Honeycote (22 page)

Despondent, she turned away, but not before a sign in the window caught her eye:
EXPERIENCED SALES NEGOTIATOR WANTED
.

She mulled the prospect over in her mind. She could talk her way into the job, she knew she could. And she’d be good at it. And once her foot was in the door, she’d get advance notification of the best properties coming up on the market. She wasn’t sure what sort of salary a senior sales negotiator commanded these days, but it was certainly more than the big fat nothing she was earning at the moment.

She was in the middle of outlining her experience to the office manager when the door opened and a tall young girl with a cloud of red hair whirled in and interrupted the proceedings. She’d had her house valued by them earlier in the week, and wanted to put it on the market straight away, although the agent protested that less than a week before Christmas was hardly ideal. The girl was insistent, however. She’d been offered a job designing kitchens in London and needed to move the first week of the New Year. She’d be heartbroken leaving the Coach House, she said, but it was a career opportunity she couldn’t turn down.

Kay’s ears pricked up at the mention of the Coach House, and she lingered and eavesdropped as the agent persuaded the girl that there would be no one available to type up particulars or, indeed, to show prospective purchasers round for the next two weeks at least, but they would be delighted to take the instruction on in the first week of the New Year. Kay was appalled by the agent’s apathy and lack of professionalism – she herself would have had a signature on the dotted line and a board up before you could say knife – but she had a feeling that this was probably par for the course in Frome. Besides, their slack approach was going to work in her favour. She slipped out of the office and waited round the corner for three minutes before the girl appeared.

‘Listen, I couldn’t help overhearing you in there. Your house sounds just like what I’m looking for. Could I have a look at it?’

The girl looked at her slightly warily

‘I’m a cash buyer. If I like it, I’ll give you what the agent valued it at, and you’ll save yourself the fees.’ She smiled winningly. ‘A couple of grand wouldn’t go amiss, surely? Especially if you’re moving to London.’

The girl’s eyes lit up at the thought.

‘Where are you parked? You can follow me.’

She had difficulty keeping up with the girl, who whizzed through the warren of Frome’s backstreets, littered with junk shops masquerading as antique shops that might, nevertheless, contain treasures if you looked hard enough. Finally the girl led her up Maddox Street, which was tiny and narrow with barely any room for parking. Kay bumped the passenger-side wheels of her car up on to the pavement outside the stout red door of the Coach House with its heavy wrought-iron knocker.

For once, the term ‘deceptively spacious’ applied, for what seemed like a modest terrace on the outside hid a home of quite dizzying proportions. As its name suggested, it had been the coach house for its more substantial neighbour, and had retained all the architectural charms, being a magical mixture of stone walls, flagged floors, deep, warm pine doors, black beams and wrought iron. The huge living room stretched up for two storeys, heated by a wood-burning stove, and a glorious set of French windows led out on to a tiny walled garden. The rest of the house was cunningly built on several different levels, with steps leading up and down to a snug but efficient bathroom, or a light-filled studio area, or a pretty but useless little balcony. The kitchen positively oozed warmth, fuelled by a dark green oil-fired range and fitted out with a simple but hand-built kitchen of reclaimed oak. All the walls were painted a crisp, bright white. Fixtures and fittings were understated but tasteful. It needed nothing doing to it.

Half an hour later, against her better judgement and all the negotiating skills she’d ever learned, she found herself offering the asking price, cash, for a quick completion. She wanted to be in as soon as possible after the New Year. The girl hugged her, and hoped she’d be as happy in the Coach House as she had been. Kay hoped so too.

By five o’clock, Kay was exhausted. Trying to find a hotel so soon before Christmas had been a struggle, and she wasn’t unaware of the irony of the timing and her condition. She had eventually hit upon a charming inn four miles outside Frome that had just had a cancellation. Wearily, she made her way up to her bedroom and congratulated herself on finding a perfect haven, with its oak floors, tapestries and a huge stone fireplace with crackling logs. She sank on to the four-poster bed and drank thirstily from the bottle of sparkling mineral water on the bedside table. Feeling a little more refreshed, she assessed her predicament.

