Therefore, she needed a man. Whether she’d find one in a place like Honeycote she couldn’t be sure. Eligible bachelors hadn’t been part of her criteria when she’d started house-hunting. All she’d wanted then was a roof over her head. Furthermore, she had a strong suspicion that not-quite divorcees were not always made particularly welcome in the English countryside. There was always the fear that they were predatory and ruthless, if not utterly desperate, and would make off with your husband without a by-your-leave.
Perhaps she could meet someone through tennis? She was quite good, even though she hadn’t played for a few months. She didn’t want to go back to her club in Evesham – too many tongues and prying eyes and too many friends of David. But there was bound to be a country club round here. Maybe she could have some lessons to sharpen up her game. Maybe she could have an affair with her coach! She imagined a strong, athletic young man who would find her irresistible, a woman of the world, experienced and mysterious – then she remembered that she couldn’t possibly afford tennis lessons. Or membership of a club, for that matter. Or a dinky little skirt for flashing her knickers.
OK. So the order was: dog, so she’d feel safe, and job, so she’d feel valued and to boost her self-esteem. Then, and only then, she might feel strong enough to embark on the Great Bloke Hunt.
Filled with resolve after her soak in the bath, Ginny went downstairs and found that Sasha had made them all mugs of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, a Tait ritual when things weren’t quite going to plan.
Sasha came and gave her a big hug.
‘I’m sorry I was such a cow.’
Ginny was instantly mollified and nearly started crying again. It was typical Sasha, to go flying off at the deep end so that you reached the end of your tether and decided you wouldn’t care if you never saw her again. Then when she made it up to you, you were filled with love and remorse. It was exhausting, but it was Sasha.
Ginny had always felt a stab of guilt deep down that it was her fault that Sasha could be so difficult. She’d breastfed both the twins for six weeks and then, weak with exhaustion and lack of sleep, been told by the midwife that she should give up feeding one, or preferably both, and get her husband to share in the chore. Reluctantly, she had put Sasha on the bottle and handed her over to David, and carried on feeding Kitty herself, often pulling her into bed and leaving her snuggled up in the crook of her arm till morning. Perhaps it was the continuation of this mother love that had made Kitty so relaxed and happy, while Sasha had felt spurned, made to suck on a hard plastic teat and thrust back into her cot by a firm and disciplined father who did, after all, need his sleep in order to be sure of extracting the correct teeth the next day.
Of the two girls, it was definitely Sasha she worried about most, in terms of the effect the split would have on her. In spite of her protests that everyone’s parents were divorced, and that it was really uncool to have a happy family, Ginny knew that she minded very much indeed. Her only consolation was that there really wasn’t much Sasha could get up to in a place like Honeycote.
It took Barney nearly two hours to get to sleep that night. The windows didn’t fit properly and there was a draught that seemed to whistle right past his ear, and even their goose-down duvet didn’t go all the way to keeping out the cold. And he was panicking. He felt sure they’d made the wrong decision, and he felt guilty, because he worried that he’d sold the move to Suzanna by playing on her weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Not because he was selfish and because it was what he wanted to do, but because he truly believed it was the only way they were going to save their marriage. He supposed they could go on for years in their parallel universes, because they never actually rowed. They just existed for periods of time until Suzanna had a wobbly, then he picked her up and put her back on track.
