Just a Family Affair Page 9

  So when Mayday passed her a cup of tea, Elsie waited until her back was turned and poured it quietly down the sink.

  Four

  That afternoon’s meeting at Honeycote Ales wasn’t exactly official. But all the board members were going, and Elspeth, the brewery receptionist, had laid out proper cups and saucers for tea and a plate of shortbread, which lent an air of formality to the proceedings.

  Patrick arrived first. The afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows, making the wood of the mahogany table gleam. The whiteboard had been wiped clean from the last sales meeting. Patrick put his notes down on the table in front of the space he had chosen for himself, and wondered whether to write his bullet points up on the board. No, he decided. He’d wait and see where everyone else lay before he showed his cards.

  He looked through the typewritten notes Elspeth had printed out for each board member: the balance sheets, the quotes and the projected sales figures, a gloomy collation of pie charts and graphs that showed their profits were plummeting. His stomach churned slightly. The writing might not actually be on the wall yet, but they weren’t far off it. It seemed as if they continually took one step forward and three back. No sooner had the Honeycote Arms won Gastropub of the Year in one of the Sunday papers, than they were hit with an industrial tribunal from one of their staff for unfair dismissal. The case had clearly been a set-up, but times being what they were, and employers evidently being evil and exploitational, they lost the case and had to pay a hideous amount of compensation to the silly cow.

  Then they had won a contract with a new chain of pizzerias to supply their bottled beer, only to discover that the Peacock Inn was subsiding and threatening to slide down its own beer garden and into the river - they’d had to close it immediately, and lost its comparatively substantial income. Added to that, there was absolutely no doubt that a lot of the machinery in the brewery was tired and worn; they had reached the point where it was counterproductive to keep repairing it. They needed a complete refit, and goodness knows what would be uncovered in the process - the brewery was held together by years of dust and cobwebs, and to disturb it was asking for trouble. And, of course, they were still trying to recover from the ghastly incident with Roger Sandbach, landlord at the Horse and Groom.

  He should have listened to Mayday, thought Patrick. She had phoned him any number of times with dark warnings about Roger’s drinking and gambling habits. But every time Patrick had called in to see him, Roger had been perfectly steady on his pins, and the books had been in order.

  ‘You think I’m crying wolf.’ Mayday’s dark eyes had been accusing. ‘But why would I? People talk, Patrick, and you’d do well to listen. He cashes up, takes the money down to the bookies on the way to the bank, sticks a load of bets on, collects his winnings, puts back what he borrowed, takes our money to the bank and keeps the rest. OK, so he’s got some great tips, and nine times out of ten he cleans up. But it’s going to go wrong, Patrick. There’s no way he can keep it up. And you know gamblers. They get greedy. One day he’s going to make a bet he can’t afford to lose.’

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Mayday, who he knew had her ear to the ground and was privy to the secrets of most of the great and the good of Eldenbury, as well as the not so great and the downright bad. It was just that he didn’t want the landlord of his biggest establishment to be putting the hotel takings on the three-thirty at Cheltenham. So he had ignored her warnings, until the day Roger had received a tip for a dead cert and put two weeks’ takings on a horse that fell at the first fence. Roger promptly blew his brains out in the back office, not simply because he’d lost the money, but because everyone would know that he’d been on the fiddle as he hadn’t kept back enough to cover his losses.

  Mayday was astonishing. She’d found the body, poor girl, but hadn’t batted an eyelid. As she said afterwards, she’d been waiting for disaster to strike for so long, it was almost a relief when it happened. She’d dealt with the situation with incredible calm. She had contacts with the local police, who arrived as discreetly as they could so that the hotel guests were oblivious to the tragedy. The ambulance had slipped quietly around the back without all sirens blazing and removed the body. Then she’d called the staff into the dining room and quietly informed them that Roger had shot himself. By the time Mickey and Patrick arrived, it was as if nothing had happened. The hotel was preparing for evening service with an air of serenity that was almost unnatural. Mayday, it seemed, had put it to them straight, pointing out that everyone’s livelihoods would be in jeopardy unless as little fuss as possible was made.

