Honeycote (43 page)

Patrick spent the first few days after Mickey’s accident high on a cocktail of anxiety and adrenalin. As soon as Keith was established in the driving seat, he breathed a sigh of relief, but realized he was going to have his work cut out for him. Keith wouldn’t tolerate slackers, he could see that. Not that he wanted to slack. He couldn’t wait to get his teeth into putting Honeycote Ales back on the map.

But until he’d seen Mandy and found out where he stood, he was in agony. After baring his very soul to her that night at the hospital, he felt naked and exposed. For the first time in his life, he really cared how someone felt about him. But he was too proud to go and ask. He couldn’t bring himself to phone her. What would he say? He’d just have to wait until fate conspired to bring them together again, which he hoped wouldn’t be long. He was working closely with her father, after all.

He didn’t have long to wait. Mandy arrived at Honeycote House early one morning with Keith, who had some papers for Lucy to take to the hospital and sign. She wanted to see Monkey, who was still waiting for the farrier. Patrick jumped at the chance.

‘He’s in his stable. We can go and turn him out, if you like.’

‘Great.’

They went out to the stables, where they changed Monkey’s stable rug for a New Zealand and Patrick watched as Mandy fussed over the little horse that had once belonged to him. They led him out to a paddock and watched as he trotted round in a circle, then lay down and luxuriated in a roll.

‘I’d better go and muck him out.’

‘It’s OK. Mum’s got a couple of girls from the village helping out while dad’s in hospital.’

‘No. I want to.’

She was determined, and Patrick admired her for it. She didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. She was so unlike the little piece of Birmingham white trash he’d mistaken her for. He watched as she shovelled manure into the barrow, which he duly trundled over to the muck heap. When he came back, she was shaking out a bale of fresh straw. He took a deep breath.

‘Are you still free tomorrow night?’

Mandy looked at him, puzzled.

‘New Year’s Eve? My mate’s party?’ He remembered asking her on Christmas Day. When he hadn’t really cared what her answer was, because he’d only been after her for her father’s money. How things had changed.

‘Oh yes. Um – I don’t know. It depends if dad’s up to anything. I don’t really want to leave him on his own….’ She sounded reluctant and Patrick’s stomach turned a somersault of disappointment. Then she seemed to think better of it. ‘Actually, I’m sure he won’t mind. New Year’s Eve’s not such a big deal for grown-ups, is it?’

‘Great.’ Patrick smiled, struggling to contain his jubilation as she smiled back at him. To his amazement, he couldn’t find the bottle to kiss her. He’d never hesitated before, had always chosen his moment and pounced regardless with no fear of rejection. But suddenly he was rooted to the spot.

In the end, it was Mandy who leaned her pitchfork against the stable wall, curled her arm round his neck and pulled him to her. A little later they walked back into the kitchen, their eyes sparkling and their cheeks flushed…

*

Kay turned her car into Merton Drive, watching heads spin round in amazement. It wasn’t the sort of place you saw a Porsche Boxster very often, being a safe, sensible, dull cul de sac filled with three- and four-bedroomed semis whose owners lacked both imagination and ambition. Kay thought it didn’t look any different from the days when she’d lived there, apart from the odd conservatory that had been tacked on and the fact that the more adventurous had stained their larch-lap fences green rather than brown. She pulled into the drive of number twenty-seven and stopped. She knew the curtains over the road were twitching, even without looking.

She wondered if they were in. Her dad didn’t like to open his shop in between Christmas and New Year. If people couldn’t be bothered to buy their meat in advance and stick it in the freezer, that was their lookout. He deserved a holiday as much as the next person.

It had taken her a few days to pluck up the courage. She’d stayed on in Frome to build up her strength, emotional rather than physical, coming to terms with what was now her future. The days had been all right. She’d gone back to the hospital for advice, bought some books on giving birth, wandered round Mother-care familiarizing herself with all the bizarre paraphernalia that was going to be part of her life.

It was the nights that had got to her, the time when tiny little niggles become huge worries that then explode into panic. That was when the white-cold fear hit her, serrating her stomach. The compulsion to phone Lawrence had been overwhelming. She’d told herself he wasn’t a monster, that surely he’d take pity, and more than once she’d grappled in the darkness for her mobile phone. Then she’d remembered his face when he’d shown her the letter and she’d put the phone back, curling up into a ball and waiting for sleep to take her through until daylight, when she could cope again.

