by Jan Ruth
He went to stand behind Becca, noticing that Fran had a well-thumbed catalogue, already clearly marked up as to which lots were possibly worth bidding on. Presently, a striking dappled grey horse was trotted up. White head, grey mane and tail and a coat like dark cobwebs. The auctioneer ran through all the details in Welsh first, then translated. ‘Lot 55 now, attractive four year old fifteen-hand Welsh cob gelding out of Arianwen of Angharad. Young competition horse, already placed. Needs bringing on.’
‘Right, here he is,’ Fran said, looking at her boots. ‘Don’t look interested.’
‘Needs bringing on?’ Al said, already baffled.
The horse was led around the small ring, its young leader fighting a losing battle to keep it at a sedate walk. It finally broke into a powerful trot and flew past, wide-eyed and spooking at the crowd. It looked dangerous to Al, strong and spirited, and he suddenly had a frightening vision of Becca riding it and disappearing over the moors like the ponies, but a lot faster.
‘Fran, you’re not thinking of-’
‘Four? More like eight, if not older,’ Fran scoffed, then when there was a lull in the bids, she nonchalantly waved her programme at the auctioneer.
Becca turned from the rail and buried her face in Al’s chest. ‘Oh, I can’t watch. Just tell me when it’s over.’
‘Fran, are you sure about this?’
‘I’m on the edge with the budget here, it’s right on the nose,’ she said furtively. ‘I might need you all to turn your pockets out.’
Al studied Becca’s stricken face, then dutifully went through all his pockets and handed over the hundred quid that Jo had given him earlier. Another bid went in, followed by a cool, confident return from Fran. The opposing bidder shook his head and moved away. The auctioneer counted down and seconds later the gavel sounded out and Fran was shouting out her name and bid number. A hundred pairs of eyes watched as Fran and Becca jumped up and down clutching each other.
‘Not like buying a secondhand car, is it?’ Al said, and Kate laughed as she went through her handbag, spilling items on the floor as she searched for her purse. He hunkered down and helped her retrieve a battered lipstick, some loose change and a set of keys. ‘Not even had chance to kick the tyres or check the mileage.’
‘He’s a handsome beast though,’ she said. She had creamy skin and full lips, slicked with a natural gloss. Beneath the wax jacket she wore a low-neck sweater and there was a flush of freckles across her chest and the considerable swell of her cleavage. Al drew his eyes away and got to his feet. ‘So… even if he’s wild he’s still in with a chance? If he’s got it all going on in the looks department, he’s a winner?’
‘Sure. Did you see the hocks on him? I reckon he can jump too.’
Was she flirting again?
‘Bloody hell, we’re short of about… seventeen quid.’ Fran said, tipping her rucksack upside down. ‘You’re right you know, Kate. He can jump anything. He’s a bit green for his age but he came third in Flintshire Cross-Country Trials last season. Novice section… but even so.’
Al spotted Jo’s bright blonde head as it materialised through the jostling crowd. ‘Hey Jo! We bought a horse. Have you got any cash on you, love?’
‘What for? I gave you a hundred this morning.’
‘I’ve just given that to Becca. Wait till you see him,’ he said, ignoring Jo’s disinterested face. ‘He’s a right looker and he’s got jumping hocks. Just needs er… bringing on. What is a green gelding anyway?’ Al shot Kate a sideways glance, but she gave nothing away. Instead, Fran pushed her face close to his. ‘It’s an immature male with no nuts.’
Al was about to laugh, then realised that Fran wasn’t joking. She even shot him a mean stare before shoving her way back through the crowd. Kate and Becca followed, dropping bags and coats, still counting notes and coins. Suitably knocked back, Al suggested they find the local pub, which made Jo smile, even though he had to ask her for more money.
While he waited at the crowded bar, he brooded on Fran’s words. It wasn’t like her to snap, but maybe she had a point. Maybe Kate hadn’t been flirting at all and he’d got it all wrong. From what Fran had said about her, she was likely still grieving. Leering down her top was despicable. And what was he flirting back for, anyway? He had Jo. Although when he looked back to where she was sitting, Jo was glaring at him as well, tapping her watch. In the end, they only had time for one drink before he was hustled back to the lorry.
