Silver Rain

by Jan Ruth

  Less than twenty-four hours and he’d already told four people, five if you counted the man in the kebab shop.

  Jo would go mental.

  He couldn’t help it, the best times of his life had been when he was a full- time stay-at-home amazing dad and the most wanted guest at every kid’s party within twenty miles. It didn’t get much better than that. Helen hadn’t minded being the main breadwinner either, she’d been able to concentrate on her career at the bank. It was a pity his role had been seen as skiving by the majority. Some of the mothers used to think he was redundant, treading water while he looked for work; some had been just plain suspicious.

  The idea that he’d been given a second bite of the cherry had transformed his crumbling world and given him a burning sense of pride and purpose. He’d even looked through some old manuscripts with a view to writing again. Book seven was just a mass of scribble, but maybe he could bring it back to life, give it some mouth to mouth, pen to paper. No, that was antiquated, he needed a laptop. And a car, he needed a car.

  After the pregnant pause, came the expected explosion, the mother of all explosions. George got to his feet, his face a mass of contorted anger. ‘You fucking idiot! Pregnant? You’re fifty for chrissakes!’

  ‘Jo isn’t.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s all right then!’ he said, marching up and down the worn carpet. ‘Why don’t you go and live with her then? Huh?’

  ‘We’ve got stuff to discuss first.’

  ‘Like, how will you support another kid? Is that top of the list?’

  ‘No, actually. I always put love first.’

  ‘That was a good film,’ Fran said quietly, ‘Love Actually.’

  ‘No Al, it’s nothing to do with love, it’s simply the result of sex!’ George went on, his temples pulsing.

  ‘Look, just pay me my share, and I’ll get out.’

  ‘Twenty percent.’

  ‘No chance. Fifty.’

  ‘I can see you at the school gates now, a scruffy old granddad in a leather jacket, like some pervert in the middle of all the young mothers.’

  ‘Off subject. Bit chauvinistic, old-fashioned views as well.’

  ‘Better than being a sponger.’

  Butter began to growl, a low sound to start with but then building in intensity until he bared his teeth as well, yellow eyes firmly on George. The angry hate and the mostly financial standpoint spouted by his brother was fully expected, although it was Fran’s reaction that disturbed him the most. She looked tearful, haggard and worn out. Normally she leapt to his defence, but not this time. Instead, she left the room without a backward glance, closing the door softly behind her.

  Kate, her head thrown back against the sofa so that her hair fanned across the cushions, looked mildly shell-shocked, although she had a general air of despondency following her most of the time. Not that he was surprised under the circumstances, although he still didn’t know all the details surrounding his brother-in-law’s death. He’d been banned from the funeral of course and Fran had only managed to tell him the most basic of details over the phone, before she’d begun to cry. If they ever arranged a secret meet up, Becca was always there too and none of them wanted to spend precious time talking about Greg’s death.

  Thinking back, Greg was just a shadowy presence at family weddings and funerals. Something of a sports fanatic, and desperate to leave farming. When Fran and Greg’s parents died, they inherited the converted chapel in the village and Greg had sold it for a song, buying a shop with his half. Fran had bought some knackered old horses and several hundred acres of wilderness.

  George slammed the door on his exit and Marge leapt into his arms and licked his face.

  ‘I bet Rod Stewart never got all this aggro,’ he said to Kate. ‘Or Des O’ Connor.’

  ‘Not publicly, no.’

  ‘Is this a good time to ask if I can borrow the car again?’

  A beat. ‘I need it. I want to go into town.’

  ‘Me too. Can I hitch a lift?’ Another, longer beat, before she nodded her head in agreement. Not exactly over the moon with the idea, but he’d make it up to her.

  Later, he charged up his phone and called Maisie. She’d just qualified as a vet and Al was so proud of her. She listened to his news without interrupting and Al could see her in his mind’s eye, phone to her ear under a mass of crinkly blonde hair, framing her heart-shaped face and delicate features. She always looked too pretty and fragile to be a vet, but Al had seen her in action once with a panicking horse stuck in a bog. The owner had been hysterical but Maisie had calmly filled a syringe with tranquilliser, waded in up to her chest in heaving mud, and found the correct vein.

