Silver Rain

by Jan Ruth

  Becca saw them first and shrieked, ‘Uncle Al!’

  When she gambolled across the yard, so much taller and with her long dark hair flying behind her, Al was struck by how fast she’d grown. What was she now, thirteen? Becca had always been an old-fashioned, pony mad sort of girl and that was fine. So far as Al was concerned, childhood should be held onto for as long as possible. He lifted her in a bear hug till her feet came off the ground and they were both breathless and covered in straw.

  His sister-in-law was next in line, playfully nudging her daughter out of the way, so she could hug him too. It was gratifying, to see them both genuinely pleased by his sudden appearance.

  Fran said, ‘What a wonderful surprise! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’

  ‘Well no,’ she laughed, ‘but hell, it’s good to see you!’

  ‘You too. I just hope that brother of mine is feeling mellow.’

  ‘Leave George to me,’ she said, then looked expectantly at Jo.

  ‘This is Jo,’ Al said, and watched the awkward moment when Fran flung herself at his girlfriend in her usual hands-on way, and Jo did reciprocate, but then occupied herself with brushing something off her coat. It was all a bit awkward really, and after the introductions he was grateful to Becca for dragging them round the stables. She wanted a competition horse for her next birthday but George had insisted some of the ponies be sold first. It sounded a familiar argument to Al, but clearly she’d grown out of ponies even to his untrained eye.

  ‘They’d go for meat though… wouldn’t they?’ Becca said. ‘Pumpkin Pie and Candy Floss are too old and no one would want them. Don’t lie to me I know what happens.’

  ‘We’ll retire them, don’t worry. They deserve it.’

  This all sounded like trouble to Al.

  They wandered across the yard, Fran chattering and laughing about some huge old pig they’d rescued from the jaws of death, just found it apparently, on the side of the road. Jo wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but Becca hung on to his arm and it all felt good. Goddammit Chathill was still his home, and George, Fran and Becca, they were his family too. He really needed this, despite the tug of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.

  They reached a row of looseboxes, and Al dutifully stuck his head in each one as his niece described the inmates. They were mostly all rescued animals, so Al reckoned he was in the right place on that count.

  ‘Mum’s called it Bacon,’ Becca said, taking his arm again.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The pig.’

  All laughed, ‘Seriously?’

  ‘So anyway, there’s a horse sale tomorrow, will you come along, we’re just looking?’

  ‘Yeah, course,’ Al said. He tried to catch Jo’s eye for some sort of approval, but she was busy trying to scrape manure off her boots.

  Chapter Two

  Kate.

  Guilty. Guilty for living, and then complaining about it. Guilty, for continuing to wear black, and enjoying it. Black suited Kate, it set her red hair alight and contrasted well with her china blue eyes and her pale, freckled skin. An arresting combination on a slender adolescent, but positively witch-like on a mature woman who didn’t give a damn. Since she was stuck with the latter, Kate dragged her hair into an elastic band and soldiered on.

  Steeling herself against the guilt, she grabbed Greg’s cycling shoes and shoved them into a charity bag then stopped and looked at the calendar above the shoe rack. Saturday, the twenty-seventh of October. The photograph was of mature oak trees, aged golden trees against a cold blue sky, beautiful, but close to their long hibernation; a form of living death. It seemed nature just gave up and let go in late autumn, but instead of looking drab, the photograph was quite stunning. The analogy should have filled her with hope, but rather than lift her spirits, her heavy burden threatened to overcome even rational thought.

  Moving into the dining room, she flicked the light on and her eye caught the yellowing lampshade clinging to its dusty bulb. Greg would never have tolerated that, he’d been an obsessive cleaner. She cooked and created, he’d always cleaned, ironed and fixed. She was sloppy with exercise, clothes and haircuts. Towards the end, Greg’s streamlined head became almost as aerodynamic as his lean, Lycra-clad body, so that he became almost one with the love of his life. Kate glanced at the cycle helmet on the old sideboard and wondered why the hell it was still crouched there like a shiny, dead turtle. With no further thought, she shoved it quickly in the bag with the shoes, and to hell with the guilt. She couldn’t live like this.

