Yet when Bruno confronted him, Joe was infuriatingly blasé.
‘I’m not entirely sure what you’re accusing me of. Seems to me you’ve been listening to local gossip.’
‘Come on, Joe. There’s no smoke without fire.’
‘There is when people are jealous.’
‘How do you think Mum feels, to know people are pointing their fingers at you?’
‘She’s got enough sense to know it’s just tittle-tattle.’
‘So why am I hearing these things about you?’
Joe shrugged, pushing his long shaggy fringe to one side.
‘Dunno. I just want to work hard and play hard.’
Teenage girls who had been dragged on a camping holiday by their despairing parents soon snapped out of their sulk when they clapped eyes on Joe. It was like bees round a honeypot. And how could he resist, when they threw themselves at him, these long-limbed, firm-skinned creatures in their tiny bikinis? It was inevitable that there would be trouble, when he treated them so casually, and one afternoon Bruno was interrupted from his paperwork by an irate father threatening to call the police.
‘I can’t get her out of the van. She’s breaking her heart in there. She’s only fifteen. If I find out he’s laid a finger on her, I’ll have him locked up.’
It took Bruno the rest of the day to placate the father, coax the young girl out of the caravan to get her side of the story, and promise to remonstrate with Joe.
Joe was almost callous.
‘What am I supposed to do, take her back out of pity? I never made her any promises.’
‘At least talk to her, for Christ’s sake.’
‘What good would that do? It’ll only get her hopes up.’
‘You can’t scamper through life shagging like a flopsy bunny on Viagra. Getting away with it just because you’re cute. It’s not fair, Joe!’
‘I can’t help it if they throw themselves at me.’
‘You can say no.’
‘I’m a bloke!’
‘They can’t handle it, Joe. You can’t just love them and leave them.’
‘That’s the point. I don’t love them. I’ve never told anyone that.’
Bruno looked at him stonily.
‘OK. I might not be able to force you to behave like a decent human being. But I can ban you from liaising with customers.’
‘What do you mean, liaising?’
Joe tipped back in his chair insolently, chewing gum and looking at his brother defiantly. For a moment, Bruno knew how it felt to be a teacher faced with a class of uncontrollable adolescents. He tried to remain calm.
‘Chatting up, flirting, touching up, snogging, shagging… do I have to spell it out in words of one syllable?’
‘What if I meet her on the beach and don’t realize she’s a customer?’
Bruno grabbed Joe by the front of his T-shirt and pulled him up out of his chair. It was all he could do not to flatten him. He so resolutely refused to take anything seriously, to show even a modicum of responsibility.
‘You know exactly what I fucking mean.’
‘Hey, chill,’ said Joe, aggrieved.
‘Just do as you’re told or you’ll find yourself out of a job,’ growled Bruno through gritted teeth.
‘I don’t think Mum would be very happy about that.’
Joe was getting annoyed now, and was being uncharacteristically defensive. He never usually bothered – a smile was usually all it took to get him out of trouble. And Bruno didn’t want to turn this into a bigger deal than it already was. He let him go with a sigh, not wanting their confrontation to get back to his mother. She would only be upset. And Joe was perfectly capable of telling tales, he was sure.
‘OK. Have it your way. Forget I said anything. Just try and keep your hands off the customers if you can.’
Joe shrugged and sat back down.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’
Bruno gave up trying to get his brother to see reason. And he wondered if perhaps he was acting out of jealousy. Joe had always been the apple of everyone’s eye. The late baby. The cute one. Melter of the stoniest of hearts. While Bruno was working hard at school, Joe was garnering praise and attention by stumping round with his chubby legs, a sunny smile and a halo of curls. Maybe deep down Bruno envied him his freedom. He was living the perfect life. He had exactly the right proportion of sun, sea, surf, women, cash, free time and his mother to wait on him hand and foot. He didn’t even have to get his dirty clothes as far as the laundry basket. When he came home from work, Joanie scooped them off the floor and popped them into the machine to wash while he ate the food she had prepared. Before he put on his freshly ironed going-out clothes. Meanwhile, Bruno was working his bollocks off, stuck in the city he had come to hate, to keep his empire afloat. He might earn a hundred times more than Joe, but he had no freedom to spend it, even though he was trying hard to adjust his lifestyle.
