CHAPTER ONE
New Year’s Eve found Jamie Fenton standing outside a cottage in a small North Yorkshire town, sniffing the air. 1992 was promising to be the big one, his own personal annus mirabilis, the year that would justify the spectacular underperformance of the previous twenty-one. As he strode beneath a colourless sky through Zoe’s front gate and out onto the street, a robin landed on the bonnet of his car. The bird cocked its head at him and they contemplated each other for a moment until, with a cavalier flick of tail-feather, it deposited a viscous white splat on the Fiesta’s turquoise paintwork and flew away.
Jamie laughed to himself and reached into the back pocket of his jeans for the ironed handkerchief that he knew would be there, wiping the bonnet without so much as a muttered swear-word. The fact that he had woken up in Zoe’s bed more than compensated for having bird muck all over a clean hankie. She had allowed him to stay the night. It wasn’t lost on Jamie that this concession on her part had considerably bolstered his optimism regarding the coming year.
His strategy with Zoe, to supplement what he saw as his low-to-moderate attractiveness by making her laugh enough to want him around as a serious - what, boyfriend? prospect? - seemed to be working. And there were other ways in which he was becoming a grown-up. OK, so he still lived with his parents and neither cooked nor laundered for himself, but that was by no means the only measure of adulthood. He had managed the whole of the previous evening in the pub without drinking to excess. That was a first.
Student days behind him, he was now officially a young professional. Work was, well, work and best not dwelled upon for too long. Nobody except Zoe really enjoyed their job; that his was bearable was testament to his own tolerance and maturity. Furthermore, his powers of persuasion had gone beyond earning him a night in Zoe’s lumpy but nonetheless inviting double bed. Not only had she agreed to throw a party that evening, she was also about to come to lunch with his family, even though she didn’t ‘do parents’.
Zoe was still in the house deciding what to wear. Jamie had been burdened by no such decision. Having forgotten a change of clothes in a flurry of sleepover excitement, he was still in yesterday’s shirt and beer-stained Levis. A swirl of icy wind served as a reminder that he’d left his coat in the pub. He leaned against the flank of the car, jangling his keys, but when Zoe emerged, clutching her pager and a large red potted plant, she was dressed for work.
‘I have to go up to Leyburn,’ she said. ‘One of their vets is ill.’
‘Now? I thought you booked the day off?’
Zoe had set the plant down on the garden wall but kept hold of the pager and was staring at it.
‘I agreed to be on call today so I could definitely have the evening. I didn’t think they’d need me.’
Jamie was about to say that he had promised his mother, which was true, but decided against it. Zoe already thought he was too dependent on his parents, which was probably also true. Instead he put out an arm to pull her towards him. Catching the scent of Timotei on her hair, he wished that they could forget about Leyburn and lunch and go back to bed. Now, he would have to turn up without her when this was supposed to be the start of a long and meaningful relationship between Zoe and his family. Only seconds ago he had been convinced that nothing could put a dampener on the day.
‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘The party will be more fun, anyway.’
‘I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.’
‘You’d better.’
Zoe extricated herself and scooped up the pot plant.
‘It’s a poinsettia,’ she said, handing it to Jamie. ‘Apparently they bring mirth and celebration.’ She moved around Jamie’s Fiesta to her own mud-lashed pickup and flashed him a grin. ‘Will you give them my apologies?’
‘I’ll try, but they’ll be too busy being mirthful and celebratory.’
Zoe climbed into the truck and chugged away. His mother would hate the poinsettia. She thought anything brightly-coloured was vulgar. Jamie put it into the footwell of his car, got into the driver’s seat, pressed ‘play’ on the tape deck and set off. The first chords of Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata fought their way through the car’s inadequate speakers. Between gear changes, the fingers of his left hand drummed on his thigh in accompaniment. As he headed out of town towards the village where he lived with his mother and father, Jamie promised himself that he would find time during the afternoon to play that very piece. Beethoven would be the perfect antidote to the thwarting of his plans, but until he could get to the piano, he was on his own.