She’d found herself a home – hopefully, subject to all the usual hoops home-buyers had to jump through. And she had an interview just after Christmas for the negotiator’s job – the manager from the estate agent had phoned up on her mobile to confirm it. If she got the job she’d bloody well shake that office up – little did they know they’d lost a sale through their apathy.

There was just one more thing to organize, but Kay felt too shattered to face that particular hurdle. She got as far as picking up the local phone directory, but her eyes became heavier and heavier as she ran through the list of names and she finally fell into a deep, much-needed slumber.

Next morning, she awoke feeling refreshed. She treated herself to bacon and eggs, as she’d missed supper the night before, and a long, hot bath. Then she steeled herself and picked up the phone book again. There was one more thing to arrange before she could relax. She looked up the local doctor’s surgery, registered herself as a temporary patient and made an urgent appointment. The GP she saw was grave, young and as sympathetic as could be expected as she explained her plight: she was pregnant, it was unwanted and she needed to arrange a termination as quickly as possible.

The doctor explained he’d have to give her a routine examination before proceeding with the formalities. He’d waited for her to get dressed again before asking her to sit down. Somehow, Kay knew from the expression on his face that all the plans she had so successfully made in the last twenty-four hours were out the window.

‘I’m afraid a termination is out of the question.’

She started to protest.

‘I’m quite happy to pay. I don’t care how much it costs – ’

‘It’s not a question – ’

‘Look, I’m on my own. I haven’t got a job. How can I possibly – ’

The doctor had cut her off.

‘Mrs Oakley, you’re five months pregnant. Well past the cut-off date for an abortion. I’m sorry.’

11

Patrick was keenly aware that he had been neglecting Kelly. Not only during but since the night of the dance, and he felt about as guilty as Patrick ever felt about anything, so he got in his car and drove down to the Honeycote Arms.

The welcome he got was as unexpected as a slap in the face. He was lucky he didn’t get one of those as well. Kelly marched out with her hands on her hips before he’d even got out of the car.

‘I don’t know how you can show your face here.’

‘Look – Kells. I’m sorry about the dance. Sophie was as sick as a dog and I had to take her home. There was no time to tell you – ’

‘And no time to phone me since?’

‘It’s been hectic at the brewery.’

‘Yeah. I suppose you’ve been planning what to do with the profit from this place.’

Patrick frowned.

‘Or hasn’t your father told you his plans?’

‘What?’

‘He’s selling the place from under us. You can imagine what sort of Christmas we’re going to have, while you all sit up there drinking yourselves stupid and feeling pleased with yourselves – ’

‘Kelly, Kelly – hold on. Who told you this?’

‘Your dad told my dad.’

‘I didn’t know – I promise.’

‘Would you have done anything about it if you had?’

‘Of course!’

‘Crap. There’s nothing you can do, Patrick. Honeycote Ales is going bust. Everyone knows it. I expect we’re just the first in a long line of loyal and faithful tenants you’re going to evict – ’

‘Evict?’

Patrick looked wildly round for evidence that this was some kind of a joke. But in his gut he knew it wasn’t. He tried to put a reassuring hand on Kelly’s arm.

‘Let’s go somewhere for lunch. We can talk about it. I’m sure things aren’t quite what they seem. I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong somewhere.’

‘No, Patrick. I haven’t. What I got wrong was thinking there could ever be anything between you and me’.

Kelly looked at Patrick with contempt and turned on her heel, slamming the door to the pub with a finality he knew not to challenge. He felt chilled to the bone. And deeply ashamed. Ashamed that he could be so ignorant of what was going on at Honeycote Ales. This was serious. This was people’s lives that were being fucked around, not just the mere tightening of the belt his father had hinted at once or twice. Patrick had been worried that he might have to swap his car for something less glamorous. How shallow did that make him?

Patrick sank despairingly back into the driver’s seat and felt totally powerless. If only he’d paid more attention to the way things were run at the brewery, maybe he’d be able to see a way out. Instead, he had next to no idea of the damage that had been done. He knew they had massive overheads. He knew they weren’t turning over a huge amount. He knew they faced competition from all the other pubs and restaurants in the area. But all those things had been the case for nearly as long as the brewery had been running. They’d always survived before.

