The Family Affair
Helen Crossfield
© Helen Crossfield 2015
Helen Crossfield has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: TEARS
CHAPTER 2: OLIVIER’S PATTISSERIE
CHAPTER 3: AUNTIE ADA
CHAPTER 4: BACK AT THE PATISSERIE
CHAPTER 5: HIGHLANDS
CHAPTER 6: FRENCH BISTRO
CHAPTER 7: BAGUETTE AND CROISSANT
CHAPTER 8: SPRING POSIES
CHAPTER 9: UNCLE ARTHUR
CHAPTER 10: THE CONVERSATION
CHAPTER 11: DINNER WITH THE ROWLANDS
CHAPTER 12: HIGHLANDS REVISITED
CHAPTER 13: LONDON
CHAPTER 14: KEPTON
CHAPTER 15: CLOSURE
CHAPTER 16: THE CHATEAU
CHAPTER 1: TEARS
“Do not stand at my grave and weep,” Beth thought to herself as she looked down at the freshly dug top soil, sodden by a heavy rainfall, her father dead underneath it.
How had it come to this? A lifetime of choices and repercussions followed by silence and the knowledge he was finally at peace.
“Come on love,” her mother said, as she pulled gently at Beth’s silky cashmere coat sleeve. “This is going to get ruined if we stand here any longer. He’s not going to do a Lazarus and come back to life, however hard you wish for it.”
“But I want to understand,” Beth whispered, ignoring the attempt at black humour and figuratively digging her heels in, refusing to budge, “how it came to this …”
“Came to what?” her mother asked, sounding totally exasperated. “Death comes to all of us. Not even Jesus Christ avoided it.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Beth replied angrily, tears pricking at her eyes as she glanced over to the large family grave, the grand one that her father wasn’t buried in.
“Do you honestly think that he cares about that now?” her mother reasoned. “He’s dead. Why the hell does it matter which grave he’s in?”
Beth took a deep breath and looked heavenwards. The oppressively grey sky pressed down on her shoulders like a steel weight.
“It certainly matters to me where he’s buried Mum,” Beth murmured, as she took her mother’s arm – skeletal from the last few months of worry – and led her over to the main Earnshaw grave. “Dad should be in here with Grandpa and Alistair. It’s not right.”
Turning to go, they huddled under a black umbrella with fuchsia pink spots and hurried past a small freshwater stream edged with old burial plots, many of them badly neglected.
Catching etched names and messages of enduring love, Beth dared to wonder if any of their lives had been as complex as her father’s.
And, as her imagination took hold of her, she jumped at the sound of her mobile phone puncturing the silence enjoyed by those asleep in the ground around her.
“As soon as we get out of here I will need to answer this phone Mum,” Beth hissed. “Work is clearly not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Why are they hounding you like this?” Beth’s mother demanded, as they exited the grounds of their local church. “I mean you’re surely not the only person in that office who can write press releases and take calls from journalists?”
“No,” Beth replied slowly. “But I am the only fluent French speaker.”
“OK, but what’s the worst thing that’s going to happen if you don’t go to Paris next week?” her mother responded incredulously. “The rest of them aren’t mute, they’ll have to deal with it or take a crash course in French. Don’t let them bully you into going.”
“It’s not easy to say no to the poisoned dwarf,” Beth replied despondently. “He’s good at controlling me.”
“Your father was the same,” her mother retorted, raising her eyebrows. “You need to wake up and smell the cappuccino. That boss of yours is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“And what does that mean exactly?” Beth asked, finally taking her phone out of her pocket and gasping at the number of missed calls and text messages.
“That he’s charming on the outside but that he’s just in it for himself,” her mother continued. “Julian doesn’t care about you and he’s got a damned cheek to keep calling you like this when he knows you’ve just lost your father.”
“Sympathy is not really his forte,” Beth acknowledged, smiling back in sudden amusement at how much her mother disliked a man she’d never even met.
“You need to put him in his place then,” her mother went on firmly. “Men like him need to control people because they’re out of control themselves. The irony is that bullies are the weak ones. All they want is for you to feel as bad as they do.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Beth nodded in agreement. “And his PA is just as bad if not worse. Just listen to the text she’s just sent me.” Beth read out the gist of message. “She says she went straight back to work after her father died and never regretted it for one moment, and suggests I do the same.”
“Well she is Melissa and not you,” Beth’s mother countered, coming to an abrupt halt. “Has this company got no shame? She’s a PA with a deluded sense of self-importance.”
“She’s pushy alright,” Beth agreed. “And it’s partly because Julian eggs her on but partly because she’s made that way. Those two are well suited. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were having some kind of relationship. They say the same things most of the time.”
Mother and daughter walked on in the direction of home, albeit at a snail’s pace because of Meg’s bunions, the ones she’d had for the last ten years and had point blank refused to have removed.
As they finally got to the front door Beth reached into her pocket.
