by Jan Ruth
‘How’s Fran coping with her injuries?’ she said.
‘Badly. The animal in question is a pain in the posterior, it mounts everything in sight and no one seems to be able to get hold of it. Maisie’s coming on Monday, so if she brings her gun with her, I intend to have her deploy it.’
Kate laughed but George seemed deadly serious and she wondered what kind of Christmas she was letting herself in for, although the thought of meeting Maisie filled her with curiosity. She deliberated then about calling Al, in fact she was longing to speak to him, but what to say? She’d have to tell him she’d left her job and then he might feel guilty. The result of the whole episode was something she needed to talk about in person, then he wouldn’t get the wrong impression.
Already disheartened with her list, she switched on her computer and connected to Facebook. The first thing she noticed was that Mr Black was online, although as usual there was no evidence of any public activity. Her own wall was full of standard happy birthday messages, including one from Al and one from Tia. And that was it. If the mundanities of her job could no longer get to her, then maybe sheer loneliness would kill her instead.
*
She was disturbed by someone pounding on the door and shouting through the letterbox; Annemarie. Admittedly it was just after ten-thirty so not excessively late, but not a very sociable time, or considerate either. She made her way groggily down the stairs. On the hall table, her phone was buzzing with an incoming message. It was a response to her text from Tia, ‘no idea’. She peered through the curtains in the sitting room to double-check it was her sister, then went to un-bolt the front door. Exclamations were made over her new hairstyle and the usual birthday greetings ensued, but Annemarie never settled on anyone for very long before she was back to her own agenda.
Her sister was in party mode. Full make-up, a tight dress and towering heels. She was carrying a bottle of cheap fizz, and a card. Kate followed her effervescent trail into the kitchen, where she proceeded to hunt out the champagne flutes and open the bottle.
‘So, sistah, get yourself dressed and let’s hit the town. A few of us are meeting at The Plough.’
‘Not a chance.’
They retreated to the snug, and Kate flicked on the electric fire. Annemarie followed with the bottle and topped up both their glasses then settled herself on the sofa.
‘You need a man. You’re meant to be the sex-siren of the zodiac, not sat here like fucking Cinderella with a posh hair-do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m Capricorn, not Scorpio. That means cautious, slow and steady, one foot at a time.’
‘All the more reason to come out for some fun, then! Huh?’
‘My idea of fun is not the same as yours.’
Annemarie sighed and crossed her legs, bouncing her foot with childish irritation. ‘A very boring fiftieth to you then,’ she said, and raised her glass.
‘I want to talk to you about Christmas.’
Annemarie fluttered her long manicured nails. ‘Oh, I’m all sorted, listen to this! We’ve booked a luxury lodge in Scotland on one of those corporate holiday sites, you know, beauty salons, spa treatments… everything laid on. There’s even a medical centre and a full-sized pool. And a kid’s club. It sleeps six which is kind of crazy, but Craig wanted the space.’
‘My first question is, how can you afford it, on child and housing benefits?’
Annemarie peeped engagingly over the rim of her glass.
‘Craig’s sorted it.’
‘Craig? Is he the bank manager?’
‘Yeah, well, funding manager or something.’
‘What about, Mum’s Christmas? Now that you’re her official keeper, I imagine you’ve got something planned?’
‘Like what? You always secrete her here and it’s not as if you ever go anywhere, is it?’
‘No, but this year, I am going somewhere.’ She put up a hand to stop her sister butting in. ‘And, I know it’s only Chathill but I won’t be around, for the first time in… let’s see, something like ten years? Since Dad died anyway. I fancy taking this year off.’
‘Oh, well that’s great! Thanks for telling me. So, what the hell are we supposed to do now?’
‘That’s simple,’ Kate said, noting her sister’s frown. For full effect, she drained her glass first and when she was sure Annemarie was fully attentive, delivered her killer line. ‘Take her with you.’
*
‘All the way to Edinburgh?’ her mother said, as if Scotland was a war-zone.
