Silver Rain

by Jan Ruth

  Minutes later, George’s arrival was heralded by the rushing of many dogs down the hall. Kate’s brother-in-law made an entrance, swiping at the leaping animals with a rolled up copy of the Financial Times. He came across to Kate with a heartfelt kiss to her cheek.

  ‘Lovely to see you, love.’

  Before she could respond, George turned to Al. ‘I presume that is your rust-bucket outside. When will you be leaving?’ he said, smacking the newspaper against his hand like a truncheon.

  ‘Can we talk about this later?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Sit down!’ Fran commanded, and George sat, obviously fuming.

  Kate kept herself busy draining the pasta and adding chopped herbs, but the tension was so thick you could practically taste it. She placed the bowl of pasta and two cobs of crusty olive bread in the centre of the table and took her place. Everyone ate in virtual silence but the food was a good distraction and after a while, Fran nervously topped up everyone’s glass, ignoring George when he scowled at his bottle of vintage Cabinet Sauvignon being offered towards Al.

  ‘Oh, isn’t it a lovely feeling when everything is bedded down for the night and fed and watered?’ Fran said brightly.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ George replied. ‘In fact, I find it increasingly irksome that all the blasted animals round here are named after food, and yet more often than not, we have none in the house.’ He held up his glass to Kate. ‘Thank you, not only for this wonderful dinner, but also for providing a civilised interlude before I deal with our unwanted guest.’

  George bent back over his plate and five sets of eyes settled on the top of his balding head. Becca poked out her tongue, and Jo raised her brows at Al. What are we doing here with these mad people, her eyes seemed to say.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ Kate said.

  ‘I haven’t,’ George snarled. ‘He’s no brother of mine.’

  Al threw down his cutlery and went outside and Jo bolted after him. They heard the slam of the back door and the screech of the bird followed. ‘Shut the fuckin’ door why don’t you?’

  Kate gulped down a slug of wine. ‘Sorry…’

  ‘Oh, don’t be. It’s George who should apologise,’ Fran said.

  ‘If there’s going to be another argument I’m going to do my homework,’ Becca said, and scraped her chair back. ‘Please may I be excused from the washing-up?’

  Fran gave her a weak smile and time seemed to stand still as Becca’s feet thumped up the stairs. They all stared at the tablecloth till she was out of earshot.

  ‘I think we need to have a private talk,’ George said to Fran, then turned to Kate. ‘I do apologise, and I don’t wish to appear rude but I thought this situation had been put to bed a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Kate said, minding quite a lot. What was she supposed to do now? She’d turned up in the middle of a family crisis and all she had to amuse herself with was a mountain of washing-up. She up-ended the remainder of the red wine into her glass and began to clear the pots from the table. George and Fran disappeared into the study. A guarded conversation ensued, and from what she could ascertain, it seemed Jo and Al were already arguing outside the back door.

  She was drying the pots when Jo marched through the kitchen and ran upstairs, grey eyes like steel, Liberty scarf flying. Okay, so it was mildly amusing. On the point of calling it a night and going in search of a book, Kate almost escaped the kitchen when Al reappeared. He slid back into his chair, up-ended the same bottle she’d previously drained, then stared gloomily at the half teaspoon of wine which dribbled out.

  ‘There’s some warm white if you’re desperate,’ Kate said.

  ‘I’ll pretend to smoke instead,’ he said, and placed a cigarette to his lips, then leant back and folded his arms. His eyes matched his Abercrombie denims and blue shirt. She wondered if the clothes were Jo’s younger influence, but then they didn’t look in the least inappropriate, even considering the fact her daughter’s boyfriend wore the same brand; albeit hanging off his backside. Al got up to push the kitchen door shut and Kate noted how well-fitted they were from the rear, too.

  Even with the door now wedged shut, it was difficult to ignore the steadily rising voices from down the hall.

