Juliet was on her third thickly buttered scone by now.
‘Who made these, you or Guy?’ she asked her mother through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘You’ve answered your own question by eating them, dear,’ said Perry. ‘Your mother only makes scones for smash and grab robbers who are in short supply of bricks.’
‘Cheeky thing, you are,’ said Grainne, giving him a sharp but good-humoured nudge. ‘Aye, Guy made a batch for you when he came in from work last night.’
‘That was kind of him,’ said Floz, wishing he could have delivered them in person.
‘He bakes to unwind,’ confided Grainne, her voice tightening as conversation touched upon the restaurant again. ‘And my God does he need to unwind when he comes in from that place. After tomorrow he’s taking a couple of days off, thank goodness.’
Floz took another bite of scone and thought that any man who baked like this had to be a catch. It was a long time since she had felt even a single butterfly in her stomach. But if Guy Miller was anything like as good-looking in the flesh as he was in his photograph, Floz knew she’d be contending with butter-flies the size of eagles flapping around in her gut when they eventually met.
She couldn’t have been more wrong if she’d tried.
Chapter 4
Guy Miller wasn’t just tired, he was exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a day off from working in the kitchens in the Burgerov restaurant. The owner Kenny Moulding was taking the piss, he knew. He had thrown most of the responsibility for his restaurant onto Guy with the excuse that he was a top-notch co-ordinator, but Guy had stopped buying into Kenny’s flattery years ago. Guy knew he ran the business because Kenny couldn’t be arsed – and though Kenny did pay him well, it wasn’t nearly enough for the burden he shouldered. If he lost Guy, he would be totally stuffed. Also, there were three areas where Kenny refused to relinquish control: employing new staff, sacking his incompetent cheap labour, and the buying of foodstuffs from dodgy traders who arrived at the back door with hoods up and faces down. Kenny loved a bargain, which was what he said to justify being a total cheapskate. In fact, Kenny Moulding made Ebenezer Scrooge look like the Secret Millionaire.
Guy had been so run-down lately that Kenny was forced to give him some long-overdue days off. Anyway, Guy needed to seriously recharge his batteries before honouring his promise to help his best mate Steve out the next night. Steve was a self-employed plasterer by trade but it wasn’t in that capacity that Guy would be assisting him. Steve’s real passion was wrestling and he was a part-time amateur grappler who dreamed of working with the huge stars of GWE – Global Wrestling Enterprises – in America, where wrestling was still a seriously popular business. When Steve performed in the ring, he imagined that the billionaire bigshot promoter Will Milburn was out there in the shadows, talent-spotting – and so he gave every show his all.
Guy looked around at the kitchen staff pretending to clean up the work surfaces. He dreaded to think what would happen over the next couple of days when he was absent. He was tired from constantly picking them up on their hygiene skills, or lack of them. The only one he never had to nag was Gina. She was long and leggy and pretty and blonde and three years younger than him; in fact, Gina was everything on paper that would have made his ideal girlfriend. He knew that she stared at him with her big blue eyes when she felt it was safe to do so, because he had caught her off-guard a few times. And though he thought she was a nice girl, he wasn’t drawn to look at her with any eyes other than those of an employer. Guy wasn’t vain but it couldn’t have been more obvious that Gina fancied the pants off him, and he often wished he felt something for her. Why couldn’t people just switch on attraction? It would make life so much easier.
‘Varto, why are you cleaning that work surface with the same cloth you’ve just used on the raw-meat board?’ Guy tried to yell but he was too tired to raise much volume. How the heck someone hadn’t died of salmonella in this place was anyone’s guess. Varto was the oldest member of Kenny’s cheap labour crew and more useless than the rest of them put together. Not half an hour ago, he had signed for and accepted a consignment of lamb which had arrived at the back door from a man with a balaclava on. It stank. Guy had gone as ballistic as his heavily depleted energy levels would allow and thrown the rancid meat in the wheelie bin. He had then poured the cheap washing-up liquid that Kenny bought in all over it so that Kenny wouldn’t make Varto take it out again after Guy had left. And still he worried that Varto would do exactly that and wash it off and put it on the menu tomorrow.
