Patrick wanted to make that quite clear from the start. Keith seemed to take on board everything he was saying. He asked a few pertinent questions, which Patrick did his best to answer. He knew he was on dangerous ground, bullshitting like this, but Keith appeared to swallow his answers and be genuinely interested.
‘So how much are you looking for? Two? Three?’
Patrick faltered. He didn’t actually have a clue.
Everything he’d said up to now was pure flannel – he’d been thinking on his feet. He didn’t want to be pinned down to actual figures. He spoke carefully.
‘I suppose we’re looking at three. That’s probably what we’d get if we sold one of our pubs.’
Keith frowned.
‘Three hundred thousand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Keith was silent for a moment and Patrick panicked. Had he overestimated the depths of his coffers? Come across as too greedy? Keith smiled. ‘Actually, I was thinking about millions. Two or three million. If you want to do the job properly, surely that’s the sort of figure you’d be looking at?’
Patrick felt a bit sick. How bloody green could you get? Keith must be laughing his head off inwardly. If he could misjudge the amount needed that badly, Keith must know that everything else he’d been saying was utter bollocks. He’d screwed up big time.
They arrived at the hospital and parked in a cowed silence, the uncertainty of what they were to discover inside hanging over them. Keith ushered the Liddiards forwards through the door, with Mandy following anxiously behind. There was something comforting about Keith’s presence, thought Patrick. He felt sure he was a good bloke. Pity he’d messed up his pitch like that.
As they made their way through miles of luminously lit corridor, Keith thought about what Patrick had been saying. He didn’t have much business experience, that much was obvious. But his ideas were spot on, and you couldn’t get away from the fact that Honeycote Ales was oozing promise, given the right hand on the tiller. And Keith rather liked the idea of being a business angel. An image of himself as a fat little cherub hovering over the brewery giving divine guidance came into his head and he smiled.
One door closes as another door opens, he thought, as they arrived at the forbidding entrance of the Intensive Care Unit. Not that he wanted to step into anyone’s grave. He hoped fervently that Mickey was all right. He thought he was a pretty decent bloke, even if he was a crap businessman.
By the time the girls were reunited with their mother, with many hugs and tears, the news was encouraging, The first operation had gone well. Whatever fears the surgeons might have had about internal bleeding were abated, and Mickey was critical but stable. They were happy enough with his progress to start rebuilding his leg, which was going to be a long and painstaking process. But the initial panic was over.
Lucy sent the girls home with James, with promises to ring if anything went wrong. After all, there was no point in them all crowding up the corridor, speculating and drinking disgusting coffee out of the machine. Mandy and Keith were going to stay on for a while with Patrick, then take him back to Solihull so he could collect the Defender and then go home.
Lucy looked a dreadful colour, almost green under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Her head was throbbing. She’d drunk more than she usually did earlier on in the evening, so she’d probably got a premature hangover, never mind the stress. Half of her longed for her bed, but the other half was too wired. Patrick went off for a cigarette, and she wished fervently that she smoked. If she’d ever come across a chain-smoking situation, then this was it.
Keith put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
‘I know it’s what everyone says, but if there’s anything I can do – ’
Lucy smiled at him gratefully.
‘Thank you.’
Keith felt an urgent need to reassure her.
‘He’s going to be all right, you know.’
Lucy’s chin wobbled. Keith thought it would probably be better if she let it all out. He braced himself for a flood of tears. But she seemed to recover herself. She turned to him with something that seemed like defiance.
‘Actually, it would probably have been better for everyone if he’d died.’
Lucy screwed up her eyes, still fighting to hold back the tears, even though she wasn’t sure exactly where to focus her looming grief: on Mickey’s betrayal, her own shame at what she had done or the accident. She pressed her fists into her sockets for a moment to staunch the flow, then realized Keith was looking at her in utter bewilderment.
‘Mickey’s been having an affair. With Lawrence Oakley’s wife.’
Keith thought back to Christmas Day lunch at Honeycote House and Lawrence’s revelations. He was shocked. So Mickey was the culprit, was he? He hadn’t met Mrs Oakley, but she must be something special for Mickey to jeopardize his marriage. Lucy gave him an ironic smile.
‘So you’re in good company. Our respective spouses have both done the dirty on us. What have we done to deserve it, do you think?’
Keith shrugged.
‘I don’t think you necessarily need to do anything to deserve it. I’m sure you didn’t. And I don’t suppose I did either. It’s an occupational hazard once you get married.’ He paused, then smiled ruefully. ‘Sandra was there when I got home. I’ve told her not to be there when I get back. I’ve told her I want a divorce.’
Lucy started chewing the side of her finger. Her nerves were unravelling, fraying at the edges; she felt light-headed. Almost as if she wasn’t there. But she knew she was.
‘How long do you think I should wait before I ask Mickey for one? Till he comes out of surgery? Or shall I give him a couple of days to recuperate?’ She laughed – a trifle hysterically, but she thought she was entitled to be hysterical. Keith blinked.
‘You don’t want a divorce, surely?’
‘Why not? He can screw who he likes then.’