  He’d watched her get a sling under the animal, quietly directing the fire brigade as if it were commonplace. There must be steel running through her petite core, but her dreamy nature, her blondness, fooled everyone.

  She laughed down the phone, sounding tinkly and far away. ‘It’s a bit soon, I mean, to be telling everyone, isn’t it? How long have you been together?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I know, only a few months. Perhaps you should keep it to yourself for now? I just needed to tell someone.’

  ‘Have you told Mum?’

  ‘Er… no, nor Tom. Face to face, when the time is right.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ she said, a tad sarcastically because she’d always been on his side. ‘Aw… Dad, you sound really happy. I’ll be coming over for Christmas, maybe I could meet Jo?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  As always, his heart practically burst open with love for her. They disconnected and Al pondered the repercussions of the baby and the family already in situ, and how it might all mesh together. There was only four years between Maisie and Jo, was that good or potentially really bad? He’d not even met Jo’s parents yet. A knot of tension gripped his insides, like being poised at the top of a roller coaster before the decent.

  *

  Late. His first lucid thought of the day always began with the same mantra. He was late because he’d sat up half the night sifting through badly- typed manuscripts. Becca woke him, hammering on the door, saying something about Kate waiting to take him into town and that she was leaving in twenty minutes.

  In the car, the atmosphere was cool, much the same as the late autumn temperature settling over the valley. The last vestige of colour was slowly being sapped from the countryside and the distant mountains were in soft focus, obscured by mist. Closer to hand, the fields looked sopping wet and worn out. They crossed the restless river. After a night of steady rain and then high tide, it looked especially violent, like a churning torrent of tea and coffee being sluiced down a drain.

  ‘Is Fran okay?’ he said to Kate.

  ‘I haven’t seen her this morning.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just that she seems… Oh, I don’t know, more manic than usual if that’s possible. Distracted and kind of hyper.’

  She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at the road. ‘To be honest, I’m a little worried about her. She and George seem to be at loggerheads most of the time.’

  ‘I think I’m to blame for most of it.’

  She changed down a gear as they turned off the valley road and as the low sun began to blink through the leafless trees, rooted about for her sunglasses. He passed them to her and she took them wordlessly, almost as if he wasn’t even in the car. She seemed lost in thought, her profile a study of sad repose.

  ‘I’m sorry for spoiling your weekend,’ he said. ‘I mean, all the bloody arguments and everything. I don’t know what you must think of me. If there’s anything I can do…’ He trailed to a halt, knowing it was one of those throw away remarks everyone makes when they feel indebted or embarrassed. With Al, it was more or less an even split. After a long moment, she said, ‘You could help me clear the house of Greg’s stuff.’ Another sideways glance, gauging his reaction no doubt. ‘Would you? It’s all packed up in bags and everything. I’d appreciate a hand
getting it to the charity shop though, it’s sometimes awkward to park close enough.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, no problem.’

  He was wondering how they were going to fix this up when she suddenly took a left at the roundabout and headed through Conwy, eventually crossing a stone bridge into a residential avenue of prestigious-looking properties. Just before the road began to climb to a steep incline, she pulled onto the wide drive of a modest-looking semi-detached house. She turned off the engine and met his eyes with a considered expression, almost an apology. ‘I… I know this is spur of the moment and a bit weird.’ Her faltering words made him want to crush her up in a bear hug, but she seemed repelled by even the slightest touch of his hand on her arm.

  ‘Kate, it’s fine.’

  Following her into the hall, he almost fell over a mountain of black bags with shoes and books spilling out of them and a bike propped up against the wall. The interior of the house seemed smaller than its decorative Edwardian facade would have you believe, with its fancy roofline and the long open porch, although originally he supposed it would have been one residence combined with next door. He glimpsed a small sitting room on the left, a comfortable jumble of mismatched chairs and an open fire. The hall was a couple of strides really, and then a snug with a pokey kitchen beyond.

