of it, and I’m bound to say, I think he’s right.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Ben, baffled, trying to slide through the narrow gap between gate and hedge. Can’t the old codger see he’s in a hurry?

  ‘So I’m thinking, a short sojourn in the Athens of the North might be just the ticket. The train ticket, in fact.’ Finbar permits himself a spluttery laugh at his wit. ‘I was considering, perhaps this very evening, if you catch my drift.’

  Ben dimly begins to fathom the old man’s meaning and after a day of false starts and setbacks finds his heavy-handed attempts to help serve only to exacerbate his ill-humour. ‘But I haven’t got five hundred quid! I haven’t got five quid! I already owe Artem or Barry or whoever for all the wood and the basin and Christ alone knows what else and where the frig am I supposed to find the money to repay them—let alone pay for a trip to Edinburgh and then shell out shedloads of money I don’t have on a shit piece of crappy pottery?’

  There is a moment of ominous silence during which Finbar fixes Ben with an adamantine glare, before drawing back in cold fury, nostrils flaring, tugging his jacket down hard by the lapels to release a malodorous effluvium. ‘Did I ask you for money, young man? Did I? Did I at any point even mention lucre, filthy or otherwise? Do you suppose that everything that has occurred since your ill-judged and utterly irresponsible decision to play fast and loose with your esteemed aunts’ habitation has been executed for your benefit? What effrontery! No, it is for those fine ladies’ sakes that we have toiled so assiduously to restore their hearth and home to something approximating its customary beloved state. To spare them the wounding disappointment that would surely ensue when the realisation dawned that the viper whom they had nursed in their bosoms had sunk its selfish, feckless fangs into their very hearts. That the waif who had inveigled himself into their affections had betrayed their trust, abused their hospitality and polluted their nest. Money is nothing, a mere bagatelle: all that matters is that those paragons of generosity should remain blissfully ignorant of the devastation wreaked by you and your soidisant friends. So if I choose to journey north tonight, if I choose to use my money—not yours, note, but mine—to purchase a replacement figurine of questionable taste but one in which memories fond and sentimental are clearly invested, it ill becomes you to object. Or, indeed, to proffer any comment whatsoever on my proposed course of action. So do whatever is necessary to secure the shepherdess, apprise the seller of my intentions and do it NOW!’

  ‘There’s no way—’

  ‘Did I ask for your opinion? Just do as you are bid, you impertinent whippersnapper!’

  Ben hesitates for no more than a millisecond—there is something positively scary about the set of Finbar’s features. He hurriedly calls up the site on his phone, navigates to the appropriate page and, under the old man’s baleful glare, clicks Buy It Now, including a message stressing the urgency and that payment will be made on collection. ‘In cash?’ he checks with Finbar. ‘Only it says no cheques.’

  ‘In cash,’ confirms Finbar grimly. Ben presses send.

  ‘There’s no knowing when this bloke will pick up the message. I’ve asked for a number but he mightn’t, like, check it that regularly. I mean, eBay will let him know it’s sold but what if he isn’t online or whatever?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what any of that means, but let us just see if the gods are with us, shall we?’ says Finbar evenly.

  ‘I’m just saying—’ Ben’s phone buzzes. He gawps at the screen. ‘Jeez, it’s him! That’s amazing! Look!’ He thrusts the phone in Finbar’s face; the old man recoils.

  ‘I take it from your intemperate response that contact has been established. Now kindly facilitate a conversation between myself and the vendor.’

  ‘Ring him, you mean?’

  ‘Unless you happen to know a more effective way of allowing us to converse?’

  ‘All right! All right. You know sarcasm is . . .’ Ben swiftly keys in the number and hands the phone to Finbar. ‘Might go to voicemail.’

