Honeycote (11 page)

When the deed had been done Lucy had come into the kitchen while her father washed his hands. A look of concern had crossed her face when she’d seen James’s angst. She’d put a timid little hand on his arm and reassured him gently: ‘You did the right thing. You couldn’t have let him go on suffering.’ An arrow had pierced his heart, injecting him with sweet agony as he fell head over heels in love. But he’d thought she was barely more than a child – fifteen or sixteen – and he didn’t feel he could add child-molesting to the rumours that were already flying round, so he kept his distance. He cursed himself many a time after, for he’d left the door wide open for his brother, who had no such scruples and besides had bothered to do his homework and discovered that Lucy was older than she actually looked. Strangely, the horses at Honeycote suddenly seemed to need more veterinary attention than ever before and Richard Soames and his daughter became regular visitors.

And so, one fine summer’s evening less than a year later, James had suffered indescribable torture when Mickey carried Lucy, shrieking with laughter, into the Honeycote Arms and announced he was going to marry her. James had wanted to warn her then, take her to one side, tell her she was one of many, that Mickey was sleeping with most of the girls in the county – all the good-looking ones, anyway, and some of the ones that weren’t. And tell her the salutary tale of the first Mrs Liddiard, the true story, not the watered-down version that Mickey would have given her, the one that depicted him in a good light.

No one had been surprised when Carola had fled Honeycote House not long after Patrick was born. It was obvious to everyone that Mickey wasn’t going to tolerate her, especially when she started whinging about further education, a career and a life of her own. Aghast at the prospect of a
Guardian
-toting and hirsute wife (he’d once revealed to James in a shocked tone that Carola never shaved under her arms), Mickey had given her a quick divorce and a handsome settlement, enough to put a deposit on a small flat and finish the degree she felt had been so unfairly snatched from her. He’d put Carola and the solemn, round-eyed Patrick on the train to Paddington, waved them goodbye and, apart from getting horribly drunk in the pub that night (which was hardly out of the ordinary), seemed unaffected by their departure.

James had been shocked by the callousness of this behaviour, and although he’d never said anything had felt rather ashamed of his brother. He certainly couldn’t bear the thought of Lucy, a fragile little creature perched by the fire where the flames leaped joyfully in the hearth, suffering the same fate when inevitably Mickey tired of her in the course of time. But of course he’d said nothing, just given Lucy a congratulatory kiss on the cheek and accepted Mickey’s invitation to be best man. He supposed it was fraternal loyalty: a dull trait that boring old farts like him felt strongly about and shits like Mickey didn’t know existed.

And now it was nearly twenty years later, and Lucy hadn’t been duped and cuckolded and made a fool of, as he’d feared. Her skill with horses obviously worked on humans, for it seemed as if she had tamed the incorrigible Mickey, much to the disappointment of legions of women in the county who’d come to look upon him as fair game. Of late, though, James had been suspicious of his brother’s behaviour. He knew the signs only too well; knew how susceptible Mickey was to flattery; knew that when he was under pressure he capitulated easily. And he’d seen the way Kay Oakley looked at him. James recognized the flicker of desire in her eyes and strongly suspected that her needs were not unrequited.

But he still couldn’t bring himself to say anything to Lucy, because deep down he had a terrible fear that if he did she would never forgive him for shattering her illusions, and might even come to despise him for being the bearer of bad tidings. Thus James heard himself adopting a falsely hearty tone, and hated himself for doing it.

‘I expect it’s business. Everyone’s up against it these days. I’m sure trade’ll pick up now it’s Christmas.’

He smiled reassuringly. Standing there in the gloom of the stable, fiddling with Phoenix’s lead rope, Lucy looked ridiculously young, like some refugee from Pony Club camp in her jodhpurs and polo neck, strands of chestnut hair escaping from her plait. James knew she was far from convinced, but she smiled back at him with a slightly helpless shrug.

‘Oh well, come and have some lunch.’

In the kitchen, over bacon sandwiches and a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio, James suddenly felt grateful for his streak of cowardice. He knew he could never live up to his brother. He’d always known that. That was why, from the very beginning, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with the brewery. It was Mickey who’d been moulded and groomed to take over from their father. Of course, had James wanted a position, there would have been one, but he’d always shied away from anything that allowed him and Mickey to be compared.