Kate nestled the phone under her chin as she cleared the fridge of its contents. ‘Why not? Single-level living, pop-in medical centre… think of the stories you can tell Elsie when you get back!’
‘We’re not speaking.’
Kate sighed and threw the last of the limp salad into the re-cycling bin. She hated this, the constant battle of gentle coercion, the subtle comments dropped into the conversation. It was exactly the kind of thing she used to do with Tia when any kind of change or challenge had presented itself in her toddler world.
The same tactics had been recently employed with a hearing aid in mind, but there was a long way to go. First base with this enquiry had resulted in a prescription for olive oil, the prerequisite for syringing. Annemarie had managed to scupper weeks of steady progress by topping up the dwindling oil supply with some salad dressing laced with chilli.
Predictably, Annemarie had given up instantly with their mother’s refusal to be taken from her comfort zone over the Christmas period, siting the Family Fortunes Christmas Special as the main stumbling block. Physically, her mother was capable of the trip. They’d patched her up at Bangor hospital with an extra stent in a partially collapsed artery, and within days, she was back to being her stubborn self and making loud remarks about foreigners, in public places.
‘Look,’ Kate began, none too kindly. ‘I’m not going to be here.’
‘Beer? I thought it was all whisky in Scotland?’
‘For goodness sake!’
There was some sort of cry then and a thump followed by the loud tone of a disconnected line. She’d either dropped the receiver or knocked the huge telephone unit off the table. A couple of attempts to call back resulted in the engaged tone and a computerised voice. For a while, she continued to pack cool boxes, empty bins and throw things into a case, but the grisly scenario of her mother lying prostrate, maybe with her head split open, eventually took over all rational thought. Monday was Elsie’s shopping morning, and they usually went together but since communications had broken down, it was very likely that the body wouldn’t be discovered until after Christmas.
Hugely frustrated, she loaded her car, then made the detour to Rhos House. Once there, she pressed her finger on the buzzer with a continuous force. A frail voice came over the speaker and they went through the usual protracted exchange.
Entry granted, she marched up the stairs and waited impatiently for her mother to unlock the flat door, slowly sliding all the bolts. When the door opened, Kate saw that she was already wearing the new dressing gown and slippers she’d gifted as a Christmas present. The phone lay upside down on the carpet along with a vase of flowers, both the carpet and the phone was sopping wet. She set about clearing it up and plugged the phone back in, but it was totally waterlogged and showed no signs of life.
‘You’ll have to get Annemarie to buy another one,’ she said.
‘Where are you going anyway, all dolled-up?’
‘I’m not dolled-up! I’ve had a haircut, that’s all.’
‘Must be a fella. Have you met a fella?’
‘No!’
‘No need to bite my head off. You’re so bloody touchy!’
‘And why do you think that is?’ she snapped and wound the flex around the phone, then slung it in the litter-bin. Now what?
The phone was her only life-line.
Her mother retreated to the kitchen and began to run water and rattle crockery while Kate sto
od and fumed in the middle of the lounge. In one way, she was appalled by her own behaviour. It might be fuelled by frustration but there was a selfish undercurrent to it. The thought of what she intended; leaving her partially-sighted eighty-six year old mother alone over Christmas, because she wanted to flirt with a man, was despicable. Al wasn’t even available to her and the superficiality of this made it all the worse. She went into the kitchen and watched her mother fuss with bits of stale food and as she began to gulp back tears, realised with a shock that her mother was doing the same.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry,’ she said, and went to enfold her bony frame.
After a long while her mother said, ‘I don’t want to go with Anne. You don’t know what it’s like, being me trapped in this body. I wanted to come to you because I wanted us to have mother-daughter time.’
Kate thought of Tia.
They were locked into this miserable embrace when Elsie shouted through from the hall, tapping on the open front door as she advanced.
‘Hello? Nora?’
‘Oh, here she comes, nosy old bat.’
