‘I thought that meant like bankruptcy or contagious diseases.’
‘No! It meant is there anything that we should take into consideration.’
She tipped her chin up defiantly.
‘If you think we’ve come here under false pretences, we can fuck off.’
‘Don’t be so defensive. All I mean is we’re a small family business, who would like to think we cared about our employees. You should have told us.’
‘I don’t think it’s any of your business. Or relevant to how well we do our job.’
Patrick sighed.
‘Suzanna – I don’t want a fight. I’m only asking about it because I care. About you. Fuck the pub…’
She pulled one of his cigarettes roughly out of the packet and put it to her mouth with shaking hands. He flicked his Zippo and she held his wrist to steady the flame; the smell of paraffin made her stomach flip. She inhaled deeply, praying the cigarette would calm her, that her voice wouldn’t shake.
‘The whole point of coming here was to forget. I don’t want to be reminded. I don’t want sympathy and understanding. It’s history. Over. Finished. So forget I told you. I just thought you should know. OK?’
Patrick looked at her. He couldn’t believe that someone so full of life, so vibrant and creative, could have suffered so much tragedy. Over the past few weeks he’d come to respect and admire her so much. She was so full of ideas and certainty. So enthusiastic. So definite. But without being dogmatic. She knew what she wanted, but she got things done her way without being a brat or a bitch or a ballbreaker. And she could own up to her mistakes, with a smile. He’d learned a lot from her – mostly how to treat people, how to get what you wanted with charm rather than force. He thought he’d come to understand her but shit – he obviously didn’t have a clue! She’d been walking round with a big gaping wound inside her and he’d had no idea.
He felt ashamed. He wanted to know the real Suzanna. He didn’t want to work with a facade.
‘What was he like?’ His voice was gentle.
‘He was a baby. He was six months old.’
She shrugged, as if that was it. Patrick said nothing, knowing she’d break the silence. She looked down at the table, picking the formica at the edge.
‘He’d give me baby kisses, when he’d stick his mouth on my cheek and not move. He’d just learned to clap… Fuck it – I don’t want to talk about this. This is personal, Patrick.’
She was angry. With herself. With Patrick. With Barney. With Ollie. With God, whoever he was, the bastard. Hot tears shimmered in her eyes; one escaped and started to slide down her cheek. Patrick reached out and gently removed it with his thumb, then put his hand over hers.
‘Go on.’
And so she told him. Everything. About how Oliver had hated cheese and loved avocado. About her favourite romper suit with the frogs on, and how he’d lie on his tummy and stretch himself out with a big yawn. About his giggle when you blew raspberries on his bare skin.
And then she told him about that awful morning that had seemed like any other morning. How relieved she’d been that he’d slept through the night, because he’d had a bit of a snuffle the day before. How she’d gone to warm up his milk before waking him… Then the police, the doctor, the social services, the questions – and the complete lack of any answers. The funeral. The days afterwards when the phone rang and rang with people checking to see how she was.
And the ghastly nothingness, six or seven months after that, when the phone didn’t ring any more, at least not so often, and she was supposed to cope, go back to something like normality when, really and truly, there didn’t seem any point.
At the end of it all, Suzanna took in a big, shuddering breath and looked at Patrick.
‘So that’s why we’re here.’
She smiled, but her chin was wobbling furiously.
‘Hey,’ said Patrick gently, and held out his arms. He held her tight as she sobbed, stroking her hair, wishing he could do something more to ease her pain, but he was only human. And eventually she stopped, pulled away from him half laughing and a bit self-conscious.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. But you did ask.’
‘I know. And I’m glad you told me.’ He produced a white handkerchief. ‘Your mascara’s everywhere. Here.’
She stood still obediently, like a small child, while he wiped the black streaks from under her eyes. She sat back down on her bar stool and Patrick ordered them each a brandy.
