Silver Rain

by Jan Ruth

  SILVER RAIN

  BY

  JAN RUTH

  ***

  Copyright Jan Ruth

  FIRST EDITION 2013

  Published by Celtic Connections.

  This publication is written in British English. Spellings and grammatical conventions are conversant with the UK.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  ***

  Acknowledgements:

  My son.

  John Hudspith: Editor.

  Jane Dixon-Smith: Formatting & Cover Design.

  ***

  FOR MUM AND DAD.

  Contents

  Chapter One - Al

  Chapter Two - Kate

  Chapter Three - Al

  Chapter Four - Kate

  Chapter Five - Al

  Chapter Six - Al

  Chapter Seven - Kate

  Chapter Eight - Kate

  Chapter Nine - Al

  Chapter Ten - Kate

  Chapter Eleven - Al

  Chapter Twelve - Kate

  Chapter Thirteen - Al

  Chapter Fourteen - Kate

  Chapter Fifteen - Al

  Chapter Sixteen - Kate

  Chapter Seventeen - Al

  Chapter Eighteen - Kate

  Chapter Nineteen - Kate

  Chapter Twenty - Al

  Chapter Twenty One - Al

  Other Titles by Jan Ruth

  Chapter One

  Al.

  Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut?

  His wife wanted nothing more to do with him.

  It was too late now, of course. Late… his first lucid thought of the day always began with the same mantra. The thought of being late sometimes had him leaping out of bed in a lather of anxiety. According to his watch, it was the twenty-seventh of October, and this fact alone felt significant. Or… maybe it just used to be significant, and he’d been in trouble for forgetting it? Yes, it was more likely residual conditioning after living with a control freak for twenty-nine years.

  Al slunk back under the quilt and searched his befuddled brain but nothing came to mind. Through the window he could glimpse the top of the lime tree, and a vivid memory of his children hiding in its leafy canopy took him back to when they were still tiny and dependant. Happy, easy days. His life then had been simple; all he had to do was be the best daddy in the world and so far as Al was concerned, it was the best job in the world. He’d played the goon by day, and the eccentric artist by night. The perfect life balance. The closest he got to it now was when his son allowed him to look after his grandchildren, but they came with a list of health and safety instructions, and usually ended with Al getting into trouble with his daughter-in-law; the head teacher from Hell. He was normally silver-tongued when it came to women, but this one was in a class of her own. She’d still not forgiven him for gifting white rats as Christmas presents to the children. And anyway, how could he possibly have known, that they’d both been pregnant?

  Bloody women, but how he loved them! There were female forms on both sides of him. Jo was a lot younger, blonder and with a keen sexual appetite, but she was asleep. Restless, Al turned over and met the soulful eyes of his dog, drank in the faint dogginess of her fur, the cold inquiring nose, and the stilton-like kiss of her breath. A heavy paw hit the middle of his chest. Even though she was betrothed to a male Weimaraner with exceptional presence, the dog was still jealous of his girlfriend. Al turned onto his back in what he hoped was a position of impartiality and thought about his wife, the ultimate drama queen. The woman he’d married thirty years ago, and lost eleven and a half months ago, practically a year of drifting, of wondering why and what for.

  Too late for a midlife crisis, so what the hell was it?

  In the face of all his debts, his wife Helen had said it was just sheer complacency and blind, blind stupidity. Oh, and you could add some adolescent tendencies to the list too. Tom, their Oxford English son, a modern day Lord Fauntleroy, treated him like an overgrown child, and seemed permanently exasperated with him.

  ‘Really, Father, if you haven’t acquired any common sense now that you are fifty I think we all may as well forget it.’

  ‘Good. That is a relief. Now I don’t need to worry.’

  Although he did worry. The marital home had been sold from under his nose and he’d done nothing about finding somewhere else to live, but Al had a desperate sort of plan. In truth, everything seemed a bit desperate; his financial status, his love life and his family relationships, all on the brink of desperation; except maybe for his daughter, Maisie. Maisie mostly saw the funny side of everything, a girl after his own heart.

