Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Cool,’ said the boy, slightly overwhelmed as Barney gave him a fiver tip and Suzanna gave him an impulsive hug.

  They sat down at the kitchen table, eating the pizza straight from the box. It was split down the middle – pepperoni and mushroom on Barney’s side, olives and red onions on Suzanna’s. It was what they always had. They didn’t even have to stipulate their order any more.

  ‘I bet they don’t deliver pizza in Honeycote,’ mused Suzanna.

  ‘No,’ said Barney. ‘I bet they don’t get Channel Five either.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Suzanna. ‘No more late-night mucky films for you.’

  Barney grinned.

  ‘As if,’ he countered. ‘Anyway, I’ll be slaving away behind the bar till midnight every night.’

  When they’d finished, Barney put the empty box in a black bin liner and tied it up. Everything bar their toothbrushes and pyjamas was packed up and ready to go. The house was gleaming, ready for the tenants to arrive the following week. Their furniture was staying; all their bits and pieces were in the car or safely stored in the attic.

  There was nothing to do but go to bed and wait till morning.

  At the Honeycote Arms, half an hour after Mickey Liddiard had announced free drinks for the rest of the evening, Rick looked over and saw Damien standing rather awkwardly in the doorway. He stood up and made his way through the rabble that was queuing up at the bar to greet his new employer.

  En route, he bumped into Mandy. She had her head down, fiddling with her camera, so their collision was inevitable. She looked up, startled, and he put his hands out to steady her.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he apologized, insolent yet charming.

  He gave her a couple of seconds’ eye contact, then walked on, confident that the warmth of his fingertips on her bare arms had had a physical effect on her. He’d seen her shiver ever so slightly. He turned and caught Mandy gazing after him. He knew that look. He sometimes drove a vintage wedding car on Saturdays for extra cash, and the brides always looked at him longingly before they trotted off down the aisle. He’d actually screwed one of them once – what a laugh that had been. It had taken all his powers of persuasion to stop her from running off with him. He gave Mandy a wink of acknowledgement and she turned away, blushing furiously. Rick grinned to himself as he walked over to greet Damien, his hand outstretched.

  Damien was amazed at how much he enjoyed himself that evening. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d been in a pub as such, but the atmosphere in the Honeycote Arms was infectious. Something to do with the free booze, no doubt. Damien couldn’t help feeling a bitter sense of irony that the one place where he’d felt comfortable since his arrival in Honeycote was closing down that very night. Rick’s dad Ted welcomed him with open arms, forced a pint of beer into his hand, took him to one side at one point and confidentially asked him to keep an eye on his son (‘His mum’s worried sick. We’ve always been on hand to help him out, but we’re going to be miles away…’) and Damien assured him he would, though privately he thought Rick was more than capable of looking after himself.

  He was forcing down the unfamiliar brew, which to him tasted foul and flat, but he thought it would be rude to leave it, when his attention was drawn to a young girl flitting round the room like a butterfly. A bubbly blonde with wide, innocent blue eyes, Damien noted how she worked her way round the guests, chatting to people, sharing a laugh, a joke, a hug. She was obviously part of the fixtures and fittings; she knew everyone and everyone knew her. When he saw her hugging Rick’s mum, he surmised it must be Rick’s sister Kelly, the one he’d spoken about, the one who was moving in with him.

  He was right. Eventually, Rick introduced them. Kelly greeted Damien warmly, just as her parents had done, and chattered away, grilling him openly and unashamedly about Honeycote Grove. She was the first person he had met who seemed to be impressed.

  ‘Is it true they’ve all got hot tubs?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

  Damien smiled. ‘They were optional extras. I didn’t have one. I was a bit worried about my daughter falling in, to be honest.’ Seeing Kelly’s disappointment, he suddenly wanted to make it up to her. ‘But I could always get one put in.’

  ‘I think they’re fantastic. Just imagine, sitting in there on Christmas morning with a cup of hot chocolate!’