In just a few minutes he was coming up the hill past the petrol station which was also the village shop. The road bisected the neatly-clipped village green: King’s Head on the left; cricket pitch and church on the right. The two visible faces of the clock on the church tower declared that he was late. Jamie turned right and there was The Hall; three storeys of Georgian sandstone, presiding over the cricket square and dwarfing the cottages which clustered around the green.
On the forecourt was a removal van. Risking his father’s wrath for churning up the gravel, Jamie braked sharply outside the porticoed entrance. Inside, four overalled men were grappling with a large, blanket-wrapped object. As he grabbed the poinsettia and slid out of the car, a spaniel burst through the doorway, causing one of the men to swear and another to stumble, buckling under the weight of the awkward-shaped load. Juno hurled herself at Jamie, all four paws off the ground, trying to lick his face as he gently batted her away, his attention fixed on the activity beyond.
Esther Fenton hovered in the hallway, waving her arms and dodging her head from side to side so as to be seen from behind the removal men.
‘Hello, darling,’ she called. ‘Where’s Zoe? Is she coming separately?’
‘What’s going on? They can’t take the piano away.’
Juno rushed back into the house. Jamie waited, the grand piano’s bulk blocking his mother from sight. The men gave a final heave and it was through the door and being manhandled down the steps. A fifth man dropped one of its disembodied legs as he tripped on the threshold.
‘CAREFUL!’ bellowed Jamie’s father from inside the house. ‘It’s not bloody firewood!’
‘Could someone tell me,’ said Jamie as both of his parents hove into view, ‘what on earth is happening?’
Bernard Fenton pointed cryptically upwards.
‘You may well ask, son. You may well ask.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Jamie. ‘Where’s it going?’
‘You - ’
‘Bernie, please.’ His mother had hold of his father’s arm and was rubbing it. Jamie opened his mouth but his mother angled her neck in such a way that he knew he was being shushed. ‘It was an accident. Come inside, darling. You still haven’t told me why Zoe isn’t here.’
Jamie offered the potted plant. ‘She sent you this.’
His mother eyed the poinsettia with suspicion. ‘That was thoughtful of her. Why don’t you leave it on the step just there?’
As Jamie followed his mother and father into the drawing room, he tried to view their surroundings as Zoe might have seen them, had she been there. The room was bigger than the ground floor of her house and was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree in one corner. The tree was perfectly conical, dripping with glass baubles and ablaze with fairy lights. Beneath the stone mantelpiece, which was garlanded with foliage from Jamie’s mother’s wild garden, a log fire crackled and spat sparks of willow onto the hearth. Zoe would have said it was like being in a Victorian Christmas card.
And it was the perfect festive scene, or would have been were his eyes not drawn to a sizeable hole in the ceiling where a chunk of plaster had fallen away, exposing the wooden boarding behind. The hole was exactly above the spot where the piano normally stood. Looking somewhat lost, the duet stool was still in situ, piled up with sheet music. If the ceiling were anything to go by, he didn’t want to think about what damage might have been inflicted on the piano.
‘What happened? Why didn’t you call me?’ Jamie said to his mother. ‘I gave you Zoe’s number.’
‘Mrs Cole was going to,’ said Esther, ‘but I asked her not to. I didn’t want to disturb your evening. And really, it was just a case of calling the repair company. Well, and the plumber. We were lucky they could come so quickly.’
‘Luck? Is that what you call it?’ Bernie looked as though he was about to say something further but stopped as Jamie’s sister, Caz, in a shapeless velvet dress with a matching rust-coloured Alice band, got up from her seat on the fender and came towards him.
‘Nice work,’ she whispered into his ear as she kissed him on one cheek before planting a second kiss on the other.