  Greg Roberts the man she’d married some four years ago; and lost

  exactly three hundred and sixty five days ago. A year of coming to terms. She hadn’t gone completely to pieces, so why couldn’t she function and just get on with it? Maybe she needed to go completely to pieces, but somehow, it just wasn’t in her.

  Time healed, everyone had told her so. Kate had agreed with them all, she still did. At the time of the funeral and for a long time afterwards, she’d played a superb role as the grieving widow, accepting the well wishes and offers of support with calm dignity. Everyone had presumed she’d perhaps been sedated, or was maybe so traumatised by Greg’s death that the shadow of loss had momentarily stolen her mind, but that wasn’t the case.

  Fran, Greg’s sister, had stolen everyone’s attention by properly breaking down. She’d gone through an emotional explosion and come out the other side, but that was how Fran operated. She was up and running again in a matter of weeks and Kate admired her tenacity. As people, they couldn’t be more different, but maybe that was the secret to their relationship. Although she’d only known Fran for some five years, it felt like a lifetime in terms of friendship.

  The sorting of Greg’s stuff into bin liners was a little overdue but once done, Kate found her phone and made an equally overdue call.

  ‘Frannie? It’s me. Does that invite still stand?’

  ‘Oh, Kate of course it does! I was half expecting you; look, I’ve just got to pop out to get salt licks and a sack of bran, then I’ll make up one of the rooms.’

  Kate almost grinned at this, knowing full well the room would be as she left it several weeks ago. Fran was not the best when it came to domestic chores, her Noah’s Ark of unwanted animals always came first.

  It didn’t take long to pack a bag, warm practical clothing was all that was required. No make-up, a jar of good face cream for mature skin and some lip balm. Kate zipped up her bag, stowed it in the boot of her car, then slung in an old waterproof coat and a pair of wellington boots for good measure. That done, she found her spirits did actually lift as she nosed the car out of town and along the valley road. Dry and bright, the low winter sun flickered through the trees, and she hunted out her tinted spectacles with one hand. Yes, she had done the right thing in phoning Fran.

  George and Fran’s home, Chathill, was a gloriously messy small-holding, the perfect place to consolidate and consider. Fran was always glad to have anyone’s company, and Kate needed to make plans, talk them through with someone and maybe, just maybe, this time she might feel brave enough to confide some truths to Fran about Greg. Would that be too cruel, or did she need to do it to allow herself to move on? Kate couldn’t decide.

  She remembered to stop for provisions. Fran would never accept financial help with the housekeeping so Kate always made sure to stock the kitchen cupboards. It was an arrangement which suited them both. Fran was no cook, if truth be told she could burn water, but Kate found it mostly therapeutic and looked forward to preparing meals for someone other than just herself; a fact which never failed to thrill George, and continued to baffle Fran.

  Turning off the main road, Kate’s car bumped along the narrow single track lane; a strip of grass and moss running through the middle and bordered by overgrown hedges. She knew there was a water-filled ditch on the left too, and the pot holes were huge. She worried for the safety of her ol
d car, but once negotiated, the vista of the house came into view and then she couldn’t help smiling.

  The usual cacophony of barking signalled her arrival. Other than half a dozen enthusiastic dogs, no one came to meet her, but then it was dusk and Kate knew Fran and her daughter Rebecca, or ‘Becca’ as she preferred to call herself, would be out feeding the animals. Once she’d parked up, next to a camper-van and Fran’s filthy estate car, Kate retrieved her bags from the boot and shoved open the front door with her backside. Some of the dogs barged inside and followed her expectantly into the kitchen.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ she yelled, not really expecting an answer. Through the kitchen window, she could just make out Fran’s shadowy figure stuffing hay nets. She smiled to herself and made for the stairs, clambering over the baby gate George had secured there, in an effort to stop animals - mostly the dogs - from diving upstairs. The same spare room she’d used on her previous visit was exactly as she’d left it some three months ago, with the blue candlewick bedspread folded across the end of the bed, this time with two cats curled in the centre. Kate always took the single room under the eaves rather than the double she used to share with Greg, although she wasn’t in the least sentimental so it was puzzling why it bothered her.