Despite the supposed breakdown of communication, the episode of the phone was related in great detail, her mother relishing Elsie’s attention. Elsie was shrewd. She knew exactly which questions to ask, when to feign surprise or shock, and most importantly, when to agree.
‘I’ve come to ask if you’re still coming to us for Christmas Day? We’ve got something to show you, a little cat. She’s called Satin.’
‘Statin? I’m on those now, did I tell you?’
*
There was no fuss in the end. Elsie even loaned a spare phone; not that her mother could use it but she could receive incoming calls, and a trip was organised with Bert - Elsie’s significant other - to buy a new, large-key version. Contact numbers and winks were exchanged, arms squeezed with understanding.
She was halfway to Chathill, enjoying the winter sunlight as it flickered through bare branches, when her mobile rang. She pulled over, pleased to see that it was Tia.
‘Hello love, at last! Happy Christmas.’
‘I’m coming home, all right? Can you pick me up from the station?’
‘Oh, Tia I can’t. I’m really sorry but I’ve made other arrangements now.’
‘What arrangements? Oh, you know what? Just forget it!’
‘Tia?’
Her voice had sounded muffled, choked even, before she’d rudely disconnected. Her first thought was to call her back to see what was wrong, then she changed her mind and decided to text instead. If she intended going back to the house, she’d need to buy food and put the heating back on. Halfway through explaining all of this, in yet another longwinded text, she stopped herself and deleted it, then doggedly drove on.
When she walked through the front door at Chathill, carrying a huge box of groceries, Al was padding down the stairs and his initial reaction was one of surprise, then mild trepidation as she met his eyes. His gaze roamed all over her face and she felt her skin heating under his scrutiny.
‘Wow,’ he said slowly, ‘I like the hair.’
‘Thanks.’
There was a new, taller stair-gate, bolted to the wall with outdoor strength hinges. It looked awful and it wouldn’t open properly so he resorted to climbing over it. ‘I’m sorry about, you know… the other day.’
‘Don’t be! I think you may have changed my life,’ she said, with dramatic effect, then went through to the kitchen. He followed.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but Freddie gave me a kick-start.’
‘First time he’s ever done that for anyone.’
‘I did laugh, eventually.’
She filled him in on the events of the last couple of days as she went to and from the larder, in and out of the fridge. ‘You wouldn’t believe what it’s taken for me to get here. Bring the turkey in, will you? Not the one scratching outside in the yard, the ready-stuffed one in the car.’
‘Kate?’
‘Uh huh?’
‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Me too,’ she said into the depths of the freezer. She knocked the frost off her hands and looked up and smiled, surprised to see Jo leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded. There was something in her grey eyes which probed with painful precision. Kate looked away.
*
Around lunchtime, Maisie arrived with two very polite seven and eight year-old boys, Barnaby and Rupert Darlington-Black. Al, clearly in his element, introduced them - along with Maisie - to Kate and Jo, and for a while there was something approaching happy chaos in the kitchen as everyone exchanged news. Mention of Jo’s pregnancy and the engagement, was notable by its absence.
Kate doled out the mulled wine, enjoying the atmosphere despite avoiding eye contact with Jo. Maisie was every bit as engaging as she’d suspected and when the boys were being entertained by the sight of Fran’s rainbow bruises, quietly scolded her father for calling them the Carling Black Label boys. ‘If Bernice heard that, she’d have you strung up!’
‘What’s wrong with Black as a name? She always has to impress her fabby peeps doesn’t she? I don’t see why she had to make it double-barrelled.’
‘So she could get you over one?’ Maisie quipped.
George roared laughing at this and raised his glass to her.
‘I have no idea how my ex-brother has managed to produce someone as wonderful as my niece here. Maisie, if you see anything this afternoon on my property which needs putting out of its misery, you have my full permission to shoot.’
‘I haven’t brought the gun,’ she said, her eyes flicking to Fran.
‘Pity.’