  ‘I really thought all the animosity would be water under the bridge after fourteen years,’ he said. ‘I’m in a bloody desperate situation here. Nowhere to live, no job-’

  ‘Fourteen years? So… what did you do?’ Kate asked.

  ‘You mean for a living, or what did I do to get everyone to hate me?’

  ‘I think I’d find either of those answers interesting.’

  He grinned at her, removed the unlit cigarette and turned it end over end on the packet. ‘I stepped out of line.’

  ‘Clearly. I didn’t even know George had a younger brother.’

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve noticed that,’ he said, ‘that I’m younger.’

  Goodness, was he flirting with her?

  ‘You don’t look related,’ she said, and began to fill the kettle. ‘George is dark, brown eyes, and so was your father from what I’ve seen of the odd photograph. Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, yeah. Best stay sober eh? Could be a long night. Anyway, we’re not blood brothers. I was adopted, as a kid.’

  ‘Oh… I see.’

  ‘And the other answer… clown, freelance musician, full-time nanny, author-’

  ‘You’re an author? Would I know any of your titles?’

  ‘Was. Doubt it. How about you?’

  ‘I’m a senior sales associate for Bargain Home Stores.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  This time there was the mildest frisson when she returned his smile. At least, that’s what she thought it was. How long since she’d had the mildest frisson? Too long.

  Chapter Three

  Al.

  Al was pleasantly distracted by Fran’s sister-in-law, Kate. He would have stayed chatting, watching her cool blue eyes lock onto his, had George not burst through the door.

  ‘You. In the study. Now.’

  ‘Charming,’ Al said cockily. In reality, he was full of trepidation in case everything turned nasty in earshot of Jo and Becca and… Kate. Although there was some relief in knowing that the moment had finally come to move things on. Butter and Marge leapt up from under the table.

  ‘Sit. Stay,’ he said, but only Marge sat. Butter jumped up like a puppy, licking his face and snagging his shirt. Kate caught hold of the dog’s collar, and Al followed his brother, feeling like a school-kid summoned to the headmaster’s study. It never used to be like this. As kids, they were never apart. When their parents had been alive and worked Chathill as a farm in the early to mid-seventies, it had been paradise to grow up here, or at least it had seemed that way to Al. George, being eight years older grew out of it sooner and went to university, and travelled. Then he came home one Christmas and fell in love with Fran from down the road. They married fairly soon after that and Fran moved in, drooling with the idea of turning the farm into a version of the Welsh Waltons.

  Somewhere along the way, Chathill had degenerated into an animal refuge. Fran used to pretend she was interested in rare breeds and organic farming, but everyone knew the truth of it. Making money from traditional farming like their parents had, was no longer making any real money and Al suspected that Fran, denied the big family she’d always craved, had solved the craving with a myriad of unwanted animals.

  George waved him in to the study - a large room which used to be a second sitting room - and Al noted the kettle, the microwave and the drinks cabinet.

  ‘You live in here now, then?’ he said, settling himself on the leather sofa. It was clean and comfortable, with an electric fire in the old hearth and an impressive mahogany desk dominating the room. Not a shred of animal hair to be seen, and the carpet looked new.

  ‘Do you blame me?’

  �
��You’re asking for my opinion?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Well, the house seems to be a bit er, bohemian.’

  ‘An understatement.’

  ‘They’re happy though, Fran and Becca?’

  ‘But of course they are,’ George said expansively, ‘And we wouldn’t want to upset the apple cart there, would we?’

  Al watched his brother pour brandy into two cut glass tumblers. He accepted the drink and waited until George was seated opposite on a refurbished Chesterfield chair, looking every inch the subject of an old oil painting.

  ‘So,’ George said, ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘I’m not leaving. This is as much my home as it is yours, and I’ve nowhere to go. If you don’t like it, pay me fifty percent of it’s worth and I’ll shove off.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. We’re just about keeping afloat here.’

  ‘Sell up then!’