‘You know what? I feel better for telling you.’ She frowned as she realized something. ‘You’re actually the first person I’ve ever told about it. Everyone else I know was around when it happened. I’ve never had to talk about it like that before, from scratch…’
She took a big gulp from her glass.
‘The thing is, poor Barney doesn’t always want to hear about it. It was his deal as much as mine, but he seems to be able to manage better. I don’t know if he does, deep down…’
She managed a self-deprecating smile.
‘I think I’m rather high maintenance, emotionally. I think there are times when Barney would like to tell me to shut the fuck up and get on with it, but he daren’t.’ She stubbed out her cigarette viciously in the foil ashtray. ‘To be honest, there are times when I’d like to tell myself to shut the fuck up and get on with it.’
Patrick couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for Barney, to suffer a tragedy like that and have to support someone else through it. He could see how needy Suzanna must be; although in some ways she was incredibly strong – steely even, when she wanted to be – there was another part of her that must need constant bolstering. He didn’t envy Barney one bit.
‘Listen – any time you want to use me as a punchbag. I don’t mind. I’d rather you took it out on me. You and Barney must be under enough pressure.’
He almost regretted it as soon as he said it, because although he was quite good at women and emotions and mopping up tears and being supportive, he had enough on his plate at the moment without counselling Suzanna. But it was all part of the big picture, he supposed. The last thing he wanted was her falling apart. There was too much at stake.
Back in the games room that he was beginning to feel was his prison, Barney was surrounded by paperwork and feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Invoices and delivery notes were flooding in from all over the county; you could trace exactly where Suzanna and Patrick had been in the past couple of weeks. What they didn’t seem to have with them was a calculator: the amounts were adding up to a terrifying sum. Barney felt cross, and rather like their father. He was going to have to give them a good telling off. He knew Suzanna was completely hopeless where money and budgeting were concerned, but he would have thought Patrick, as the brewery’s representative and supposedly the one keeping a touch on the tiller, could have reined her in a bit.
But then he knew how easy it was to be swept away by Suzanna’s enthusiasm, how utterly persuasive she could be. It wasn’t that she was manipulative. It was just that, when she had a vision, you wanted to be part of it. Like the time she’d been made chairman of their street’s millennium party. It had started off as a simple celebration with punch and sausages on sticks. By the time Suzanna had finished, it was a full-blown extravaganza with fancy dress and fireworks and a sit-down banquet with champagne flowing. No one had demurred; they had all been carried away by her plans, and as the price went up so did the ticket sales, until people were cancelling long-standing engagements in order not to miss out.
Clearly Patrick was unable to resist her siren-like charms either. Barney totted up the invoices that had come in so far and went first hot, then cold. They were more than halfway through the budget already; the bedrooms hadn’t been touched, the builders hadn’t been paid, nor the decorators. They had food to buy in, and included in the initial sum was the budget for the opening night, where Barney had hoped very much to have free drink. That was looking increasingly unlikely.
He was up to hi
s eyes in payrolls, VAT, Health and Safety regulations and staff rotas. Quotes and price lists were coming in for everything from tablecloths to cooking oil, each of which he had to assess and then file in preferential order. It was almost as bad as being an accountant. He told himself not to become dispirited. It was bound to be hard work.
What he needed was something to take his mind off it all for a moment. Actually, what he probably needed was a drink, but Barney had made a private pact with himself that, if he was to be the landlord of a pub, he wasn’t ever to seek solace from a bottle. It didn’t mean that he wouldn’t drink to be sociable, but a drink on his own – never.
He walked over to the ancient old upright piano that had been abandoned by the Bradleys. Or, by the look of it, their predecessors. He didn’t think it had been touched for years; no doubt it had been an essential part of the pub twenty years or so back but it had long been put into retirement. Thinking it would be nice to reinstate it at some stage, Barney had found a piano tuner the week before in the Yellow Pages. He couldn’t quite imagine the regulars of Honeycote standing round having a sing-song, but perhaps some discreet live piano music every now and again would be an attraction. He wouldn’t be averse to tickling the old ivories himself, although perhaps that was a bit hammy.