He knew he was having to be the stronger. Some people would argue that the death of a child was worse for a mother, that the guilt was greater, but Barney didn’t believe it could be measured. To him too the feeling of your own child in your arms was the most precious gift one could be given, an invaluable high, the ultimate gratification. The paternal bond, the need to protect and provide, was surely as powerful as the umbilical cord that connected mother and baby. As for guilt, how many times had he gone back over Oliver’s short life, wondering if decisions he’d made were to blame for his death, wondering if there could have been something he could have done. When he’d woken up earlier that night wanting a pee, why had he chosen to ignore it and gone back to sleep? If he’d got up to go to the loo, he would have looked in on Oliver; he always did. And maybe that would have been the moment he’d been drawing his last breath; maybe he could have saved him…
After eighteen months, and a few counselling sessions, Barney knew that thoughts like these weren’t going to help anyone. Definitely not Oliver, and not him and Suzanna either. Guilt was destructive; a poison that gnawed at your insides and would ultimately drive you mad. He knew Suzanna felt guilty too – she went back over the cigarettes she’d smoked before she knew she was pregnant; the odd fag she’d had with friends after Oliver was born; the fact that she’d stopped breastfeeding too early; had left him with a childminder two days a week; hadn’t bought a thermometer for the bedroom – he’d heard every ramification of every possible cause, and even though they’d been told time and time again not to blame themselves, what the fuck else were you supposed to think when you found your own child cold in his cot? There wasn’t anyone else to point the finger at – they were his parents. They had the ultimate responsibility.
Barney hoped that moving to Honeycote would help Suzanna, give her the courage to blossom and grow again back into the creature he’d married, the creature who had, despite all her subsequent self-doubt, been a brilliant and wonderful mother. For he was convinced that the only way they were going to survive was to have another baby, otherwise they would live out the rest of their lives with Oliver’s ghost always there in the background. He hadn’t dared broach the subject yet – it lay unspoken but obvious between them – but Suzanna was too emotionally fragile to discuss it as a reality, and he felt it was a waste of time just speculating.
Life in Honeycote would be so different, such a new beginning, so free of any reminders, that perhaps she would turn the corner. And if not, perhaps it would give each of them the courage to let each other go – although Barney hoped desperately that this wouldn’t be the outcome.
Now, however, he was terrified that they had bitten off more than they could chew, that running the Honeycote Arms was going to be daunting and stressful and exhausting and hardly conducive to the repair of a marriage that had been ripped apart by tragedy. If they were going to be constantly working and struggling to meet targets and deadlines, what time and energy would there be left over for each other? He must have been mad to think they could do it. Four weeks to rip the guts out of this dump and turn it round? He felt his bowels turn liquid with panic. There was nothing they could do about it now. They were committed.
Barney sighed. Half of him was desperate for sleep so he could stop the fears going round his head; the other half knew that the sooner he slept the sooner morning, and therefore reality, would arrive, and the longer he put off the moment of reckoning the better.
He put out an arm to curl round Suzanna. She was fast asleep and therefore didn’t resist. He knew if she had been awake she would have stiffened involuntarily; moved imperceptibly away from him. The only time she wanted close physical contact was when she was in need of comfort, as she knew that Barney was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a woman in distress. Then she craved his arms around her. But in the cold of a newly-entered bed, where it was natural for a man and a woman to turn to each other, she was an island, frosty and remote. On the few occasions he had tried to touch her, he could feel her teeth clench, hear her willing him to leave her alone and go to sleep. She was never actually cruel enough to tell him to go away. But her silence spoke volumes and made Barney feel ashamed, which
he knew was unfair, but he certainly wasn’t going to confront her, demand his conjugal rights, tell her that more than twelve months without sex was totally unreasonable. He loved her more than that. So he put up with it, and occasionally snuggled up to her while she was sleeping and hoped that one day the ice maiden would thaw…
7
The next morning Barney woke before Suzanna, light-headed from only a few hours’ sleep but in a more optimistic mood. He dressed quickly and crept down the wooden stairs that led from the staff accommodation to the games room and went through the connecting door into the pub itself. He wanted to have another good look round, with the copious notes he’d made over the past couple of weeks, before they went to their meeting at the brewery. He didn’t want to be caught out by something obvious and for Honeycote Ales to think they’d made a mistake.
