Honeycote

by Veronica Henry

  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this before. He could already see the brochures. Glossy, exclusive, inviting… they’d be queuing up to view the show-home; buying apartments off plan. Bloody fantastic. Money up front. The whole enterprise would finance itself beautifully. And destroy the last generation of Liddiards. It would be on a par with pillaging and sacking.

  Honeycote Grange. A huge pair of crested, gold-tipped, remote-control wrought-iron gates with an intercom and a video entryphone. Reproduction carriage lamps. Floodlit fountains with piddling cherubs. Lawrence knew that even he would never stoop that low, but it made him chuckle to think of it. That would be the ultimate humiliation for the Liddiards. New money pissing all over their heritage.

  Lawrence had decided on exclusive apartments rather than houses. Because they would need security and maintenance and lots of little added luxuries that you could charge a fortune for. As well as a nice fat management fee. All the grounds could be landscaped and maintained by Barton Court – he could offload all his end-of-line garden statuary. He chuckled to himself. There was something in the saying ‘To those that have…’

  And to those that are in deep shit… Lawrence reached for the phone and dialled Cowley’s home number. He didn’t care if he was settling down to a nice relaxing Boxing Day supper of coronation turkey. This could mean mega bucks.

  That night, at Denham House, both Lucy and James lay awake, but in separate rooms. Lucy had spent a lot of the day asleep, but James had insisted at about three o’clock that they should go out for a walk. He didn’t think it was doing her any good to mope. The fresh air had, indeed, done her good, enough to get her head together to phone Keith Sherwyn and ask him to keep the girls for another day, which he’d said would be his pleasure – he’d take them to the sales.

  But because she’d spent half the day asleep, she now couldn’t. She knew that the next day she was going to have to confront Mickey. There was no point in putting it off. But she didn’t know what to say. Worse than that, she didn’t know what he was going to say. Her greatest fear was that he was going to tell her he didn’t love her any more. Or, worse still, that he never had. She wondered how she could have gone for so long without noticing anything amiss. She went back over the last week, the last month, the last year, looking for signs of dissatisfaction, infidelity, and couldn’t find any. Was it that she wasn’t observant, or was he so cunning and clever that he’d managed to keep it hidden? She felt sick at the thought that the man she loved could have been so actively duplicitous. Had he and Kay spent their time making love and laughing at how easy she made it for them? Lucy tossed and turned as these images and worse tormented her and kept her from sleep.

  Meanwhile, in the room next door, James congratulated himself on getting Lucy safely landed in his net, and wondered how long he should leave it before he made his next move. Was it best to close in while the wounds were fresh and raw, or was that too ungentlemanly for words…?

  At Honeycote House, Mickey lay alone in his marital bed, unable to take the cold chill off the sheets and watching the hands of the clock pass every hour.

  Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in his body was crying out for a drink to help him get to sleep, but he was determined to see the night through. By three o’clock in the morning he was ready to give in, but realized that there wasn’t a drop to be had in the house, unless he took an axe and chopped the cellar door down. But he didn’t want to have to explain that to anybody, so he screwed his eyes shut and counted sheep, which turned into fluffy barrels of beer, until eventually he dropped off into a troubled sleep just before dawn.

  18

  When Patrick came down to breakfast the next morning, he found Mickey surprisingly buoyant and optimistic. He made his son coffee, and Patrick pretended not to notice that his hands were shaking ever so slightly. There was a false heartiness about him that was disconcerting, but Patrick supposed it was better than him wallowing in a morass of self-pity. They didn’t discuss Mickey’s revelations of the day before. Instead, Mickey suggested that Patrick go and collect the girls from Keith and Mandy’s, which suited Patrick’s plans nicely. He didn’t want to be around if there was going to be any sort of confrontation between Lucy and Mickey. He couldn’t think of anything much more distasteful or unsettling. Patrick didn’t like confrontation, unless he was in control. He certainly didn’t like being on the periphery while anyone else washed their dirty linen. And he knew he would feel honour bound to intervene on Lucy’s behalf, whatever happened, because at the end of the day his father was in the wrong. He’d always felt protective of Lucy, because he’d never forgotten how special and important she’d made him feel when he arrived at Honeycote all those years ago, and how she’d never made him feel marginalized even though Sophie and Georgina were her real daughters and he wasn’t related to her in any way. But he really didn’t want his loyalties put to the test, because he loved his father too. So Solihull was definitely a safer option. He took the keys to his father’s Defender, even though it was the most uncomfortable ride known to man, as Lucy had the Volvo.

