Honeycote

by Veronica Henry

  Kelly, happy now with her handiwork, turned to him and cooed:

  ‘You’re ever so quiet, baby. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was just asking myself if, really and truly, there was any point to all of this.’

  Panic-stricken, Kelly clutched the arm of his jacket. ‘What – you mean you and me?’

  Patrick felt his teeth go slightly on edge at her touch. Funny, when only a few moments ago he’d been all over her. He realized that he was going to have to let her go. Kelly’s parents, Ted and Eileen, ran the Honeycote Arms. And in this supposedly classless society, he knew that class had never mattered more. If he was going to be management, he couldn’t be seen screwing the hired help. He wondered whether this might be the opportune moment to give her the boot, but he was too tired for histrionics.

  ‘No, no – I mean life in general. What is there to look forward to, for Christ’s sake?’

  Kelly’s lips, shimmering with Rimini Razzle, formed a perfect circle as she pouted and looked at Patrick reproachfully from under her fringe.

  ‘It’s my twenty-first in a couple of months.’

  Oh God. How could he have forgotten? Cold vol-au-vents, the Birdie Song and a ghastly cake with a huge silver key. Patrick smiled, as if this reminder had lifted the weight of the world from his shoulders. ‘Oh yes.’ He switched on the ignition. ‘Shall I drop you home?’

  ‘You’d better. I’ve got to do a bikini wax tomorrow in front of the whole class. I’m really nervous.’

  Patrick felt ill-equipped to offer reassurance, not knowing or wanting to know what a bikini wax was, so he simply reversed out of the gateway and headed along the road that would take him back into Honeycote. As the little car roared through the outskirts of the village, Patrick looked down the wooded slope into the deep bowl that housed the brewery. In the moonlight, he could just make out the ghostly shape of the old shire-horse who used to pull the dray. The dray was long out of commission, but they’d kept Toby out of sentimentality. He was over thirty; if they hadn’t he’d have gone for dog meat, so he lived happily in retirement in the small paddock behind the malthouse.

  Something suddenly caught Patrick’s eye and he frowned, slammed on the brakes and peered down into the darkness. Damn! He’d thought so: there was a light on in the brewery office. He’d heard they’d appointed a new Excise chap at Gloucester – an eager beaver by all accounts, keen as mustard – but surely the days of midnight swoops on breweries were gone? You’d have to be crazy to attempt an illicit brew these days. Crazy or desperate: there was too much to lose, too little to gain.

  Patrick sighed. He’d better go and introduce himself; make sure this new chap understood that Honeycote Ales didn’t appreciate people breathing down their necks. Cursing softly under his breath and ignoring Kelly’s squeaks of bewildered protest, he swung the car round and set off back down the hill.

  The Fox and Goose, the Honeycote Arms or the Red Lion? Mickey had narrowed the field down to three, but couldn’t bring himself to pinpoint a final choice. One of them had to go, that was definite. And of the ten tied houses that made up Honeycote Ales, these were the ones making least money and needing most investment. Which meant they would fetch less, but at this stage of the game any amount would help. Mickey ran his hand through his thick dark brown hair and sighed. There was going to be uproar whichever he chose. How the hell was he going to explain to the world at large that after nearly a hundred and fifty years of paternalism, Honeycote Ales was going to sell a pub from under one of their loyal and faithful tenants?

  Mickey knew he only had himself to blame for the situation. The sad fact was, he might have inherited a family business but he wasn’t a businessman, no matter which way you looked at it. It was a miracle they’d made it into the twenty-first century – it was certainly more by luck than good judgement. He just wasn’t ruthless enough. He couldn’t take the bull by the horns, basically because he was terrified of change. He found it so much easier to keep things as they were, than have to take the blame for implementing some radical change that hadn’t worked. But he knew he was reaching crisis point. All the pubs owned by the brewery needed massive refurbishments, just to bring them up to scratch and to keep the Health and Safety people placated. Not only that, but the machinery at the brewery was out of the ark: several key pieces of equipment needed repairing. It was only a matter of time before something integral to the whole shooting match gave up the ghost.