  But the gods, it seems, are most decidedly on Finbar’s side. The call is answered by Angus McWhitty of the New Town, Edinburgh, overjoyed to have found a buyer for Granny’s bibelot, sympathetic to the urgency of the situation and yes, if the gentleman is serious, happy to wait up and complete the transaction—in cash, no cheques, regrettably—this very evening, trains permitting. Finbar is all smiles and fruitiness through their brief exchange, but as he hands the phone back to its owner when arrangements have been completed, the smile disappears. Ben, on the verge of trying however inadequately to express his thanks, finds the words die in his throat under Finbar’s glacial glare.

  ‘Now you, young man, had best get about your business. I shall complete my ministrations within and then leave immediately for Scotland. You will keep your counsel about my plans, revealing only what is necessary to prevent alarm. You will never for any reason whatsoever apprise your aunts of these events because, be in no doubt, while I am generally a man of infinite sweetness of nature, you would not want even to the smallest degree to incur my wrath.’

  And with that, Finbar turns on his heel and disappears back inside, closing the door with more than usual firmness, leaving Ben shell-shocked on the path. He hadn’t understood everything the old man had spat at him, but he is in absolutely no doubt that he has just experienced one of the worst bollockings of his life.

  CHAPTER 47

  ‘This is delicious, darling,’ says Isabelle happily, forking in another mouthful of chicken pie. ‘But really, you oughtn’t to have neglected your studies. I could have rustled something up.’

  Ben, raised on what his mother ‘rustled up’ from perfectly nutritious ingredients that somehow transmogrified into unidentifiable culinary monstrosities, smiles faintly.

  George, sitting opposite, frowns. ‘Your mother’s right, son. You can’t afford to slacken off, not with your exams starting tomorrow. Although the pie is truly excellent. First class. Tell me, how did your session with Ralph go?’

  Isabelle sits forward eagerly. ‘Oh, yes. We were telling your Auntie Lynn how hard you were working and what a nice boy Ralph is. Did it help?’

  ‘Brilliant. Absolute genius.’

  George recoils slightly in surprise: his son sounds positively enthusiastic. This is most encouraging. ‘Good . . . good,’ he mutters uncertainly.

  His wonder is exacerbated when, unprompted, Ben launches into a lengthy speech lauding Ralph Pickerlees’ tutoring skills.

  ‘. . . made it all, like, relevant. I mean, I could see what the point is. First time anyone’s bothered to do that. At school it’s all, learn this principle or equation or whatever. Ralph makes it make sense. Yeah.’

  Ben cuts himself another
hefty slice of pie. He’s dead pleased with the pastry: he’d experimented with a tablespoonful of cornflour in the mix, reckons it makes it just that bit lighter. Must remember to tell Aunt Hester . . . The thought of his aunts brings Finbar suddenly to mind, possibly even now speeding northwards on his mission.

  ‘. . . nice pen?’ His mother looks at him enquiringly. Ben drags himself back to the moment. Oh, fuck, the pen he was supposed to buy Ralph with the money his mother had given him. The money he’d instead spend on booze, most of which ended up going down the drain. He thinks fast. Just then his phone buzzes beside him. He glances at the screen, ignores it. It’ll be either Jez or Louisa, both of whom have been bombarding him with calls and texts for the past twenty-four hours; he’s not talking to either of them.

  Ben swallows his mouthful. ‘Oh yeah, about the pen . . . You know what? We were having such a ball we thought we’d go out and get, like, you know, some food?’

  ‘Really?’ Isabelle looks doubtful. ‘Did you have enough money? I only gave you—’

  ‘No, we just went to . . . you know.’ He hopes no-one presses him, that they’re imagining a café, a fast-food outlet. ‘So we could keep talking. ’Cos I was getting so much out of it.’

  ‘Well,’ says George, relaxing, ‘I’m delighted to hear it. I did wonder how you two lads would get on, if I’m frank, but Ralph clearly knows what’s what. I must ask his father to pass on our thanks tomorrow.’

  Isabelle beams. ‘I really don’t know why I worried so much about leaving you on your own. You seem to have had a marvellous weekend.’