  It was Patrick who suggested that Mayday take Roger’s place. The staff clearly respected her, and if anyone knew how the hotel worked it was Mayday who, it emerged, had been troubleshooting for Roger almost since the day he arrived. Keith and Mickey had both been wary and unsure. The Horse and Groom was one of their biggest earners - when its staff weren’t gambling with the profits, at any rate - and they were reluctant to put it into the hands of a young girl with a less than conventional sense of dress. But, as Patrick pointed out, most of the customers came in to see what Mayday was - or sometimes wasn’t - wearing, and she was pretty astute. He finally persuaded them to appoint an assistant manager who had qualifications and a quiet taste in clothing, and hand over the reins to Mayday. They’d given her a three-month trial period.

  That had been eighteen months ago, and the takings had nearly doubled since Roger’s demise, which went some way towards recouping the substantial loss he’d made on their behalf. Ironically, the Horse and Groom became the place to stay for Cheltenham racegoers - Mayday had organized a courtesy bus to and from the racecourse for the key meetings. The amount her guests drank in the hotel before and after more than covered the cost. At other times the hotel was packed with city dwellers arriving for her Cotswold Experience weekends, which included a hot air balloon ride over the breath-taking countryside. And she didn’t forget the locals: she had devised a special loyalty card for commuters who got off the Paddington train. Between six and seven the lounge bar was stuffed to the gills with suited executives enjoying a glass of her ‘Wine of the Week’ together with a selection of nibbles, before going home to their lovingly prepared suppers. Lunch on market days was booked for weeks ahead, and she’d introduced a special high tea for children at five o’clock, as she had noticed many harassed mothers en route from Brownies or ballet or swimming who were only too glad not to have to cook for their overtired offspring and brought them in for organic sesame-coated chicken goujons, sweet potato wedges and stir-fried broccoli spears.

  Patrick was relieved that his gamble had paid off. He would have been more concerned about his loyalty to Mayday than his loyalty to the brewery if things had gone awry. For she was his rock, his sounding board. It was Mayday Patrick turned to if he had a dilemma, or a brainwave, or if he needed a second opinion, for she gave him a totally objective point of view, and she had a great gut for what was right and wrong. Sometimes he felt guilty, and thought it should be Mandy he turned to for advice, but he rather thought Mandy told him what she thought he wanted to hear when it came to business. Besides, with Keith being her father he sometimes had to be careful what he said. He didn’t have to pull his punches with Mayday. They were always honest and upfront with each other. They always had been, since the day they’d first met.

  He’d been fifteen, home from boarding school one hot June weekend. The fair was in town, sprawling all over the market place in Eldenbury, which usually harboured nothing more exotic than Volvos and pick-ups. The air was hot and heavy, filled with promise and the smell of frying onions. Patrick was bored. He’d come here with his best mate Ned, who’d promptly run off with some rabbity-faced girl he’d met at a Pony Club Disco.

  He was idly taking pot shots at the rifle range when he felt sure someone was staring at him: the hairs on the back of his neck rippled. He turned, and saw an extraordinary creature with a mane of teased black hair, eyes ringed with kohl, and
the fullest, plumpest lips he had ever seen, painted deep purple. She wore a black velvet bodice, ripped jeans and staggeringly high stiletto boots.

  ‘I’ve always wanted a giant giraffe.’ The voice trickled from between her lips like honey falling from a spoon. Patrick swallowed hard, and attempted a laconic smile.

  ‘Whatever the lady wants . . .’

  He turned to take aim. The star prize, the giraffe in question, stood lopsidedly against the stand, mocking him. His hand shook. He could feel her beside him, imagined he felt the warmth of her breath on his neck. Her perfume was as sweet and alluring as the candy floss from the next stall. It made Patrick feel quite giddy as he squeezed the trigger. The pellet whistled past the tin and missed.

  ‘I thought that’s all you posh boys were good for. Shooting things. And killing foxes.’