  What was needed was a substantial cash injection. He was going to have to sell one of the pubs. Which was ironic, because he knew that he should actually be looking to increase his stable in order to justify keeping the operation going. The prospect broke his heart, but one of them had to be sacrificed in order to save the rest.

  He drained his glass, stood and paced across the ancient wooden floorboards of the brewery office, coming to rest in front of the yellowing map produced for their centenary celebrations all those years ago. It outlined the brewery’s catchment area, with Honeycote and the heart of the operation in the centre, surrounded by a pen and ink drawing of each pub. The artist had added a decorative border depicting their various signs – the Fox and Goose, the Roebuck, the Peacock… Mickey had always found the map whimsical and sickly, but as Honeycote Ales’s image was that of a slice of quintessential English country life, he supposed it was appropriate.

  In moments of contemplation he always came to rest in front of this map and amused himself identifying the animal illustrations with their human counterparts. He, of course, was the handsome, wily fox forever seeking refuge from relentless pursuit. Lucy was the deer, a dainty, wide-eyed innocent unaware of the dangers lurking and who must be protected at all costs. The peacock in the bottom corner crept unwelcomed into his line of vision. It was not an indigenous creature, but an imported trophy that brought glamour and status to its owner. And, apparently, trouble.

  Kay. For the umpteenth time Mickey cursed whatever genetic defect had blessed him with such a surfeit of impulsiveness when it came to her; it was as powerful as a drug. But gradually the stakes had climbed higher and higher, and now he was seeing with a frightening clarity just what he had to lose.

  How the hell had he got himself into such a mess? Wherever he turned, he faced the consequences of either his ineffectuality or his self-indulgence. The thought was sobering, so he went to pour himself another Scotch and was surprised to find the decanter empty. Reassuring himself that there had only been an inch in the bottom when he arrived, he reached into the waxed jacket he’d hung on the back of the door. Relief flooded him as he felt the familiar cold pewter of his hip-flask. As the sweet, fiery sloe gin spread through his gullet the security of its warmth relaxed him, so much so that when he turned to find Patrick in the doorway he was momentarily off his guard and waved the flask cheerily at his son.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, dad? It’s nearly midnight.’

  Mickey’s eyes slid over to his paper-strewn desk. Was there anything incriminating? Probably not, but Patrick had a shrewd mind and could put two and two together astoundingly quickly for one who’d failed his Maths GCSE three times. He walked carefully back across the office and began gathering up the documents.

  ‘Just looking over the last quarter’s figures. Not brilliant.’

  ‘I know that, dad. We all know that.’

  Mickey forced himself to meet Patrick’s eye. He knew that look from old. The dark eyebrow slightly raised, the sardonic twist of the mouth: exaggerated patience tinged with accusation – it was pure Carola. A selective memory had enabled Mickey to banish the image of his ex-wife from his mind. Most of the time. Now he was all too clearly reminded of the horrible turn events had taken when he’d brought her back to Honeycote all those years ago.

  They’d met at university. Mickey had eschewed Oxford in favour of King’s College, London, on the basis that one could only take so much punting and a metropolitan existence was likely to be far more enriching. And indeed it was, for he’d never have met
Carola in that city of dreaming spires, with her loathing of anything that smacked of elitism. It was her hair that had attracted him – a wild mass of black, tangled curls that hung down her back. That and the warm, spicy animal scent Mickey felt sure only he could smell, and that now, after years of experience, he could readily identify as desire. They’d done it everywhere, even on the Tube late one night between Tottenham Court Road and Goodge Street, and Carola had talked passionately about her beliefs and her plans to change the world. She was, apparently, an anarchist, forever going on marches and attending rock concerts in support of some oppressed minority or other. Mickey had always listened politely to her rantings but reserved judgement, knowing that he and his family represented much of what she was against. She’d taken his silence for agreement, his two Clash albums for commitment to her cause, and he’d been naive enough to think she wouldn’t hold his duplicity against him.