  Despite himself, Damien had an image of Kelly in a hot tub with a Father Christmas hat over her curls, firm breasts just visible beneath the waterline. Just as they were in the gravity-defying top she was wearing. Fucking pervert, he chided himself fiercely, and tried to concentrate on her eyes instead. She went on to ask about exactly what he did, because Rick was being annoying and wouldn’t tell them.

  ‘We thought maybe record producer or an agent.’

  ‘Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid.’ Flattered to have been awarded such glamorous possibilities, he went on to give her a sanitized version of what he did, the one he’d been rehearsing, the one that focussed on the future rather than the past. When he explained about his plans to expand his restaurants and bars, she gave him a gleeful nudge.

  ‘You should buy this place.’

  ‘I thought it was being done up. I thought they were getting someone new in to run it.’

  Kelly gave a little pout and a shrug.

  ‘Apparently the couple who are taking over have never run a pub. They won’t last five minutes. People know when you haven’t got a clue. Word’s already out that they’re going to be a disaster.’

  Kelly spoke with the authority of one who had insider knowledge. It was surprising what people would tell you when you were waxing their legs or painting their toenails. Elspeth, the receptionist at Honeycote Ales, had given her the lowdown the other day, knowing that the Bradleys could take some comfort in the knowledge that their successors were destined to fail.

  Armed with Kelly’s information, Damien looked round the pub with interest. It wasn’t an appealing prospect as it stood: most of the clientele looked as if they might be popping out for a bit of badger-baiting or a cock fight any minute. But Damien knew as well as anyone that making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear was often a question of cash. And if everything went to plan, he was going to have plenty.

  Half an hour later, Damien was about to take his leave. He’d had an intriguing evening, and was gratified to find that some, if not all, of the locals had their feet on the ground. He caught up with Rick at the bar, just as Kelly came over.

  ‘I’ve taken Mum upstairs. She’s going to start crying any minute and I don’t want her embarrassed. We’ll leave Dad to get out of his head.’

  Rick nodded. Kelly smiled sadly.

  ‘It’s going to be weird, isn’t it, Mum and Dad not being here?’

  ‘They won’t be far. It’s only an hour to Ross-on-Wye.’

  ‘I know but… I’m going to miss them.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ve got me to look after you. Your big bruv.’

  The two of them shared a hug. Damien looked away, a trifle embarrassed, unused to open displays of sibling affection. For a moment he felt like an outsider again.

  Just then the door opened and Patrick Liddiard strode back into the bar, his jacket slung over one shoulder and his keys jiggling in the other hand. He interrupted rudely, looking round accusingly.

  ‘Some bloody pimp in a black limo’s blocking me in.’

  Damien flushed and stood up, extricating his car keys from his pocket.

  ‘Sorry – I’ll move it. The car park was full by the time I arrived. I had to double-park.’

  Patrick didn’t listen, just nodded curtly and swept out of the pub, assuming Damien was in his wake. Damien swallowed his fury. He’d trained himself for years not to get riled when people insulted him, otherwise he’d have spent half his life in casualty given his line of business and the fact that most of his clients were half-cut. But he’d nearly made an exception for Patrick. Who did the arrogant little shit think he was, calling him a pimp?

  He moved his ca
r without demur, and watched impassively as Patrick roared out of the car park, Mandy at his side – although at least she had the manners to raise her hand in a gesture of thanks. As he manoeuvred his Merc into the space left by the Healey, Damien decided that Patrick Liddiard definitely needed bringing down a peg or two.

  5

  Over at Keeper’s Cottage, Keith Sherwyn was roused by the sound of his daughter’s car arriving back. He’d fallen asleep in front of the telly for the tenth Saturday night in a row. Most people would think him a bit of a sad bastard because of that, but he found it a luxury. It had been nearly eighteen months since he and his wife Sandra had split up, but he still remembered with a shudder how he would be route-marched out of the house every Saturday night to some hideous social function or another that she had organized. And he would always have to drive, because Sandra had no off-button when it came to knocking back the gin and tonics, and even if she had agreed to drive she always got pissed anyway, so Keith had learned the hard way to stick to his two units.

