Chapter Seven
Kit knew it was serious when the caller ID flashed up Colin Henry's name. It was Saturday. Why else would Colin be calling him at the weekend?
"Mr Carroll—”
"Kit." He'd told him every time they'd spoken not to call him Mr Carroll. Mr Carroll was his father, and Kit wasn't his father. He wasn't even Christopher. Not anymore. "I'm guessing it's not good news?"
There was a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid not. The liquidators have been appointed."
"Jesus." Kit dropped down onto the sofa and stared unseeingly at the painting of his grandfather on the wall. Why, he wondered vaguely, was that still hanging up there? It had been his father's pride and joy, showing Edwin Carroll in full country squire mode, surrounded by sycophants as he held court at Fell House, pipe in hand and trusty Labrador at his heels. Surely, Jack didn't want it in full view? He'd bet a pound to a penny that Amanda resented dusting it. Although, knowing Amanda, it was probably Jack who did the dusting.
"Kit? Are you still there?"
Kit blinked, forcing himself to focus. "I don't really know what to say," he admitted. "I sort of knew this was coming, but even so." He shook his head. "How bad is it?"
"As I said, we're talking liquidation, not administration. There's no hope of salvaging it."
"Bloody hell."
"I know. Halliwell & Stephenson's are a big company. It's quite sad, really."
Kit felt sick. That was that, then. "What do I do now?"
"We'll need to register to claim the money we're owed. Do you want me to come over to talk things through?"
On a Saturday? Hell, things really were dire.
"If you like. I'm guessing I'm going to need to contact my solicitor?"
"I'd leave that until Monday. Solicitors come at a hefty price, don't you think? Besides, there's nothing he can do until Monday, anyway."
Kit decided that the painting was definitely going into a cupboard somewhere. His grandfather eyed him with contempt, and he shivered. The sooner it went, the better. "How bad is this, Colin?"
"You toured the factory. You told me yourself how things were. The main thing, right now, is to keep a cool head and not panic. We have to go over the figures, see how things stand."
"Is there any chance of recouping our money?"
There was a long silence during which Kit could feel the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. "We're way down the list," came the reply at last. "There'll be a whole queue of people ahead of Carroll's. I'm sorry, Kit."
Not half as sorry as he was, Kit thought, putting the phone in his pocket and running a hand through his hair. He removed the offending portrait from the wall. There would be enough people looking at him with accusation in their eyes before long. He didn't need his own grandfather to do the same.
***
"You've got to be kidding me!" I looked around in amazement, absorbing the unexpected sight of my mother's living room in all its festive glory. "What the hell happened? Have you been visited by the Christmas fairies?"
Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, magnifying mirror in front of her, sweeping mascara onto her lashes in her usual fashion—mouth open, tongue sticking out. She apparently couldn't concentrate with her mouth shut. "Don't be sarky," she called through the open door. "Thought you'd be pleased, anyway. Saved you a job."
I pulled a face as I scanned the room, noting with distaste the balloons, the cheap foil garlands, and the dreaded singing snowman that sat cheerily on the sideboard, just waiting for Olivia's kids to arrive and start it up. God, hour upon hour of Let It Snow, in that dreadful whiny voice. Last year, I'd been driven to take out the batteries and hide them.
It was the tree that upset me the most, though. Every year, I looked forward to going to Helmston Market and buying a real tree, cut from the local forest. I always chose the biggest, bushiest tree in the group and paid for delivery. The scent of pine would fill Mum's house, evoking memories of childhood Christmases, when Dad had been around to cheer us on as we opened our presents, and was always as surprised as we were to discover what Father Christmas had brought us. Christmas was Dad. He may not have contributed much to buying our gifts, but it was Dad who got excited about the big day; Dad who chose the tree and decorated it. It was a standing joke that we weren't allowed to touch it. He liked it done just so, and we were forced to sit on the sofa, watching him wind fairy lights around the tree's bushy branches unaided. The only contribution we’d been allowed to make was shouting out if something looked lopsided, or out of place. We never minded. It made us laugh how seriously he took it.
Mum used to pull a face when he unwrapped the tacky decorations, and blew up the balloons, and stuck Christmas cards all over her walls, but we knew she was just glad to see him smiling. Dad was never happier than at Christmas. For a few brief days, there was a respite from the bad moods and strained atmosphere. Olivia and I didn't hear them row much, but only because Mum never argued back, no matter how much he tried to provoke her. She was always trying to appease him, like she was just grateful to have him, at all, no matter how appallingly he behaved.