  When she announced she was pregnant and an abortion was out of the question, Mickey, still intoxicated by the feral creature he’d ensnared, marched her off to the nearest Register Office. Carola, who thrived on being unpredictable, had been so enchanted by the perversity of flouting her lack of convention that she agreed to a wedding. She’d worn a Victorian nightdress so tight across her rapidly expanding breasts that it was a contest as to whether they or the Registrar’s eyes were going to pop out first.

  Before he’d had a chance to tell his parents of his latest folly, they’d been tragically killed in a sailing accident off Salcombe. The plan had been for him to finish his degree, then do a pupillage at a Scottish brewery owned by a friend of his father’s, in order for him to learn the ropes objectively before becoming second in command. That was now out of the question. Mickey had no choice but to take over as managing director straight away.

  Carola had been totally bemused to find the contents of their little bedsit ensconced in Mickey’s school trunk and a black taxi ticking outside the door. Still alarmingly ignorant of her husband’s legacy, she’d demanded what was to become of their education. Mickey had tersely reminded her that as their baby was due in four months, neither of them were likely to be getting a lot of work done. She could finish her degree another time. And he wouldn’t be needing one now.

  More than twenty years later, here he was facing that accusing stare in its next incarnation. He didn’t like to think about what had happened in between: he had too many regrets. Not that he’d ever regretted Patrick – he thought the world of his son – but he was keenly aware that he was no longer a boy, easily fobbed off, and not, despite his lack of academic prowess, a fool either. Mickey raised his flask in an attempt to play for time.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m driving. As, I presume by your car outside, are you.’

  The remark was pointedly sarcastic. He shouldn’t have to take that. Mickey raised the flask to his lips in a gesture of defiance, then realized it was empty.

  The journey had been trouble free, and Kay smiled as she sped up the familiar narrow road, lined with drystone walls and overhung by ancient oaks. It was enveloped in a soft velvet blackness that a stranger would have found disconcerting but she found alluring, leading as it did to her haven. At last she reached the gates, where the words HONEYCOTE ALES re-affirmed her destination in black, curling wrought iron. The noise of her tyres on the gravel jumped up as she swung into the drive and she wondered if he could hear it too. The luminous green of her digital clock flipped to midnight: perfect timing. They always had perfect timing.

  She turned the last corner of the sinuous drive and smiled as she saw his car and the welcoming light in the brewery. Then she slammed on the brakes. There was another car. She only needed a split second to take in its identity before spinning round and accelerating back the way she came. Now her heart really was racing, and it wasn’t with anticipation. Her mouth was dry with fear. It was the first time she’d come so close, and even now she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t been seen.

  Kelly had been sitting as patiently as she could in Patrick’s car. Although it was bathed in a pool of light from the office window, she couldn’t help feeling nervous, and she was getting cold. She touched the icy tip of her nose and pulled down the vanity mirror to see if it was going red. As she did so a sudden flash glanced off the glass. She turned, and caught the tail lights of a car disappearing up the hill. She could just make out the number plate mounted on an electric-blue bumper. She frowned. There was only one person with an electric blue car that she knew of.

  She felt glad at least that it had provided her with an excuse. She wouldn’t have liked to interrupt Patrick otherwise. He was strangely unpredictable, all over her one minute and distant the next, and she couldn’t understand why. She scrambled out of the car, smoothed her dress down over her hips and headed into the brewery.

  As she walked into the office, Patrick scowled but Mr Liddiard smiled. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her, but then he was always nice.

  ‘Sorry, but someone came down the drive.’ There was an ominous silence. ‘I was scared; it’s spooky – ’

  Mr Liddiard came over and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. His breath smelled of booze; not all stale and beery like some of her father’s customers, but he’d definitely been drinking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kelly. I didn’t realize Patrick had left you out there all on your own.’ He turned to his son. ‘Why don’t you take Kelly home and I’ll finish up here. There’s nothing we can resolve at this late hour anyhow.’

