Honeycote (41 page)

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 was 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.

At the end of the litany, the consultant gave a rather rueful shrug.

‘I suppose you should just think yourself lucky to be alive.’

Mickey sneaked a glance at Lucy, who offered a tight-lipped smile.

‘Depends which way you look at it, really. Doesn’t it?’ she replied.

The consultant looked a little shocked at her tone, but Mickey wasn’t. What did he expect? Of everything, it was going to be his marriage that was going to take longest to recuperate. How much care and attention was it going to need before it recovered? If indeed it did. Was it wrecked beyond repair – a write-off, like the Healey?

Patrick appeared tentatively in the doorway.

Lucy turned away as he went to embrace his father, something she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do. It seemed unconditional love only thrived in your blood. Not in your heart.

Later that afternoon, Patrick stood in the village, solemnly watching a team from the nearby garage extricate what was left of his car from a brick wall and lift it on to a trailer. He shuddered as he saw the passenger side and thought of his father in there. The mechanics were impressed that he’d managed to smash the car up so thoroughly and still survive.

‘Total write-off, mate.’

They sympathized with the young man watching

‘Never mind. Insured, isn’t it?’

Patrick shrugged. They missed the point. You couldn’t just pick up the phone and order another one. It was unique. He’d spent months, years, lovingly restoring the vehicle, painstakingly tracking down the spare parts needed to set it off. You couldn’t put a value on that.

He wanted to take Mickey by the arms and shake him till his teeth rattled. How could you love someone so much, yet totally resent them for fucking everything up? Yet again he thought of his father as a child; one of those winsome-looking brats who were repeatedly forgiven for smashing toys and spoiling games on account of their wide-eyed charm.

For what hadn’t Mickey ruined? His marriage, the brewery, his son’s own car… Was it deliberate, some compulsion to annihilate everything near and dear to him, culminating in his own self-destruction – the one bit he hadn’t actually managed to pull off? There were people like that. Patrick had known a boy at school. He’d had everything on a plate – wealth, good looks, brains – but he’d been drawn like a moth to a flame to drugs. His distraught parents had spent a fortune on rehab, but to no avail. Patrick had felt no pity for him when he’d finally overdosed and died.

Just as he felt no pity for his father now. Only a cold, silent fury that he was putting his family through all this pain and worry. As the Healey was winched on to the back of the truck, he turned to find his uncle standing there in his immaculate waxed jacket, its suede collar turned up to protect him from the cold.

‘If you want a sub. To get another one – ’

Patrick shook his head.

‘If anyone should be paying, it’s dad.’

‘The offer’s there.’ James smiled awkwardly. ‘I know how hard you worked on it.’

Patrick smiled his thanks wanly. James put a hand on his shoulder. Patrick had always been a tough nut; he knew the boy would never admit to needing support, but he wanted his godson to know he was there if he needed him.

‘If there’s anything you want. Or need. You know I’m there. Whatever…’

He was sure Patrick would tell him he was fine. But to his surprise the boy turned to him.

‘Have you ever fallen in love?’

‘What?’ James was startled.

‘All of a sudden. When you least expected it. Hopelessly in love. So you can’t think about anything else?’

James considered his reply cautiously. He wasn’t sure where Patrick was coming from; what he knew, what he might be surmising or insinuating. He’d always been perceptive, and James had a guilty conscience. If he even had a sniff of what had gone on between him and Lucy…

But Patrick’s query seemed to be genuine. He wasn’t being facetious or provocative. He looked in pain, the pain James could remember only too well from all those years ago. And all the years since.

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘What did you do? Did you tell her?’