  He smiled at Mandy as she came in and gave him a kiss on the head.

  ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘We were going to go out but I feel a bit fluey.’

  Keith looked at her suspiciously. She didn’t look remotely ill.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ He didn’t add ‘between you and Patrick’, but that’s what he meant. He’d sensed a bit of tension between them lately, perhaps because they were working so closely together.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Mandy smiled brightly at her dad and flopped down on the sofa next to him. ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘Um – I don’t know. I was asleep.’ He grinned ruefully at her. She picked up the remote and started flicking through the channels. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Great. They loved the barometer. I think. I got some nice pictures for the newsletter. It was all getting pretty wild when we left.’

  Keith nodded approvingly. He hadn’t gone to the Bradleys’ leaving do because he felt he represented the new regime, and although he had pressed them to stay at the Honeycote Arms for as long as they liked, he couldn’t help feeling that most people saw him as a new broom and the Bradleys had been part of his initial sweep. And he wanted them to enjoy their leaving do and let their hair down. They couldn’t do that with the new boss breathing down their necks.

  He felt a little tremor of excitement. With the Bradleys gone, what he called Phase One was well and truly imminent. It was time to get creative. He’d spent the first year at Honeycote Ales shoring everything up, weeding out dead wood, paying off unnecessary debts, putting systems in place – and not least having everything computerized. He’d found a freelance chap in the next village who’d worked out a program and hadn’t charged the earth. Each pub had its own computer linked into the brewery for orders, which meant everything was now frighteningly efficient. It was incredible how a bit of common sense and a bit of vision had made for a tighter ship. The most difficult thing had been implementing his new ideas without offending the old regime – Keith had long since come to the conclusion that Mickey Liddiard was neither a rocket scientist nor a grafter, and had lived with his head in the clouds for the past twenty years. But he was a nice bloke and he did what he was told, and he looked better in the publicity photos than Keith did.

  So now, happy that the brewery had been dragged into the twenty-first century without sacrificing any of its inherent charms and was underpinned with a streamlined system and efficient, motivated staff, Keith felt ready to broaden their horizons. He was a firm believer in not running before you could walk – he’d seen many a business expand too quickly only to collapse. But now he was ready to enjoy the fruits of what had been a gruelling, tedious, nit-picking year, when he hadn’t really been able to exercise his creative flair.

  His only distraction from the brewery had been the house. It hadn’t taken him long to find Keeper’s Cottage and decide it was the perfect home for him and Mandy. It was snug, but well-proportioned, in need of refurbishment but nothing too drastic – no soul-destroying rewiring or damp courses. The house had been stripped right back down to its basics, the original features exposed. It had taken nearly a year to complete the renovations, but they’d finally moved in just after Christmas. Having a pristine new house fitted in nicely with the clean slate a new year always brought.

  Keith had, however, resisted the urge to go running out to buy everything that it needed to make it a home. Instead, he’d asked Mandy to oversee the decoration, giving her free rein. He wouldn’t have a clue where to start, and she had a good eye. And he had to admit that he was bowled over with the results.

  She’d left the living room to speak for itself. It had a huge inglenook fireplace, French windows looking out on to the back lawn and stripped and polished elm floorboards, so she’d furnished it simply with a couple of kelim rugs, an enormous squashy sofa covered in a mossy-green corded fabric and three architectural drawings in thick black frames to hang on the walls, which she’d had painted in a neutral but warm sandy colour. She’d had very simple drapes made of heraldic chenille, hung on wrought-iron poles. When he’d first stood back to study the effect, he’d been amazed at what good taste she had, and had to admit he didn’t know where she’d got it from. Sandra had always chosen everything in their house in Solihull: a visual cacophony of green studded leather furniture, swagging and smoked glass. All he’d had to do was sign the cheques. He’d never really taken any notice of his environment. But now he luxuriated in it. He adored this house. He loved the kitchen best – it had been hand-built in reclaimed oak, very rustic and unstructured, with chunky handles. And although he wasn’t a great cook, he was taking pleasure in finding his way round; was becoming quite experimental. Mandy had bought him the latest Jamie Oliver for Christmas, and he was pleasantly surprised to find most of the recipes within his grasp.