Lucy knew she was overreacting, but she wanted reassurance and somehow she knew Keith would give it to her. He was a romantic deep down. And sure enough, Keith found himself virtually pleading with Lucy. It mattered to him that what the Liddiards had was kept intact. He didn’t care about his own marriage, but he was determined that the perfection of life at Honeycote House, at Honeycote Ales, should be preserved. That way he could be sure it was attainable, that perhaps one day he could find the same perfection elsewhere. It was the Liddiards who’d given him hope, the courage to change his own life. One little flaw, one minor indiscretion on Mickey’s part, wouldn’t shatter his illusion.
‘I’m not divorcing Sandra because she was unfaithful. In a funny way that doesn’t matter to me. It happens all the time; people get tempted. I’m divorcing her because she never cared about us – me and her and Mandy – never thought about us as a family. She always put herself first. Mickey might have been unfaithful, but he cared – cares – about all of you. Anyone can see that. All of you sitting round that table on Christmas Day… you could feel the warmth. You don’t know how envious I felt. I could never offer anyone that kind of hospitality, not in a million years.’
Lucy was about to open her mouth to protest, but Keith put his hand up to stop her. He was in full flow. What he was saying surprised even himself.
‘I know what you’re going to say. OK, so everything’s been blown a bit off-course. But if you don’t forgive him, think of what you’d be giving up. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up in the air. Lucky? Her philandering bastard of a husband had just driven into a brick wall, was on the operating table as they spoke, and she was supposed to be lucky? She’d be lucky if she wasn’t organizing his funeral by the end of the day. She allowed her imagination to wander a bit further – Kay at the graveside, belly swollen with Mickey’s love child, demanding its right to the inheritance. Oh yes, that was OK – she wouldn’t get her hands on that because there wasn’t anything to inherit. Only debts.
Oh God – what was she supposed to
do about the brewery? They’d be starting up again in two days’ time, having worked overtime up until Christmas to cover the demand. She supposed she’d have to go in and give them all a pep talk. She imagined the workers lined up, caps in hand, waiting anxiously for news of the boss. Actually, come to think of it, she didn’t suppose most of them were bothered, not if they’d had any inkling of the state things were in.
Lucy started as she realized Keith was still staring at her. She smiled distractedly. It was so sweet of him to care. To say such lovely things. But he obviously had a romantic view of their existence. He was saying something. What was it?
‘Listen. I’ve said more than enough. But there’s one more thing. I know things are a bit tough at the brewery at the moment – ’
Understatement of the century.
‘If you want any help. I mean, what I know about actual brewing you could probably write on the back of a postage stamp. But presumably that side of things runs itself. I do know about running a business, though…’
Which is more than I do, thought Lucy. Or James. Give him a painting to value or a piece of furniture to date and he was shit hot, but he’d never shown any interest in the brewery. And Patrick could hardly take over. Even though he was starting to sit up and take notice, he was far too young for the responsibility, and his father was gravely ill. There was only so much a young man could take on his shoulders. He couldn’t be expected to make rational decisions under the circumstances.
Lucy smiled brightly at Keith. She was sure he was just being polite.
‘Thank you. You’re being very kind. You’ve already done enough…’
Keith put a reassuring arm round her. She was being so brave. He’d do anything to help, and gladly. He was more determined than ever to do everything he could to save the Liddiards’ marriage, and their livelihood. It would give him the hope he needed, the courage to carry on and start a new life for himself. He had no incentive to pick up the pieces of his own marriage, but if he could help the Liddiards pick up theirs, who knew what he might find along the way?
*
Patrick was pacing up and down outside in a small courtyard where the nicotine dependent hung out – the concrete slabs were littered with defiant nub ends. He was berating himself while he chain-smoked. If only he’d had the balls to stay and confront his father that morning, had talked to him about his problems, instead of turning tail and fleeing to Solihull. They should have got everything out in the open, pulled together like a father and son. They could have made a plan, sorted things. Instead, his father was lying on the operating table. What if something went wrong and he died? He’d never forgive himself. He should have done more. Could easily have done so.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Mandy looking at him anxiously. She was shocked by the distress on his face – a mask of pain that made him almost unrecognizable. She’d seen him slip away when he thought no one was looking.
‘Are you OK?’ She rolled her eyes as she said it. ‘Sorry. Stupid question.’
‘Fine. I just wanted a fag. I hate fucking hospitals…’ There was a catch in his throat. Patrick was horrified. He was going to break down, right in front of her. The harder he tried not to cry, the more he wanted to. Mandy didn’t know what to do, whether to leave him in peace or not. But, she thought, if it was her, she’d want someone with her. So she put a hand on his arm, to tell him it was all right.
‘Shit…’ He was so angry with himself for losing control, but there was nothing he could do. A great tidal wave of terror rose up and engulfed him. Mandy held on to him as he sobbed great racking sobs of guilt and fear. Gone was the arrogant, almost cruel young man on whom she’d once wanted revenge. That seemed so long ago – now here she was holding a boy, a terrified, vulnerable boy. He clung to her fiercely.
‘Shh – he’s going to be fine. Your dad’s going to be fine.’