  A brooding silence ensued. They both knew the futility of the argument. It was a repeat of fourteen years ago. The farm had been in the family for generations. To sell it was unthinkable, and it would destroy Fran and Becca. Al couldn’t bear the thought of forcing them to live in a three-bed semi, and he suspected his brother was of the same opinion, although current living arrangements were concerning. ‘Why should we sell up?’ George said. ‘You’re not even a blood relative Al, and after what you did, I would simply contest it. Got plenty in the bank for legal expenses, have you?’

  ‘My name is on that will.’

  ‘Stuff the will. Means fuck all. Try and force a sale and see how far you get. Be my guest.’

  ‘It could take years, you know that!’

  ‘I do. I also know you won’t do it.’

  ‘Look… look, I just need a room. I’ll stay out of your way.’

  George rose - huffing and puffing - and went to the window. His big brother had aged a lot and although he seemed so much older, Al worked out he was only fifty-eight and still smart in his suit and his squeaky leather shoes. He watched George pick up the black and white photograph of Mum and Dad, the one with shells around the frame, and felt inexplicably, deeply nostalgic. The kind of emotion that hit you in the solar plexus.

  Chathill, George, Mum and Dad, had been his life since he was five. It felt right to be home in so many ways.

  ‘Come on, George, I’ll get a job, help out.’

  ‘Ha! What as?’

  ‘Anything…’

  ‘What about that big swanky house of yours in Delamere?’

  ‘Remortgaged with not much equity in it. Sold now, but half of nothing much equals piss-all.’

  George turned from the window and topped up his glass. ‘Marriage down the pan as well, eh? What happened there then?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Al said, knowing full well George would likely wrangle a confession out of him in time, like he always did. Admittedly, even partially confiding in his brother made his problems contract slightly, just like the old days when he’d got in a sticky situation and needed some mature advice. This time it was a serious grownup mess; so sticky it needed a serious amount of solvent. On paper he owned two properties, but he couldn’t live in either of them. On paper, he was married to the love of his life, but she wanted nothing to do with him.

  He was about to confess to George that he’d ‘accidentally’ told Helen the family secret - when George heard the falter in his voice and stopped him with an upheld palm.

  ‘All right. All right… you can have a room. But believe this,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘One step out of line and you’re animal fodder. Get it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  *

  Al was woken by Jo waving her iPad out of the window, presumably trying to get a signal. She sighed vehemently. ‘It’s hopeless.’

  ‘What is?’ he mumbled, rubbing his face.

  ‘I need to forward an e-mail to Grayson.’

  ‘Grayson…?’

  ‘Yes! Grayson, my bloody boss.’

  ‘All right, calm down.’

  Marge trotted out from her secret nest of towels and Al let her jump into bed. He hadn’t risked smuggling Butter upstairs; he was hopefully still shut in one of the stables.

  ‘What’s the problem anyway, I thought you were on holiday?’

  ‘So did I. The American sector want more control of the charity site I’ve been working on. We’re going to lose all funding if this isn’t handled properly.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Al said and yawned, not understanding a word of it. He watched her clamber around the room in her La Senza bra and panties, searching for a signal on her mobile, holding it at different angles before resorting to standing on a chair. She began a heated conversation with Grayson and Al pulled the duvet over his head.

  Jo had been up and down most of the night with stomach cramps, to the point where she’d woken Al on the verge of tears. It wasn’t the first time Al had lain awake half the night with her, fetching cold flannels for her forehead and hot water bottles for her belly. Al blamed her job and all the deadlines she had to meet, although Jo would never admit to a weakness like that. She had a responsible career in the real world; a corporate fundraiser for several major charities. Al was never entirely sure what it all entailed but it seemed fraught with nasty meetings, a lot of stress and important trips to head office in London. Despite this, she loved, lived and breathed the job.

  Years ago, when he was writing a lot, he recalled getting the same buzz when his characters passed that point of being merely imaginary, and he got to play God and the Devil in the same day. The difference of course was that Jo got paid a substantial amount of money to do it for real.