  She motioned to him to sit on the small sofa opposite the wood-burner and went about filling the kettle. On the wall opposite, there was a poster size black and white photograph of Greg astride a road bike, holding a cup aloft. He wore an expression of such intense exhilaration that Al found himself averting his eyes when Kate handed him a mug.

  ‘It’s a little overpowering in here, isn’t it?’ she said, ‘I may give it to Fran, what do you think? I seem to have thousands of pictures of Greg with his bike.’

  ‘Keen, was he?’

  ‘You’ve no idea.’

  She began to tell him a little about the guy’s obsession; out on the bike for ten hours a day, every day, training for competitions. It didn’t sound like a happy marriage and Al felt slightly uncomfortable hearing the details, but it was the most conversation they’d had and he had to admit, it was morbidly interesting. Then it was sons and daughters, and grandchildren.

  ‘You’re way ahead of me in the procreation stakes,’ she said, ‘I just have the one grownup daughter who prefers not to communicate with me.’

  ‘Busy huh?’ he said carefully.

  ‘No, not especially, just selfish.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘She works in a nursery.’

  ‘Children, or plants?’

  ‘Children. I was shocked at your news last night,’ she said abruptly. ‘I suppose I should have congratulated you.’

  He smiled at this. ‘I wasn’t actually planning on telling anyone, but you know how these things are.’

  ‘I didn’t love him.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Greg. I married him on the rebound after the collapse of my first marriage. I told him I wanted us to separate, divorce, whatever. He was deeply upset, but what did he do? He went out on the bike. He was killed outright on the road, undue care and attention the report said.’

  Al stared at her for longer than was absolutely necessary with the mug of coffee practically burning his hands. It wasn’t often he was lost for words but her eyes and her blunt manner imparted plenty.

  ‘Are you blaming yourself, is that it?’

  ‘Of course I blame myself!’

  Almost immediately she apologised and raked a hand through her hair. He expected tears to follow but she was remarkably self-contained. ‘I just wanted you to know. I don’t want a shred of… of sympathy. And I want you to know that, that love on the rebound, that… hopeless seeking for something lost can be the most deceitful, selfish thing to do to another person!’

  ‘You think I’m on the rebound, is that it?’

  ‘That’s for you to work out,’ she said, then dropped the eye contact and looked instead at the boxes full of bike bits and cycling gear stacked in the corner. ‘I’m sorry, this was all a bad idea. And the stupid thing is, I’m not sure now that I want to see his gear dressing the local Oxfam window dummy on a daily basis, I mean, can you imagine?’

  His mobile, now switched on all the time since the news of Jo’s pregnancy, rang from the depths of his pocket and the Muppets theme tune quickly dispelled the mood, but saved him from thinking of a suitable answer. All he could see in his mind’s eye was a Lycra-clad mannequin holding a puncture repair kit.

  ‘Hi love, are you okay?’ he said, his eyes on Kate. He mouthed sorry and she took the mugs into the kitchen.

  ‘Are you going to keep asking me how I feel all the time?’ Jo said, then sighed. ‘Look, I need to see you and I can’t get over there, I have a job, remember?’

  ‘I know. I’ll come over later, if I can get transport. Hey, Maisie wants to meet you.’

  A beat. ‘Why? What have you said?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I need to see you Al, it’s important.’

  ‘Jo, you don’t have to worry about anything, all right? Jo?’ She’d disconnected. Eventually, he looked up to see Kate watching him.

  ‘How about this for an idea?’ he said. ‘I’ll take all the stuff over to Delamere, there’s bound to be a charity shop there.’

  She folded her arms. ‘You want to borrow the car.’

  ‘When you put it like that, I feel a right heel.’

  ‘No, actually I think it’s a good idea.’