  Sometimes, funny was the only course of action left.

  Throwing the quilt off his legs again, Al padded across the bare bedroom floor, catching his foot on an empty Moet bottle. Jo’s phone was blinking and buzzing already with notifications and messages. Bloody Facebook and Twitter. It must be some kind of OCD, this need she had to constantly update her status to the world and be informed at all times of the day and night who had left some building in New York or who had just put their recycling out. Like trying to keep track of a million people to see if they were maybe having a better time. He already knew the answer to that.

  The shower obliged and for a moment Al caught sight of his reflection in the stainless steel screen. Not too bad, all things considered. Fifty. Christ, how did that happen? It seemed like the blink of an eye, all those years of hell-raising and child-raising, and then... this. The big relationship breakdown. According to Helen, he hadn’t made an effort. According to Helen, life with him had been one long boy’s adventure and she was sick and tired of his Morrissey records. Al had heard all of that before, of course, and it didn’t usually rile him, but on that one fatal occasion, it had.

  Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut?

  Al soaped himself vigorously, and turned his face to the jets of water. He needed to talk to Jo, persuade her to accompany him to his brother’s place for the weekend. She’d turn her nose up, not only because she hated all that country stuff, but mostly because George and Fran lived in a rural location with a poor mobile signal and the slowest Internet connection known to man, but then he grinned to himself. Minus her gadgets she’d have more time for him.

  *

  Later though, when the time came to explain his plans for the day, there was an argument of sorts. Not only did Jo like to plan her wardrobe before she went anywhere, she was puzzled at the reasoning behind his idea.

  ‘It’s dumb. You told me you don’t get on with your brother.’

  ‘Time we sorted a few things out.’

  ‘You can’t just… turn up and decide to move in!’

  Al chewed an unlit cigarette and continued to load the camper-van with all his worldly possessions. Years of manually typed manuscripts took up the most space. Boxed up, it all looked a bit pathetic really. A few clothes, a truly massive record collection on vinyl, a truly massive book collection and two mongrels who thought they were going on holiday.

  Jo climbed in, shunted the door shut, folded her arms and let out an audible sigh. ‘You could move in with me, see how it goes?’

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ Al said, ‘and what about the dogs?’

  He pulled off the drive, and she continued to stare ahead.

  ‘You’d get pissed off with me in less than a week,’ he went on,
then risked mimicking her voice, ‘Al… switch the light off... it’s gone three and I need to sleep.’

  A little twist played around her mouth and she turned to look out of the passenger window. Al knew she was grinning and he almost smiled too, but then through the rear-view mirror he caught sight of the For Sale board in the front garden nailed to the lime tree, with a red sold slash across it. He wasn’t normally sentimental, but this added more than it should to his underlying anxiety.

  Located in the backwaters of a Cheshire village, number thirty two Chapel Gardens was an estate agent’s dream. Substantial family home with original features. Four bedrooms, large mature gardens. Needs some attention. The latter observation was an understatement really, but the agent seemed to think it was what everyone wanted; to add value.

  Al joined the traffic flow and drove to Jo’s flat to collect a different set of co-ordinated clothes, and then headed out towards North Wales. An hour later, on a childish whim, he took an unnecessary diversion through Llandudno along the coastal road. Jo had no idea it was a diversion. October half-term meant that the seaside town was busy and progress was slow. They inched past The Orme View, a three-storey sandstone-coloured guest house on the seafront, belonging to Helen’s parents. It was more a small hotel really. There was a coach parked outside and lots of people on the pavement, waiting for bags. He wondered what his wife was doing; preparing the lunches? Pathetic really, the fact it even bothered him after all this time. He felt certain that Helen didn’t wonder what he was doing at random times of the day, but then she could probably guess.

