Making Hay
Page 5
He looked over at his parents. It was strange seeing them the wrong side of the bar. His mum had been self-conscious at first, but she’d had a few by now and looked more relaxed. His dad was getting louder and louder, inviting all and sundry down to the place they’d bought in the Forest of Dean. They were going to do Bed and Breakfast, though privately Rick thought it was time his mum had a rest. She’d insisted, however, that giving up just like that would be the death of her, and B&B wasn’t a twenty-four-hour job like running a pub. Just a few sheets to change and a plate of bacon and egg, then you had the rest of the day to yourself. Rick supposed they’d thought it over and were happy with what they were doing. His dad was determined he was going to spend the rest of his life fishing, and his mum was chuntering about taking up bowls.
Rick pushed his way to the bar for another pint. He was gratified at how full the pub was, though the free beer probably had something to do with it. He looked at all the punters crowding round the bar and wished they’d bloody well put in an appearance more regularly over the past few years, or perhaps things wouldn’t have come to a head like they had.
The story he’d given Damien the day before had only been the tip of the iceberg. About eighteen months ago, his parents had been threatened with eviction by the brewery, who’d been planning to sell the Honeycote Arms to raise some much-needed capital. At the eleventh hour they’d got an investor, Keith Sherwyn, and the pub was saved. But by then Ted and Eileen, having had the fright of their lives, had resigned themselves to a life elsewhere. They’d clung on for another twelve months while they found their ideal retirement home, but now the time had come: they were moving out the next day. And Honeycote Ales had had the grace to throw a farewell party for them. Guilt, no doubt. They were bloody lucky Ted hadn’t had a heart attack when they’d told him he’d be out on his ear. His mother had been bitter – she was the one who had insisted on moving even though they’d been given a reprieve. She couldn’t live with the fear of it happening again, she said. She wanted to be a free agent, not live out her days at someone else’s beck and call.
Rick sat back down, and was distracted by a loud banging on a table top. The speech was about to start. He tilted back in his chair to get a better view, and took a sip out of his pint as he watched Mickey Liddiard, managing director of Honeycote Ales, take his place in the middle of the room. Though he had to be in his mid forties, he still attracted admiring glances from women, with his eyes that were simultaneously smiling but suggestive. Rick knew from his own experience that eyes were a man’s greatest weapon, and Mickey had definitely used his over the years to get him in and out of trouble.
When Mickey had the attention of the room, he smiled round.
‘I haven’t been looking forward to this day one bit. Losing loyal tenants is every brewery’s nightmare, and you can’t get much more loyal than Ted and Eileen – ’
Pity they hadn’t received loyalty in return, thought Rick.
‘– but I know they’ve made the right decision for them, if not for us. Twenty years is a long time in one place, and they deserve to put their feet up. To say they will be sorely missed is an understatement. The Honeycote Arms has been the heart of the village for so long, and Ted and Eileen have provided so many of you with a warm welcome and a well-earned pint, that it’s hard to imagine someone else taking their place. We tussled long and hard about what to give them to mark our appreciation, but finally chose something that we hope will always remind them of their time here.’
The door opened and Mickey’s son Patrick entered bearing a huge, awkwardly wrapped parcel which he deposited on the table. Ted and Eileen opened it, somewhat self-consciously, to a round of applause. It was a barometer; antique, expensive. Rick thought it was a bloody stupid idea. If you wanted to know what the weather was doing you just had to look out of the window. They’d have been better off with the cash.
His gaze followed Patrick Liddiard round the room. Like his father, he was a good-looking bastard. But while Mickey’s eyes were warm, Patrick’s were like chips of blue ice. He looked more arrogant than ever, leaning against the wall, one hand curled round a glass, the other holding a cigarette. Rick thought he looked like a posey git, like he was auditioning for the next James Bond. He could barely hide the sneer that curled his lip whenever Patrick came under his scrutiny.
