by Jan Ruth
His brother rubbed his big belly and belched, breaking the spell. He thanked Kate profusely for an excellent dinner.
‘I didn’t do all this by myself,’ she protested. ‘Al did lots of it, and this custard is to die for.’
‘It’s totally yummy,’ Becca said, finishing her second portion with relish. ‘Can I be excused to go and get ready for tomorrow? I need to find Stilton’s numnah and I need to pack some stuff to get changed into because we’re going to the party thing afterwards.’
‘Go on, off with you,’ George said.
‘Hold on,’ Fran said, shooting a look at George, ‘What are you doing about Stilton while you’re at this party thing? He’ll need rugging and feeding as well you know.’
‘I told you yesterday twice, but you weren’t listening!’
‘Tell us again,’ George said gently.
Becca ran through a complicated itinerary, clearly exasperated. George said he couldn’t see anything wrong with it but Fran reeled off a list of things she’d need for unloading and settling Stilton next door for the night. Buckets, halter, bran mash, hay-net, stable bandages, night rug. Becca rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.
‘Don’t forget his teddy and his toothbrush,’ Al said.
Becca giggled at this, then glared at her mother. ‘I’ve got it all covered.’
‘Right then, off you go,’ George said again.
Fran pushed plum pudding round and round her bowl. She’d hardly eaten anything but at least she insisted on clearing up and making George help. In truth, he was increasingly worried about Fran. Since the accident she’d been on a steady decline. Her continued consumption of painkillers had not gone unnoticed either and clearly added to their already strained marriage. The fact that his presence in the house was likely adding to the general misery, troubled him deeply but he had no idea what to do about it.
During the noisy clean-up operation in the kitchen, Kate opened her laptop, logged on to Facebook and showed him the on-going discussion about Jim Silver. It was strangely gratifying to find fans of the original printed books, chatting about the series and expressing hopes for another one. New readers, the ones who couldn’t recall the eighties, whined about it being old-fashioned. The more of these stupid remarks he read, the more he wanted to have his say. When Kate was engrossed in the paper, he added his comment at the end of the conversation, posting as Kate Roberts, of course. She soon cottoned on, looking up at the sound of his furious typing.
‘What are you saying? I hope you’re not being rude?’
‘No. Just putting a couple of people straight.’
‘Don’t get me banned from the group, otherwise we can’t snoop.’
He grinned, liking the way she said ‘we’ and loving the way she looked fiercely secretarial with horn-rimmed spectacles half-way down her nose.
‘Have you managed to speak with your errant family yet?’ he said.
‘Mother is doing rather well. I suspect that’s down to copious amounts of sherry, a special Christmas showing of Family Fortunes and a cat called Statin. Tia is still blanking me, but at least Annemarie found time to send a two-worded text.’
‘Merry Christmas?’
‘A drunken, abbreviated version of that, but yes.’
He closed the laptop and went to sit next to her. The little box he’d gifted to her was on the coffee table and inside, she’d secreted the earrings from Fran and a decorative button which had come loose from her sweater.
‘What have you done with the ‘I owe you’ note?’ he said, hoping she hadn’t left it lying around.
‘It’s in my bra.’
Difficult then to keep his eyes on her face. ‘I like your style.’
‘Style? No one’s ever said that word and my name in the same sentence.’
Totally unimpressed, she went back to reading the paper. He peered over the top and pulled it down slightly with one finger. ‘So, er… have you any idea how I can fulfil my obligation?’
‘No. That’s down to you.’
‘You like surprises, then?’
‘No, not especially, but I’m thinking I need to change my outlook, be a little more spontaneous?’
‘I think I might be able to help with that.’
She let the paper fall and crumple into her lap. Her breasts wobbled slightly with contained laughter, then when he picked up her freckled hand, she gave him that quizzical half smile over the top of her glasses.
‘Look,’ he began, ‘I feel really bad about your job.’
‘Why? It was my first spontaneous act.’
‘Will there be more?’
She curled her fingers around his and it felt so incredibly good he moved forward to kiss her. She was about to either respond likewise or say something, their faces just inches apart, when her eyes suddenly left his and focused beyond his shoulder. He twisted round to see his sister-in-law.
‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ Fran said.
‘No, just…’
She began to make a fuss about tidying the papers and all the old Horse and Hound magazines littering the table, which was way out of character. She was even putting them in date order. Kate raised her brows at him and he shot her a nod of understanding. It was like being thirteen and getting caught out by your parents. What the hell was Fran thinking, making a deal out of him and Kate? He hoped she didn’t harbour any weird fantasies. No wonder his brother was giving him evil looks.
The first half of the evening passed in a mostly dignified silence with a good two feet of space between him and Kate. Not surprisingly, Kate excused herself and went to her room. If Becca hadn’t been buzzing in and out he could maybe have had a chat with Fran, but then it seemed wrong to initiate something like that on Christmas night.
He let the dogs out for a last wee, then carried Marge upstairs. The good thing about not needing very much sleep was that it meant he could write until well past midnight without fear of interruption. When the children had been small, Helen had never missed a full night’s rest, even when Tom and Maisie had been ill, because he’d always been on duty.