He needed to look at the paperwork. He needed to know exactly what was going on and what could be done about it. He didn’t trust his father to be doing the right thing, necessarily. If Patrick was guilty of pratting about when there was hard work to be done, then so was Mickey, in spades. Kay was evidence enough of that. And he knew Mickey would go for the easy option, because he always did.

Patrick rammed the car into first, and sped off down the road towards the brewery.

Kelly watched out of the window a little sadly. She’d never kidded herself that she and Patrick had any great future together, but it had been good fun while it lasted. She shrugged and turned away. Never mind – there were plenty more fish in the sea. Someone else would turn up and whisk her off. Girls with 34D chests and size ten hips never stayed alone for long.

In the meantime, her parents needed her support, which meant she could hardly go sleeping with the enemy.

Ned had spent all morning selling mistletoe at the farmers’ market in Eldenbury. It was Friday, and Christmas Day was on Sunday, so the world and his panic-stricken wife had come out in force to buy their free-range turkeys and organic vegetables. Luckily most of them had been quite taken by the idea of a sprig of mistletoe to hang in the hallway, so by midday he’d sold out completely and had a satisfying pocket of cash. It was one of the few perks his father allowed him – every year he drove the tractor round the farm gathering every sprig he could lay his hands on, which he then sold for a pound a go. He didn’t bother keeping any for himself. There was only one girl he wanted to kiss and he knew it was going to take more than a paltry piece of mistletoe to win her over.

He’d felt sick to his stomach for the past few days. Ever since the night of the dance. So much so that he, Ned Walsh, who could wolf down half a dozen rashers of bacon, several eggs and the best part of a loaf of bread for breakfast alone, had barely eaten. For he’d been hit by a thunderbolt: he was totally, utterly and hopelessly in love. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d never realized that feelings could knock you off your feet like this, even a proverbial brick shit-house like him.

Sure, he’d had girlfriends. Several. And he supposed he’d loved a couple of them, in that he’d have been extremely upset if they’d been squashed under a tractor. But when their dalliances had come to a mutual, natural end, he hadn’t spent much time grieving. On to the next, that was his motto. But this time it was different. He couldn’t get the vision of this particular girl out of his head. And he couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone about it. He was embarrassed that he felt so vulnerable.

He’d managed to hide his feelings the night of the ball with his usual high jinks and shenanigans, suppressing his confusion by learning the whole routine to that Steps single, at which he was now perfect. He didn’t think anyone had guessed how he really felt. Especially not Patrick. He thought Patrick would probably deck him if he knew the thoughts he’d been harbouring about his sister. Well, half-sister.

Ned had been gobsmacked when he’d seen her. He’d known she was coming and he’d been looking forward to having a laugh with his old mate. He’d expected her to turn up in her usual maroon velvet, slightly podgy, slightly flushed. ‘Sofa’, he’d always called her, and she hated it, thinking he meant that she was the size of one. When she’d appeared, Ned had barely been able to stutter out a few words of greeting and had fled to the bar to recover from the shock of this new Sophie.

He’d wanted to talk to her, desperately. But he didn’t know how. He was terrified. He couldn’t believe that he’d once snuggled up with her in makeshift tents, totally unselfconscious, giggling, sharing midnight snacks. Now she was this unapproachable goddess. He’d watched in agony as she’d circulated the room, men flocking to her side like bees to a honeypot. She’d had an air of confidence he’d never seen before. She always used to hang back at social gatherings, squirming with shyness if anyone spoke to her and had always been grateful for Ned’s company, as he’d shielded her from any unwelcome attention. The night of the ball she’d barely spoken two words to him. Then, like Cinderella, she’d disappeared. The only thing he could be grateful for was that she’d gone with Patrick. She’d been taken ill, apparently. He hadn’t seen her since. Normally in the holidays she phoned him up straight away, to go fora ride, or to the flicks, or just to go to Honeycote for spag bol and Budweiser. But he hadn’t heard a word. Obviously, he didn’t fit into the lifestyle of the new, streamlined Sophie. Gloomily, he made his way out of the market and over to the Horse and Groom. He felt like getting totally trolleyed.