  Occasionally he worried that perhaps the house was a bit masculine, that she’d gone a bit overboard in her attempt to give him what he wanted, but Mandy assured him she liked it. And the few things that were in it were definitely comfortable, because he’d made sure she bought the best when it came to chairs and sofas and appliances. And she’d decorated her bedroom, so she had her own space exactly as she wanted it.

  All in all, Keith was very happy with his life. It certainly couldn’t have been more different than the one he’d been living eighteen months ago. When he looked out of the window now, he saw a pretty, albeit slightly overgrown, garden, with gnarled apples trees and a huge horse chestnut, instead of stifling surburbia with its towering Ley-landii that attempted to hide the immediacy of one’s neighbours. He loved the fact that when you listened, all you could hear was birds or the wind rustling in the trees, or perhaps the distant drone of some piece of farm machinery, instead of the dull roar of traffic buzzing in and out of Solihull.

  He’d changed so much in such a short space of time. His marital status, his living, his house – even his appearance. He’d lost over a stone in the past six months, a result of eating more healthily and doing more exercise. He’d also had his hair cut shorter, which surprisingly had taken years off him, and his dress was more casual. Whereas once he’d always worn suits in order to stamp his authority on his workforce, now he found he gained more respect by dressing down, so that he could be hands-on where necessary. Keith didn’t mind helping out on the ‘shop floor’ – in fact, he loved it. He loved the entire process of making beer, from the arrival of the hops to the ritualistic pouring from the pump. He couldn’t ask for a more fulfilling lifestyle.

  However, very, very occasionally, he felt a little pang that he ought to be sharing his good fortune with someone. Sometimes, he wanted to wax lyrical about what he’d done that day, but there was no one to speak to. Sometimes, when he opened his wonderful American fridge to extract a bottle of wine, it felt wrong that he was only filling one glass.

  He hadn’t told a soul, but he’d actually joined a dating agency a few months earlier, the day his de
cree absolute had finally arrived. It had felt like the right thing to do at the time. The agency he chose was supposedly upmarket, as you had to have a certain annual income to join, though Keith knew in his heart of hearts that love wasn’t about money. But he supposed it would keep out the gold-diggers.

  He’d been interviewed by a hideously self-satisfied woman who’d set up an office in a barn conversion adjoining her house. She grilled him unashamedly for an hour and a half before congratulating him on passing the stringent tests she set to allow him on to her books. Keith had wondered if he was supposed to be grateful as he wrote out a cheque for seven hundred and fifty pounds, which entitled him to an initial three introductions.

  It was a horrendous process. Contrived. Unnatural. He’d had three dates before deciding that he wasn’t going to humiliate himself any longer. His first date had got outrageously drunk, then banged on and on about all the things she would do to her first husband if she got the chance. The second invited him to a spiritualist meeting. The third talked to him in urgent undertones about how everyone had needs, then showed him her stocking top during dessert. They’d all oozed desperation. Keith had wanted to run a mile.

  If he wanted someone to share his life, he was prepared to give it time. Choosing a partner needed care – especially when he’d clearly made such a shocking choice first time round. He certainly wasn’t going to go touting himself about. If it was meant to be, then someone would appear, he felt sure. In the meantime, he was quite content. Because in the meantime, he didn’t have to answer to anyone else.

  Back home at Honeycote House, Patrick spent ten minutes over a glass of red wine in the kitchen with his father and stepmother, Lucy. Just to be polite. Then he went upstairs to be alone with his thoughts for the first time that day. Mandy hadn’t been very pleased when he’d dropped her off earlier: they had been going on to a friend’s party in Winchcombe, but Patrick had known he’d be lousy company. He was tense, nervous, and he didn’t like to admit it. Which made him even more tense. He was best off on his own, and didn’t want to inflict his brooding and glowering on anyone else. Least of all Mandy. The last thing he wanted was for his worries and insecurities to get in the way of their relationship.