Her husband, Steve, his jaws working committedly on chewing gum, was also on his feet. ‘Good one,’ he said, shaking Jamie’s hand.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
No-one answered. Caz and Steve’s daughters, Ruby and Pearl, whom Jamie thought were about seven and five, were ushered over by his mother. They had been born during Jamie’s teens, when Caz was younger than he was now. Pearl attached herself to Caz, clinging around her waist, her head buried in the folds of her mother’s dress. Ruby stood looking at Jamie expectantly.
‘Hi, Rubes.’ Jamie made a little bobbing movement; he’d been about to squat down to Ruby’s eye-level but then changed his mind, resulting in what must have looked like a rather awkward dance move. ‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’
‘You haven’t brought Zoe.’
‘Ruby!’ said Caz. ‘That’s not polite.’
Pearl looked up with interest.
‘She couldn’t make it,’ said Jamie, too distracted by the removal of the piano to attempt any further explanation. ‘She says she’s sorry.’
‘What does that mean? What couldn’t she make?’ said Pearl in a strident voice, her arms still wrapped around her mother. Still at a loss, Jamie went to stand by the fire and was immediately too hot.
Bernie was at the drinks trolley, pouring sherry. Standing, like Jamie, at six foot three, the crystal glass in his hand looked tiny and in danger of being crushed at any moment. Unlike Jamie, Bernie was not one of those people who slouched in apology for their height. He stood tall, wearing his dark navy suit well; his sandy curls, which were starting to lighten and recede, rested gently on his collar.
‘It means,’ he said, ‘leave Uncle Jamie alone. He’s up to his armpits in trouble as it is.’
‘Oh, come on, that’s enough. What have I done?’ Jamie looked again at the hole in the ceiling and then at the space where the piano had been. There was a dark patch on the rug that was clearly wet. Above the drawing room was the big family bathroom with its ancient plumbing. The previous day, wanting to be at his most fragrant for Zoe, he had decided to run himself a bath. After a good ten minutes, with the bath still only a fraction full, he aborted the idea and went for a shower instead. In his haste he must have forgotten to turn off the taps. He sank onto the fender.
‘Good God,’ said his father. ‘Finally the penny drops.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Jamie, weakly.
‘Neither did we. Have you any idea - ?
‘Bernie! Not now.’
‘And look at the state of you. Couldn’t you have shaved, at least?’
Bernie held out a glass of sherry to Caz while still looking at Jamie, who put a hand to his chin as he stared upwards. The plaster left around the hole in the ceiling was inches thick, probably original. Heavy, too, no doubt. He imagined water cascading down through the floor onto the piano’s precious spruce-and-ebony casing. As usual, the lid had been propped open, leaving the hammerheads horribly exposed. That piano, with its scrollwork music stand and lyre-shaped pedal box, was a work of art. What he had done was nothing short of sacrilege.
‘How bad is it?’ he croaked.
‘Never mind,’ Esther soothed.
Bernie’s attention switched to Caz, who was shaking her head at the glass of sherry.
‘Sorry, sweetheart. I always forget. I’ll get you something soft in a minute.’
He retracted the drink and gave it to his wife, then lit a Café Crème.
‘Dad,’ said Caz, ‘the children.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said their father. ‘A bit of smoke never did you two any harm.’
Caz sighed but said nothing more. Esther, arranged on the sofa in languid fashion, her long legs crossed at the ankles, sat up, studied her glass for a moment, then drank its contents in one.
‘Mmm,’ she said, and held it out for another. Bernie left his station at the drinks trolley to pour, muttering something about responsibility.
‘It’s in hand, darling,’ Esther said to Jamie. ‘It’ll be back before you know it. Let’s not spoil the day. The good news is that nothing else was broken.’
‘Just a priceless grand piano, you mean?’ said Bernie. ‘Got off lightly, didn’t we?’
‘Mummy, my dress is itchy,’ announced Ruby. She rolled her shoulders alternately and scrunched up her nose. ‘Why couldn’t I wear leggings? Uncle Jamie’s got his jeans on. It’s not fair.’
‘Mine feels horrible too,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s all sticky.’