  Sometimes, he saw his books in bargain basements with ‘three-for-a-fiver’ stickers across the covers, and he’d thumb through them, recalling that magical feeling of creation. They might not be worth much in the commercial world, but something of himself was laid down in those pages forever. Al could never put a price on that. Best of all his daughter, Maisie, had all his titles in the original hardcovers. She kept them between special book-ends on her bedside table, with some of his old newspaper cuttings in a leather folder.

  Priceless.

  There was an argument of sorts. Jo wanted dropping at the nearest train station but Al persuaded her to come to the horse sale. ‘You can’t go now, I’ve promised Becca, and anyway it’d be rude.’

  ’Since when has that ever bothered you?’

  An hour later they were all crammed into the cab of Fran’s old horsebox, with three ponies in the back. George thought they were going to the market and told Fran to make sure she got a good price for them; but ten minutes down the road they turned off, bouncing down a pot-holed track strewn with boulders. The ponies didn’t appreciate the rolling about and sounded like they were kicking the insides to smithereens. Al was crushed between Kate and Jo and Becca lay across their legs like a roll of carpet, her mud-encrusted boots in perfect alignment with Jo’s designer denims.

  Presently, they pulled up at some rundown outbuildings and an old guy with a wooden leg appeared. Fran and Becca jumped out of the cab and let down the ramp. Al watched with interest through the dirty windscreen as Kate followed them, her faded red hair blending into the late autumn landscape of dry moorland and broken stone walls. Fran slipped the head-collars from the ponies and they all trotted away, cautiously at first, then with more abandon, alert and cantering, leaping the foaming streams and calling to each other. It didn’t take long for them to disappear from sight. Semi-feral retirement looked good to Al, although Becca’s face told a different story. There was an echo of his own bitter-sweet childhood there, when the lesson of letting go and growing up seemed to be on constant repeat. When Al thought about his blood mother - he never called her his real mother - he wasn’t entirely sure if that particular message had been hammered home hard enough.

  Kate walked towards the cab, arms folded and head down against the freshening breeze. Bec
ca caught up with her and Kate put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Hey, they all looked happy, the horses,’ Al said as they all clambered back in.

  ‘Ponies, Uncle Al. Peg’ll keep an eye on them, won’t he Mum?’

  ‘He’s a diamond is Peg.’

  The lorry rumbled back down the track, even scarier with no weight in the back and Al swayed, not uncomfortably between Jo and Kate.

  At Ruthin the village was buzzing with livestock, burger vans and street artists, providing an agreeable aroma of fried onions, fuel and anxious animals. The arrival of the horse-box clearly signified a prospective sale and Al practically marched Fran past all the animal holding pens. She was easily distracted, not only by persuasive owners but by the sight of some of the less cared for occupants, and he couldn’t risk George having a melt down at this stage.

  ‘Look at that pony, it’s like a skeleton. It can hardly walk, its hooves are so bad. How can people leave them like that?’

  ‘Fran, I know, but you can’t help them all, love.’

  They walked on, but she looked back, twice.

  In the old marketplace, the sales ring was noisy with whinnying horses and bellowing cattle, no doubt anxious to know their fate. Dominating all conversation, human and otherwise, the continuous babble of the auctioneer’s patter took centre stage, punctuated by the sharp rap of a gavel before the next ‘lot’ was herded in. Al nudged Jo’s shoulder. ‘Don’t put your hand up, you might buy five bullocks.’

  She gave him a sardonic smile, then when her mobile suddenly sprang to life, rummaged in her bag, ‘Oh… brilliant, there’s a signal!’

  Al watched her shove past everyone to get outside, one finger in her ear, already in a deep conversation. His gaze settled on the rear view of Kate, standing ringside with Fran and Becca. She turned to smile at him and those eyes. He didn’t smile back and she quickly looked away. Hell, what was going on here? She was a grieving widow and he was spoken for. He must be the luckiest fifty-year old on the planet to have a sexy, thirty-two-year old girlfriend like Jo.