He turned his attention to Patrick’s girlfriend, Mandy. Sleek camel-coloured trousers and a short-sleeved cashmere jumper. High-heeled pale suede boots. French polished nails and gleaming dark hair. She looked decidedly out of place – she belonged in a chic city bar or restaurant, not in a grotty country pub – but as head of PR for the brewery no doubt she had to be here. She was taking pictures with a flashy little digital camera, probably for the newsletter that was now distributed amongst all the pubs belonging to Honeycote Ales. Rick guessed she and Patrick would be going somewhere else after this, now they’d done their duty, patted their tenants on the head and given them a fucking useless present to salve their conscience.
He looked over at his sister Kelly, to compare her. She’d got on a little bustier top and her fake Burberry trousers, and she’d put her hair up – she looked very glamorous. Just as good as Mandy, Rick thought. He was very proud of Kelly: she’d done all right for herself. She was only twenty-two and she’d got her own beauty salon in Eldenbury. Some rich bloke had backed her, apparently. Rick didn’t know what she’d done to deserve it, but he was sure Kelly wouldn’t have compromised herself. She had her pride, did Kelly, and her code. And she was very good at what she did. She was booked up months in advance.
He hadn’t missed Kelly looking at Patrick wistfully earlier in the evening, and felt the knot of disdain in his stomach contract even tighter. It was strange to think that Kelly and Patrick had once been an item – the heir to the brewery and the publican’s daughter – but they’d seemed to get on well enough at the time, even though they could have had little in common. She’d insisted that she hadn’t minded when Patrick had finished with her the Christmas before last, even when he’d taken up with Mandy indecently soon after. It was no coincidence, thought Rick, that Mandy’s father had ended up pumping a vast amount of money into the brewery. But that was the Liddiards all over. They used people to their own end. They were prepared to sacrifice anyone in order to save their own skin. Patrick had dropped Kelly like a hot potato when something better had come along.
No one had told Rick about it at the time, because they knew how hot-headed he was, and his mum had been worried he’d get someone to do Patrick over; rearrange those smug, pretty-boy features. But Rick knew beating Patrick up wouldn’t hurt him in the long term. He’d have walloped him ages ago if that had been the case. No, with people like Patrick it was a question of biding your time, waiting for the perfect moment. And Rick had been waiting for years…
It was dark in the cupboard under the stairs, horribly dark, and Rick knew that because there were cobwebs there would be spiders and he hated spiders, but he tried his very best not to think about them. He had no idea how long he would have to suffer his incarceration. He wasn’t sure what time the party was ending, and there was no way, absolutely no way, he was going to start banging on the door so that everyone would know what a fool he’d been made of.
It was Patrick Liddiard’s seventh birthday, and Lucy, his stepmother (not that you’d know, for she treated Patrick like her own) had hired out the games room at the Honeycote Arms for him and a dozen of his friends. As the Liddiards arrived to set up, Rick had been loitering in the pub garden on his bike. He was the same age as Patrick, and Lucy had insisted that he be allowed to join the party. He protested volubly to his mother, Eileen, but she’d marched him up to his bedroom to be washed and brushed up, and made him put on the dickie bow he’d worn earlier that year to his aunt’s wedding. He’d been mortified when the other guests had arrived in cords and jumpers; wanted to die when Patrick had mockingly referred to him as ‘Prick’ – well out of Lucy’s earshot, of course.
It was Ned Walsh who let him out. Kind-hearted, red-faced Ned, who for some inexplicable reason was Patrick’s best friend, and who’d noticed that Rick had gone missing. He’d given Rick his clean handkerchief to wipe the tears and snot off his face, and enough time to compose himself before rejoining the party. Patrick had given Rick a scornful glance from the top of the table, where he reigned over his guests like a little prince, as Lucy brought in an enormous cake, decorated with plastic cowboys and indians.