There was a small crowd of onlookers. It transpired that the handsome new horse wasn’t interested in loading into Fran’s old lorry, not one bit. He looked good though, despite having no nuts to speak of. At first, the advice was gentle and persuasive, but then sheer desperation manifested itself in the collaboration of four men, two either side. A rope was looped around the greys’ hind legs and collectively they part pulled, part coerced the horse to take baby steps onto the ramp, shouting and whooping as they inched along. At the top, the horse stopped as if petrified in stone, like the horse on Nelson’s Column. Going nowhere. His nostrils flared, sweat poured down his flanks, his ears twitched back and forth. Al looked across to Becca, sensing her despondency and wishing he could help, but beyond the basics didn’t know enough about horses to make a difference.
‘Run another horse up first,’ an old guy shouted. Fran looked like she’d had a lightbulb moment and trotted off through the milling crowd.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jo muttered. ‘How long’s this going to take? There’s only one train out of here on a Sunday.’
Fran quickly reappeared, leading the thin pony with the misshapen feet. It hobbled slowly into the lorry with barely a care and began to pick at the hay-net secured to the back wall. The grey suddenly barged after it, the ramp practically buckling beneath its clattering hooves. A desultory cheer went up, Becca shot Al a relieved grin and he responded with a thumbs-up.
‘Well, would you believe that?’ he said.
‘What, exactly?’
Al made no reply, noticing with irritation that she was busy texting.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jo said, seeking his hand. ‘I’m tired, and cold. And I’m worried about this project.’
‘Look, if you really need to go, I’ll drive you all the way home later, but I think-’
‘I know what you think, Al.’
*
They stopped twice to check and water the horses. Fran called in at the local food centre to pick up a joint of pork for dinner and pay an overdue bill.
Jo easily missed the train.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll drive you back, relax and have some dinner first,’ Al said, knowing full well that she was fuming. The joint took a good while to roast too, but it went some way to easing the atmosphere, until Kate received a phone call on the landline. It was something to do with her sister, or her mother, Al couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to darken the mood slightly although Kate brushed it off as nothing.
‘I’ll go back tomorrow, it’s probably nothing to worry about,’ she said, resuming her place at the table.
‘It didn’t sound like nothing,’ Fran said, cutting into an apple pie.
‘Well, no, Annemarie is an expert on life and death situations. Mother has eaten some potpourri, apparently.’
Becca laughed. ‘Oh my God, like, why?’
‘Don’t be so rude,’ Fran said, ‘Kate’s mother is partially sighted.’
‘Oh, it’s okay,’ Kate said, ‘Even I laughed. She thought it was a bowl of fancy crisps. I suppose it might improve her halitosis.’
Al caught Becca’s eye and she got a fit of the giggles. It always gave him a kick, making her laugh, but then he overheard Kate explaining to Fran and George that she was worried. Something about her sister being a liability, and that she should really go over and check what was happening. She looked down at her plate a lot. His earlier behaviour came back into sharp focus, but despite this, he found it difficult to draw his eyes away and stared at the darker roots of her cen
tre parting, and then at her hands. She wore no wedding rings. Jo was standing in the doorway with her holdall, saying goodbye to everyone, and eventually all of this cut into his thoughts. He found his jacket and his newly acquired pork-pie hat. An arm around Jo’s shoulders, they dashed across the yard, avoiding the huge puddles.
The van wouldn’t start.
To add to the general depression, it was dark and cold, wet and windy.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Al!’
She unclipped her seatbelt and folded her arms.
They sat and stared at the rain sliding down the windscreen, until he became aware that she was crying, silently, which was far more disturbing than an all-out howl. This was so unlike Jo. Al had never seen her cry, couldn’t imagine what would make her cry, if he was honest.
‘Jo, what is it? What’s the matter, love?’ he said, and gathered her up in his arms, both surprised and pleased when she leant closer to him.