  Al was relieved, pleasing two women at the same time was impressive. Before he filled the car, with both fuel and the bags, she suggested they went about their respective appointments in town.

  ‘I need to go to the bank and then I want some undisturbed time in the bookshop,’ she said, her eyes hidden once again by dark glasses and Al suspected they were also hiding the gateway to a torrent of emotion, much like the swollen river Conwy, but held back by a fragile dam. She clearly had a serious guilt complex too, but Al was no stranger to that and if he knew the cure he’d gladly have shared it with her.

  ‘Funny that, I’m going to the bank and the bookshop as well, but I won’t bug you,’ he added quickly, ‘I’ll do it the opposite way about.’

  A flicker of amusement crossed her face. She had very full, curvaceous lips, but the overwhelming feeling was one of relief that he’d made her smile. She parked in the main street. Llandudno was pleasantly deserted out of season and October half-term was well and truly over. Pulling his hat down firmly, hands stuffed in his denims, Al walked briskly in the opposite direction, trying to look as if he had a sense of purpose.

  His business at the bank consisted of checking his balance, withdrawing some cash and reassuring the manager that several thousand was due to hit his account very, very soon, and no, he had no intention of lighting the cigarette dangling on his bottom lip. He didn’t mention that most of the money would be withdrawn in order to purchase a car. Next door to the bank, the jewellers had some pearls in the window but the shock of the price had him walking on, and anyway what idiot buys stuff like that for an almost ex-wife?

  The arcade was busy; bingo, slot machines, hot dogs and tacky stalls. He loitered for a while and got rid of some small change, stopped briefly to listen to the busker outside Marks & Spencer then having nothing else to do, spent the following half-hour avoiding Kate in the bookshop but it was difficult because she gravitated to the same sections he wanted to go in.

  Focusing on his practically non-existent technical skills, he loitered in the Teach-Yourself section. Computing for the over Fifties seemed liked a good bet, although there was nothing about publishing books in it. Maisie had been on at him for years to put his out of print titles onto the Internet and sell them as e-books but Al didn’t have a clue where to start. She’d even made a Facebook page for him but he had no idea what he was meant to do with it and in any case, Helen had bagged all the computer equipment in working order.r />
  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I know you’re here,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Stop hiding and sneaking about, you look shifty in that hat.’

  ‘Help me with this then, I need to get a laptop or something so I’ll need a guidebook. Which one should I get?’

  ‘That’s a massive, multi-dimensional question, Al.’

  ‘Is it? Here’s an easy one then, can I take you for some lunch instead? I’m starving, there was only cat food in the fridge this morning.’

  It was tempting to go into The Sunnyside and have Helen waiting on them but the food was pretty dire, so they found a pub instead. And then, why would he want to hurt her again? He still had feelings for the woman, she was the mother of his children after all. These random romantic thoughts about Helen were worrying, given his predicament.

  Jo was all over the place with this development in their relationship. She just needed lots of reassurance that he wasn’t going to disappear. As if! Maybe he shouldn’t have told anyone about the baby, but it changed everything. Only Maisie seemed to understand how and why, but maybe she had a better comprehension of life and death, and a deeper understanding of unconditional love. All of that combined with a scientific mind made her a good vet, a good person in fact. He seemed to be always doing or saying the wrong thing these days, but at least he had amazing offspring, that was one job he was incredibly proud of.

  He used to be proud of his novels. Helen used to like them when they were making money, she told everyone all about them; my husband the author, blah, blah. When he failed to deliver the next one, he got dropped by his publisher and Helen slowly became exasperated with it all, sick to death of discussing plot points and characters. Eventually, he stopped talking about them and Helen never asked. Jo had shown a passing interest when they were getting to know one another, but when she learnt they were set in 1982 couldn’t help smirking. ‘So they’re historical?’ Al had lost his sense of humour, and they’d had their first spat. Jo concluded that she never read anything anyway, she didn’t have the time.