Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  It was a better theory than the other possibility. That Lawrence had found the pressure too much and taken the only way out. She didn’t believe he would have done that; he loved Flora too much. So in the end, she came to terms with the fact that it was an accident. Any other theory was too difficult to cope with.

  And life was hard enough. She learned with a shock just how fickle the circles they moved in were. At the merest whiff of scandal all their so-called friends had withdrawn hastily. None of them had attended Lawrence’s funeral. Not a single woman who had lounged by Kay’s pool, drunk her champagne or eaten at her table phoned to commiserate. No one asked how she was, or offered to have Flora. She was a social outcast.

  She got through it. Kay was tough, and the doctor was kind enough to give her something to soften the harsh reality. Nothing too strong - she wanted her wits about her, if only for Flora. Her heart ached for the bewildered little girl, who didn’t really understand that her daddy had gone for ever.

  Each day got worse and worse, until the day her solicitor told her gravely that, after the house had been sold and the debts paid off, she was left with the princely sum of just over five thousand pounds. Kay couldn’t help thinking it would have been better to be left with nothing. Somehow that would have been easier to take than the paltry sum she had to start a new life with. Penniless somehow rang truer than merely poor.

  She’d got away as quickly as she could. There was nothing keeping her in Portugal, after all. And it was pretty humiliating, being ignored in the supermarket, walked past in the street. Kay resisted the urge to march up to her old acquaintances and accost them with a cheery greeting. As soon as all the paperwork was tied up, she’d taken the first plane out and landed on her parents’ doorstep in Slough. Just as she had a few years before, when she’d found out she was pregnant with Flora, and Lawrence had kicked her out. Unsurprisingly. For what he’d failed to tell her throughout their marriage was that he was infertile. She could hardly pass the baby off as his, when he’d been firing blanks all along.

  It had been all right, in the end. Lawrence had come to find her, just after she had Flora. He wanted her back. He admitted he’d been wrong to withhold the information from her. That didn’t excuse her infidelity, of course. But in a funny way two wrongs had made a right. The incident had brought them closer than they’d ever been. And he had become a wonderful father to Flora.

  As she turned off the main road and drove into the village of Honeycote, a lump rose in Kay’s throat. Perhaps they should never have left. They had never openly discussed it, but they had both felt that bringing up Flora in such close proximity to her biological father was not a good idea, and so they’d left for Portugal. As far as she knew, no one in Honeycote was even aware of their reconciliation, or the truth about Flora’s parentage.

  Kay’s sharp eyes raked the landscape around her for signs of change. It was getting dark, but she noted a development of rather splendid new houses behind a set of gates. Honeycote Grange, read the slate sign. The best part of a million each at the very least, she estimated. She’d once been an estate agent, and her instincts had never died.

  As she passed the driveway to her old house, her throat constricted. Barton Court Spa, it announced. For a moment she was tempted to check in. Whereas once she had tired of her weekly massage and exfoliation, now she longed for soothing hands to ease her aching bones. She had never felt so exhausted. It was the emotion, of course. And the uncertainty. The horrible, horrible fear. She’d lost over a stone since Lawrence died, and the one thing Kay didn’t need was to lose weight. But there had been a knot of worry in her stomach - the knot that had materialized the second she’d seen the shadowy figures of the policemen through the door, and hadn’t gone away since. And it seemed there wasn’t room for a knot and food.

  If it had been just her, it wouldn’t have mattered. Kay was a survivor. She’d always kept her wits about her. But with a five-year-old child to look after, she was incredibly restricted. She needed somewhere for them to live.

  It was a catch twenty-two. A vicious circle.

  Of course, what it boiled down to at the end of the day was money. Which was why she was back in Honeycote. Kay hadn’t asked herself too many questions about what she was about to do next, because she didn’t have any choice. It was the easiest way she could think of to get her hands on a decent lump sum, and she wasn’t proud.

  She pulled into the car-park of the Honeycote Arms. The crunching of the tyres on the gravel woke Flora up.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Kay was almost tempted to say ‘home’. For Honeycote felt like home. She’d never been one for sentimental attachments in the past. But somehow here she felt safe. There were no swarthy-skinned bandits likely to run her off the road here.

