by Ali Ryecart
“On the back seat,” Roland barked. He only meant the rucksack, but Georgie climbed in after his pack.
“Thanks,” Georgie mumbled as he pulled on the seatbelt.
“I was referring to—oh, never mind.”
Roland put the car into gear and crunched his way along the gravel path towards the gates that opened onto the narrow public road. Instead of driving through, Roland pulled up, and a small man dressed in Pendleton Manor livery limped out from the booth, and made his way over.
“I thought everybody had gone,” the man said, squinting through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I was about to lock up. Anybody else coming?”
Roland shook his head. “No, Sid, I’m the last. How’s the leg? I hope it’s not giving you too much trouble?”
“You’re very kind to enquire, Mr. Fletcher Jones, and you’re the only one who ever does. It’s the weather, you see, the cold and damp always play havoc. I’m getting old. Maybe it’s time to retire.” Sid laughed.
“Nonsense. And no talk of retiring, the place wouldn’t be the same without you. Here, a tot or two of this should help.”
Roland reached into a large bag in the footwell of the passenger seat.
“Happy Christmas.” Roland held out a heavy bottle, filled with dark gold liquid. “And give my best wishes to your wife.”
The man’s face lit up. “Why thank you, Mr. Fletcher Jones. I most certainly will have a tot. But not just me, because a splash of this will light up like a treat on top of the Christmas pudding.”
Roland answered with a tight smile. The brandy was top quality, almost a hundred pounds a bottle.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, he’d received dozens of packages and parcels. They’d all contained the best of this and the best of that. Top of the range festive food, artisan chocolates, and alcohol from the many suppliers he dealt with, all wishing him, as Executive Chef and master of the kitchens at Pendleton Manor, the season’s greetings.
He never kept a thing that was sent to him.
Each and every gift, designed to ensure his good custom for the coming year, was given to his staff. He made sure everybody got a share of the booty. His gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, to Georgie, hunched up by the door and looking like he wanted to melt into it. Had his young kitchen boy, whose big eyes always reminded him of a deer caught in the headlights, received anything? Roland couldn’t remember, but it was too late to worry about that now. The brandy was the last of it, a forgotten bottle Roland had spotted at the last minute.
With a wave and a happy Christmas, Roland drove through the wrought iron gates. Swinging the car around to the right, Pendleton Manor disappeared from view.
“I’ll take you to the top of the high street, and then you can walk the rest of the way. It’s only about ten minutes from there.”
“Thanks. I can contribute to the petrol.”
“What?” Roland threw a glance at Georgie through the rearview mirror, and was met with a steady, grey-eyed stare.
“A fiver should do it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m giving you a lift, but I’m not a bloody taxi.”
The boy really thought he’d take his money? Roland rammed the gear stick forward, grinding the gears. As soon as he could dump Georgie in town, the happier he would be and so would Georgie, if his reflected image, staring out over the barren fields, was anything to go by.
Chapter Three
The snow had begun to fall in earnest almost as soon as they’d turned onto the road. Julia had been right, and Georgie hoped she made it home in her little car without any mishaps.
He couldn’t say the same for Roland, silent and stiff-shouldered behind the wheel. Or not until he’d dropped him near the station. After that, as far as Georgie was concerned, the guy could take a wrong turn and get lost in the snow for all he cared. If his car broke down, and he was found half-eaten by wolves months later, so much the better. Not that there were wolves in Hampshire, and not that he wished Roland to end his days as a meal for them. Georgie suppressed a sudden snigger. No, he didn’t wish that, because he loved animals and Roland would only give the poor things indigestion. Or food poisoning.
The silence in the car was deafening. Roland hadn’t said a word to him from the moment he’d offered a contribution towards the petrol. Georgie didn’t care that Roland had said no, he was going to give Roland the fiver even if he had to stuff it up his very tight arse.
Georgie wasn’t even going to try to make small talk. It would be painful for them both, but he especially wasn’t going to when the man was treating him as though he were not there. Not that that was anything different to what usually happened, except when he was being chastised for not doing things right, or fast enough, or in the right order. Georgie champed down on his lower lip. Roland always seemed to be tearing him a strip, criticising him for not being that, for not being this, and always in front of the whole kitchen, and making him feel stupid and smaller than small. And everybody followed his lead.
Georgie glared at the back of Roland’s head. A few silver strands intermingled with his short dark auburn hair. The man was only just forty, Georgie knew, and he was already going grey. Or silver. Those telltale hairs should have aged him, Georgie wanted them to age him, but instead they made him look distinguished. Just like the small creases at the outer edge of his eyes did, which were only really noticeable when Roland smiled. Not that the man did much of that. But, if Georgie really, really, really was forced to admit it, the combination was kind of hot. But it didn’t matter how much Roland was rocking the whole silver-fox-in-training look, he was still an arrogant dick who was on a mission to make Georgie’s life a living hell from the minute Georgie walked into the kitchen at some godforsaken time of the morning, to the moment he trudged his way to his tiny attic room that was no bigger than a cupboard, bone-tired and demoralised, hours and hours later.
The snow was falling at a steady rate, coating the surrounding fields and the low hedges lining either side of the road.