Kenny Moulding had made a lot of money from cheap-meat burger and hot-dog stalls over the years. Certainly enough for him to have a holiday home in Dorset and a small boat, but not enough to spend on decent kitchen equipment or replacing the hideously tatty restaurant furniture. ‘Make do and mend’ was Kenny’s philosophy, although if he had used that with his missus, he’d have been divorced before he even got to the end of the sentence. Burgerov was in a fabulous location, at the lip of the countryside in the quiet hamlet of Lower Hoodley, but it was near enough to town so that a taxi didn’t cost a fortune. Its menu was surprisingly popular, but only because Guy worked long hours and far above the call of duty to make as much of a silk purse as he could out of the sow’s ear of a place. Guy could do wonders with a rubbish cut of meat – he often fantasized about what he could do given quality cooking facilities, prime ingredients and some half-competent staff.
Once upon a time there had been a semblance of quality workers in Burgerov, but Kenny’s increasing meanness had driven them all away and Kenny, who had less and less interest in the place as time passed, wasn’t bothered about replacing quality with the same. He was setting on workers who couldn’t tell one end of a spatula from another and considered it a breach of their human rights if they didn’t have a fag break every ten minutes. Plus Glenys the cleaner was off with cystitis so they were all having to take over her duties too as Kenny hadn’t arranged any cover.
Guy called goodnight and left his crew to finish off cleaning and clearing up, knowing that as soon as he was out of the door, they would down tools and light up cigarettes. All except dutiful Gina. But, for once, Guy switched off worrying about the place as soon as he got into his car. His brain was addled.
It was ridiculously chilly for an August night; maybe the meat-man had a balaclava on for warmth and not for disguise. Guy hated this time of year, when summer segued into brown, dark autumn – the season when things died and memories of sad times flooded back to him. In fact, he preferred to work stupid hours in these months. Filling his days with hard labour didn’t allow him space to dredge up the past. Instead, unwelcome thoughts skittered across his brain like rusty leaves caught in the breeze, but did not settle. He wished he could have emptied his head of everything.
So exhausted was Guy that he failed to notice the For Sale sign that had been erected outside the gate of the old cottage on the road out to Maltstone, although, to be fair, the wind had blown it half into one of the overgrown conifers. Had he seen that, maybe it would have given him something far nicer to focus upon, because Guy Miller had been waiting for Hallow’s Cottage to come onto the market ever since he was a little boy. And when he decided to make a detour and call in for a coffee with his sister, he had also forgotten that she had a new flat-mate and let himself in with his own key as usual.
Floz had just come out of the bath when she saw the door of the flat swing open. She expected to see Juliet home from the work schmooze she was going to. Instead, in strode a man, a huge man, with black wavy hair and the same grey eyes as Juliet and her father and the same full mouth as Grainne Miller. Her first thought was, Wow – it’s Juliet’s brother. Her second was, Yikes, I’ve got no make-up on, wet hair wrapped up in a towel, and am in my Dalmatian spotty dressing-gown. Not only that, but she had got shampoo in her eyes and had been rubbing them so much she just knew they’d be puffy and red.
Guy had but one thought when he saw Floz for the f
irst time. Lacey Robinson. He gulped at the initial resemblance between the small woman in front of him and his old crush, and it threw him totally off-balance.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I forgot you were here. Floz, isn’t it?’
‘Er, yes,’ said Floz, pulling her robe further around her. ‘You must be . . .’
But Guy was already retreating to the door with the speed of a greyhound on amphetamines. And in his haste to get away from the scene, he fell backwards over a footstool, careered into a coffee-table and sent everything on it flying onto the carpet. Then, like a one-man Carry On film, he righted himself so quickly that he banged his head on the lampshade above him.
‘Gotta go, sorry again,’ he said, leaving Floz with the distinct impression that she must look like Linda Blair in The Exorcist as he slammed the door.
Floz stood open-mouthed. Jeez, am I that hideous? The sudden stab of hurt she felt exploded into a burst of anger. How bloody rude! She didn’t care how much of a hunk he was physically; personality-wise he wasn’t much of a gentleman. Then again, hadn’t she learned by now that whenever she emerged from her shell, lured by a scent of love in the air, all she found was that some fist was waiting to smack her in the face and send her even further back inside it again?