There’d barely been any time to celebrate Rick’s birthday a couple of weeks before. It was Cheltenham Gold Cup week, and the pub was full to bursting with Irish. His mum and dad were rushed off their feet, serving their rumbustious guests into the small hours. Apart from Christmas, it was their best week. There’d only been time for a hastily opened card before school, as Eileen had been turning out infinite cooked breakfasts for the hung-over. At teatime, there was a hastily prepared birthday tea of sausage and chips, and an Arctic roll from the pub freezer which his mum had stuck some candles in, the same ones she’d used on Kelly’s cake. There was no party, no banner strewn across the room pronouncing HAPPY BIRTHDAY, no balloons, no party bags… Lucy had made sure Rick got a party bag. He’d watched her remonstrate with a scowling Patrick, who’d had to sacrifice his.
Later in his room, he’d tipped out his booty. Refreshers and Black Jacks, a plastic yo-yo, a slice of the cowboy and indian cake and a magic slate. Rick had picked up the sharp red stick with a purpose, inscribing on the carbon ‘Patrick Liddiard must suffer’, swearing that one day he’d feel the same sweaty panic that Rick had undergone in the cupboard, the same humiliation…
*
Rick had found the magic slate two weeks ago, when he’d cleared out his room, ready for the next incumbents of the Honeycote Arms. The letters had long faded, but the fury and the sense of injustice came flooding back as he remembered the untidily scrawled letters: the vow of a wronged seven-year-old.
Now, Rick knew that the long-awaited day was getting closer. The stakes were nicely high. And Patrick would have no inkling that there was a vendetta in the offing. There was no way he would remember locking Rick in the cupboard. He’d have no idea of the turmoil his family had unleashed on poor Ted and Eileen, or how he had trampled over Kelly’s finer feelings when he’d dumped her. The bastard simply didn’t have a conscience. It was time to knock him off his perch.
Rick hadn’t quite decided which way to play it, but he knew there were only two ways to get to someone like Patrick: by hitting them in the pocket or in the balls. Or – and this was bordering on the realms of fantasy – both.
4
Suzanna stood at the door of what had been Oliver’s nursery, and hesitated. Barney was downstairs, taping up the last of the boxes to load into the car next morning. The past few weeks had gone by in a blur as they’d prepared to pack away their old life and embark upon their new one. They’d spent most of their time contacting clients to tell them of their move – Barney passed his over to a colleague at his father’s practice, Suzanna recommended a girl she knew who lived in Wandsworth. She’d also done a whistle-stop tour of all the influential gastro-pubs in London to glean as much inspiration as she could – the Eagle in Farringdon, the Atlas in Barons Court – and had taken copious notes which she’d typed up conscientiously on Barney’s computer, thinking that if things got really tough she could always write a recipe book or a guide to eating out in London. They’d also decided, after much agonizing, to keep the Twickenham house and let it out, so they’d always have something to come back to if things went wrong. And if they made a success of it, well – maybe then would be the time to think about going out on their own, finding a backer. Sybilla had made them promise they would come to her first if that was the case.
Suzanna smiled as she thought about what a brick Sybilla had turned out to be. Several times her courage had left her, but Sybilla had been behind her, driving her on, giving her moral support. She’d helped in practical ways, too. Not least by selling them her Jeep at a ridiculously low price, arguing that it was a totally impractical car for her to have when all she had to do was drive from the top of Richmond Hill to the bottom twice a day to take the children to nursery. It was far better suited to the rigours of the Cotswold countryside. It had taken Barney days to clear it out, as it was full of sweet papers and crisp packets and biscuit crumbs and fag ends, because despite her groomed exterior Sybilla was an appalling slut. It was in the garage now, loaded up with everything they needed for their new life. They’d had a monumental clear-out that had been therapeutic and cathartic, agreeing to take only the absolute necessities and one indulgence each. Which in Barney’s case was his sound system and two hundred CDs, and in Suzanna’s was her massive collection of cookery books which, she had pointed out, were the tools of her trade and therefore didn’t really count as an indulgence.