My spirits sank as I gazed at the six-foot artificial tree before me, with its fake pine cones and sprayed-on snow. Multi-coloured lights winked at me, as if to deliberately taunt me. Where were the tasteful clear LED lights I'd bought for my mother last year? The ones she’d draped around it, I was sure, were the ones I'd shoved in the loft, hoping never to see again. They even had a button on the control unit, one that, when pressed, sent tacky Christmas music blaring out. You could choose from twenty carols and popular festive songs. Popular with whom, I couldn't imagine.
"What's with the tree?" I forced myself to sound calm, as I re-entered the kitchen, barely noticing that my mother had begun applying lipstick.
Mum glanced up at me. "Do you like it? It was on sale in my catalogue. Couldn't resist."
"What do you mean, you couldn't resist?" I felt bewildered. "Since when did you bother with a tree? And how come you've decorated the room? That's my job."
She frowned. "It shouldn't be, though, should it? You're not upset, are you, Marley? I thought you'd be pleased. Saved you all that palaver."
It was on the tip of my tongue to burst out that I liked all that palaver, but I kept my mouth firmly shut. I knew I was overreacting. What did it matter who decorated the house? The only thing that mattered was that it got decorated, and it was great that Mum had felt inclined to make the effort after so many years.
Yet, I felt a strange sort of panic growing inside me, and had to fight it off. It felt as if things were slipping out of my control, which was ridiculous. There was no way I was going to let on how upset it’d made me. Instead, I sank into the chair opposite my mother and held up the bag I was carrying. "You could have told me you planned to do it before I spent all this money on decorations for you."
Mum blotted her lipstick with tissue paper, then reached over and took the bag. "Bloody hell, love," she said, scanning the contents in disbelief, "how many decs do you think we need? You buy new ones every year! What's the point?"
"I thought it would keep things fresh, if we changed the colour scheme every year," I protested. "That's why I got you the clear lights. Nice and neutral. Not like those things ..." My voice trailed off, and I sighed, feeling defeated. "I don't know what to do with these now."
"Take them back to the shop," Mum suggested. "You could get your money back."
I wasn't about to go back to York to beg a pound shop for a refund, and I certainly wouldn't show myself up by asking for any such thing in Rochester's, of all places. How common would that look?
"Can't you use them in your flat?" Mum said.
I laughed. "Yeah, right. That place is so small I can only have a two-foot tree on my bookcase. Definitely no room for all these baubles, and I've got some quite large ones, too. I was expecting to decorate a seven-foot real tree, remember?"
Mum looked a bit guilty. "Sorry, love. I didn't think."
"No, well." I suddenly realised that it was Saturday afternoon, and she was putting on makeup. "What are you doing? What's with the slap?"
My mother flushed and acted a bit shifty. "Going out."
"Well, obviously. Going out where, though?"
"Helmston." She checked for lipstick on her teeth, then began to put all her cosmetics back into her makeup bag, finally closing the zip after a bit of a struggle with its bulging contents. "Meeting a friend."
"Which friend?" I narrowed my eyes. "And why are you getting all dolled up?"
"Well, honestly, can't I put a bit of makeup on without facing an inquisition?" Mum tried to sound indignant, but came across as defensive.
I folded my arms. "Are you meeting another bloke?"
"Another bloke! Charming. You make me sound like a right tart." Standing, she collected up the various tissues smeared with lipstick, mascara and foundation, and shoved them in the kitchen bin.
"You know what I mean. Olivia told me you've joined a dating website. Why didn't you mention it? And are you sure it's safe? I mean, you could meet any kind of weirdo on there. Are you meeting one today?"
"What, a weirdo?" Mum grinned. "I don't think so, no. At least, if he is, he's hidden it well."
"You've already met him?" My stomach fluttered nervously. "So, this is a second date?"
"Might be." She shrugged. "Or it might be the third, or fourth. What's it to you?"
"There's no need to be rude," I said sulkily. "I'm just trying to protect you, that's all."
Mum's face softened. "I know, love," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "Sorry. Just that, well, it's early days, and I don't want to jinx things. I feel a bit daft, to be honest."
"Daft?" I detected a distinct discomfort in her eyes. "What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing's wrong with him!" There was a flush of pink on her cheeks. "He's, er, a bit younger than me, that's all."