  At about half ten, Mickey phoned James. He picked up the receiver and dialled before he could give himself time to think about it, and spoke heartily to his brother when he answered.

  ‘James – is Lucy there? We need to speak.’

  James was taken aback by his brother’s lucidity. He thought he sounded surprisingly perky, and not at all drunk. He’d have put good money on him being plastered, even at that time in the morning. So wrong-footed was he that he went to get Lucy without demurring.

  Lucy was wary.

  ‘Hello?’

  Mickey was deliberately upbeat.

  ‘I just wanted you to know I’ve done the horses, so you needn’t worry.’ Actually, he’d rather enjoyed it. He thought he might do the mucking-out every morning. It helped clear your head and it was good exercise trundling barrows full of manure to the muck heap and back.

  ‘I wasn’t worried. I assumed you and Patrick could manage it between you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mickey was a little put out that his gesture had been devalued so instantly.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I thought we should… talk.’

  There was a pause that could only be described as icy.

  ‘I’ll come over some time this morning. I’ve got to pick up some clothes anyway.’

  Pick up some clothes? That didn’t sound good. That sounded as if she wasn’t planning on coming back in the near future. But Mickey told himself that once they’d spoken, once he’d reassured her and given her a demonstration of how he was going to mend his ways, then she’d mellow.

  They said their polite, distant goodbyes, then Mickey charged around the house making sure everything was spick and span, even vacuuming up the needles under the Christmas tree. He carefully hung the picture Lucy had got him for Christmas in a prime spot in the drawing room, splashed on some aftershave, got out all the paraphernalia to make fresh coffee… He was pleased with his handiwork and even more pleased with the clearness of his head. Even when he didn’t have a hangover, hadn’t actually overdone it, he always felt slightly sluggish in the mornings.

  Perhaps it was a good thing that all this had happened. He was meant to stand back and take an objective look at where his life was going. This was going to be the new regime. No drink, fresh air, exercise… and it wasn’t even time for New Year resolutions yet.

  Mickey felt his stomach lurch into his mouth as he heard a car coming up the drive. It couldn’t be Lucy yet, could it? And anyway, Pokey was barking her head off, so it must be a stranger.

  He looked out and suddenly his bullishness evaporated into thin air. Every fear and anxiety he’d had in the past couple of days came washing back over him. It was Cowley. And Mickey was pretty sure he hadn’t popped by to drop in a belated Christmas card.

  Graham Cowley hadn’t liked Lawrence Oakley’s attitude one little bit. There was a hidden assumption that when Lawrence said jump, y
ou said ‘How high?’ And although Cowley liked to play the deferential bank manager, it was only when it suited him. He hadn’t taken at all kindly to being phoned the night before and ordered to a meeting when he should have been relaxing at home. His wife had been very slitty-eyed about it, and rightly so. She’d made it quite clear that if he wasn’t back in time for his pheasant casserole at lunchtime, he needn’t bother at all.

  They’d met in the Little Chef off the main Evesham Road. Cowley, who was always five minutes early for any appointment, had got there early so he could choose his spot and not give Lawrence the upper hand. And then Lawrence had swept in, put the cards on the table and told Cowley exactly how they were going to play them. He was presumptuous, to say the least. The truly galling thing was that of course his plan made total sense, on every level. But Cowley was going to admit that over his dead body.