‘I’m being pathetic.’
‘I’ll get you home, don’t worry. I’ll borrow Fran’s car.’
She nodded into a tissue.
‘It’s this bloody job, isn’t it? You need to tell Grayson to fucking back-off and-’
‘No, Al… it’s fine, really.’ She pressed the palm of her hand into his chest. ‘Go and sort out some transport, will you?’
Knowing he was being fobbed off, he kept his eyes on her as he slid out of the van, turned up the collar of his jacket and flipped a well-worn cigarette between his lips. He’d get to the bottom of it - if that boss of hers had been taking advantage, then something needed to be done about it. Putting her under this kind of pressure was crazy.
Inside the house, Fran and Becca were washing-up and Kate was sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through a newspaper. He felt a twit, begging for Fran’s car.
‘Oh… but I’ve got to take Becca to rehearsals for school.’
Becca groaned and pulled a face, and so did Al. ‘I’m a dead man walking.’
‘Here,’ Kate said, and flung her keys across the table. ‘I need it back tomorrow.’
‘Oh. Well, er… thanks,’ he said. She barely lifted her eyes from the paper, which Al took as a dismissal. Back outside, he walked past his brother’s substantial, shiny 4x4 and dangled the keys at Jo. She quickly followed him to the Ford Fiesta, stowed her holdall in the boot, then climbed in the passenger seat.
‘So, Auntie Kate must be the trusting sort.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Attractive, isn’t she?’
‘Not noticed.’
‘Yeah, right.’
The journey to Delamere was conducted in silence.
Jo lived in an apartment, four rooms in the middle of an incredibly fashionable, refurbished warehouse. Al was left in the sitting room while she went to run a bath. He studied his surroundings, an eclectic mix of old and new. Jo’s taste in interior design was a mystery to Al; some of it was brand new, shiny and angular, some of it retro, some of it Victorian. There was a leopard print chaise for example, and then two bright blue modern armchairs, an antique writing desk and an old gramophone. When he caught sight of his reflection in the massive mirror above the fireplace though, he was pleased to note that he didn’t look out of place, and tweaked the pork-pie hat to a jaunty angle.
Clearly retro in age, but kind of quirky.
He switched the floor lamp on, no need to draw any curtains or pull any blinds, the windows were so high it was pointless. That was a drawback to living in an old soap factory; the windows were listed and untouchable so some of the apartments got a window at knee level and so on.
Looking for somewhere to sit down - every surface in the room seemed to be covered with work-related files and computer stuff - he wondered what it said about Jo. A mixed-up, mismatched workaholic?
He knew he’d made the right decision in not cohabiting, although had his brother not relented, he may have been left with no choice. It wasn’t that he didn’t have feelings for Jo, far from it, but considering the mess he’d made of everything to date, Al concluded he was doing them both a favour, and he needed some breathing space if he was being honest. He was just about to shout through to the bathroom and suggest tackling her work-related stress, when she emerged wearing just a towel. And when she pushed him flat on the sofa and straddled his lap, all thoughts of work-related stress were instantly erased.
‘Feel better then?’ he said, and she nodded slightly.
Her skin was soft and slippery with body oil and she smelt of expensive shampoo and a faint trace of Armani Code. Gorgeous. She touched her lips to his and the towel slipped to the floor.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been a bitch,’ she whispered, her face close to his. Al stroked her hair, but then couldn’t resist pulling her across his body, manipulating the length of her spine until he reached her buttocks. At last, he thought, a spark of love to lift the gloom of the weekend. It wasn’t the only thing that was lifting either. She was about to say something, but he cupped his hands around her face and kissed her. She reciprocated up to a point, but began to shiver, and hooked the towel back up off the floor. He continued to caress her, enjoying the feel of her breasts.
‘Al, I need to talk to you.’
‘Ah… well, can it wait a bit?’
‘No.’
‘You can’t throw yourself on me half-naked, and then say you want to talk,’ he said, grinning.
‘Shut up will you, I’m trying to be serious here.’
He sighed, and folded his arms.