Eventually his sobs subsided. Mandy continued to hold him, murmuring platitudes as a mother would to a child. And as she cradled him in her arms, Patrick felt a huge surge of warmth. He remembered the feeling dimly from his childhood, when Lucy had found him sobbing, worried that he was going to be sent away from Honeycote, and had scooped him up, consoled him. He’d got the same feeling of security then as he was getting from Mandy now. What he hadn’t realized was that he was so vulnerable, that he needed someone to find strength from. He’d spent so much time recently trying to sort things out. He must have been mad to think he could do it all on his own, like some sort of superhero. That wasn’t what it was all about. What he needed was someone to share things with. Someone to share the hopes, the dreams, the good times and the bad.
He clutched at her hand and as their fingers entwined he felt the courage flooding back into him. She bent to kiss his head, just to give him reassurance. But his face came up to meet hers, and their lips met through his tears.
When Mickey came round from his operations the next morning, he had difficulty sorting out fantasy from reality. He’d had some sort of crazy nightmare about going to burn down the brewery, and then a car crash. Thank God he was now awake. He’d have to do something about these persistent anxiety dreams. Perhaps get some sleeping tablets… He struggled to open his eyes; his lids seemed unnaturally heavy, but he finally managed it. There was a nurse at the bottom of his bed, wielding a chart.
Shit. It hadn’t been a dream at all.
Mickey quickly shut his eyes again before the nurse could notice he was conscious. He dredged about in the sludge of his brain for a few more clues, not particularly liking anything he came across. Intermittent memories emerged: a confrontation with Lucy, though he couldn’t remember the outcome. A meeting with Cowley, but again he couldn’t quite recall the details. Though he was pretty sure it was bad news all round.
Mickey groaned inwardly. What a monumental balls-up. He wondered what sort of state he was in. He didn’t feel as if he could move. Perhaps he was paralysed. Perhaps that was his punishment.
Fear and adrenalin were making his mind race. He tried desperately to assess his predicament. Who knew he was here, if anyone? Had he had any ID on him when he’d crashed? He supposed they’d be able to trace him from the car he was driving. With a sinking heart he remembered he’d been driving the Healey. Patrick’s car. He hoped to God he hadn’t smashed it up, though he supposed by his very presence in a hospital bed that he must have done. It was his son’s pride and joy, and he’d taken it without asking. He was also pretty sure he wasn’t insured to drive it. Patrick would be gutted.
Despite rising panic, Mickey tried to keep his breathing under control, so as not to attract attention. He didn’t have long to decide what to do. All in all, his name was going to be mud with pretty much everyone. His wife, his son, his bank manager. Oh God – and Lawrence Oakley. He felt pretty certain Lawrence was on his tail for some reason. Was there anyone out there who wouldn’t be baying for his blood?
His accident must have been pretty serious. He couldn’t actually feel anything, so no doubt he was pumped up with painkillers, which didn’t bode well. How long had he been here? What day was it? Had he been unconscious for minutes or months? It was spooky not knowing. He supposed he ought to notify his consciousness to the nurse, but he wanted the luxury of a few moments to get his thoughts together.
Even through the fug of the anaesthetic and the painkillers, a bright idea suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps he could pretend to have forgotten everything leading up to the accident. Could you persecute somebody for something they couldn’t remember? He thought it would be pretty pointless. He wondered how easy it would be to feign amnesia. How long could you keep it up, realistically? He could give it a go for a while, then when everyone had forgotten his misdemeanours, when time the great healer had papered over the cracks, he could have total recall. Or perhaps not total – just enough to go back to being his old self with a convenient gap where his indiscretions lay.
No. That was exactly the sort of behaviour that had got him where he w
as now. Cowardly deception. Devious avoidance. A complete inability to face up to his sins. Mickey sighed heavily and the nurse looked up. She smiled brightly.
‘Mr Liddiard.’
She hurried to his side with her chart.
‘How are you feeling?’
Hunted. Persecuted. Terrified. Paranoid. Guilty. How long had she got?
‘Fine,’ he answered flatly. ‘All things considered. How long have I been here?’
‘I’ll go and get your wife. I think she’s down in the canteen. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.’
Wouldn’t bet on it, thought Mickey gloomily. A wave of wooziness came back over him and he wondered what time they brought round the drinks trolley.
When Lucy went to see Mickey, she didn’t know how to behave. You couldn’t berate someone who’d so narrowly escaped the jaws of death, but she felt disinclined to kiss him or even express her relief at his survival. He looked at her warily as she took her seat by him.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m not. I’m too doped up to feel a thing.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Lucy drily, and Mickey flinched.
‘Patrick’s car… tell him I’m sorry.’
Lucy nodded. Mickey reached out a hand to touch her arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
She wasn’t sure if he was reiterating his apology to Patrick or trying to apologize to her. She didn’t really care. Sorry didn’t change anything. It wasn’t good enough.
The consultant appeared. Mickey was going to have to stay in for observation for a while, because of his head injuries. As for his leg – that was going to be a very slow recovery. It had been pinned together in several places, and he was going to have to walk on crutches for weeks if not longer and undergo extensive physiotherapy. They should expect a difficult few months, especially as head injuries could mean character changes, depression. And the leg would be painful.
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