  He wondered how it was that Lawrence was so well informed about the state of Honeycote Ales, and then reasoned that you didn’t need to be John Harvey-Jones to work it out and Lawrence was the type of businessman who saw opportunities before they presented themselves. He was like a vulture, pouncing on his victims before they even stopped breathing, pecking out their eyes before their blood had become cold.

  Lawrence spread out a sketch of his plan for the brewery on the formica table. He’d worked on it all night, using the computer programme that the landscapers used in the garden centre. He’d put in all the features – the trees, the fountains, the rose beds – and it looked thoroughly professional. He was inordinately proud and thought he wouldn’t mind living there himself. Excitedly, he outlined the project to Cowley, who was frowning.

  ‘If it’s planning permission you’re worried about, don’t be. The council will be falling over themselves to make that brewery residential. They don’t like the traffic, you see. All those heavy delivery lorries thundering through Honeycote.’

  ‘But it’s a great source of employment locally.’

  ‘Rubbish. They employ what – twenty max? And the project I’m talking about would employ that many easily in terms of maintenance. Plus it would bring the right calibre of resident into the village – people with money to spend. They’d rejuvenate the post office, the pub, attract other small businesses to the area…’

  Suddenly, Cowley felt incredibly protective. In particular because the thought of losing Honeycote Ales was a travesty. It was local history; it was local economics, for God’s sake. It had kept the village afloat for nearly a hundred and fifty years. OK, so he’d pulled Mickey in before Christmas, read him the riot act, painted him a pretty grim picture of what could happen if he didn’t get his act together. And they hadn’t been empty threats at all. But if he could stop Honeycote Ales being sacrificed in the name of progress, to the likes of Lawrence Oakley, then he damn well would. It was a matter of pride to him.

  More to the point, Cowley didn’t hold with Lawrence’s description of the ‘right calibre of resident’. It was bad enough that young people who had been born and bred in Honeycote had no hope of purchasing a house there, not when a simple three-bedroomed cottage would set you back the best part of a quarter of a million. Council houses were as rare as hen’s teeth and most of them had been bought by their owners so they were out of the loop. Converting the brewery into luxury apartments would only drive the prices in the village ever higher, making it even more exclusive and out of reach, and Cowley didn’t approve. He’d seen enough young men and women forced towards Evesham, towards starter homes on faceless estates that little resembled the rural idyll they’d been brought up in and were no longer allowed to be a part of.

  There was a hiatus before Cowley could give his reaction, while the waitress brought coffee for them both. Cowley added cream and sugar and stirred deliberately slowly. He then took a sip, put his cup down carefully in its saucer and shook his head.

  ‘It’s out of the question. I consider it of utmost importance to both ourselves and the community to keep Honeycote Ales afloat at all costs.’

  ‘Let’s put it another way,’ said Lawrence reasonably. ‘How would the bank manage if Honeycote Ales went bankrupt and Barton Court moved its business elsewhere? You’d be up the proverbial creek without a paddle, wouldn’t you?’

  Cowley drew himself up with dignity.

  ‘If that’s a threat, then I think I’d better pretend to ignore it. Contrary to what you might think, our branch is not entirely dependent on the input of your business. And I wouldn’t be a very good manager if I allowed my judgement of one client to be influenced by another.’

  Lawrence gritted his teeth. He had to admit that he was rather flummoxed. Graham Cowley wasn’t playing ball at all. They were talking about large sums of money here. Millions, in fact. Which in a small branch like Eldenbury was make or break. He didn’t have time to mess about, though, so he changed tack. In his experience, if threats didn’t work in the first instance, bribery was always worth a go.

  ‘Let’s put it yet another way.’ Lawrence paused for a moment, then leaned forward. ‘What do you think of the new Jaguar?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Oakley.’ Cowley put his coffee cup to one side, got up from his chair and left the room without shaking Lawrence’s hand, which was the biggest insult he knew. Lawrence pushed his drawing away with impatience, managing to spill coffee all over it in the process, then snarled at the waitress when she dabbed at the mess ineffectually with a damp cloth. Frustrated, he scrunched the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the bin on his way out.