She sighed, and looked up at the pink chandelier.
Her face crumpled. ‘I’ve got something major to tell you.’
Chapter Four
Kate.
Early on Monday morning, Kate deliberated switching her phone on again. She’d have to get out of bed and stand shivering by the window to get a signal, and did she really want to listen to another drunken tirade from her sister?
After years of being the favourite daughter - goodness knows how or why - it seemed Annemarie was shedding her sugar-coated disguise, perhaps through desperation, certainly aided by alcohol. Her existence seemed to revolve around controlling their mother, (especially her finances) and finding a decent man. Her concept of ‘decent’ was embarrassingly shallow. Top of the list was solvency (loaded) followed by looks, (rugged) and then preferably younger, with no baggage. Of course, it invariably went wrong. It was almost the sort of criteria Kate’s daughter, Tia, went looking for, but she was twenty-four and feckless, not a mature women in her forties with four children.
Her sister went hunting for men in all the bars and clubs they used to frequent when they were in their twenties. Kate had met Tia’s father on one such Saturday night thirty or so years ago, enjoyed a long marriage which produced their daughter, but then ended painfully with a divorce. These days they were polite to each other, possibly slightly more so since Greg’s death but no amount of civility would ever erase the affair he’d conducted with her (then) best friend.
Irritated by this train of thought - it was always backwards and negative - Kate flung the quilt to one side and swung her legs out of bed. Grabbing her thick dressing gown, she crept across the landing towards the bathroom. When she reached the double room which Al and Jo had been sharing, she stopped. The door was ajar, revealing a tidy bed, and curtains neatly framing the dawn sky. Quite clearly, he had either gone out before it was properly light or…
*
In the kitchen, Becca was both excited and nervous about riding the new horse.
‘I’m not getting on him first, Mum. What if he bucks me off?’
‘You get back on him,’ Fran said automatically. ‘Toast, Kate?’
‘Just coffee, thanks.’
‘Any further word from your sister?’
‘No, and I don’t know whether that’s good or possibly worse than the wailing and sobbing of last night,’ she said, reaching for the milk. ‘I’ll pop over and check though. Er… do
you think I could have Al’s mobile number? He doesn’t appear to have brought my car back.’ Fran spun round from the sink. ‘Oh, well, that’s Al all over,’ she said, but rather than seem cross, Kate thought she detected a spark of amusement.
Kate was cross. Becca went through her mother’s phone, then slid it across the table to her. Finding her reading glasses, Kate logged the proffered number.
‘He probably won’t answer though,’ Becca said. ‘He’s useless with his mobile. Not even sure it’s still working.’
‘What about Jo, have you got a contact number?’
Fran made a harrumphing noise. ‘Nope, never seen her before.’
She heaved a sack of carrots towards the back porch without a backwards glance. Clearly, the subject was closed. Clearly, it was too early to phone Al, although under the circumstances she had every right to wake him from his loved-up Sunday slumber. Defeated, Kate followed Fran outside to help with animal duties and find a saddle to fit the new recruit, but rather than work off her annoyance it began to build.
A text arrived from Annemarie. ‘I carnt cop wiv her shes doin my ead in. Wot if she starts eatin candels nex?’
It was both childish, and chilling.
For a while she watched Becca astride the dappled horse, trotting in circles on the flat, worn-out section of tired grass they called a menage. It slowly crept to late morning and still no sign of Al or her car and no message of apology. Kate scrolled down her phone. He was second on the index, in-between Annemarie and the AA. At least it rang out.
When he answered, Kate immediately began to talk over him, unable to suppress her impatience. She had to press the phone to her ear to drown out the wind and Fran’s loud, shouted instructions in the background.
‘Hello! You’ve reached Freddie Fun-Pants. I must be at a party! Leave me a message.’ Quirky music kicked in and then a long tone. Was there anything more irritating than a recorded message when one was feeling mutinous? And it was delivered in a child-friendly, sing-song voice. She was about to leave a less than friendly response when she saw her car slowly reversing back into its place on the drive. Finally!