She got out of the car and tried to walk up the path with an air of confidence to stop the neighbours speculating. But when her mother opened the door and a look of joy spread itself over her face on seeing her daughter, Kay’s resolve collapsed.

‘Mum…’ She threw herself into her mother’s arms. Sylvia held her, drew her gently inside and shut the door. Her father, Charlie, appeared, alarmed.

‘Whatever’s the matter? What’s he done? I’ll bloody kill him!’

Kay sobbed further. Her father’s loyalty knew no bounds. Here he was, ready to protect her at all costs, when she’d barely acknowledged their presence over the past ten years.

‘Ssh, Charlie. Leave her be. Go and put the kettle on.’ Tea was Sylvia’s solution to everything.

‘But what’s the matter?’ Charlie wasn’t going to be fobbed off.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s pregnant. Aren’t you, love?’

Kay nodded, still unable to speak through her tears, but knew from that moment on everything was going to be all right, as her parents welcomed her with open arms, never reproaching her for her neglect in recent years, the infrequent phone calls and even less frequent visits. Nor did they ask any probing questions. By the end of the evening, she was settled into what had been her old bedroom, with its pink candlewick bedspread, and was sitting down to her mum’s Irish stew made with her dad’s best end of lamb.

22

On New Year’s Eve, the consultant said that Mickey could go home. He seemed to think he was doing him a favour, but Mickey quite liked the security of the public ward.

Lucy came to collect him. They drove home in relative silence. It was quite obvious to Mickey that he shouldn’t expect banners and champagne and a welcome home cake. As they came up the drive, he cleared his throat and tried to sound conversational.

‘Are we doing anything for New Year’s Eve?’

Lucy glared at him.

‘Strangely enough, Mickey, I haven’t actually had time to organize anything. What with you nearly killing yourself and trying to stop the brewery going bankrupt.’

Mickey could have cried. It was so unlike Lucy to be sarcastic. What did he have to do to make it all right? He’d tried to say sorry, but she didn’t want to talk. He held out some hope that once they were on home territory, things might get easier. Hospitals were hardly the place for a heart-to-heart; for conducting life-saving surgery on a twenty-year marriage.

But it was not the case. Far from it. Mickey was shocked when Lucy told him in no uncertain terms that she thought it was better for him to sleep in the sitting room.

He walked in, and saw the sofa bed pulled out and made up with proper sheets and blankets, and various of his belongings in place. It looked very cosy. And very permanent. Lucy didn’t meet his eye.

‘It’ll save you walking up and down stairs. With your leg.’

They had a dismal New Year’s Eve. Lucy produced a saucepan of limp pasta with a shop-bought sauce and ready-grated Parmesan. No salad. No wine. Patrick had gone out with Mandy and the girls had decided to stay over at some friends. Mickey felt a tiny bit hurt that they hadn’t been there to welcome him home, until Lucy admitted she’d forgotten to tell them he was being let out. That’s how important he was.

As he lay in his made-up bed and watched the countdown to midnight on the telly, Mickey thought he couldn’t feel less significant or more of a shit. And the worst of it was, he deserved it.

In Merton Drive, Kay’s brother Dan had brought round a bottle of Asti for his parents to see in the New Year. He was five years younger than Kay and had a gruelling job as a psychiatric nurse. He wasn’t impressed to see his sister. He waited till his mother was out of the room before he laid into her with a sneer.

‘So it’s all gone tits up at the big house, has it? Come running home to mum, have you? You’ve got a nerve. You’ve cut her dead for the past ten years, with your bloody airs and graces and your posh car – ’

Kay was gutted. Dan was articulating the sneaking shame she’d felt in the back of her mind, but had managed to suppress. She couldn’t even find the nerve to defend herself. He was right. How could she expect her mum and dad to drop everything and help her out?

Sylvia found Kay wiping away tears in the kitchen.

‘Dan didn’t mean it. He has a tough time. That wife of his doesn’t lift a finger to help him; he works all the hours God sends and all she does is moan about what they haven’t got.’

Kay was inconsolable.

‘Look, love. Dan was annoyed because I was supposed to babysit for him tonight. I said I couldn’t because you were here – ’

‘You should have, mum. You didn’t have to worry about me.’

‘I babysit for him plenty of times. Don’t you worry. Let her parents have the bother for once.’