  Helen had taken early retirement from the bank and Al imagined she was now sitting pretty with a reasonable pension and the promise of a small lump sum when the marital home was sold. In the meantime, she had a cosy part-time job at her parents’ place, no doubt with free accommodation and meals. A fresh start, that’s what she’d wanted, sixty miles away from him and it seemed she had succeeded.

  She wanted nothing more to do with him.

  Their last argument had been especially nasty, of soul-destroying proportion. Somehow, he’d managed to blow his marriage to smithereens with a couple of sentences. Helen had tried for years to get the truth out of him about the strained relationship with his brother, and in any argument, this was always her trump card.

  ‘So, tell me then! Come on, Al?’ She’d folded her arms defiantly. ‘Why does he hate you? What happened fifteen years ago?’

  ‘He doesn’t hate me, you’re reading too much into it.’

  ‘I don’t think so; he owes you big time,’ she’d said and pushed her face next to his. ‘Fifty percent of that tip of a house they live in and all that land, actually belongs to you! He’s a bloody bank manager, can’t you get him to pay you off?’

  ‘No! They can’t afford to do that, and anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to Fran and Becca. What would happen to all the animals?’

  ‘Goddammit Al, the animals? Are you for real? We could pay the mortgage off!’

  ‘I know! But I can’t just throw them out!’

  She’d sneered, sighed and chewed her bottom lip, eyes flashing.

  ‘You’re hiding something.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he’d said quietly; too quietly and not nearly fast enough. He’d turned to go from the room then but she’d grabbed his arm, determined to push it to the limits of destruction.

  ‘Leave it, Helen.’

  ‘No.’

  For less than three seconds she’d glared at his carefully guarded face, then suddenly made a lunge for his old guitar and slung it through the open bedroom window. Some of his Morrissey records followed, shimmering like black Frisbees down the garden.

  That was the last straw, and she knew it.

  Al had caught hold of her wrist and she’d stared at him with that mix of teary defiance. Helen had always been fiery; and Al had always played the pacifist, the voice of reason, but this was deadly serious, a breakpoint. Fearing he had nothing much to lose by then, Al had hoped that telling her the bare bones of truth might just fall in his favour; after all, it had been some fourteen years ago.

  It didn’t.

  To say it backfired was an understatement. Helen’s mouth dropped open at first and then she’d gasped, shock radiating from every pore. Before Al could finish what he needed to say, she flew at him, grabbed his hair and twisted what was left of it into a painful tourniquet.

  ‘I hate you!’

  The final nail was driven home.

  It used to work between them but time had played a horrible trick on the perception of their relationship. Where once upon a time they had been a fun couple now it was more along the lines of ‘Helen is a raving menopausal lunatic and Al is… a waste of space?’

  Al came to the end of the prom and stopped to let the dogs run on the delegated strip of sand by the cliffs. Jo wouldn’t get out of the van but slid the window back and peered out. Her loose hair was a wild mess in seconds, sticking to her glossy lips.

  ‘Al? It’s freezing…’

  ‘Look… over there, Punch and Judy. Shall we go and watch?’ Al said, knowing what the answer would be. He rubbed his hands together and turned up the collar on his leather jacket. Despite the chill, the vast, open space was just what he needed. The beach was virtually colourless; a study of grey, highlighted with white where the sea foamed and a bank of sea-washed pebbles caught the dying light. Somehow, it seemed the more vibrant for its simplicity. Al felt reassured by his lift of spirits, it might even kick-start his flagging creativity.

  Butter and Marge ran to explore the remains of a picnic, scattering the gulls into an angry, noisy vortex. On the promenade, crowds of pensioners and young families were huddled around the Punch and Judy tent, laughing and shouting. His eyes were drawn to the row of properties along the seafront curving in an elegant horseshoe, until he located the right facade. It had colourful window boxes and an old wrought iron bench outside with one of those fancy patio heaters and some fairy lights. That was new.