  Oh God, thought Patrick. Not a bloody animal rights fanatic. She probably knew his dad was a stalwart member of the Eldenbury hunt. He really couldn’t be bothered to get into an argument about it.

  ‘Who says I’m posh?’ he asked, trying desperately not to sound it.

  As an answer she smiled, reached out a finger, and brushed the tell-tale long fringe out of his eyes. He jerked his head away and brushed his hair back with an impatient gesture, not liking this invasion of his personal space, but suddenly wanting more.

  ‘And so what if I am?’ he demanded.

  ‘Quite,’ she answered, not taking her eyes off him. ‘So what if you are?’

  He could feel himself going red under her scrutiny, until eventually she dragged her gaze from him and cast a longing glance at the giraffe.

  ‘Shame,’ she commented wistfully. ‘I could just do with him to cuddle up with at night.’

  Before he knew it, she had gone, gliding like a ghost amongst the crowds. Vainly he tried to catch a glimpse of her as she moved through the fair, but she had vanished without a trace. He wondered for a mad moment if he had imagined her.

  He turned back to the shooting range. He had one chance. If he could get the giraffe . . . But he was a lousy shot. He always had been. He beckoned the stallholder.

  ‘Listen, mate.’ The stallholder curled his lip at Patrick’s attempt to come down to his level. ‘How much for the giraffe?’

  The bloke looked him up and down, chewing thoughtfully on his gum. ‘Cost me fifteen,’ he said finally. ‘So call it twenty.’

  Twenty quid! Patrick knew it was bullshit, that he’d probably got his entire menagerie of acrylic stuffed animals for half that, but it was a small price to pay. He dug in his wallet. Thirteen. That was all he could manage. He thrust it at the man.

  ‘Take this as a deposit. I’m going to find my friend. Please - don’t let anyone win it.’

  Patrick pushed his way through the crowds, desperately searching for Ned. He always had wads of cash, because his dad paid him to do the milking on their farm and Ned never parted with a penny for months, then blew it all in one night by getting totally bladdered. He had to get to him before he spent it.

  He found him on the dodgems with his Pony Club partner, who was looking rather green.

  ‘Lend me seven quid,’ begged Patrick. ‘It’s a matter of life and death. Actually, no, make it a tenner.’ He’d need a bit over if he found her. Enough to buy her a drink.

  Ned didn’t quibble. He knew his mate wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. He thrust a hand into his jeans and pulled out a wad of crumpled notes. Patrick extricated two fivers, then went for a third. He didn’t want to look a cheapskate.

  ‘Make it fifteen. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’

  Stuffing the money into his own pocket, he ran back to the rifle range.

  The giraffe was gone. As was the stallholder. Bastard. Patrick steeled himself for a row. He bet he wouldn’t get his money back. Gypsies, tramps and bloody thieves, the lot of them.

  Suddenly the stallholder popped up from behind the barrier, brandishing the giraffe. ‘Didn’t want anyone else taking a fancy and winning him.’ He grinned. ‘There’s some good shots round here.’

  Patrick settled up as quickly as he could, then grabbed the giraffe. It was nearly as big as he was. He pushed through the throngs, looking right and left, every song that blasted out seeming to mock him: ‘She’s Gone’, ‘Who’s That Girl?’, ‘Beware the Devil Woman’ . . .

  She was there, sitting on the bonnet of a truck, swigging scrumpy out of a bottle, surrounded by a crowd of youths Patrick suspected were dropouts from Eldenbury High, an unsavoury bunch who wouldn’t take kindly to a posh git stepping forward with a giant cuddly giraffe and stealing one of their own.

  She saw him. He raised one corner of his mouth in a rueful grin and leaned his head against his newfound companion’s. She nodded her head in recognition, a slight smile playing on her lips, then jumped down off the bonnet. Patrick prayed he wouldn’t be spotted by the others, but she said something to them, some muttered excuse that they seemed to accept, then made her way over to him.