He thought his words had hit home, however, as before long Joe seemed to be going steady, with an amazing-looking girl called Tamara whose father had done very well for himself. Bruno had to admire his choice, and in the back of his mind couldn’t help wondering if it was Tamara’s access to unlimited cash rather than her slender golden limbs that was the attraction. But he didn’t comment, as at least Joe seemed to have settled down.
It was therefore another month before they clashed again. Bruno had come back down to exchange contracts on the house he was buying, and was staying with his parents. It was lunchtime and Joe was grumbling that his favourite shirt hadn’t been ironed. Bruno was livid. In his eyes, Joe exploited their mother mercilessly. Expecting a meal at whatever time he came in. Expecting his clothes washed. His room kept tidy.
‘This has got to stop, Joe. You can’t treat Mum like this.’
‘Mum doesn’t mind!’
‘Have you ever asked her if she minds? Have you ever stopped for a moment to think that there’s other things she could be doing apart from picking up after a twenty-three-year-old?’
‘I’m not a full-time job.’
‘When’s the last time you made her a cup of tea?’
Joe couldn’t answer.
‘You take the piss out of her completely. She’s not your slave, Joe. You can’t just walk in and expect a meal whatever time of the day or night it is. You can’t expect her to do your laundry and clean your room –’
‘Why not?’ Joe seemed genuinely flummoxed. ‘She wouldn’t do it if she didn’t want to. Look, what’s your problem, Bruno? Just because you’re up in London and you have to pay someone ten quid an hour to clean up after you. She likes doing it, for God’s sake. She likes looking after me.’
‘And what does she get in return? Calls from the cop shop when you overdo it. Bills from the garage when you prang your car. Weeping girls on the doorstep. How do you think that makes her feel?’
‘Not as proud as when she looks at you, obviously. With your Porsche and your Rolex. I’m sure she’s very proud that her oldest son owns half of Mariscombe.’
‘I’ve worked hard for it.’
‘And don’t we know it. Here he comes in his private chopper –’
Bruno had known that turning up in a helicopter would hardly go unnoticed, but it had saved him much-needed time on a couple of occasions.
‘It wasn’t mine.’
‘Yeah, but you still have to make an entrance, don’t you? Just so people don’t forget how important you are. How loaded.’
Bruno pressed his lips tightly together. Joe had hit his Achilles heel. That was exactly how he didn’t want to be seen. But of course people speculated.
‘It’s all very well you having a go at me about Mum,’ Joe continued. ‘But at least I’m here for her. At least I sit down and watch Emmerdale with her every night.’
This last remark pierced an arrow of guilt straight into Bruno’s heart.
‘Big deal,’ he shot back. ‘That makes up for exploiting her the rest of the time, does it? Try giving something bac
k, Joe. You might find your life has more meaning.’
Joe just smiled his most infuriating smile.
‘OK, let’s see. What would Mum rather have? A big telly for the lounge? Or someone to watch it with every night?’
Bruno had indeed bought his parents a brand new widescreen television for Christmas, because he genuinely thought it was something they would get pleasure out of. Somehow Joe managed to twist his gesture into something flashy but meaningless. The last thing he wanted to do was lose his temper, but Joe had pushed him too far.
‘You’re a fucking loser, Joe. A user and a loser. You milk Mum and Dad for everything you can get, without sparing a thought for how they feel. You please yourself twenty-four hours a day. You trample over people, you exploit them. All for your own end. You’re a disgrace to this family. Where would you be without us to provide you with a living and a roof over your head and twenty-four-hour room service? In the backstreets of Tawcombe with a dog on a string and a drug habit, that’s where. You’re twenty-three. We’re not going to be around forever to sponge off. Get a grip.’
‘Maybe I’d like to.’
Joe’s voice had dropped to a deadly hush.
‘What?’