Sylvia was very comforting, and Charlie, who was over-anxious to protect his daughter, said Dan deserved his ears boxed for speaking out of turn. As Kay lay in bed later, after sharing a tiny glass of Asti with them both at midnight, she thought of the vintage Dom Perignon she’d have had if she’d been with Lawrence and tried to convince herself she was happier where she was. Then she remembered she’d forgotten to cancel the dinner party she was supposed to have been hosting that evening and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Lawrence didn’t know whether to laugh or cry either when he realized at six o’clock that he had ten dinner guests arriving at eight. Bloody Kay – she’d done it on purpose, he was sure. What the fuck was he supposed to do? It was too late to take them all out for dinner – anywhere decent was fully booked. He phoned Kelly, who calmed him down immediately. What he liked about her was she wasn’t remotely phased by his tantrums. And she was good in a crisis.

She turned up as good as gold an hour later with provisions provided by her mother’s ample store cupboard, and Lawrence left her to it as she laid out a buffet while he showered and changed. His heart sank when he came down in his dinner jacket just as the doorbell rang. There on the dining table were battalions of scotch eggs and pork pies, vats of coleslaw and potato salad, and what Kelly had to identify as slices of cold black pudding. And pickled beetroot, for Christ’s sake…

He got away with it. Just. His guests thought it was the height of ironic chic, and Lawrence played along. But he couldn’t help thinking of the exquisite dinner Kay would have laid on. Even if she hadn’t cooked it herself, it would have been faultless. Not that he could blame Kelly. She’d done her best, bless her. And at least they’d had vintage Dom Perignon to wash it all down.

At The Cedars, Keith was revelling in a bit of solitude. He’d worked his balls off at Honeycote for the past few days, and the last thing he wanted was a knees-up. He’d seen Mandy safely off for dinner with Patrick and now he was going to sit down with a plate of cheese and biscuits and a nice bottle of red wine, and go through all the details he’d been sent

The estate agent hadn’t even had a chance to get the particulars typed up properly before they’d had an offer on The Cedars. The buyers were in a position to proceed and so Keith accepted the offer; he wasn’t even tempted to hang on for a better price, so eager was he to get shot of it. Then he’d phoned round all the estate agents in the Eldenbury area.

He knew what he wanted: an old, character property that he and Mandy could put their own stamp on, something not too large, but with a couple of acres so she could have Monkey at home. And it wasn’t long before he thought he’d found the perfect place – a substantial cottage, in need of renovation, with a little paddock and a crumbling stable block and several outbuildings, one of which he felt sure would convert nicely into an office for him. It was in Kiplington, a little village about four miles away from Honeycote. It was ideal, and what was more the price didn’t seem too bad as it needed quite a bit of work. They could do it up and sell it for quite a profit, he mused.

Then he stopped – this wasn’t supposed to be a moneymaking opportunity. This was a chance for a home, rather than a house, which was all The Cedars had ever been. He thought of Honeycote House. That was the feeling he wanted to create – a warm, inviting environment, which made you never want to leave. Though even Keith had noticed a frosty chill in the air of late…

When the phone rang at midnight, he picked up the receiver warily. It was Sandra, drunk and sobbing, wanting to start again. She was staying at a friend’s and Keith imagined that she’d already outstayed her welcome. But he hardened his heart. There was no hope of a reconciliation; she’d be hearing from his solicitor… He felt a hint of remorse at that one. He’d got the best divorce lawyer in Birmingham, on the recommendation of a friend who’d been victim to the lawyer’s ruthlessness and been taken to the cleaners by his wife.

Hanging up the phone, he wondered if he should have been less harsh. Lucy was a dignified example; she’d taken Mickey back. Was he a bad person because he couldn’t find it in his heart to give Sandra a second chance?

Patrick and Mandy decided to skip his mate’s party. They wanted nothing more than to be alone together, so they went out for a meal in Cheltenham and spent all evening gazing at each other over food that might as well have been sawdust for all the attention either of them paid it. They talked about everything. His dream was to take his next Healey, if he ever got one, on a rally across the Alps; hers was to become a good enough rider to start competing on Monkey in the summer. They both agreed they would help each other achieve their ambitions. Mandy offered to be his co-driver, even though she was a shocking map-reader. And Patrick offered to coach her on Monkey. After all, he knew all the tricks the little horse might pull; all his strengths and weaknesses.