Thereafter, Maisie was mostly commandeered by Fran, who’d made a long list of urgent animal inspections for her, and it was to her credit that she took it all with good grace and went to get her veterinary bag from the car. Jo remained silent and watchful, like a spectator at one of those country house weekends where a Victorian mystery or some silly parlour game was acted out around them. For a newly-engaged woman with child, she was incredibly distant, and she couldn’t help noticing, still ring-free. Kate felt sorry for her, mostly ignored by everyone, except Al who was clearly doing his best to humour her.
‘Go and get some ponies tacked up, Becca,’ Fran said, as they were clearing pots away. ‘Let the boys have a ride on Kipper and Pickles.’
‘The ponies are filthy,’ Becca grumbled, clearly not in the mood for entertaining her cousins. ‘I’m going out anyway, I’m meant to be doing practice jumps with Megan Thomas although there’s not much point since you won’t let me go to the hunt on Boxing Day.’
‘You can’t go by yourself,’ Fran said, ‘and that’s final.’
‘I hate hunting,’ Jo said, and everyone turned to look at her. ‘It’s just mindless killing.’
‘So is much of the food chain,’ Fran snapped. ‘And you city types want it all organic and free-range as well, so tell me, how do you intend to keep Mr Mindless Fox at bay?’
‘There must be other means.’
‘Poison? All has a knock-on effect on the countryside I’m afraid, not very organic. Then there’s traps and guns. Have you ever seen an animal die in a trap? Huh? It can take days.’
‘Fran, calm down,’ Al said, but Jo piped up again. ‘I don’t know, just seems like something out of the past.’
‘It’s called our bloody heritage! It’s called a time-honoured way of keeping our small farmers in business, but you wouldn’t know anything about that. You still think it’s a rich man’s pastime.’
‘What do you think?’ Jo asked Al.
‘I’m not a fan of mindless killing either,’ he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. Fran looked broken by his admission, as if he’d betrayed her. ‘You hypocrite,’ she said. ‘You have a short memory, farm boy.’
‘I didn’t say hunting was mindless. I know how Mum and Dad struggled to make a living here
.’
‘For what it’s worth, and we could debate this all day,’ Maisie said, ‘but the worst cases of animal cruelty I’ve come across has been in the cities, mostly cats and dogs. There is a bigger picture, and fox-hunting gets an unfair amount of press. Take geese for example, the hideous force-feeding that goes on, and the farming of ducks for their down, feathers ripped from their bodies whilst they are still alive.’
Fran nodded furiously.
‘So, you’re basically saying that the fox-hunting scandal is no more than a political scapegoat? That’s rubbish!’ Jo said, and Maisie bristled. Al looked caught between a rock and a hard place. Aware that she hadn’t offered an opinion, Kate wondered if there was any point in saying something a little less inflammatory.
‘I watched a hunt once, and I thought it was a bit like The Grand National, you know, the way it divides the nation? On the one hand I was moved by the courage and the partnerships, the risks man and horse took together. You can’t deny that it brings out the best and the worst in human nature. I’m not sure you can have one without the other.’
Al’s eyes flicked onto hers and there was an almost imperceptible nod of agreement, but the subtle exchange was picked up by Jo.
‘I don’t agree,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘I hate gambling as well.’
‘You would!’ Fran said. ‘What a bland and simplistic world you live in.’
George took hold of her arm. ‘That’s enough now.’
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway,’ Becca said, and turned to Jo to explain more fully. ‘This one isn’t even a real hunt. It’s just like a treasure hunt but on horseback, following a trail. It’s called a drag.’
‘Er… let’s discuss Boxing Day later, shall we?’ Al said, and George’s head snapped up. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
Al ignored this. ‘Kate, come and help me with the ponies?’
‘Sure. I’ll get my Wellies.’
‘Don’t let the boys in the old feed store, the loft and the ladder is dangerous,’ Fran said, and there was another small altercation with George about the cost of wood.