  ‘Why are we here anyway, I thought your brother lived in the country?’

  ‘It’s only twenty minutes away.’

  ‘That means forty in this bus… can we go, please?’ When he didn’t respond, she followed his line of sight and the penny dropped. ‘Oh, I get it. This is where the hotel is, right? She lives here and you want to spy!’

  She slammed the window shut and unable to think of anything to say, Al called up the dogs and threw another cigarette to his lips. He never lit them these days, despite the temptation. He’d remembered the significant date, eventually. It was his 30th wedding anniversary, he was bound to feel a little nostalgic, wasn’t he?

  Al chose the scenic Great Orme toll road to give him time to chat to Jo before they arrived at his brother’s place. It was bad enough that his wife and his brother hated him, without his girlfriend of just two months wanting to knife him as well. The scenery was mostly rocks and sea, the narrow road clinging to the perimeter, but Jo stared ahead.

  Al said, ‘Come on Jo, what’s with the silent treatment? I was just being nosy, that’s all.’

  ‘You know what?’ she said, ‘Let’s go to the hotel for dinner, then you can get it out of your system.’

  He changed down to second gear and the camper groaned along the incline. Marge crawled into his lap and stared at him, clearly disturbed by the atmosphere. Al couldn’t think of anything worse than turning up at his in-laws’ place with a young blonde in tow. He doubted if Helen’s parents would even let him over the threshold. He felt certain they would know the full story of his demise by now, with several shiny knobs on.

  ‘Dinner?’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s a three-star discount B & B. I can’t see you enjoying the menu to be honest, not exactly refined. Even I used to balk at the Seaside Special Pie. I never did find out what the filling was meant to be.’

  She rolled her eyes at this, but shot him the beginnings of a grin. The best thing about Jo was that she didn’t sulk… for long
. He grabbed her hand and kissed it, ignoring Marge when she curled her lip and growled. If only his brother could be charmed with such ease. Al had a lot of talking and standing firm to do, something he wasn’t very good at.

  He took the valley road and concentrated on the twists and turns in the gathering gloom. When they eventually stopped in front of the house Jo looked distinctly subdued. Chathill looked a lot more ramshackle than he remembered. A rambling farmhouse of sorts, it had been added to and subtracted from over the years so that it had a haphazard, unplanned sprawl to it.

  When their parents had been alive, Al and George had roamed the heather-clad hills with the sure knowledge that it would all be theirs in time. It used to be a comfort; now it was a bloody mess. An emotional, financial and physical mess.

  The battered front door was unlocked, the hallway piled high with muddy boots, animal food and saddles. Al wandered through, dragging a reluctant Jo by the hand.

  ‘Fran?’ he yelled, pushing open doors (except his brother’s private sitting room-cum-office space; that was always locked). Every room looked as if it had been burgled. In the long back porch there was a huge birdcage in the way, well more a small aviary. It was dominated by a bright green parrot. ‘Where the bleeding hell have you been,’ the parrot screeched.

  Jo grimaced at the smell and held her nose. Hungry for an audience, the bird piped up again with a long list of perfectly enunciated expletives, then cocked its head to one side. Al sniggered, caught hold of Jo’s cold hand and pushed through the dirty glass back door. As always, the familiar scene made him catch his breath. It was approaching dusk, and the landscape of burnished autumn colour seemed to be glowing.

  ‘Oh… it’s pretty,’ Jo said down her nose. She was obviously looking past the dilapidated sheds, barns and worn out paddocks, to the mountains, silhouetted against a fiery sky.

  ‘Yeah,’ Al said, suddenly choked. It had been a long time since he’d visited, years in fact. Fran sometimes met him in Chester or Manchester, with Becca. His sister-in-law had just about the biggest heart buried in that scrawny frame of hers. A trait which extended to anything with a beating heart. A trait which was becoming something of a major problem, judging by the overflowing animal pens.