  The Honeycote Arms had undergone a total transformation since she’d left. Then, it had been a typical English village pub, complete with horse-brasses and hunting prints, inoffensive but uninspiring, smelling of stale fags and the faintest whiff of wee. Now it was completely stripped out, with polished flagstones, creamy walls, and low sofas. A huge glass vase crammed with brightly coloured birds of paradise stood on the bar, behind which was a chalked-up menu and wines by the glass. It still felt traditional and English, but with a contemporary edge.

  This boded well, thought Kay. Honeycote Ales had clearly got their arse into gear.

  ‘Did you want an extra bed for the little one?’ The landlord was polite. And rather gorgeous. Early thirties, she guessed. Quite posh. Things had definitely changed. The previous incumbent had been a dishevelled drunk. She smiled at him, wondering if he might be a useful source of information. Not now, because she was exhausted. But perhaps tomorrow.

  ‘No. She can share with me.’

  It was a habit she had got into, and one she knew would be hard to break. But it gave her comfort, to have Flora’s warm little body next to her at night. And the urge to protect her was enormous. Flora had almost stopped weeping for Lawrence, but she still talked about him, her little face screwed up with anxiety as to where exactly he was and what he was doing. And Kay knew that one day she was going to have to tell her the truth.

  ‘Fine. Well, I’m Barney. Barney Blake. My wife Suzanna runs the kitchen. So if there’s anything we can do for you during your stay . . .’

  His welcoming smile reached his eyes, and Kay felt heartened. She knew she probably couldn’t afford to stay here for long, but while she could, she was going to enjoy the luxury. She decided to have supper sent up to her room. She didn’t quite have the nerve to go down to the bar to eat, even though they had assured her she was welcome, as she couldn’t be sure who might pop in for a Sunday evening pint. She refrained from telling Barney that she used to live in the village, explaining that she was in the area on business. Which wasn’t so very far from the truth.

  Half an hour later, Flora tucked into boiled eggs with soldiers and Kay devoured sausage and mash. It was the first time she had felt hungry for months. She almost felt relaxed, snug and protected from the real world. Flora had laid her teddy carefully out on the bed they were to share. When they’d finished, she chucked Flora into the bath then into her pyjamas. The little girl was soon asleep, and Kay snuggled down next to her with the Sunday papers and the telly on quietly. It might be unprepossessing March, with a bitter wind outside, but Kay felt as if she had come home.

  If only Lawrence had come clean to her. She felt sure he had been hiding his problems. He would be furious with himself if he knew how things had turned out. Flora was his princess. But he was dead, Kay reminded herself, and nothing was going to bring him back. It was up to her. And the moment of reckoning was getting closer and closer. She couldn’t put it off much longer. She could only afford to stay here a week, for a start. Strictly speaking, she should have checked into a bed and breakfast at thirty pounds a night, but she’d had enough of candlewick bedspreads and Glade air freshener at her parents’.

  She looked at the phone, trying to screw
up the courage, but her resolve trickled away. She was drained from the drive, not to mention the emotional turmoil of coming back to Honeycote and all the memories that had unleashed. She decided she would leave it until tomorrow. Monday morning was a good time to get things done. Not Sunday night.

  After all, you could hardly ring someone during the Antiques Roadshow and tell them they had a long-lost daughter. And that you were expecting them to cough up.

  Three

  Angela Perkins’ mother lived at the end of a semi-circle of council houses on the Eldenbury side of Honeycote. There were dark red quarry tiles on the kitchen floor, and a larder cupboard, the shelves covered with sticky-back plastic, and iron window frames. Had Elsie still been a council tenant it would have had central heating and double glazing fitted by now. But some years ago Angela had persuaded her husband to cough up for a mortgage so they could buy the house for Elsie, which was worth far more than the council was asking. Angela was shrewd; adept at feathering her own nest and making it look as if she was doing her mother a favour. She’d got the solicitor out pretty quickly as soon as the purchase had gone through, to ensure she was the sole beneficiary of Elsie’s will, and had watched beadily from the other side of the room as Elsie had signed it in her old-fashioned, sloping cursive.