  Cowley drove his sensible bank manager’s car out of the car park. He laughed to himself as he looked back at the morning’s conversation. Lawrence Oakley wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. What on earth did he imagine people would think if they saw Graham Cowley driving around in a Jag? They’d know he was on the bung.

  He thought he ought to have another word with Mickey, make sure he knew what people were saying about Honeycote Ales and reassure him that the bank really would be there to support him. The pep talk before Christmas had been a short, sharp shock designed to galvanize Mickey into action, shake him out of his complacency – Cowley had known Mickey long enough to know that would be the only tactic that would work. It was the sort of talk a headmaster gave to a promising but recalcitrant pupil in order to frighten him into doing well in his exams. He hadn’t really meant any of his threats. Well, obviously if Mickey didn’t pull his finger out, things could turn nasty, but he thought he’d seen the writing on the wall and was getting it together. Though judging by Lawrence’s meeting today, word had already got out, which was a bad sign. Confidence was being lost.

  He looked at his watch – there was just time for him to call in at Honeycote House and be home in time for his casserole, served with steaming mash and his wife’s slow-cooked red cabbage.

  When Sandra opened the door of The Cedars to Patrick Liddiard, she looked him up and down with glee. She welcomed him in effusively and he caught the whiff of gin fumes.

  ‘They’ve gone to the sales. Never content, are they, women? They always want more.’ She flashed him a conspiratorial smile containing several grand’s worth of cosmetic dentistry.

  ‘I thought I’d come and collect them. I suppose I should have phoned.’ Patrick surveyed Sandra curiously, seeking any evidence of a genetic link between her and Mandy. She had a good figure for her age, he had to admit that – but somebody really should have had a quiet word. No one over twenty could carry off mock croc trousers if they didn’t want to be laughed at.

  ‘Never mind. You can come in and keep me company till they get back. I was starting to get a little bit bored. What’s your poison? Gin and tonic?’

  ‘I’ll just have a beer. Thanks.’

  Patrick followed Sandra tentatively into the house and watched in alarm as she poured herself a hefty top-up and got him a Bud.

  ‘Fancy a nibble?’

  There was so much innuendo in the query that Patrick felt suffused with relief when she popped open a can of Pri
ngles and pushed them towards him. He wondered what time the girls had gone to the sales and prayed that they wouldn’t stay out too long. Hopefully they wouldn’t be in need of too much so soon after Christmas, but he knew James had given Sophie and Georgina spending money tucked inside zebra-skin purses, for which they’d covered him in grateful hugs and kisses.

  Half an hour later, while Sandra was regaling him with a detailed account of her weight for the past twenty years, he accepted a third beer. He was going to be over the limit, but he didn’t have to drive back straight away. He flipped off the top and knocked it back.

  ‘… the minute I go over eight and a half stone, that’s it. Fruit juice and steamed vegetables until I’m back on target. There’s absolutely no need to let yourself go just because you’ve reached a certain age.’

  She smiled wolfishly at him and Patrick assumed he was supposed to say something.

  ‘I can see you’re in great shape.’

  She positively glowed and rested a hand on his arm.

  ‘You’re a sweet boy.’ She squeezed his biceps and raised her eyebrows appreciatively. ‘I can see you are too.’

  He looked down with distaste at her silvery-pink talons, imagining them embedded in his flesh. He tried not to shudder. Older women fascinated him, but there was a limit. He also tried to bury at the back of his mind the old adage about looking at the mother if you wanted to know how a girl would turn out…

  Cowley had only stayed at Honeycote ten minutes. He didn’t even really want a coffee, but Mickey insisted and rushed round finding sugar bowls and cream jugs like a cat on hot bricks. He just wanted Mickey to know that word was out; that someone had made an offer on the brewery. Mickey looked perturbed.

  ‘Is it one of the big breweries? Why didn’t they approach me direct?’

  Cowley looked uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s not another brewery. It’s a private purchaser – he wants to do a residential development.’