  She went to glance through the window at the darkening sky, and further surprised herself when she smiled at the pinpricks of stars glinting like diamond chips, a clear silhouette of Foel-fras in the distance. Closer to home, down in the yard, a couple of grey horses moved about like ghosts, their hooves clattering on slate and stone. Fran saw her and waved cheerily, indicating with her hand she’d be five minutes. Kate knew it wouldn’t be and decided she may as well get on with preparing dinner. She’d brought fresh pasta and the ingredients to make a wild mushroom sauce. Suddenly glad of something to do, Kate turned from the window and began to unpack, mentally going over the recipe and hoping Fran had at least got some olive oil hidden away. The last time she’d searched for it, some of the kitchen doors had fallen off and a couple of shelves had decided to give way; only to discover that Becca had used it to oil her saddle and brush it through several manes and tails.

  Deciding on a freshen-up first, Kate walked purposefully along the narrow landing. The recently renovated main bathroom was something of a pleasant surprise at Chathill. Greg always used to hate staying over but when the plumbing was improved a couple of years ago, he came round to the idea. The floorboards were still creaky and crooked though, a bit like the Fun House. Kate prepared to duck slightly and pushed open the wooden door.

  Once inside, she was confronted by a naked man. Starkers! Well he would be, since it seemed he’d been in the shower cubicle. She was too old to be embarrassed by nudity, but it was still a shock. The little wooden sign swinging on the handle outside had clearly said vacant, and there was a distinct absence of any noisy, running water. He was glistening though, and his hair was dripping. Kate kept her eyes on his, although it was difficult not to glance down, almost impossible in fact, but he was watching her every movement so she felt not only trapped, but compelled to keep the eye contact. Despite all of this, he didn’t flinch or attempt to cover himself in any way, nor did he grab a towel from the rail, presumably because they were slightly out of reach.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, and extended a hand towards her, ‘I’m Al.’

  Blue eyes. If she were maybe feeling whimsical, and she hardly ever was, she’d say they were like faded denim.

  ‘Sorry… I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here,’ Kate said, leaving his hand suspended in mid-air. When he started to grin, she retreated back into the hall and struggled to pull the door shut. It didn’t fully close because the wood was warped, like most of the other doors but she made heavy weather of turning the sign round to ‘engaged’.

  When she and Greg had become engaged, they’d bought a sign like that, for fun. For a while, Kate had hung it over the bedroom door until it became a nuisance, and then eventually it went to the charity shop. The charity shop would be filled to the rafters with all the stuff she’d packed up from the house, all of Greg’s cycling gear and magazines, but she’d had to do it. After some space away from the house, she could go back in there and re-decorate. Or perhaps she wouldn’t, maybe it was time to sell it and move on.

  Her mobile phone sprang into life, jolting her from daydreaming, and Kate fumbled in her bag. It identified the caller as her sister, but when Kate answered, she recognised Carol’s voice instead.

  ‘Is that you, Kate?’

  ‘Oh, hello Carol.’

  ‘Any chance you can come and pick up Annemarie? Only she’s legless in Fountains Bar again. Making a bit of a show of herself… you know.’

  Kate tried not to sigh too obviously. ‘No, actually I can’t, Carol. I’m not at home, I’m at George and Fran’s place.’

  ‘Uh, blast. Well could you not come anyway? It would only take you an hour to get into town from there.’

  She was only partially listening then to Carol’s long story of woe, something about happy-hour cocktails and some bastard of a man. The small lift of spirits she’d felt driving to Chathill, suddenly plummeted.

  ‘Kate, are you there? She’s in a bad way this time.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’ve run around after Annemarie for years, collecting her from bars and nightclubs, cleaning her up and putting her to bed, looking after her kids. No can do, not this time.’

  ‘Well thanks for nothing!’

  ‘Pleasure!’