The ball-park figure he was given over the phone had made him reel with shock, but he’d gone ahead and booked it all the same. He’d funded it out of his own pocket. A piano was just what he needed to relax. He’d been missing his music lately. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t picked up an instrument in all the time he’d been with Suzanna. She’d probably be surprised to hear him play. She knew he’d been in a band, but that had just been posey art college thrash. He’d actually got his grade eight piano. His mother had made sure of that. And now he suddenly felt enormously grateful to her. Parents forced you to do things, and it took you years and years to wonder why, then it suddenly dawned on you that they were right all along.
Barney felt a sudden pang as he wondered if he would ever be a parent himself again. He wanted to be, desperately. But Suzanna wasn’t ready to consider that possibility yet; far from it. How long should he give her, he wondered, before he broached the subject?
He sat down gingerly on the piano stool, his hands hovering over the keys. He supposed it was like riding a bike – you never forgot the rudiments – but he was bound to be rusty. He pressed a couple of keys and was delighted to find the notes were crystal clear. The last time he’d tried it, a hideous sound had sprung out, like an outraged cat that had just been stepped on. The piano tuner had done his job, even if Barney had privately thought he could have bought a new piano for the price he’d charged.
His hands glided up and down the keys.
Suddenly he found he was enjoying it. He broke into one of his old favourites, ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’. He played it slowly, languorously, improvising around the melody. And as he played, he became aware of a voice, deep, rich and smoky, singing the lyrics, wrapping itself sensuously around his notes like a fur stole round a film star’s neck. The sound sent an exquisite shiver down his spine, yet he daren’t turn round for fear of spoiling the moment. They were in sync, in tune, in time, and it was almost perfection.
As the final notes died away, he turned. One of Ginny’s twin daughters was standing there.
‘That was fantastic,’ he said, utterly in awe.
She shrugged, a bit embarrassed.
‘You said to come up and see you. About waitressing.’
‘Never mind about that. Has anyone ever told you what a wonderful voice you’ve got?’
‘I know I can sing, I suppose.’
‘Haven’t you ever done anything with it? Joined a choir? Or a band?’
‘I don’t fancy singing hymns. And the only people I know with bands are total crap. They just play thrashy metal – they only know about three chords between them.’
‘It’s amazing,’ said Barney.
She didn’t seem to want to talk about it. She was far more anxious about whether the job Barney had promised her was still on the go. ‘Are you still looking for staff?’
Barney remembered being a teenager and being constantly broke.
‘Of course. I was banking on you. And your sister.’ He looked at her. ‘Sorry – you must get really pissed off with people asking. But which one are you?’
She smiled.
‘Kitty. I’m Kitty.’
Barney looked at her thoughtfully. He imagined her in a long velvet dress, with a camellia pinned in her hair. Him at the piano, her singing. Billie Holiday. Ella Fitzgerald. Nina Simone. They’d pack them in.
‘Have you ever thought about singing live? We could do jazz evenings.’
She looked a bit panicky.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never sung in public.’
‘You could, easily. You’re good, you know. Really good.’
She didn’t seem at all convinced, so Barney let it drop. If she was going to be working at the pub, there was plenty of time to talk her round. Anyway, it wasn’t as if he had time to add in-house pianist to his list of duties.
After he got back from the auction, Patrick started thinking about Mandy. For some reason, Suzanna’s revelation had unsettled him. It made him realize that things could seem all right on the surface, yet have a hideous fissure underneath. And it seemed an ominously long time since he and Mandy had spent any time together on their own. He decided to go over to Kiplington in the Healey and take Mandy out somewhere. He needed a good night out; to get away from the claustrophobic pressure of organizing the pub and just be a carefree young man out with his girlfriend for the night. They used to go out all the time, especially when Ned and Sophie had been around. Somehow when there were only two of you it was easier not to bother. But something inside Patrick told him that he should bother.