‘That’s because you spilled juice on it,’ said Caz. ‘And you’re wearing them because it’s New Year’s Eve and we want to look nice for Granny and Grandpa.’
‘But Uncle Jamie’s not smart,’ Ruby persisted.
‘From the mouths of babes…’ said Jamie’s father.
‘Any chance of a lager, Bernie?’ said Steve. ‘No, wait, I’ll go. Caz, babe, I’ll get you some water. Jamie?’
‘Beer please, mate, if you’re offering,’ said Jamie. Something fizzy and alcoholic might rid him of the nauseous feeling he’d had since realising that he was responsible for the desecration of the piano. His brother-in-law’s muscular form disappeared into the hall and out towards the cold-room where Bernie kept the things he didn’t drink. After a few minutes he came back with two cans, trailed by Mrs Cole, provider of everything from family roasts to pressed handkerchiefs, patting her hair.
‘Lunch is ready,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re all hungry.’
The dining room was across the hall and would have had views over the village green had the panelled wooden shutters not been closed. The only light came from two silver candelabra on the table and a dim chandelier. The room smelled overwhelmingly of beeswax polish. Hunting pictures were hung on the walls; in the gloom they could have been the same scene, reproduced half a dozen times. A grandfather clock, whose display was stuck at five-to-twelve, emitted syncopated ticks which irritated everyone in the family except Bernie. Jamie had never liked this room; as a child it had been out of bounds, the place where his parents entertained people his father wanted to impress. It was not somewhere he associated with relaxation, even without his current desire to slink up to his bedroom, away from any further reminders that his pretensions to maturity had taken a severe if not fatal blow.
‘Grandpa,’ said Pearl, ‘why’s it so dark in here?’
Bernie raised an eyebrow. ‘We don’t want the whole village watching us eat lunch, do we?’
They arranged themselves around the table. Caz put cushions on the low-slung antique chairs for the girls and spread napkins across their laps. Esther hastily removed a place that had been set for Zoe. Bernie distributed wine and took his seat at the head of the table in one of the carvers.
‘So, Jamie,’ he said, ‘I had nine holes with Archer yesterday. He seems quite pleased with you. That’s a great opportunity you’ve got there. You wouldn’t have landed anything like that in London.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Esther to Bernie, ‘he would have found something in the end, I’m sure. But then,’ she added with a coy glance at Jamie, ‘you wouldn’t have met Zoe if you hadn’t come back to Yorkshire.’
‘Mum, please!’
‘You still haven’t said why she isn’t here. I was so looking forward to meeting her.’
‘Me too,’ said Ruby.
‘And me,’ said Pearl.
‘I think we all were,’ said Caz, laughing.
‘She had to work,’ said Jamie. ‘She was on call.’
‘Veterinary science,’ said Bernie, swirling his wine, ‘that’s a proper degree. Not like geography. I should have insisted you did something more useful.’
‘You did,’ said Jamie. ‘I wanted to study music, remember?’
‘That’s just a hobby,’ said Bernie. ‘Estate agency is a career. You’ll be wanting to get your foot on the property ladder soon. You can flood your own bathroom, then.’
‘Take no notice of your father,’ said Esther. ‘There’s no rush. Although I’m sure Zoe’s very good at what she does. She did a great job with Juno’s ear.’
‘Yes,’ said Jamie, ‘and that bite on her hand has healed quite nicely.’
‘Oh,’ said his mother. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Poor Zoe.’
The conversation paused as Mrs Cole set the beef in front of Jamie’s father. Bernie was up again, sharpening a knife against a steel in flamboyant manner.
‘I can’t believe you left that tap running,’ he said as he began to carve.
‘I know,’ said Jamie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Uncle Jamie,’ said Pearl to his right, patting his arm. ‘It was an old piano. Granny can get a new one.’
‘No, sweetheart,’ said Bernie. ‘Granny can’t. It’s a Pleyel. They cost a fortune.’