The irony of it was, of course, that James would have made a far better managing director than Mickey. He was shrewd, quietly cunning and had an unerring gut instinct for the right time to do things. Just after Mickey had taken over at the helm, James swapped the majority of his shares in the brewery for the freehold of one of the pubs in Eldenbury high street. It had seemed like a fair swap at the time: the pub was surplus to requirements as most of the brewery’s trade was done from the Horse and Groom, and there seemed no point in Honeycote Ales competing with itself at such close proximity. James had converted half the pub into an art gallery, which proved to be a roaring success with the wealthy tourists that flocked to Eldenbury both winter and summer. The other half he’d converted into a house for himself, a painstaking period renovation of a gentleman’s residence that doubled as a showroom for the antiques he was also trading in. Soon he’d acquired enough of a reputation to focus on exporting container-loads of antiques to the States, where he had dealers practically queuing up on the docks to wait for his wares. And now he was wealthy enough to be able to please himself and delegate the running of the gallery, so there was nothing really taking up his time.

But despite his success, despite the wealth that he was waiting to share with someone and despite his elegant town house that was decorated with the ultimate in good taste, he suspected Lucy could never really want him. She belonged here, in the chaotic warmth that was special to Honeycote House, and with Mickey: reckless, dissipated, randy but nevertheless sexy and exciting Mickey, who was all the things that safe, reliable, predictable, good old James wasn’t.

Later, when Mickey came back with Sophie and Georgina and an extraordinary creature with endless legs and a Birmingham accent, James said his hellos and then his goodbyes. He slipped away quietly and made himself a cup of tea in the solitude of his Smallbone kitchen, which never rang with laughter or tears or arguments or debate. He barely ever ate there. Mrs Titcombe, his cleaning lady, scrubbed his state-of-the-art oven once a month even though it was probably never even turned on, in direct contrast to the Aga at Honeycote, which had years of Sunday roasts encrusted upon it. Perhaps he should start cooking for Caroline. Perhaps he could discover a new passion to patch up the empty hole in his life.

Mickey told him time and time again that what he needed was the love of a good woman, but in James’s view Mickey had pinched the only one worth having and he couldn’t summon up any strength of feeling for any other. He considered his relationship with Caroline. She was twenty-nine, flame-haired (Mickey said ginger), feisty (Mickey said aggressive) and striking (Mickey said tarty). It was ironic that Mickey was so staunchly anti-Caroline, that he incessantly asked why James bothered with her when he could probably have any girl he wanted, and had the nerve to refer to her as a tit-flaunting little tart. James privately thought that Mickey was scared of Caroline, who was pretty assertive and, James was certain, enjoyed torturing Mickey by refusing to flirt with him.

Anyway, he didn’t need his brother’s approval. It wasn’t as if he and Caroline were heading for the altar: if James couldn’t have Lucy he didn’t want to marry anyone. And even if the fucks Caroline gave him in return for the money he lavished upon her were heartless and loveless, James had enough experience to know they were good ones. He’d dragged this up in her defence one drunken night when Mickey had attacked him for being taken for a ride, whereupon Mickey had retorted that she’d had enough practice. James had thought that was a bit much coming from him, but could hardly say that in front of Lucy, so he bit his tongue.

James flicked the remains of his tea into the sink and carefully rinsed out his cup, reflecting for the hundred millionth time in his life on what might have been.

Then, as he wiped the cup on the crisp linen tea towel left out by Mrs Titcombe, he allowed himself for one luxurious moment to dwell on what might yet be. Mickey had looked the worst he’d ever seen him and he’d guzzled down the remains of the Pinot Grigio before you could say knife.

Stealing wives might not be part of James’s moral code. But rescuing them wasn’t out of the question. Even if it meant standing by and watching his own brother hang himself.

It was bloody freezing and Patrick shivered under the battered flying jacket he always wore for driving the Austin Healey in winter. He turned up the heater and slid the Stereophonics into the CD player to take his mind off the cold. By the time the car had warmed up he was turning into Barton Court and had to slow down to manoeuvre the speed bumps.