He turned off left down a little turning that was a short cut through to Kiplington; a single-track road that was rarely used. It led down a steep dip into a dingly-dell of a hamlet called Little Orwell, which basically consisted of a rambling old farm and a few workers’ cottages that had seemed to stand still in time. Not even a postbox or a lamp-post gave any sign that this was the twenty-first century. The sweet smell of cows and may blossom filled the air. It was idyllic.
Patrick was surprised to see that one of the cottages was up for sale. Someone must have died. He slowed down as he approached it, then stopped. It was the tiniest little cottage, totally ramshackle, but utterly adorable. Curiosity overcame him, and he parked up on the road outside, then pushed through the wooden door in the wall that led into the garden adjoining the house. It was thoroughly overgrown, but even Patrick could see that the vestiges of a very pretty cottage garden were visible through the undergrowth, wild roses and clematis and lavender all tangled together.
He was amazed to find that the back door was unlocked. Inside it was ancient. The whole house was only one up, one down – no kitchen to speak of, only a stainless-steel sink and an old-fashioned range in what could just about be described as a utility room. And there was no bathroom – only a loo on the other side of a narrow passageway adjoining the coal shed.
Round, old-fashioned light switches, incredibly heavy to turn on and off. Peeling lino on some of the floors. Quarry tiles on others. Tiny cast-iron fireplaces. An overwhelming smell of damp. The last incumbent had obviously died, probably of pneumonia given the living conditions. But as he pushed back the tattered rags that hung at the windows, a ray of early evening light flooded in, filling the little front room with a golden glow that disguised all its flaws. It had a wonderfully welcoming feel. It felt like… home, thought Patrick, who was not usually given to sentiment.
Patrick picked up his phone and dialled the estate agent’s number displayed on the board outside.
‘You’ve got a cottage up for auction in Little Orwell. What’s the guide price?’
A hundred and forty thousand. A hundred and forty grand and you could hardly swing a cat by the tail
. The place needed condemning. It needed bulldozing. But then, this was the Cotswolds. He was paying a premium for the waft of cow’s muck.
Patrick thought about it seriously. It was about time he had a place of his own. He was nothing more than a glorified lodger at Honeycote House. A lodger who didn’t actually pay any rent. He should be ashamed of himself really, but living there was so much easier than… than what? Getting off his arse and doing something about it?
He wasn’t a boy any more. He was a man. And OK, so he would one day inherit Honeycote House, but both Mickey and Lucy were pretty healthy, if you didn’t count Dad’s accident. He could well be over fifty before it was his. He could hardly live there till then, like some namby-pamby mummy’s boy in a cardigan, heating up a tin of mushroom soup for himself.
It could be, quite literally, their love nest. He and Mandy could spend weekends doing it up. They could move in together, if Mandy felt ready. Or they could wait until they got married. For somehow Patrick assumed that would happen, even though he hadn’t asked her as yet. In the meantime, they didn’t have any space that was their own – she was uptight about having sex in her own house, and not overkeen on it at Honeycote House either, even though Patrick assured her repeatedly that Mickey and Lucy were very broadminded. And she wasn’t the sort of girl you shagged in the car.
He walked slowly round the house, embellishing his fantasy. He wanted to wake up in sheets they had chosen together; drink coffee out of mugs they’d bought; go into the garden and check on the progress of the roses they’d planted. He nearly laughed at himself and the picture of domestic bliss he was imagining. He’d paint in his pipe and slippers before you knew it. And a dog! They’d have to have a dog. He wondered if James had any puppies left…
He told himself to calm down and look again at Little Orwell Cottage objectively. For about the same price he could get a brand-new three-bedroomed house complete with fixtures and fittings that needed nothing doing to it. But this little house felt special. Patrick was surprised to feel butterflies, and a sharp stab of something that was even stronger than desire. He had to have it.
Making Hay Page 24