Now the time had come. They were actually leaving the house first thing next morning, and Suzanna found it hard to believe that this was it. She hovered at the door, not sure what she was expecting to find inside, but wanting to say some sort of goodbye. It was silly, really, because it wasn’t even the nursery any more. Six months after the funeral she’d braced herself and emptied it out with her mother, who’d packed all Oliver’s little things away in a trunk and taken them home with her. Suzanna couldn’t live with them, but she couldn’t have thrown them away either. Her mother would be the perfect curator. If she ever wanted to look at his things, she only need ask, and there’d be no questions. All she kept in the house was a photo album and his blue bunny rabbit. Although it wasn’t actually his blue bunny rabbit. It had been Suzanna’s greatest dilemma, whether to bury Oliver with his cuddly. She couldn’t bear to think of him without it, but it was her comforter too. In the end, she’d compromised. The blue bunny was readily available in Mothercare. She’d bought herself a replacement, and handed the original over to the undertaker…
Once the room was emptied, she’d painted the walls magnolia, neutralizing the room completely. It was now a sterile, anodyne space with slatted wooden blinds and a set of Ikea shelving all along one wall. But Suzanna couldn’t help feeling that there was still a little bit of Oliver in there, little pockets of air that he’d once breathed, and she wanted to say goodbye.
She opened the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light, waiting for the familiar wave of despair to rise up and engulf her. Usually she gave in, surrendered to the grief and collapsed in racking sobs. But this time she resisted it. She couldn’t break down. She didn’t think Barney could bear it. And she didn’t want to spoil their last night. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. For once it didn’t choke her, but went back down obediently. Then she put up a hand to touch the wall, stroked it and said her own private farewell, just in case something of Ollie was lingering. She wasn’t sure what. His soul, or his spirit, maybe – she imagined it to be something like the cartoon of Caspar the friendly ghost, lurking in the shadows. She expected hot tears to prick the insides of her lids, but surprisingly they didn’t. She felt calm. And strong.
Then she turned off the light, shut the door firmly and went downstairs.
Barney was in the kitchen, taping up the last box containing the essentials they’d left to the last minute – favourite mugs and knives, a few provisions – before putting it in the hallway ready to pack up first thing in the morning. He mused that this was actually only the second time in his life that he’d moved. He’d lived with his
parents in their handsome Edwardian villa until he’d bought the house in Twickenham – apart from a summer interlude squatting in a friend’s flat in Westbourne Grove, when he’d been in the band. But he wasn’t daunted. It was definitely time for a change, if he wasn’t going to become Mr Boring Man in a Suit who mowed his lawn on Saturday and washed his car on Sunday.
Not that there was any real danger of that, because Barney still had a rebellious streak in him that refused to let him conform. The streak that made him play Iggy Pop at full blast on a Sunday morning and habitually test drive unsuitable sports cars for the thrill of it. And anyway, Suzanna wouldn’t ever allow him to metamorphose into a middle-aged, middle-class cliché.
He wondered what his life would be like now if he’d never met her. He supposed he would probably be married to someone else; a nice, local girl, no doubt, perhaps the daughter of one of his father’s clients. An aspirational blonde who would want to give up her job in order to chintz up the house and produce babies who she’d insist had to go to private school. And Barney would be chained to his desk for the rest of his life, to pay for the Colefax and Fowler and the school fees. He shuddered. Whatever hell he and Suzanna had been through, at least they allowed each other the freedom to be themselves and didn’t make unreasonable demands. Neither would have wanted something at the expense of the other.
Suzanna came down the stairs, just as the pizza delivery boy rang on the bell. Barney answered the door.
‘Here’s your usual.’ The boy proffered the still-warm cardboard box. Suzanna felt a surge of sentiment: he’d been part of their lives for the past couple of years. They ordered in at least once a week.
‘It’s our last for some time,’ said Suzanna sadly.
‘What – you going on a diet?’ he asked cheekily, as Barney rootled in his pocket for money to pay him.
‘We’re moving. To the Cotswolds. To run a pub.’