For a moment, Bruno stopped in his tracks. Joe looked up at him, his eyes bright. With what, Bruno wasn’t sure, then realized later it had been unshed tears.
‘Maybe I’d like to get a grip. But I don’t know how. It’s pretty hard following in your footsteps, I can tell you. Bruno the genius. Bruno the dutiful son. Bruno the entrepreneur whose cash is going to save us all. It’s a pretty tough act to follow.’
Bruno looked at Joe warily. He seemed chastened, his previous air of insouciance evaporated. Or was this just an act? Another way of getting at him?
‘I was a dunce at school. No one took an interest in me. No one gave a stuff if I didn’t turn up. So what was the point in bothering? And no one expects much now. So they don’t get anything. I’m certainly not capable of delivering anything on your scale.’
His bitterness seemed genuine and for a moment Bruno wondered if he really had suffered from being in his shadow. Then Joe gave a twisted smile.
‘But who cares? Why should I bother? I’ll get all of this when they’re dead. They’re bound to leave it all to me, being as how you’ve got so much already. So I don’t really need to worry too much, do I?’
Bruno looked at him witheringly. The moment of doubt he’d had, when he’d felt a flicker of pity, switched to disgust.
‘You really are a loser, aren’t you?’ His tone was mocking, merciless. ‘Who do you think owns this place? I bought Mum and Dad out years ago. It’s me that pays their wages. And yours. So you needn’t bank on being left the site, because it’s not theirs to leave.’
He waited for a moment for the impact of this information to sink in.
‘Just think,’ he finished. ‘You might have to get a proper job. When they’re not around to run after you.’
Joe didn’t reply. He just indicated with his hand that he thought Bruno was a wanker.
Tight-lipped, Bruno left and called a cab to take him to the station. He had to zip back to London for a meeting the next day. He’d decided to take the train, as he had a mass of paperwork to look through. He could come back down on Thursday night in time to interview potential managers for the hotel on Friday – there were three contenders, two of them excellent, one of them a wild card. He decided to put Joe out of his mind, concentrate on his own business. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe his mother wasn’t bothered by her son’s behaviour. Maybe it was worth it to have him at home. Bruno felt stung. Why was it the encounter had made him end up feeling the guilty one? He had only ever done his best to be dutiful.
As the taxi arrived, Bruno jumped in. For a moment he wondered if he should have locked his Porsche up in the garage. But no. This was Devon, not London. It would be perfectly safe…
Nothing had quite beaten the sensation of turning up to the Jolly Roger in a bright red Porsche that night. Joe had nudged the bonnet right up to the tables that nestled outside and had revelled in the ensuing uproar – squeals of excitement from the girls, groans of envy from the boys. He totally looked the part, like some wild Hollywood star who’d hit the big time. Glamorous, dangerous. Too fast to live. Too young to die…
It was Leonard Carrington, landlord of the Mariscombe Arms, who had spotted the car at the foot of the cliffs the next day when he went for his ritual dawn swim.
At the inquest, the barman of the Jolly Roger gave evidence that he hadn’t given Joe anything to drink. He might turn a blind eye to underage drinking, but he had enough sense not to let someone with a high-powered vehicle like that get hammered. Especially Joe Thorne. But what no one knew at the time was that Joe had already drunk the best part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He just didn’t show it. He was smiling, lucid, calm. Only one girl, who’d kissed him on his way out of the toilets, reported that he’d tasted of booze. She’d pleaded with him to take her with him in the car. ‘You don’t want to go where I’m going,’ he’d said darkly, and she thought he meant he was off to play pool in Tokyo Joe’s, a seedy club in the backstreets of Bamford.
In the end, the verdict was accidental death. Even though it was generally agreed that to drive a car like that with the amount of booze the post-mortem showed in Joe’s body was suicide.