  Kelly thought Patrick looked rather cross, and she didn’t look forward to the drive home. Nerves, as usual, made her babble.

  ‘I think it was Mrs Oakley’s car. You know, that gorgeous Boxster her husband bought her. Lucky thing…’

  By now, Patrick was looking crosser than ever, and Kelly decided she’d better shut up.

  3

  Mandy Sherwyn sat glumly on her suitcase, hugging her coat round her as protection against the spiteful breeze that was buffeting a new batch of leaves across the drive. The caretaker, had he not already set off for Christmas at his sister’s, would have been exasperated as he’d painstakingly swept the full length of the drive that morning in anticipation of the parents’ arrival.

  A car turned in through the gates and Mandy rose to her feet, but she soon sat down again. No taxi firm her father used would dream of sending an ancient, mud-spattered Volvo to pick her up. She watched with interest as the car rattled to a halt, the passenger door opened and an ebullient Irish wolfhound, looking more like an animated loo brush, ejected itself at top speed. It streaked across the lawn, barking urgently, and proceeded to dig up Miss Cowper’s prize rose bed. A young woman emerged from the driver’s side, oblivious to the dog’s trail of destruction, and ran anxiously up the steps leading from the car park to the wide path that bordered the front of the school.

  As she approached Mandy could see that she was, in fact, older than she appeared from a distance. Late thirties, she guessed, but still enchantingly pretty. Her chestnut hair fell loose and wavy to her shoulders, while her eyes perfectly matched the voluminous toffee-coloured jumper that was obviously cashmere, but was made totally understated by ancient, faded 501s and a pair of suede loafers that were irretrievably scuffed but undeniably expensive.

  Mandy wondered whose mother she could be. She’d thought she was the last to be collected, as taxi drivers had no sense of family loyalty to ensure they were on time. She was surprised, therefore, to see the arched doorway of the side entrance open, and Sophie Liddiard burst out, followed in hot pursuit by her younger sister Georgina, who was for some reason sporting a pair of reindeer antlers

  ‘Darlings!’ The woman gave each girl a quick hug. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. I had to wait ages for the farrier. You know he’s always late…’ The three of them chattered and laughed as they loaded up the end-of-term paraphernalia. They looked more like sisters than a mother and her two daughters. Mandy bit her lip and turned to watch a subdued Rover making its way up th
e drive. This looked more like it. She picked up her case and walked down the steps. As she passed the Liddiards’ car, Sophie smiled at her sympathetically.

  ‘Is this your dad?’

  Mandy shook her head. ‘He’s sent a taxi. He’s away on business till Sunday.’

  Sophie looked aghast. ‘You mean you’re going to be on your own till then?’

  Mandy did her best to make it sound no big deal. ‘It’s OK – the housekeeper’s going to sleep in. And she’ll do my meals and stuff…’ She couldn’t make herself sound convincing. Who in their right mind would want to spend three days rattling about in a huge, sterile house with a half-deaf housekeeper for company?

  Sophie turned to her mother. ‘Can Mandy come back with us?’

  Lucy smiled without a second thought. ‘Of course. If you’re sure your parents won’t mind?’

  Mandy hesitated. She wasn’t used to lowering her guard, and she was embarrassed that she’d made the Liddiards feel pity for her. Perhaps they felt obliged to invite her. She looked at them: Sophie was surveying her with genuine anxiety and her mother’s smile was warm and inviting, not that of someone who’d been cornered. As the taxi driver climbed out of his car and approached her, she suddenly found herself knocked flying by the loo brush, who’d finished her perusal of the flower beds and was now greeting her with a warm, joyous lick.

  ‘Pokey!’ Sophie pulled at the dog’s collar to no avail.

  ‘Miss Sherwyn?’ The driver’s nasal voice betrayed his Birmingham origins.

  In the midst of the chaos Mandy’s mind was suddenly crystal clear. She smiled at Sophie’s mother. ‘I’d love to come. My parents won’t mind a bit.’