  This particular Monday morning, however, she was trying to get her mother out of her house and into a home. Elsie was riddled, virtually crippled, with arthritis, and could scarcely do anything for herself. Angela couldn’t take the strain any longer. She lived right the other side of Evesham, in a sprawling, ranch-style bungalow with a pair of rampant eagles on the pillars outside, and checking up on her mother in Honeycote was highly inconvenient, especially when she had virtually full occupancy at the kennels twenty-four/seven/fifty-two. The Barkley was the ultimate in luxury canine accommodation, and it was hard work meeting the exacting standards required by pedigree-dog owners these days - air-conditioning, organic food, dust-free bedding and enough homeopathic beauty treatments to maintain the entire cast of Desperate Housewives. The last thing she needed was daily visits to her mother, lugging bags of shopping and taking away dirty washing, thankless and tedious tasks and really quite unnecessary when the answer was staring them in the face. If only Elsie would accept her offer of a place at Coppice House, which she’d had to pull serious strings to get, life would be so much easier. Angela couldn’t understand for the life of her why the old lady wouldn’t cooperate.

  ‘Mother . . .’ she cooed. ‘You’ll get hot dinners, all your laundry done, other people to talk to. They have fabulous social evenings. And a mobile hairdresser.’

  ‘Not to mention interfering nursing staff,’ retorted Elsie. ‘Interfering in more ways than one, if you believe the papers.’

  ‘It’s not a nursing home. It’s a residential home. There’s a difference.’ Angela took one of her mother’s gnarled hands and stroked it. It was all Elsie could do not to snatch her hand away. ‘Can’t you understand I’m worried sick about you? You can’t cope here on your own.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Look, Mum.’ Angela’s voice was low and soothing, the voice she used when she was trying to reassure one of her snappier over-bred guests. ‘Joyce has told me there’s a lovely room coming up next month. Looking over the gardens. Light and airy. She’ll move you to the top of the list if you want it. People wait years to get in.’

  It was typical of Angela, who lived on favours and bribes and backhanders, to have someone willing to shove Elsie to the front of the queue. Elsie knew Joyce Hardiment, the owner of the home. Angela looked after her disgusting pug dogs while she went off to the Bahamas three times a year. Which said it all, really. Elsie was not going to subsidize Joyce’s Caribbean jaunts by taking a room in her horrible establishment, which stank of wee and cabbage no matter what the brochure said. She tilted her chin defiantly.

  ‘The only way you’re going to get me out of here is in a pine box.’

  Angela dropped Elsie’s hand, all pretence of affection over, and lit a menthol cigarette. She sauntered over to the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece and inspected herself. White jeans, tight pink blouse, diamanté belt, freshly extended blonde hair that now fell past her shoulders, and a new set of square-tipped nails. Looking good, she thought to herself. She inspected her arse. Taut as any teenager’s. Roy had been right about that exercise bike. She hadn’t been impressed when he’d bought it off eBay, but she’d done as he said - hopped on it in front of EastEnders three times a week - and you could see the results.

  She turned back to her mother, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation.

  ‘Well, if you’re not going to listen, then you’re on your own. I can’t come running over here at the drop of a hat. Roy and I never have time for ourselves as it is, what with the kennels, and Mason and Ryan. They’ve got tournaments every weekend now. We’ve got to support them.’

  Elsie stifled a snort. Angela never did anything she didn’t want to. If she was happy to drive Mason and Ryan round the country, it was because of the attention she got from the other fathers on the motocross circuit. Roy, bless him, did all the donkey work while Angela paraded round the other motor-homes, swapping notes on performance. And as for the kennels, Elsie knew perfectly well Angela had a raft of dog-loving teenage girls who came up at the weekends and were happy to clean out the runs in return for peanuts. She wasn’t exactly wading through dog muck herself. She just made sure she was there to greet the owners when they dropped their precious pooches off, to reassure them they were having the five-star treatment they deserved, given her outrageous prices.