They were on the main road that took them directly to town, but there was no other traffic, either up ahead or behind them. That lift he thought he might have hitched had been nothing more than wishful thinking. Georgie licked his lips, because it was better than gritting his teeth. As much as he didn’t want to be in the car with Roland, he wanted even less to be wading through the snow. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the back of the passenger seat.
“Thank you for doing this. I’m sorry if it takes you out of your way.”
“You need to be more organised. If you’re not organised, things go wrong.”
Georgie clenched his jaw. He was saying thank you, he was acknowledging he was an inconvenience, and all Roland could do was come back at him with a nasty little barb. Georgie knew it was about way more than his oversight in not arranging transport to the station.
Well, fuck you.
Georgie slumped back into the seat. Why couldn’t the man be civil? He didn’t have to say he didn’t mind, because they both knew that was bollocks. Roland could have just nodded, but instead he had to have his little dig.
Georgie stared back out at the snowy countryside, drumming his fingers hard on his knee, willing the car to go harder, faster, anything so he could jump out and not see Roland Fletcher Jones’ scowling, grumpy face for the next couple of weeks. But Roland was driving neither hard nor fast as big, fat flakes beat against the windscreen, the rapid swish, swish, swish of the wipers no match for the snow.
It would be a while before they got to the station. Georgie settled back into the soft, plush leather. The car was warm and comfortable, the purr of the engine deep and seductive, and he closed his eyes.
God, he was tired. In the last few weeks, he had worked harder than he had ever done before. Not that he was afraid of hard work, and he loved to be busy, but he wanted to be busy doing more than scraping plates clean of leftover food, washing up, and mopping floors.
He ran a thumb across his kn
uckles, and winced. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know how cracked and dry his hands were. Bernardo, second only to Roland in disdainful, snotty arrogance, insisted that all the wine glasses were washed by hand, but Georgie was allergic to the rubber gloves he’d been provided with. They had brought his hands out in painful welts and blisters, and he’d been forced to abandon them as he waited for the promised replacements that wouldn’t make his hands swell up like giant hams. They hadn’t materialised. Day after day, the constant plunging of his hands into hot soapy water felt like it was ripping the skin from his bones, leaving them raw and stinging.
Maybe it was time to move on from the Manor. Maybe stay in London. But life there was expensive, and with no home of his own and with nothing more than the goodwill of friends to put him up… His options weren’t just limited, they were non-existent. He was trapped. But maybe the New Year would bring a change to his fortunes, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Ensconced in the warmth and comfort of the car, with the background drone of the engine, he could dream about a new and better life, even if he couldn’t live one.
“Oooffff!”
Georgie was thrown forward hard, and yanked back even harder, by his seatbelt, from the semi-doze he’d fallen into. They’d stopped. Were they already in town? Georgie blinked hard and looked out of the window, seeing not the shops and houses or the sign pointing to the station but—
Jesus.
Snow, nothing but snow. The fields and hedges were a featureless mass under the heavy white blanket. It hadn’t been as thick as this before he’d dropped off — had it?
Huge flakes whipped against the windows as the snowfall came down heavy and fast. Georgie had no idea how far they had got since they left the Manor, and it was impossible to know where they were, as the snow obliterated any recognisable features.
“Why have we stopped?” Georgie asked, as he leaned forward. What he saw, filling up the windscreen, answered his question.
A big red metal sign, with the words road closed ahead, blocked their way. A smaller sign, next to it, was made of wood, and had an arrow pointing to a narrow side lane, with the word diversion painted on it.
Georgie swallowed. If the main road was bad, the back lanes had to be worse. But worse or not, they had no choice as the way ahead was closed off.
“God knows how long it’s going to take to get into town. This route will take us all around the houses. I’ll be annoyed if this interferes with my dinner reservation.” Roland swung the car into the lane.
Georgie said nothing. At least Roland had a swanky meal to look forward to, which was a lot more than he had. It was on the tip of his tongue to say sorry, but he bit it back. Why the hell should he be sorry? It wasn’t his fault it was snowing. It wasn’t his fault the road was closed. It wasn’t his fault they had to take a diversion. None of it was his fault, but Roland was making him feel bad when he had no right to. Anger, too hot to hold in, bubbled and fizzed and burned in Georgie’s chest.
Fuck his horrible job and horrible life.
Fuck being seen by everybody as the lowest of the low.
Fuck being ignored by everybody and treated like he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as them.
And fuck Roland Fletcher Jones for letting it happen.
If Pendleton Manor’s Golden Boy sacked him on the spot, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck.
“I’ve inconvenienced you. You didn’t want to give me a lift, I get it. The only reason you’re doing it was because Julia forced you to. Well, she isn’t here and your commitment ends. Stop the car. I’ll walk the rest of the way, because even this weather’s more forgiving than you. And before you sack me, I resign. Stuff your poxy, slave wages job. Stuff Pendleton Manor, and most of all, stuff you!”
Georgie’s face burned, his breath came in hard and ragged gasps. His blood rushed through his veins, its whoosh filling his ears. He’d thrown away his job and the lodgings that went with it, but he didn’t care, he didn’t give a damn.