  It takes a superhuman effort, but Ben somehow manages a weak smile. ‘Yeah, so tell me about Auntie Lynn’s party, then . . .’

  His parents’ voices advance, recede, peak and trough. He dimly registers that the pineapple tarte tatin had been a triumph—‘Auntie Lynn was so touched! She had two helpings!’—that their hotel had been rather disappointing, with lumpy beds, and that they hadn’t got to bed until after one, the dirty stop-outs.

  His phone rings and he glances at the screen. ‘Gotta take this.’ And before they can protest, he’s on his feet, through the kitchen doorway and halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Wotcha, lover. How’s tricks?’ says a voice in his ear.

  He’s surprisingly pleased to hear Nats’ voice. ‘Yeah, good. You finished with the play?’

  ‘Just. Had a thought while we were packing up: you ought to be at the cottage when your aunts get back—’

  ‘Yeah, I—’ The same thought had occurred to Ben.

  ‘—sort of distraction you know? Like, first thing they see’s you, not the walls. Might deflect attention.’

  ‘Yeah, I—’

  ‘Artem said they’d be back about six. Might come with you.’

  ‘You?!’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? Like to meet them and what could be a better distraction than me?’

  She has a point. A tiny, black, corn-rowed distraction. All else will pale into insignificance if past experience is anything to go by.

  ‘About the china thingy—had an idea.’

  ‘Sorted,’ says Ben, with more confidence than he feels. Where on earth would Finbar get that kind of money? And Finbar on a train? It seems highly improbable. He tells her anyway, the old man’s words of warning still ringing in his head, and swears her to eternal secrecy.

  ‘Serious?’ For once Nats seems taken aback. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘Respect. That Finbar rocks. You are one lucky dude, you know that?’

  Oh he does, he does.

  ‘Okay,’ says Nats. ‘Gotta get off. Oh, my birdbrained sis has been whingeing you’re not answering her calls. You pissed with her or something?’

  ‘Er . . . hello? ’Course I’m pissed with her! Her and her fuckwit friends. After what they did, are you kidding?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Nats’ glee is unmistakable. ‘I’ll tell her.’ She sounds as if she’s relishing the prospect. ‘Anyway, boo, best you get back to your books. Good luck tomorrow. Ciao!’

  Boo? thinks Ben, throwing his phone on his bed en route to his desk. Is she just messing with him or . . .? He smooths his hand over the still uneven skin of his cheeks and forehead and reaches for the tube of toothpaste secreted in his top drawer.

  His phone rings again.

  ‘Hello? Ben?’ yells Daria. ‘You are working?’

  ‘Trying to.’

  ‘Good. I speak, then you work more. Is Tata and Mama back safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ A crash in the background, followed by a wail. ‘Artem, quick! Milo, Milo, Uncle Artem is coming!’ Her voice booms again in Ben’s ear. ‘Milo is pushing chair over. Now, Ben, Hester and Harriet are returning tomorrow. Artem is collecting from airport.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Me and Nats—’

  ‘We are thinking, Artem and me, it will be good idea to be there when they come. At the house. Yes? We make lot of noise, laughing, then they are not seeing—’

  ‘Yeah, we thought the same.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Daria sounds the tiniest bit disappointed, the wind taken out of her sails. ‘Well . . . is good idea, I think.’

  ‘Plus I thought I’d cook them something for their tea.’

  ‘Cook? You? No, no, no, I am making borscht. Right now. Hester loves my borscht. And Harriet.’

  Now it’s Ben’s turn to be disappointed. ‘I just thought . . .’

  Daria is on it like a terrier. ‘Oh yes, clever boy. I see your plan. Cook nice meal, smiling, look what nice boy I am, Auntie. Guilty, guilty heart trying to pretend all is a dream only. Is not dream, my friend, no, no, no. What about china lady? Heh?’

  Ben leaps in as Daria pauses momentarily to draw breath, hissing into his phone in case either parent should be hovering on the landing, ‘Don’t worry about her.’