The funeral was an extraordinary testament to Joe’s popularity and the Thornes’ standing locally. All the shops and cafes in the village closed for the afternoon out of respect. The heat was almost unbearable as the coffin bearing Joe’s surfboard was carried in amidst muffled sobs from hordes of distraught young girls, their arms around each other. And the drinking at the Jolly Roger went on late into the night with no complaints, as toast after toast was raised by his friends and his favourite songs were pumped out again and again on the jukebox. It was unconventional yet dignified nevertheless, an apt celebration of a young life cruelly cut off in its prime.
Afterwards, Bruno felt paralysed. He couldn’t tell where his grief finished and the guilt began. The two emotions churned together in an endless cycle that tortured him from the moment he woke up. To his shame, he took the coward’s way out. Jettisoning all the plans he had made, he couldn’t face staying in Mariscombe, with the ghost of his brother taunting him at every turn. He swiftly arranged managers for all his business interests, left the house he had just bought in preparation for his return locked and empty, and slunk back to London.
He should never have been so harsh and so judgemental with Joe. He should have recognized his vulnerability in that small moment when his brother had tried to open up and confess. But Bruno hadn’t wanted the responsibility of being in the wrong. He could have given Joe his support, some encouragement, even just listened. But no, he had chosen to believe the swaggering bravado and not look underneath. He’d taken the easy way out.
Would it really have hurt him that evening to sit down and talk to his brother? Had a real heart-to-heart? Dug a little deeper and found out if there was some ambition lurking there? No. He’d chosen to kick him down. He’d rubbed his brother’s nose in his own success and crowed over him without a hint of compassion. Bruno had no idea how it felt to be a failure, a misfit, a black sheep. He hadn’t had the grace to step down off his platform, come down to Joe’s level and listen for just five minutes. Because he’d had a train to catch. He felt entirely responsible for his brother’s death. He’d driven him to drink, he’d left the keys on the table, he’d swiped away any self-esteem Joe might have had in order to feed his own self-importance.
Self-importance which had swiftly metamorphosed into self-loathing.
To the outsider, Bruno functioned. He went back to work, his decision-making ability seemingly unaffected, and for eight hours in the day he was able to displace his grief temporarily. But outside the office, the pain was intolerable. There was no distraction. Food was tasteless, like sawdust in his mouth. Drink was bitter. Music was a white noise that drove hi
m demented; television filled with talking heads issuing meaningless drivel he couldn’t begin to follow. His relationship didn’t survive. His girlfriend, Serena – sharp, clever, glacial on the outside but buttersoft at heart – insisted she could wait, but Bruno insisted on releasing her from the bond of her relationship with him. Sex was out of the question – not just physically, but because he knew he couldn’t cope with the emotional intensity. And sleep provided no escape. In the end, Bruno had to resort to sleeping tablets, for he felt sure he could feel insanity approaching. It was either that or drink himself into oblivion. For nearly two years, he operated on autopilot, accepting that his torture was in some way his atonement.
Today, however, as he looked down at the hotel, he felt a little prickle of something that bordered on optimism, a little shoot of green after an endless winter. And this time he didn’t try to suppress it. He’d wallowed about in negativity for long enough. Guilt was self-indulgent. And one thing was certain – it wasn’t going to bring Joe back.
He called Hector and together they walked out of the graveyard back into Higher Mariscombe, following the road back up past the Mariscombe Arms, then turned off down the winding lane that snaked through several fields before arriving at his parents’ bungalow. He walked into the kitchen, just as his mother drew the cosy over the teapot. Bruno smiled. Joanie had an instinct for people’s arrival that bordered on the uncanny. He went over to hug her, holding her to him a fraction longer than usual, his little mother whom he had inadvertently caused such pain. The spark inside her had died with Joe, and he knew she was never going to get it back. His father, too, would never be the same. He never spoke about his pain, but there was a grimness in the set of his mouth that hadn’t been there before. Bruno imagined the pair of them sitting night after night, staring at the television, locked in their grief but unable to share their feelings.
‘Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m coming back. To Mariscombe. To live.’
Something flickered in her eyes, but it was only fleeting. Had it been joy? Bruno wasn’t vain enough to think that his return could make up for Joe’s loss, but he did hope she would be pleased.
Love on the Rocks Page 9