“Don’t start looking at that phone again Beth,” her mother chastised, as she pushed hard on the handle to ease open the old wooden door frame. “You’ll be jumping to its tune all night.”
“I know,” Beth sighed, keen to get inside. “It’s like an addiction that’s got its tendrils around my neck and won’t let me go quietly.”
“The reason Julian and Melissa keep sending messages is precisely because they know you will answer them,” Meg replied. “They’re bullies remember. You go quiet and so will they.”
“Have you ever thought why I always seem to offer myself up as some sort sacrificial lamb to people like that though?” Beth interrupted angrily, unable to hold back her emotions any longer.
“Keep your voice down,” her mother hissed as she finally got the door to fully open. “Let’s get into the kitchen before we start all of this again.”
“Why should I?” Beth went on, ignoring her mother as they crossed the threshold. “Too many things have been buried too deep for too long in this family.”
“Look, everyone in the world has family issues,” her mother sighed wearily. “You’re becoming unduly obsessed about something that happened a very long time ago.”
“Yes, but not every family refuses to talk about stuff,” Beth said testily. “Working so hard has been a cover, a way of hiding away from my reality because I’ve never known what my reality is. I just wish you and Dad had explained things to me.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” her mother responded, her face now as gaunt as it ever had been from being bereaved.
“We avoided talking about the profound stuff,” Beth continued, “and now it’s all too late because I never asked Dad about the things I really wanted to ask him.”
“Your father didn’t like confrontation,�
� her mother said, wincing at her daughter’s honesty as Beth’s phone started bleeping again. “It was his family. He didn’t want to stir things up and I stayed out of it because that was his wish.”
“Ok. I’ve officially had enough,” Beth said angrily, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the phone. “It’s the poisoned dwarf again and I’m not taking it this time. Maybe the answer is not to go back to work next week and take some time off instead.”
“Well that’s one way of not dancing to his tune,” her mother replied icily as she put some chocolate digestives onto a plate and poured them both a mug of tea. “I can’t remember the last time you took a proper holiday?”
“Nor can I,” Beth admitted, as she reached over and took a biscuit. “But what I do know is that if I don’t go to Paris next week I’m as good as sacked anyway. And the weird thing is I just don’t care.”
“Well that’s a decision only you can make,” her mother replied, letting Bertie, the long-standing family parrot, out of his cage. “But whenever you go back to work, you need to stop letting people like Melissa and Julian manipulate you like a ventriloquist’s puppet.”
“I agree,” Beth smiled, looking down at Bertie as he fluttered onto the table in front of her. “But to make some changes in my life I need a bit of time to think. And that means getting off the roundabout and not having to respond to any of them.”
“And if you take time off,” her mother interjected as she sipped her tea. “What will you do?”
“I haven’t thought it all through yet,” Beth answered, as Bertie started to get restless and crave attention. He’d become her father’s best friend over the years and was also very much bereaved. “But I’ll probably try and speak to a few of Dad’s relatives.”
“What on earth do you want to speak to them for?” her mother exclaimed, putting her mug of tea down firmly on the table in front of her. “You don’t need to make things any more complicated with your father’s family than they already are.”
“Well, it’s something I’ve been thinking about doing since Dad died,” Beth replied more cautiously. “I’ve got a few questions I want to ask them.”
And at the mention of the word ‘Dad’, Bertie started to fly noisily around the kitchen. “Richard,” he seemed to be calling out as he flew across the kitchen. “It’s Richard.”
“For God’s sake Bertie,” her mother pleaded. “Please settle down. We’re trying to have a serious conversation.”
“What is he saying?” Beth interrupted, her heart pounding as she got up to follow the parrot out of the kitchen. “Bertie, come here and tell me what you are saying.”
“No-one has ever had any idea what he is saying apart from your father,” Meg shouted out.
“Are the family secrets so bad that I can’t even ask any of Dad’s family about what really happened?” Beth enquired angrily from the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t go there,” her mother responded. “The family secrets, as you insist on calling them, are largely a figment of your imagination.”
“Then what is the problem with me speaking to Dad’s relatives about the past then?” Beth asked, her eyes widening in anticipation of the answer.
“All I’m trying to say is that there is nothing to gain by asking questions about things that happened so long ago, and you won’t get any straight answers from the Earnshaw family,” her mother replied, sounding utterly exasperated. “They’re all doing very nicely thank you and they won’t want their velvet-lined lives disturbed by difficult questions from you.”
“I disagree,” Beth said. “I think one of them might talk and, anyway, it’s too late to dissuade me because I’m not going to go back to work next week and I’m certainly not going to go to Paris. Nor will I impose myself on you. I’m going to find somewhere else to stay. I need my own space.”
“I’m not saying another word,” Beth’s mother retorted moodily, picking up her mug again.
“Look Mum,” Beth continued defiantly, returning to the kitchen table. “I need to do this for me, and to do it now before it’s too late and there is no-one in the Earnshaw clan left to interrogate.”