  ‘Is that for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Patrick, ‘to be absolutely honest with you, I’ve already got an elephant and a rhino. There just wouldn’t be room for us all in one bed.’

  Her lips twitched, and he looked longingly at her mouth. He thought to kiss her would be like eating the first blackberries of autumn.

  The evening passed in a blaze of colour and sound and incredible sensations. Whirling merry-go-rounds, pounding bass, the stench of diesel and the roar of the generators. The feeling of her fingers on his lips as she pulled off tufts of candy floss from a pink cloud and fed him, the sugar melting almost immediately on his tongue. Patrick felt elated as she pulled him from one experience to the next. They didn’t pay for a thing all night, as Mayday seemed to know all the swarthy, earringed youths that ran the rides. Patrick was soon to learn that Mayday rarely paid for anything, that she could get things done, that she had a network of contacts starting from the local chief of police downwards, who were willing to bend over backwards for her. And it wasn’t hard to see why. She had a natural but enigmatic charm, and she treated everybody the same. She was disarmingly honest and frank, but never unkind.

  Patrick found himself utterly bewitched. He’d had dalliances before, girls with thick blond hair and names like Suzi, Tash and Harriet - usually daughters of friends of his parents. Next to Mayday, they seemed interchangeable and incredibly dull. Mayday promised danger, excitement - and the one thing Patrick hadn’t quite plucked up the courage to do before now.

  As the fair came to a close, he found himself with her in the back of a pick-up being driven out of town, the ridiculous giraffe between them. A small part of him niggled that he should have told Ned where he was going, but then Ned hadn’t bothered worrying about him earlier. He didn’t know where the pick-up was going, but he didn’t care. He was with Mayday.

  Eventually they pulled up at a tumbledown farm, where an impromptu party threatened to carry on well into the early hours. Mayday was obviously familiar with her surroundings. She took him by the hand and led him to a barn filled with sweet-scented bales of the summer’s first cut. Talk about a roll in the hay, thought Patrick, as she pulled him towards her.

  When he finally kissed her, she tasted of apples and vanilla, as the cider she’d been drinking mingled with the perfume she wore. He wasn’t going to tell her he was a virgin, no way. Besides, he felt all-powerful, more sure of this shot than the one he had attempted earlier. Her clothes seemed to melt away as if by magic; she lay naked beneath him, her skin pale and glowing like opalescent moonlight, her black hair cascading over her shoulders. She pulled him out of his jeans and into her, locking her legs around him, pulling him deeper and deeper inside. And when, moments later, he found himself crying, she kissed away his tears and made him taste them on her blackberry lips.

  ‘I won’t have crying,’ she whispered to him. ‘Save your tears for when there’s something to cry about.’

  Later, they lay entwined in each other’s arms. As Patrick d
rifted off, Mayday began to sing, in a soft husky croak that was only just in tune but all the sweeter for it:

  My young love said to me, my mother won’t mind

  And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind,

  And she stepped away from me and this she did say,

  It will not be long love ’til our wedding day.

  The tune was haunting; the lyrics made him shiver. Patrick could see the stars through a hole in the roof. He’d only known her a few hours, but he felt as if he had found his soulmate. In just the short space of time they had spent together, he knew he wanted it to last for ever. He turned to her.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get married?’

  She gave him a gentle shove.

  ‘Don’t be daft. We’d never work. You’re from the big house, and I’m a worthless bint born the wrong side of the blanket—’

  ‘So was I,’ said Patrick eagerly. ‘Born the wrong side of the blanket. Well, almost. My dad only married my mother because she threw up her pill after a dodgy curry and got pregnant.’

  This confession caused him a moment of guilt. His father had warned him often enough about getting carried away. ‘Look where it got me,’ Mickey had said, then added hastily, ‘Not that I would be without you, of course.’ His marriage to Patrick’s mother hadn’t seen out a year.

  Mayday was shaking her head. ‘We’re poles apart, you and me. Your family practically own the village I grew up in.’

  Patrick frowned.

  ‘You grew up in Honeycote?’