"How much younger?" I knew my voice was loaded with suspicion. Was the bloke some chancer, preying on vulnerable older women? "Are you sure he can be trusted?"
"Well, he's hardly after my money, is he?" Mum pointed out. "And yes, I do trust him. He's ever so nice, Marley. Nice enough for me to remove my details from the dating site, any road. I just think, well, what does a bloke like him want with a woman of my age?"
Reluctantly, I had to admit that she was hardly ancient. "You're only in your late forties, Mum. How old is he?"
She looked a bit vague. "Late thirties, or thereabouts."
"Thereabouts?" I eyed her sternly. "Don't you know?"
"He's thirty-six," she snapped. "Go on, say it. He must be blind."
"Don't be silly." In spite of my misgivings, I wanted to reassure my mother, who did actually look rather attractive now that I came to think about it. Her long, auburn hair had been blow-dried, and she sported a smart pair of trousers and a pretty rose-patterned tunic top. "He'd be lucky to have you." I realised what I'd said, and blushed. "I don't mean have you. I know you wouldn't—hell, you haven't, have you?"
Mum looked deeply offended. "No, I bloody haven't! What do you take me for? Besides, he's a gentleman. He's only kissed me once."
I tried not to feel nauseous at the thought. "Where are you going, then?"
"Told you. Helmston."
"Yes, but whereabouts? You can't just be walking around the market all afternoon, surely?"
"We're doing some Christmas shopping, and then we're having our tea at The Fox and Hounds."
"The Fox and Hounds?" I raised an eyebrow, quite impressed. "Wow. Classy."
It was, too. The Fox and Hounds had won awards for its cuisine, and you had to book well in advance to stand a chance of eating there. Whoever this man was, he obviously had taste.
"I know. I'm a bit worried. Will it be full of posh people, do you think? Will I have to know which knife and fork to use?"
"Is this bloke posh, then?" I enquired, suddenly hopeful.
"You must be joking!" Mum laughed, clearly at ease again. "He's just an ordinary bloke, like—"
Her voice broke off, and I looked at her sharply. Had she been about to say like your dad? I hoped not, given that my father had been an unreliable, heartless rake. The last thing my mother needed was a repeat performance of her marriage. "Like …?"
"Like David," Mum finished, giving me a look that showed she knew exactly what I'd been thinking.
"Not much older than David, either," I said wryly.
"Oh, don't say that!" Mum looked stricken. "God, that makes me sound awful. Like some sort of cougar."
I spluttered with laughter. "Hardly! Anyway, he's thirty-six, Mum, not nineteen. I'm sure he's capable of resisting your obvious charms, if he wanted to. I don't think his irate mother will turn up on the doorstep, demanding you leave her baby boy alone." I eyed her curiously. "Have you met his mother?"
"No. His parents live in Bridlington," Mum said. "Nice, normal family, from what I can gather. I know he's got an older sister, but she's living in Wolverhampton, so he doesn't see much of her. At least they all sound decent. Not like your father's weird lot."
I bit my lip. If my mother was basing her prejudice on my father's actions, and Great Uncle Charles's charming personality, I could hardly defend the Jacobs family, even though I hated the thought that Grandad was being lumped in with them. "So, when will you be meeting them?" I asked.
"It's early days. No need for all that, yet."
"Yet?" It all sounded quite promising. Or worrying, depending on the viewpoint. "And when do we get to meet him?"
A definite tension filled the air. "Someday. We'll see how things go," Mum said eventually. She glanced at her watch. "Not to be rude, Marley, but I have to get off."
I stood up, collecting the bag of baubles. "Right, well, have a lovely time." I kissed my mother's cheek, noting the whiff of Anais, Anais. Things really must’ve been serious. "Just be careful. Keep your mobile with you, at all times. Any sign of trouble, ring me, okay? And don't let him talk you into doing anything you're not comfortable with."
Ugh! What a thought.
Mum laughed and pushed me gently. "Shouldn't this be the sort of conversation I have with you? Not the other way round. See you soon. Take care."
"You, too." I headed to the front door, then turned and hugged her, feeling quite emotional. "Have a lovely time, Mum."
Clearly surprised, Mum nodded. "Thanks, love."
I stepped outside, stung at the contrast between the biting cold air and the warmth of my mother's cosy kitchen, and shivered. "And turn those bloody tree lights off before you go out," I warned. Horrible cheap tat. It wouldn't surprise me if they went pop at any moment.