  Five minutes later Elsie heard the door slam, and watched her daughter flounce up the garden path in her skin-tight trousers and get into her car.

  Elsie sighed. She didn’t know when it was that Angela had turned from a sweet and loving little girl into . . . well, a spoilt madam. Perhaps that had been their mistake, she and her husband Bill. Spoiling her. Not with things, perhaps, but with time, indulging her every little whim, because they had waited so long to have her and when she had arrived she had been so breathtakingly beautiful they couldn’t ever bring themselves to say no to her.

  It was ironic that Elsie had been nearly forty before she had had Angela, and then Angela had gone and rather carelessly got herself pregnant at the age of seventeen. Carelessly - or deliberately? The alleged father was a titled tearaway from Warwickshire she met when serving behind the bar at the local point-to-point. Angela had sworn that she was in love with Gerard, and he with her, that they were going to make a go of it, and that she was going to have the baby, who would apparently inherit its own title: she was going to give birth to a baronet! Elsie waited with a sinking heart for it all to go wrong. She didn’t see Angela for five months, as she was apparently ensconced in domestic bliss in a cottage on Gerard’s estate in Warwickshire, being waited on hand, foot and finger by his ageing retainers.

  Angela turned up distraught a month before the baby was due. When she went into labour two days later, Elsie was surprised that the baby looked, if anything, rather overdue. In a flood of postnatal hysteria, the truth came out. The baby wasn’t Gerard’s at all. Angela, finding herself pregnant by a boy from school, had seduced Gerard behind the beer tent at the point-to-point, and thought she had found her ticket out. His family, however, weren’t so easily fobbed off. His astute and protective mother had eventually bullied her into a confession and, rather coldheartedly, booted her out, swollen belly and all.

  After the birth, Angela fell completely to pieces, unable to pick the baby up, unable to bond with it. She just lay in bed for days, staring at the ceiling, complaining that she felt ill. The doctor assured Elsie that her motherly instincts would take over before long, but Elsie was shocked to find Angela couldn’t even summon up the enthusiasm to give the baby a name. So Elsie named her Mary, a name that was so plain and ordinary that Angela was bound to want to change it, if only out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

  Eventually, A
ngela dragged herself out of bed because she was bored. She complained of total exhaustion, but Elsie chided her for not eating. Angela was desperate to get back to her pre-baby figure and ended up even thinner than before, to her triumph. And to her glee, as not long afterwards she was offered a modelling contract, which meant moving to London. Elsie had already resigned herself to bringing up the baby. Angela had reassured her that going to London was the best thing for all of them.

  ‘I’m going to make enough in a year to make sure we don’t have to worry again,’ she promised her mother.

  She didn’t, of course. Angela was pretty, but not that pretty, and after an initial flurry of success she found there were lots more girls out there who were thinner, taller and with bigger breasts. When she had to come back to Honeycote with her tail between her legs, she had lost the ability to bond with her daughter completely. Little Mary squealed every time her mother picked her up, an ungodly ear-splitting shriek. It only occurred to Elsie, in a suspicious moment some years later, that perhaps Angela had pinched her whenever she was put into her arms.

  True to form, though, Angela soon used the baby as a tool. Being a homeless single mother, she managed to get her own council flat in Cheltenham, as it definitely cramped her style to be stuck in Honeycote, which after the bright lights of London felt like the arse end of nowhere. At this point, Elsie’s husband Bill put his foot down. The two of them weren’t to look after Mary any longer. For the odd afternoon, of course, for they loved seeing her. But not for nights on end, to suit Angela. They were getting on, after all, and it wasn’t right for a child to be brought up by her ageing grandparents. Plus it was unsettling for a small child never to be quite sure where she was going to wake up in the morning. Mary’s rightful place was with her mother. Elsie bowed to his decision, albeit reluctantly, for she knew that if they had care of Mary then at least she would have decent food and her clothes ironed. Angela seemed to feed her nothing but Dairylea triangles and Frosties. Elsie spooned rose-hip syrup and Haliborange down the little girl surreptitiously whenever she did come round, and piled her plate high with proper meat and vegetables.