Barney wasn’t a great one for politics, but he was enough of a realist to know that even if you didn’t play dirty, you needed to understand the rules and who the key players were. He could tell Keith Sherwyn was a man capable of making ruthless decisions: if he thought they weren’t up to it, he’d have them out before you could say best bitter. Mickey Liddiard was a softer touch, he’d decided. He’d also worked out that Keith probably knew Mickey was the weak link. Therefore if he needed an ally it was Keith. He’d been impressed with his line of questioning at their interview, his perceptiveness, enough to know that little would escape him.
Before Barney could embark on his tour, he was distracted by an unearthly grinding and clanking that sounded like the chains of Marley’s ghost. He padded outside to find a skip being manoeuvred on to the driveway and a trio of builders watching with crossed arms. He picked out who he thought must be the gaffer and walked across with his hand outstretched:
‘Barney Blake. I’m going to be the new landlord, for my sins.’
Minutes later he found himself making tea, which he knew was a mistake, a precedent he shouldn’t have set, but he wanted a blokey chat, to get on the right side of these men so that when he wanted something doing that wasn’t on the agenda they wouldn’t tut and shake their heads sorrowfully, weighed down by the impossibility of whatever task he might be suggesting. He also knew that there were any number of horrors likely to be uncovered in the next couple of weeks, and he didn’t want to be strung along or have the wool pulled over his eyes. He wanted them to think he was a good bloke – though why shouldn’t they; he was! – and if that meant making endless cups of sugary tea, so be it. Barney didn’t actually know an RSJ from a JCB, so he was at their mercy.
The gaffer, Tony, reckoned that by the end of the week the whole place would be stripped out ready to be put back together again. They agreed to use the games room to store anything that might need putting back, such as whatever of the kitchen equipment was reusable, though from first viewing Barney suspected that would be very little. In general, the plan was to keep much of the original building intact – they couldn’t afford either the time or the money to start knocking out walls. Anyway, it worked structurally, and it was important to retain the spirit of the place, not rip out its heart, mainly because they didn’t want to alienate what regulars they already had. Because although the Honeycote Arms was in for a total revamp, it was vitally important that it should maintain its status as a village local and not become intimidating to the clientele that had frequented it in the past. They didn’t want accusations of commercialization and inflated prices hurled at them. Therefore the lounge bar, with a few cosmetic alterations, was to retain its down-to-earth image: darts matches and quiz nights would continue; the TV screen that broadcast the more important sporting fixtures would still be wheeled out; well-behaved dogs and dirty Wellington boots were to be made welcome. After all, the primary object of a tied house was to sell beer, otherwise there wasn’t much point in keeping the brewery running. That was the side of the pub that was to be Barney’s domain – the innovative side was to be Suzanna’s – so it was going to be important for him to ingratiate himself with the locals: the lads who might come in after football training, the farmers who wanted to quench their thirst at eleven o’clock in the morning when they’d already effectively done a day’s work. Barney smiled as he looked forward to the prospect of being a vital cog in the wheel that was a village community. He wondered if there was a village cricket team, and if there wasn’t might he start one…
Then he laughed at himself as he sugared the teas. His imagination was running riot already. There was an awful lot of hard work to be done before he could even begin to contemplate the thwack of leather against willow and chewing on a cucumber sandwich.
Upstairs in Kelly’s pink bedroom, Suzanna was steeling herself to throw back the duvet and get up. Having spent half the night freezing to death she was now snug and warm. She’d woken when Barney got up, but lay snuggled under the covers, allowing herself the luxury of falling back into a semi-doze. She’d spent the last fifteen minutes giving herself a pep talk. There was no point, she told herself, uprooting themselves and throwing themselves into this new project if she was going to fall at the first fence. She wasn’t going to allow herself any histrionics, any mini breakdowns. They weren’t going to have time for it. They were going to need nerves of steel as it was.
Barney came in with a cup of tea, thick and strong, just as she liked it. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched his wife with amusement as she struggled to sit up and look alert. She wasn’t a morning person. He never gave her any important information until she’d been up at least an hour, had showered and drunk at least three cups of something containing caffeine. She smiled dopily at him from under her fringe. Her thick brown hair was always like a bird’s nest first thing. He brushed it carefully out of her eyes, handed her the tea and urged her to drink up.