Romantic thoughts of Guy Miller would no longer be allowed entry.
Chapter 5
Steve dialled on his phone and waited to see if she would pick up. She did and he breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t fallen downstairs or turned on the oven and forgotten about it and burned the house down.
‘Hello, who is it?’ said a gruff, slurred voice.
‘Hiya, Mum, it’s me. How are you?’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Steve. Mum, how are you?’
‘I’m all right,’ said the voice. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She was drunk. It was ten o’clock in the morning and she was plastered. After so many years it shouldn’t have surprised him, but it still did.
‘I’ll be there in an hour. Do you need any shopping?’
‘Just the usual.’
‘Mum, I can’t. You know I can’t.’ Steve’s heart sank.
‘Then don’t bother coming,’ and the phone line went dead.
Steve arrived at his mother’s house an hour later hating himself for including the quarter bottle of vodka with the shopping. It was the smallest size he could find, and he knew she wouldn’t acknowledge his existence otherwise.
The semi adjoining his mum’s couldn’t have been more different. Sarah Burrows’s house had spotless windows, pretty curtains and a neat and tidy garden, with no trace of the usual sofas/car parts that posed as garden ornaments for many houses on this roughest end of the Ketherwood estate. And on the scrubbed step sat a small ten-year-old boy with a Barnsley football shirt on.
‘Wotcher Denny,’ smiled Steve. ‘Nearly didn’t recognize you there. Where’s your specs, kiddo?’
‘They got broke,’ replied young Denny. The closer Steve got to him, the more Steve could see he had faint bruising on his eye too.
‘You been scrapping?’ asked Steve, a little concerned, because Denny Burrows wasn’t a fighting lad. The Burrows didn’t belong on this estate. Sarah Burrows was a hard-working cleaner, a decent lass, and Denny was a quiet lad, always with a book in his hand.
Denny didn’t answer him, just dropped his head. Steve strode over the fence and sat down next to the young boy on the step.
‘You all right, son?’ he asked.
‘Yeah course,’ said Denny, trying not to look obvious as he wiped away some water from his eyes.
‘Oh hello, Steve,’ said Sarah Burrows, appearing from behind them in the doorway. ‘Do you want a cuppa? Denny – do you want some pop, love?’
Denny nodded and didn’t speak, because his voice was all choked up. Steve didn’t want to put Sarah to any trouble but he wanted to winkle out of young Denny what was up, so he said, ‘Tell you what, make that two pops, will you, Sarah? Please.’
When Sarah had disappeared back into the kitchen, Steve left it for half a minute or so then nudged Denny.
‘Come on then, kid. Tell your Uncle Steve what’s up.’
‘Nowt’s up,’ said Denny.
‘You can tell me, you know.’
Denny opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then clamped it shut again.
‘There’s nowt.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Sarah, appearing with two long tumblers of Diet Coke. ‘I’m worried sick. It’s an evil bastard by the name of Tommy Paget. This is the fifth time Denny’s glasses have been broken this year. I didn’t know any of this was going on until his eye got bashed. Then I found his little body’s covered in bruises.’
‘Denny, you’ve got to bash him back, son,’ said Steve, putting an arm around the lad and feeling how small he was when he squashed him into his side.
‘There’s four of them,’ put in Sarah. ‘A gang. And the chuffing headmaster is about as much use as a chocolate chip pan. He’s promised there will be no more incidences, but I’m sceptical. I’m keeping Denny off school for a few days because he’s not sleeping. What state is that for a ten-year-old kid to be in?’
‘Where’s he live, this Tommy Paget?’
‘Ooh no, Steve, you can’t say anything to kids these days because it just makes them do it all the more,’ said Sarah quickly.
‘I’m not going to. I’m just asking where he lives.’
‘Other side of the estate. Bridge Avenue. Number ninety-five, I think. You might know his dad – Artie Paget. Fancied himself as a bit of a boxer, once upon a time.’
‘Artie Paget’s his dad?’ Oh yes, Steve knew Artie Paget all right.