  The angry voice suddenly died in her hand, but of course the stab of guilt didn’t.

  Her sister was forty six and behaved like a teenager. Annemarie had gone through three supposedly serious relationships in her life so far, producing four children along the way, the youngest of which was barely out of infant school. The eldest, Jewel, had married one of her mother’s boyfriends and now they didn’t speak so there was no point calling her. Levi, her (remarkably sensible) son, was travelling around Asia and the other two youngest were most likely farmed out somewhere, no doubt watching unsuitable DVDs.

  No, enough was enough.

  Her sister consistently added to an already overburdened weight in her head. Was it all guilt or was her conscience just playing tricks? Sometimes it really was difficult to tell. It mushroomed like a black cloud, sometimes following behind, at other times virtually suffocating, like a fully-exploded airbag might feel; preceded by the necessary emergency stop.

  Kate retraced her steps to the bathroom. The door was swinging open this time, full of steam and a masculine scent, and the black cloud dispersed, just a little.

  *

  An hour or so later, Kate had dinner underway and Fran had opened two bottles of wine; an un-chilled supermarket white, and a red with an expensive, dusty label.

  ‘How many should I set the table for? Only there was a man in the bathroom earlier,’ Kate said, rooting through the cutlery drawer.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry I should have said. George’s brother, actually,’ Fran said, then lowered her voice, ‘with a bit of posh fluff in tow.’

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Truth is, he’s the black sheep of the family. He and George had a massive falling out years ago.’

  Kate wasn’t sure that explained nearly enough but continued to set the table for six, with some difficulty given two of the better forks were stuck in tins of cat food on top of the fridge. Brother? Given that she’d not known Greg’s family that well or for too long, Kate found it odd that she’d never met the ‘other’ brother-in-law. Although she could maybe recall some distant mention… but then Greg had never talked very much about relatives and she couldn’t very well ask him now, could she?

  A volley of expletives from the parrot, followed by the crashing of the back door, signalled the arrival of Becca, pink-cheeked from the cold and still sporting dirty riding gear. She kicked off her wellingtons and collided in the doorway with a lot of hungry dogs.

  ‘Oh great, Aunt Kate is in
the kitchen,’ she said gratefully. ‘That’ll put Dad in a good mood, then he won’t argue with Uncle Al.’

  On cue, Uncle Al made an appearance, mercifully dressed, with his posh bit of fluff bringing up the rear. For a moment the kitchen was full of excited chatter as Fran poured wine and Becca tried to feed the cats and dogs. Kate tried to add some pasta to a saucepan of water without scalding herself, aware that all she could see in her mind’s eye, was a naked man.

  Fran said, ‘Kate, meet Al…’

  She turned from the hob, spoon in hand, ‘We’ve already met, in the bathroom…’

  He laughed then, but she took his hand and was about to say something about not recognising him fully-clothed before mercifully he cut in, ‘Er… this is Jo,’ he said, half turning to the woman hovering behind. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Kate.’

  Jo kept her hands firmly locked inside the cuffs of her sweater, but the smile was genuine enough, though she looked almost blue with the cold and asked for a cup of tea instead of wine. Since she was the closest, Kate flicked the kettle on, and Jo mouthed, ‘Thank you’, to her, over Al’s shoulder. She looked slightly out of place in Fran’s kitchen with her fashionable pixie-styled hair and her Chanel coat. Jo scanned the eighties kitchen with, not disdain exactly, but Kate suspected she was not an animal lover. When her grey eyes followed the cats leaping from table to worktop, and back down onto the dirty floor, they were positively flinty.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ Fran said, still in her fingerless gloves, struggling to carry a swaying bucket with a cloth over, a stick poking out the side.

  ‘No, no I’ve got it all covered, thanks.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘Is it okay to bring Butter and Marge in, Fran?’ Al said.

  ‘Um, yes… I don’t think anything is on heat,’ she said, rolling her eyes at Kate and then inclining her head in the direction of Al’s girlfriend. Fran was never comfortable around false nails or fake fur, and continued to watch the femme fatale in her kitchen with obvious distrust.