‘You said it wasn’t worth anything,’ said Ruby.
‘I said it was priceless,’ said Bernie. ‘That means it’s very valuable. It was Granny’s twenty-first birthday present from your great-grandparents.’
‘Don’t distress the child,’ said Esther. ‘The piano will mend. Now, let’s concentrate on lunch. It looks as though Mrs Cole has excelled herself.’
After pudding, Caz got up to help clear the dishes. Steve was telling Esther how well his electrical company was doing despite the Current Economic Climate.
‘Yeah.’ He clasped his hands together in front of him and flexed his shoulders. ‘I’ve just bought a fifth van.’ He took a swig of lager, which Mrs Cole had decanted from its can into a glass when he wasn’t looking. ‘All this stuff about a recession is overblown if you ask me.’
‘I’m not sure - ’ Jamie began.
‘Hard work,’ said Bernie. ‘That’s what gets rewards.’
Jamie threw his napkin down onto the table with more force than was necessary. ‘Yes, Dad,’ he said under his breath, ‘you’ve made your point.’
He slumped in his chair, sipping wine, fingers twitching. Rather than being able to slope off for half an hour to play the Beethoven, he was now obliged to hang around while his father belittled him. And he had only himself to blame.
By the time Caz came back to the dining room, their mother and father, at opposite ends of the table, were midway through a loud discussion about a New Year’s Day shoot that Bernie was reluctant to attend. Steve stared into his empty glass as though willing it to be refilled, oblivious to Ruby and Pearl who were prodding each other with increasing violence.
‘It’ll be full of old codgers,’ Bernie was saying. ‘And the forecast’s bloody awful.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Esther. ‘The lunch will be good. And they keep a decent cellar.’
Pearl knocked over a glass of water. Caz reached over her and began to swab the spreading pool with a napkin.
‘Are you seriously still doing that?’ she said. ‘Blasting living creatures out of the sky?’ She stopped and froze, bent over the table, as though surprised by what she had said.
‘What do you mean?’ Bernie said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Caz.
‘No, tell me. I’m interested.’
‘Let’s just leave it.’
‘Have you ever stopped to consider,’ said Bernie, putting down his glass, ‘how much shooting contributes to the rural economy? Apart from the gamekeepers, who rear the birds and feed them all year, maintain the drives and butts and keep predators away, there are the beaters, the picker-uppers, not to mention all the income for the pubs, the hotels and catering staff. None of them would have jobs if we stopped the shoots. Have you thought about that?’
‘It’s just my opinion,’ Caz said in a low voice. ‘It doesn’t seem right to me to kill things for sport. Never has.’
Jamie looked around the table. Steve was still staring into his glass. The girls took the opportunity to slip down and creep out of the room. Esther was lounging in her chair. Caz returned to her place and sat down, taking a sip from her water.
‘You haven’t gone all bleeding-heart liberal on me have you, Caroline?’ said Bernie.
‘No, I - ’
‘Next thing you’ll be eating lentils and reading the Guardian.’
‘Bernie, enough now,’ said Esther.
‘You’d think we’d brought her up to know better.’
‘Better than what?’ Jamie heard himself say. ‘Better than to think for ourselves or question any of the pearls of wisdom you hand down to us?’ Caz frowned at him, but his father had been needling him all day. It was time to fight back. ‘Look at her!’ he said. ‘She doesn’t want to cause an argument; she wants to keep the peace. But guess what? I don’t care. Everything I do is wrong anyway, so what does it matter?’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to take the moral high ground,’ said Bernie. ‘A boy who can’t even run himself a bath without causing thousands of pounds’ worth of damage?’ He shook his head and laughed to himself.
‘I’m sick of this,’ said Jamie. ‘I’ve already apologised. Mum, please thank Mrs Cole for me. And Dad, you might be Mr Bertie Big Bollocks round here, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like such an arsehole.’ He stood up from the table, marched out of the house and sped off with as much dignity that a turquoise Fiesta could afford him.