As he opened his laptop, he heard Kate creak across the landing to the bathroom. He was sorely tempted to intercept her on the way back, but there was something sordid and immature about that and he had the feeling she wouldn’t like it, and anyway, he was trying to grow up. Instead, he set up his iPod and tried to concentrate on the complicated scene where Silver finds a lunatic in his garden and spots of blood on his best scarf. Morrissey began to warble and Al hummed along.
*
Boxing Day began with the neighbour’s horse-box swinging into the yard. Reversing lights and loud bleeping woke him, and then the clatter of hooves and Becca shouting. When he padded downstairs and looked through the sitting room window, it was to see Stilton prancing across the yard in the gloomy half-light, wide-eyed and whinnying. The horse was dressed in his red travelling finery but spooked when he saw the ramp. Fran, in her dressing gown and wellingtons, began to stroke the dappled grey’s heaving flanks, her lips constantly moving, soothing. To his amazement, the horse loaded quietly - testament to Fran’s hours of training - and the back doors were quickly bolted home.
The box revved up and released its air brakes. Becca kissed her mum and ran to get into the cab. She had a bridle hooked over her shoulder and her hat balanced on her hip, a long dark plait of hair down her back. It seemed incomprehensible that she was fourteen now, old enough to get herself pregnant. He wondered if drag-hunting was more dangerous. When he thought about Becca’s slight frame astride half a ton of galloping horse, leaping hedges and stone walls at thirty miles an hour, his insides somersaulted.
And yet, many years ago he’d done the very same thing alongside George and Fran, foolhardy with teenage bravado and too much stirrup-cup. He’d fallen from his borrowed horse many times, all through showing off. Although he’d enjoyed the farm and the country life it allowed, he’d never been a true horseman, it just wasn’
t in his blood. The inheritance of his mother’s theatrical tendencies didn’t mix too well with horses, and it was only in an odd, random hindsight that he thought about it now. He sent Becca a text. ‘Enjoy yourself. Don’t take any risks will you? Love you.’
After a few minutes she responded with, ‘I won’t. Love you too.’
While he was filling the kettle, Fran came in through the back door and sighed heavily. The parrot reeled off a list of obscenities but even this failed to elicit a response.
‘She’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘She will, won’t she?’
He nodded and spooned coffee into two mugs. ‘Yeah, she’s sensible too, not like we were. Do you remember us getting shot at for galloping though that crop of turnips?’
‘I hope Stilton doesn’t get too strong for her. She needs to set him up straight for each obstacle, he has a tendency to veer to the left. If he runs out and she gets left behind…’
Al let her carry on talking technicalities, knowing full well that it was her way of dealing with anxiety. He passed her a mug of coffee and out of the corner of his eye, noticed her swallow something.
‘Are you still on those painkillers?’
‘Yes! If I wasn’t suffering I’d be with Becca now, wouldn’t I?’
‘Fran, I’m a bit worried about you, love.’
‘Not now Al, not today,’ she said, and trailed back upstairs. She was still wearing her wellingtons and the bottom of her dressing gown was covered in straw and horse manure.
*
Around mid-afternoon, Maisie and Simon arrived with Tom and the boys, and the house was filled with an agreeable distraction of disorganisation and much laughter.
His daughter sported an engagement ring and an air of happy contentment and for a while, this radiated throughout the house. His pleasure was further intensified by the sure knowledge that Maisie would never have to confront any demons of his own making. He’d given her a gold-plated second-to-none start in life, and it showed. Likewise Tom. Gifting him and Bernice the money to set up their own accountancy business by re-mortgaging the house in Delamere had been a mere detail to Al. Helen hadn’t been keen but then she’d got a big promotion and it had been easy to talk her round. In the aftermath of his impending divorce, he felt incredibly guilty about the financial debt and against his own solicitor’s wishes, had split the house sale eighty-twenty in favour of Helen.
Simon helped carry the kitchen table into the sitting room and they located the extension for it in the barn. He cleaned the dung off and then once in position, covered the pitted and pecked surface with a huge, billowing white bed sheet. It had elasticated corners full of fluff and cat hair but since it hung almost to the floor, no one noticed. Kate had made an impressive cold spread with a whole salmon and the left-over turkey. Fran had started to help with the salads but became distracted with animal chores and wandered outside.
At the table, Al found himself squashed next to Kate on a garden bench, her thigh burning into his. Beneath the overhang of the tablecloth, he stroked her left hand and felt a jolt of electricity when she squeezed his fingers back. She was talking animatedly to Tom on her right side, who was a lot more chilled without Bernice in tow. Opposite, George was perched on Dad’s old shooting stick, discussing small business finance with Simon. He could almost have fooled himself it was a happy family gathering, if he didn’t keep catching his brother’s malevolent eye from time to time. At least he kept the drink flowing, although Maisie was only sipping orange juice, but everyone else was well catered for.
He heard the taxi first, rumbling and splashing through the water-filled potholes in the drive. Then he saw Helen stagger out, slam the door and pay the driver. As the car pulled away, she looked up at the house, swaying slightly and holding her bag upside down. When everything started to fall out, she began to scrabble on the ground, her dress riding up her thighs.