  ‘Don’t worry?’ hollers Daria. ‘He say, don’t worry!’ This, presumably, to Artem. ‘I do worry, Ben. And why? Because Hester and Harriet will think I break this when I am cleaning! I do not break! Never, never. Always careful. Wash in warm water, dry with towel. Is precious.’

  ‘No, Daria, listen—’

  ‘Poor ladies, they do not expect—’

  ‘Daria, just shut up a minute—’

  ‘What? What!’ Ben holds the phone away from his ear. ‘Now he is telling me to shut it! Rude boy!’

  ‘Finbar’s gone to Edinburgh,’ says Ben swiftly.

  Silence.

  ‘Daria? Did you hear what I said? He’s gone up to Edinburgh to buy the shepherdess.’

  ‘Finbar?’ whispers Daria, appalled. ‘He is walking to . . .’

  ‘No, no! Not walking. He’s catching a train.’

  ‘A train?’ says Daria, still clearly astonished.

  There is a rapid exchange in Belarusian as Daria shares the intelligence with Artem. The next moment, it is Artem’s voice on the phone. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He told me himself,’ says Ben, omitting to share the rest of that painful conversation. ‘Said he was leaving immediately.’

  Artem whistles softly. ‘He is a dark man.’

  ‘Horse. It’s a dark horse.’

  ‘Of course. But where did he get—’

  ‘The money? Dunno. Didn’t like to ask.’ Didn’t dare, in fact. He glances at the clock on his screen. ‘I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Will you make sure Daria knows? Not to say anything, I mean. Look, I gotta get on, Artem. Revision and that. What time you expecting to get back from the airport?’

  ‘Perhaps six thirty. But Daria and I will check everything at The Laurels mid-afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll see you there then.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ben as casually as he can, ‘Nats thought she might call by too.’

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER 48

  Harriet doesn’t mind the hard plastic seat. She doesn’t mind the watery coffee or the stale roll with its meagre slice of unidentifiable cheese. She doesn’t mind the voluble Ital
ian crammed into the seat next to her who has been gesticulating wildly for at least a quarter of an hour through what appears to be a very fraught telephone conversation. She doesn’t even mind if they are delayed. They are on their way home; that’s all that matters. And then she’ll decide what to do.

  ‘Two hours!’ says Hester, head cocked to make out the garbled message crackling through the tannoy. ‘Is that what it said? That was our flight number, wasn’t it?’

  Lionel, sitting opposite her, leans forward to extricate himself from two large ladies either side of him who are taking up rather more than their allocated seat space. ‘Would you like me to go and check, my dear?’

  Hester shakes her head. ‘Thank you really, but no.’ She glances over to where several dozen people are moodily regarding the lucky few who have secured seats. There has already been a very unpleasant face-off between a middle-aged businessman and a harassed mother with two toddlers in tow. Lionel had been on the verge of offering up his seat to avoid a violent confrontation when the man, finally shamed by the waves of outrage emanating from the onlookers, had grudgingly ceded the field, earning a mocking round of applause as he fled. ‘Best sit tight. I’m sure they’ll announce what’s what in due course.’ She nudges Harriet, glad of the excuse to avoid Lionel’s beseeching eyes. ‘Should I text Artem and say we’ll be late?’

  Harriet looks up from her Kindle, removes her glasses. ‘Artem?’

  Hester notes with concern how distracted Harriet seems. ‘Yes. Shall I let him know about the delay? Don’t want him waiting for hours unnecessarily. Not to mention the exorbitant price of parking at the airport.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Harriet, ‘yes. I’m with you.’ But she doesn’t look it. ‘Maybe wait until we’re about to board?’

  ‘I think I’ll just warn him to expect us a bit later,’ says Hester, scrabbling through her bag for her phone. She’s all too conscious of Lionel’s eyes on her, patiently waiting to learn his fate after their long heart-to-heart last night in the empty restaurant. She had made him a promise that they would talk today.