‘It’s a horrible feeling, not being able to protect your own.’ Sarah shook her head slowly from side to side. She looked totally worn out.
‘You shouldn’t be on this estate, love,’ said Steve, looking around at the bloody awful place.
‘You’re telling me. I’ve had our name down for a transfer for well over two years now. I probably don’t make as much fuss as some. He who speaks loudest, gets heard first, don’t they say? But at least I can keep an eye on your mum for you whilst I’m here. She sometimes lets me in.’
Steve smiled sadly. ‘Thanks so much, Sarah.’
‘I wish I could do more,’ Sarah replied with a heavy sigh.
‘I know what you mean.’ It was ironic how Christine Feast clung to her right to destroy herself with cheap booze. Life was so precious and yet Christine Feast had never seemed to want it.
Steve drained his pop and gave young Denny an affectionate nudge before stretching to his feet. ‘You have any more trouble, you tell me,’ Steve said. ‘I’ll teach you some self-defence moves.’
‘I’ve just started karate,’ said Denny proudly, sniffing back the last of his tears because he felt better now, having Steve on his side. ‘I go on Wednesday nights.’
‘Big Jim’s on Buckley Street?’
‘That’s the place,’ said Sarah.
‘He taught me as well,’ said Steve. ‘He’s a good teacher, is Jim. If you tell him you know me, he’ll give you a bit of a discount.’
‘I don’t like to be cheeky,’ Sarah bristled. Steve smiled at the proud young woman and wished his mam had an ounce of her dignity.
‘Sod that,’ he said, knowing that Sarah didn’t have a lot of money to spare. ‘Have you got all your gear yet?’
‘He said I can do it in my tracksuit for now,’ said Den.
‘Here.’ Steve delved into his pocket and pulled out a few notes. ‘Go and get yourself kitted out.’
‘Don’t you dare take that money, Dennis,’ said Sarah, leaping to stop the transfer of funds.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for the bairn.’ Steve pushed the notes into Denny’s hand. ‘Go on, you take it, son. A bloke once did the same for me as I’m doing for young Dennis,’ Steve lied, to protect Sarah’s pride. He too had been in his tracksuit until he was given the cast-off karate suit
from Jim’s own son. ‘It’s an interest-free loan. I want it back when you get your black belt, okay?’
Steve wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sarah begrudgingly gave him an annoyed thank you. She never had been a sponger. The little she had, she had earned herself.
Steve climbed over the adjoining fence and took a fortifying breath before trying the handle on his mum’s front door.
She sometimes forgot to lock it – something else he worried constantly about. He pushed open the door, steeling himself for what he’d find inside. He could smell smoky grime in the air. The central heating was on boiling, which warmed up the awful odours but didn’t blend them. They circulated around each other instead like some weird plug-in air-freshener: cigarettes, sweat, something rotten – and yet he’d cleaned up only a couple of days ago, emptied the bins and left the place smelling half-decent.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Steve tenderly, awakening her from a nap. Christine Feast was sitting upright on the sofa, swaddled in a blanket. Her eyes slowly opened and her head turned in his direction but she viewed him with as much emotion as she would a lampstand.
Her hair, which had been grey for as long as he could remember, was so thin these days. He wanted to brush it so it was neat around her face, but he’d tried that before and she wouldn’t let him.
‘I’ve brought you some things. There’s an egg mayo sandwich here. Your favourite.’ He reached in the carrier bag and pulled out a fresh, brown bap.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. Her eyelids started falling again. She was drunk, of course. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her sober. Her body clock didn’t work any more; she dozed for a few hours, drank, dozed again, drank some more . . . sometimes she made it to the bathroom, sometimes she didn’t.
She told her son to sod off when he tried to clean up a bit for her; she wouldn’t let him take her to the doctor and resisted all attempts to let him lift her up from the sofa so she could change out of her urine-soaked clothes. Social Services wouldn’t interfere and now Steve didn’t know what to do other than come around and just hope for a miracle. The shop on the corner would not refuse her alcohol, however much Steve had begged them. Christine also paid the older kids on the estate to buy it for her.
An Autumn Crush Page 3