He didn’t give a fuck, flying or otherwise.
God, what had he just done?
The car lurched to a halt. In the front seat, Roland threw off his seatbelt and swung around.
White faced, his dark green eyes hard and glittering, Roland glared at Georgie.
“You’re right. I was cornered by Julia. I didn’t want to give you a lift. You irritate the hell out of me because you’re a waste of space in my kitchen. How many times have you broken the dishwasher? Three, four times? You screw up the simplest job, and I should have dismissed you long ago. But I haven’t, because Julia gave me some sob story about you needing a chance, a foot in the door to a professional kitchen. I went against my better judgement, but I agreed to give you six months to earn your place. Your first four months have been little short of disastrous and I don’t see the remaining two being any different. But I committed to giving you six months to prove yourself, just like I committed to giving you a lift to town. When I agree to something, I stick with it. You will stay in this car, understand?”
Georgie’s eyes burned and he pressed his lips tight.
He was a waste of space. He screwed up. He was a failure. Did Roland think he was telling him anything he didn’t already know?
Georgie’s anger rushed out like a wave, as humiliation flooded in to take its place.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, unable any longer to meet Roland’s eye. “I shouldn’t have—”
“If you’d spoken to me like that in the kitchen, you’d have been dismissed on the spot, promise or no promise to Julia, but,” Roland said, exhaling a deep sigh, “we’re not in the kitchen, and in this weather,” he added, peering out into the featureless whiteness, “you’d be stranded within minutes.”
Georgie nodded, his throat too thick to speak.
Roland swung around, rebuckled his seatbelt with a hard click, and started up the car.
Georgie, hunched up against the door, said nothing, gazing out of the window as Roland steered through the twisting, winding lane.
The way had become narrower, Georgie was sure of it, the hedges clawing at the car on both sides. Neither spoke, the silence heavy and tense.
Georgie felt stupid, he’d behaved like a child throwing a tantrum, but he was tired, so tired, of being seen and treated as little more than nothing. He wouldn’t last at Pendleton Manor beyond his probationary period, no way was that going to happen. Hadn’t Roland said that? But if Roland could see it out, then so could he. He’d come back in January, keep his head down, add as much as he could to his meagre savings, and then go back to London. But God alone knew what he was going to do, or where he would end up living.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Roland braked hard, causing the car to skid a little, bumping Georgie out of his dark thoughts.
“What—?” Georgie leaned forward.
Another road ahead closed sign. Just as before, there was also a smaller wooden sign, pointing them towards yet another narrow lane.
Georgie’s brow puckered. There was something not quite right about the smaller sign, which he hadn’t registered until now. It wasn’t official looking like the big red metal one, and he was sure he’d never seen wooden road signs before. He tilted his head. The word diversion, and the arrow, had a hand-painted look about them, but he didn’t have time to think on it for too long as his gaze switched to the digital clock on the dashboard. Georgie’s eyes widened. They’d been on the road for almost two hours. How was that possible? There was no way, now, he was going to make his train. At least he’d booked an open ticket, so he could pick up a later one. It was his one sensible decision in what felt like a sea of blunders.
Roland took the turn because he had no choice, but whether it was taking them towards town, or away from it, Georgie had no idea.
Chapter Four
The land around them was barren and white with no sign of any living thing or any human habitation. Georgie shuddered, but he didn’t quite know why. Sure, this was the countryside but it was
hardly remote. He’d explored the surrounding area when he first came to Pendleton, on his one day off a week, glad only to be as far away from the kitchen, Roland, and the rest of the staff as he could get. There were farms and small villages littered around every bend in the road, but today there was nothing, nothing but whiteness and the ever falling snow.
The car inched along the lane. Despite his earlier outburst, Georgie was glad of the lift. There was no way he’d have got far on foot, and then he’d have been stuck. Roland had said he’d get him to the station, and Georgie believed him. Whatever he thought of the man, he knew he’d keep his word.
Georgie glanced at the rearview mirror. Roland’s dark green eyes were trained on the road ahead of him, his face set, resolute and determined, reminding Georgie of the hero of a Hollywood blockbuster. How could a guy who was so damn mouthwatering be so bloody sour? Georgie went to look away, but Roland’s gaze shifted, meeting Georgie’s. Roland’s eyes narrowed, just a little, before his attention returned to the road.
Roland would get him to town, but what then? Georgie had a choice of two other trains later, but he doubted they’d be running in this weather. His heart fell. The town’s station was on a branch line. He was meant to get his connection to London from Southampton. It only took a couple of inches of snow to grind the country to a halt, but this wasn’t inches, it was feet. Georgie swallowed. There was no way he was going to get back to London today, which meant a freezing cold night spent in the station waiting room. He didn’t have the money for even a cheap budget hotel, not that the small country town had any of those. The place was wealthy and well-heeled and one night, just before Christmas, would cost him more than he earned in a month.
Georgie blinked as his vision misted. Could his life get any worse? He wouldn’t cry, he refused to cry, and he’d definitely not cry in front of Roland Fletcher Jones.
“I don’t believe this.” Roland leaned forward over the steering wheel.