What the hell?
If he could have summoned any cohesive thought and got his legs to move, he might have darted to the front door and intercepted her before the taxi left, but he was well and truly trapped on the bench with no way of moving it away from the table. He was in the line of fire, with no escape. When the inevitable thumping on the door started, it was George who went to answer it.
Helen appeared at the entrance to the sitting room and the babble of chatter quietened as everyone turned to look at his almost ex-wife, her make-up smeared and her hair escaping some sort of elaborate up-do.
‘Well, well. This is nice,’ she said, pulling out a chair. ‘I’ll overlook the fact no one thought to invite me. White wine please, George.’
George poured her a moderate amount and she drank it down, then held out the glass for a re-fill. ‘So, there I was, all alone in the hotel and I got to thinking… how come that bastard, Al, how come he has all the fun, eh?’ She grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and poured it roughly in the direction of her glass. ‘I mean, isn’t it incredible that he’s still so fucking popular after what he did, and yet here I am, all by myself while he…’ She paused, as tears began to cloud her eyes and distort her voice. ‘While he is welcomed back into the family home like some long lost fucking hero!’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ George said. ‘Help yourself to some food, soak up some of the alcohol, eh? Then you can tell us all about it. Played away with blondie, did he?’
‘I thought he was gay when I first met him, did you know that?’
‘Mum, come on, don’t do this,’ Maisie said, and Al agreed. ‘Helen, I think details about our relationship should remain private.’ His mouth was bone dry, his insides the consistency of mush. The idea that she could blurt out anything and everything, was beyond comprehension.
‘You’re an amazing actor to have kept such a secret from me all those years,’ she went on, then began to stab a finger at George and Fran as well. ‘And don’t think you two are exempt.’
The colour slowly drained from his brother’s smug face, then began to flush to a dark purple. Fran, looked like she might pass out. An irrational part of him almost wanted Fran to pass out as a diversion, but it didn’t happen.
‘Hold on a minute. Hold it, right there,’ George said, his mind busily working overtime. He suddenly slapped both hands down on the table, his eyes boring into his. ‘Just what have you told her?’
‘He’s told me everything,’ Helen said sweetly, and pulled a huge bowl of trifle closer to her side of the table. ‘And it all makes perfect sense, now.’ She hunted through the pile of cutlery for a spoon.
Lifting the tablecloth, Al wondered about getting underneath. He could see his brother, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, and he could see Helen’s knickers as she sat with her legs slightly apart, totally sloshed. It was tempting to drop down there and curl up in a ball, but what would that solve? No, the only possible option he had at that precise moment was one of surprise. Without rocking the table too violently, he managed to crawl underneath and surfaced next to Helen’s chair.
She seemed poised to begin some sort of rant, her finger ready to point and accuse. Thrown by his sudden, close proximity her nostrils flared and she inhaled deeply, steeling herself for battle. She was about to open her mouth and there was a brief connection when he looked, apologetically, into her eyes; the eyes of the woman he’d always love, as the mother of his children.
Then he pushed her, face down into the trifle.
Rupert broke the tension by tugging on his shirt. ‘Granddad, can I have a go now, please?’
Simon was holding the bridge of his nose, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Maisie had a hand covering her mouth, her eyes mostly downcast. Tom, was already collecting the boy’s coats. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t think I want to know.’
Helen took a while to surface, coughing and blinking. Cream, custard, flaked almonds and silver balls were liberally plastered all over her face and clung messily to her hair. She slewed most of it
off with paper napkins, throwing them in his direction. He wanted to help her, ashamed of how miserable she was, ashamed of what he’d done to her in front of everyone, but she didn’t give him a chance. She went through her handbag and fished out two crumpled letters, both of which she pushed dramatically at his chest.
‘Decree. Absolute.’
Maisie took hold of her arm, flashing worried eyes at Al. ‘Mum, come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ he managed to say.
The room slowly emptied. George even went to the door to wave them off. Al wiped the smears of trifle from his letters. They’d both been sent to Delamere Road, so presumably Helen had received them through mail re-direction at the hotel. Always the practical one. He unfolded his solicitor’s cream embossed single sheet, and read the few lines without emotion. So that was that, then. His marriage of thirty years had been dissolved; invoice to follow. The other correspondence was overseas airmail, covered in foreign stamps. Curious, but not especially wanting any more drama or possible complications, he pushed it into his back pocket.
Kate was still wedged behind the table, and Fran remained staring at the floor, nursing a large glass of red wine. He couldn’t read either of their expressions, but they both looked up expectantly as George closed the door behind him. He paused for a moment, scanning all of their faces.
‘I was going to wait till Christmas was over before I said this, but in light of a certain indiscretion, I see no need to prolong my intentions.’
‘What are you prattling on about?’
‘This charade you’ve got us all playing, Al!’
‘Helen won’t say anything.’
He made a derisory noise at this, then picked up the turkey carving knife and waved the tip of it close to his face. ‘I should have dealt with this fifteen years ago, but you couldn’t keep it shut or even stay away, could you?’