He could never be sure why it was he felt so responsible for his father’s behaviour, and felt such a need to rectify his faults without ever placing the blame firmly at his door. He found it strange that he could both worship and despise Mickey; look up to him and yet at the same time look down. It was almost as if the roles were reversed, with Patrick an indulgent father and Mickey some recidivist toddler whose sins were repeatedly forgiven on account of his charm. Largely, of course, what Mickey got up to was none of Patrick’s business and didn’t affect him in the least. But his misdemeanours of late were becoming an increasing threat on many counts.

Patrick knew the brewery was in big trouble. He knew, because he couldn’t find them, that the bank statements wouldn’t hold good tidings. Bitter remarks from the men who worked round the clock about late payment of wages didn’t go over his head, nor did worried queries from the tenants. And he felt ashamed that he couldn’t meet their eyes and give them reassurance, even though he felt responsible for their welfare, for he had no power and no knowledge. But he was keenly aware that his own father held these people’s futures in the palm of his hand.

Confrontation with Mickey was pointless. The phrase ‘in denial’ could have been coined especially for him. Patrick didn’t know what he could do to halt the decline. He could hardly overrule his father, as he was no great businessman himself and only had a couple of years experience at the brewery. Running to the bank was out of the question, as he couldn’t risk drawing Cowley’s attention to the situation. For the moment, therefore, Patrick had set himself the task of trying to discover the extent of the damage through espionage, and then perhaps going to James for advice. James had never shown any great interest in how things were run at the brewery, but he was still a shareholder, albeit a minor one. And he was his godfather, so Patrick knew he could trust him, that anything he said would be treated in confidence. Furthermore, James bore the Liddiard name, the name that was in danger of being besmirched. He would help him uphold the family honour.

What Patrick wanted more than anything was reassurance that there was some way out of this mess that wouldn’t bring disgrace on the family. He’d seen too many documentaries about bankruptcy, erstwhile millionaires having to sell their last possessions and falling on the mercy of friends and relatives. When he let his mind wander far enough, he saw himself back on his mother’s doorstep, and her mocking smile. She’d love it if Mickey failed. She’d feel it was poetic justice for his greedy, capitalist ways. Not to mention revenge for snatching Patrick away all those years ago, trumping her with his cash when she’d fallen on hard times. Patrick couldn’t actually remember the events all that clearly, but he’d been told the story often enough and now it had become legend.

After Patrick and his mother had left Honeycote House, visits to his father had been rare, but one day Mickey had turned up in Ladbroke Grove to take his son back home while Carola went on some hippy-dippy trail of self-discovery. Mickey had been appalled by the flat they were living in, whereas Carola had been proud. It was student accommodation she and her mates had got on the cheap – sub-standard council housing because the bath was in the kitchen. Too fucking right it’s sub-standard, Mickey had thundered, and had grabbed the bewildered Patrick. The drive up the motorway had been terrifying, as Patrick could only ever remember being in a bus, not a car driven at ninety miles an hour. Mickey had got Patrick back to Honeycote that night, and managed to find him some cornflakes, before tucking him into a huge bed piled high with blankets in a room with its own fire. Patrick had gone to sleep warm for the first time in months. He awoke, curious but wary. His father clearly thought the world of him, but didn’t have a clue what to do with a small boy.

Mickey had been living alone in the house. After Patrick and Carola had left, James had only stayed at Honeycote for six months before moving to Eldenbury to renovate the pub. He seemed to be continually coated in brick dust and plaster. Mickey, meanwhile, was barely capable of looking after himself, let alone his son. Luckily, the daily help made them porridge for breakfast that first morning, which Patrick and Mickey both wolfed. Then Mickey had taken him to see the horses. He’d put Patrick on his favourite chestnut and the little tot had felt on top of the world. It was a turning point for both of them. Patrick whooped with excitement, letting his feelings show for the first time in front of his father, and Mickey was proud. His son was born for the saddle. From that moment on, he was determined he should be brought up at Honeycote.