And as they sat in stony disagreement Beth kept thinking about Bertie. He’d lived with them for years having been bought a good few years after Alistair’s death when she’d asked for a pet and it was all they could afford.
What on earth had he been trying to say to her? Beth wondered as he flew back into the kitchen and started to peck expectantly at her hand.
CHAPTER 2: OLIVIER’S PATTISSERIE
Beth pressed her nose harder against the patisserie window just to be sure she’d arrived at the right place.
Shops like these normally only existed only in France or trendy parts of London, she thought wryly as she looked at perfectly made fruit tarts and multi-coloured macaroons, all sitting on trays in the window next to baskets of floured baguettes and petit pains.
In her thirty-odd years of knowing the village of Kepton, this was the first French patisserie Beth had ever encountered, and her taste buds started to water as soon as she opened the front door, her heart set on a moelleux.
Inside there were around ten smallish tables filled with an assortment of families and friends devouring exquisite looking cakes and pastries.
A distinctly looking French man, no older than she was, held court as he valiantly tried to deal with the take-away and eat-in demand for his artisan bread and sumptuous looking sugary delights.
It was difficult to see the totality of the man’s face, but the bit that was visible looked incredibly chiselled. Beth did a double take. She’d seen correctly the first time. He was unbelievably handsome.
Fuelled by an unfamiliar sense of excitement, she went to the back of the queue and smiled as she realised it was not just chocolate she wanted but the man as well.
As she waited her turn to be served, Beth wondered how Kepton, of all places, had managed to acquire such a glorious patisserie and such a to-die-for man.
Situated at the gateway to the Yorkshire Dales, it was a town historically known for its pork pies and sturdy Shire horses and, more significantly, a place that had never attempted anything remotely European before now.
When she finally got to the front of the queue, Beth found herself looking into a pair of dark brown eyes. As she scanned the patisserie man’s face close up, her heart leapt into her mouth as she became intoxicated by its symmetrical perfection.
“Yes madam,” the delicious hunk finally said in a very definite French accent, moving his head to one side looking puzzled at her hesitation. “Can I get you a cake or a coffee?”
Did this man have no idea that the question he asked had so many potential answers? Beth thought as she tried to pull herself together.
As she struggled to find the right words to respond, she toyed with the idea of telling him that she wanted pretty much anything that he wished to give her.
It had only taken one look and a few words from him to give her a joie de vivre that had been almost entirely been lacking in so many aspects of her life up until now.
Eventually Beth opened her mouth and tried to answer his question. An inability to force any words out caused her to close it again quickly.
Becoming impatient for an answer, the patisserie man leant in closer and blind-sided her with an inquiring look and a heady perfume of caffeine punctuated with a deep rich sensual chocolate smell.
“Yes, madam,” the Frenchman asked again, this time looking more urgent. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
Forced to respond, Beth’s face glowed a bright shade of pink as she gave him her order.
“Good choices,” he volunteered, oozing Gallic charm as he went away from the counter for a minute and returned with her moelleux. “The coffee will be a few minutes, I’m sorry but … there’s still quite a queue.”
“Yes I can see,” Beth smiled as she looked behind her. �
��I’ve also booked a room here for tonight, so let me know when it’s ok to check-in.”
“Ah. Beth you booked online last night?” the man asked, scanning her face softly for a response.
“Yes,” Beth replied self-consciously, pulling her long hair across her neck to cover the large strawberry coloured birthmark that had plagued her life. “That’s me.”
“I’ll come over and find you if and when the queue gets shorter,” the man said looking curiously towards the part of her body she was trying to cover up. “Find a seat and enjoy your cake, and I’ll bring your coffee over. I’m Olivier by the way.”
“Hi,” Beth grinned back as she picked up her moelleux and paid. “This looks seriously good.”
Walking over to a small wooden table by the window, Beth tried hard to suppress a growing feeling of happiness and to calm the butterflies jostling at the base of her stomach as she took a first mouthful of chocolate.
CHAPTER 3: AUNTIE ADA
After the bustle of the café, the journey from Pickering to Whitby across the dark vast moors of North Yorkshire to see her great Auntie Ada was eerily quiet.
High above, the skyline framed a fabulous palette of primary colours. Azure blue interspersed with bright yellow sunlight and white wispy clouds gliding effortlessly above the spectacular heather-clad landscape.
As Beth got closer to the town itself, she followed the familiar undulating road until the beautiful ruins of Whitby Abbey appeared gaunt and black against the ebbing vastness of a typically grey North Sea.
Taking signs to Sandsend, she drove in the direction of West Cliffs along the familiar coastal road with the sandy beaches.
On past the golf course with its 1970’s clubhouse, before finally turning off down a gravelled drive that led her to a stately looking house with green wooden shutters at each window.
As Beth got out of the car, she took in a lungful of salty air and ran her hands through her hair, nervous about what lay ahead.
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