‘Come on. We’ve got to be at the brewery at ten, firing on all cylinders.’
‘It’s only eight, Barns.’
‘I know. But the builders are here already. And I want us to go through all the paperwork again before the meeting – ’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
She cut him off in mid diatribe, her mind clearly on another agenda. He looked at her, mildly annoyed.
‘What?’
‘Let’s do this for Oliver. A sort of… memorial to him.’
Barney was puzzled, not at all sure what she meant, but she explained. They should make the Honeycote Arms a tribute to Oliver. They were to make it a success in memory of him and the happiness he’d brought them in his short little life. Barney thought it was a wonderful idea. They clanked tea cups to toast their allegiance to it.
Suzanna finished her tea, full of smug satisfaction that she’d been able to dupe herself so easily. Now she’d put such high emotional stakes on the pub’s success, she couldn’t let it fail, because then she’d be failing Ollie.
Barney too was relieved. It was the first time Suzanna had used Ollie’s death as something positive; a reason to move on. And somehow he felt they’d turned a corner.
Damien stalked through the corridor of Hazlehurst Preparatory School, his Oliver Sweeney heels clipping authoritatively on the polished wooden floorboards. He left behind him a trail of aftershave that matched his suit. His aftershave always matched his suits – Gabbana with Gabbana, Armani with Armani. Damien was a perfectionist. It was what had got him where he was today.
By the time he reached the stout red door that led out on to Eldenbury high street, his resolve deserted him. He felt sure he could hear her crying. He hovered, hesitating, not sure what to do, which was very unusual for him. He looked round. Further up the corridor, two mums were chatting, both wearing the local uniform of faded jeans, loafers, Sloppy Joe sweatshirts and pearls. He approached them, coughing nervously.
‘Excuse me – could you do me a favour?’
They looked up at him, polite but startled, two clones, same blonde hair, same English rose skin tone. He ploughed on, praying that the stress of the situation wouldn’t allow any twang of Bristol to pop
unwelcome into his speech.
‘I’ve just left my little girl in the kindergarten. It’s her first day. Could you have a look through the window and see if she’s all right?’
One of the clones smiled obligingly.
‘It’s a nightmare, isn’t it? Leaving them for the first time. But they’re absolute poppets here. I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ She walked towards the door of Reception. Damien hung back, not wanting to see Anastasia or, worse, for her to see him. ‘What does she look like?’
He wanted to shout that she was beautiful, the most beautiful child in the class, probably the world. But that would make him sound like a wanker.
‘She’s got dark hair. Curly. With a red bow in it.’
The clone peeped through the glass at the top of the door.
‘Zebra-skin boots?’
Damien nodded proudly. They’d chosen the boots together, he and Anastasia. The clone smiled reassuringly.
‘She’s fine. She’s at the play-dough table. Just go. There’s no point in torturing yourself.’
The other clone chipped in. ‘They only scream because they can. The minute your back’s turned they’re as right as rain.’
God, they were hard, these woman. Didn’t they have a maternal bone in their bodies? He was finding it incredibly difficult to leave Anastasia that morning. He’d scoured every nursery and every school in a ten-mile radius to find the right place for her, even though nowhere would ever really be good enough. But Hazlehurst seemed to have most of the ticks in most of the boxes, the staff really seemed to care, the atmosphere was warm and jolly and, best of all, the children were treated like children. The kindergarten teacher was a big, cuddly, happy-go-lucky woman who had done her very best to reassure him that morning. She had obviously seen legions of anxious parents leaving their children for the first time, though it was probably unusual for it to be a father on his own. Nevertheless, now it was time to go, Damien wanted to burst the door down, scoop Anastasia up in his arms and take her off for the day to some magical fairyland where they could both live out their dreams.
Making Hay Page 9
