Just a Family Affair (17 page)

But then, he was the one who’d got himself killed and left them with no money. What the hell was she supposed to do? Kay felt the tears rising, and before she could stop them she was sobbing uncontrollably. Seeing Mickey had brought the past rushing back and reminded her of all her mistakes. It was all her fault that they were here now. And she still didn’t know if what she was doing was for the best. Should she have kept Pandora’s box shut, stayed with her parents, relied on state handouts, got some pathetic little job in Slough and scratted around for the rest of her life?

It was too late now.

Flora sat up next to her.

‘What is it, Mummy? Is it Daddy?’ She felt the little girl’s arms go round her neck, and her soft cheek on hers. ‘It’s OK. He’s with the angels, remember?’

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

Kay swallowed down her sobs, hoping Flora was right. She really did. At least if that was the case, one of them was being looked after.

M
ayday was used to PC Robert Dunne popping in for a coffee every now and again. Patrolling the streets of Eldenbury wasn’t an unduly stressful beat, except for the odd spate of shoplifting and the occasional drunk, so he quite often came in for a chat and a gossip, giving her useful snippets of local information: who’d been banged up in the cells overnight for being over the limit, who was going to be up before the beak for petty theft or driving without insurance, and who’d been having a domestic.

So when Rob came into the hotel lobby at midday on Tuesday and asked to see her in private, Mayday was puzzled by his formality. Perhaps one of the staff had been up to no good. Pilfering from the bedrooms? Or dealing drugs?

She led him into her office and shut the door. He stood in the centre of the room, feeling awkward. He was tall, Rob, as tall as you wanted a policeman to be, but with a gentle manner that belied his toughness. He looked at her solemnly, his brown eyes with their unexpectedly long lashes filled with concern.

‘I’m very sorry, Mayday. It’s your gran.’

Mayday gave a half smile. ‘What on earth’s she done?’ She couldn’t imagine what Elsie would get up to that would involve the police.

Rob gave an awkward cough. ‘I’m afraid she’s . . . passed away.’

He was used to being the bearer of bad tidings. It was one of the downsides of the job. But he particularly hated it when he knew the person he was informing. Especially when it was someone he liked. And he had a lot of time for Mayday. She always made him feel important, even though he was just a lowly PC. And it wasn’t because she was sucking up to him because he was a copper. Mayday was the genuine article.

All the colour had drained from her face and Rob rushed to get her a chair. He hadn’t told her the bad bit yet.

‘What happened? Who found her? I only saw her last night. She was fine.’ Mayday sank into the chair.

‘I’m really sorry, Mayday.’ Why couldn’t he think of something more original to say? ‘It looks as if she took her own life.’

‘Gran? She can’t have. She wouldn’t . . .’

Rob cleared his throat to make way for his explanation.

‘There was an empty bottle of pills by her chair.’

‘Who found her?’

‘The neighbour was worried because she didn’t pull her curtains or take in her milk. She called us out.’

Mayday seemed to shrink before his eyes. She went from being the larger-than-life extrovert character that he so admired to a helpless young girl. Mayday, who could stop a bar brawl with a single bellow, who threw out difficult customers without batting an eyelid and who he had seen shamelessly pinching his chief inspector’s bottom at the station’s Christmas party, slumped in her chair and began to sob quietly. Somehow Rob had expected her to take it in her stride. He waited awkwardly, knowing from experience it was best to allow people to have a few moments to let bad news sink in.

‘I suppose my mother’s been told,’ she finally managed, through gritted teeth. ‘I suppose she’s already rifling through her drawers looking for bundles of hidden cash.’

Rob’s eyes widened in shock. Angela had indeed been informed, and was at the scene.

‘Yes. Your mother’s at the house now. She’s called the undertaker.’

Mayday stood up, gathering herself together and wiping away her tears.

‘Would you mind driving me out there, Rob?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to make sure everything’s done properly for Gran. My mother won’t have the first idea what she’d want.’

Rob readily agreed. He would gladly have driven Mayday to the ends of the earth if she’d asked him. ‘The patrol car’s outside.’

Mayday managed a smile. ‘That’ll give everyone something to talk about.’

Rob stood aside to let her through the door, touching her arm in sympathy as she went past. She had spirit, Mayday. Cracking jokes even in her darkest hour. You had to admire her.

 

When Rob and Mayday arrived at Elsie’s house, they found Angela in the kitchen. She looked dreadful. She’d been working at the kennels when she was informed, and was wearing a rather tight baby-pink velour tracksuit that had originally been expensive but had been relegated when she spilt bleach down the zip-up top, which didn’t quite cover her stomach. Rob was shocked to see she had a pierced belly button, rather inappropriate for a woman of her age, he thought. Tears and mascara were tracking through the thick foundation on her face; her hair was dishevelled, and the glue where her extensions were attached was showing in several places.

As soon as she saw her daughter, she went for her.

‘I blame you for this, you know that!’ Angela shrieked at Mayday, her eyes wild.

Mayday gazed at her coolly. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t me who tried to force her into a home.’

‘You came round here last night. You must have said something that tipped her over the edge.’

‘What? Like “Don’t worry, Gran, you don’t have to go into a home. I’ll look after you.” That sort of thing?’ Mayday’s voice was level but deadly.

‘She was quite happy when I left her.’

‘I brought her some food. And did her hair for her. I left her watching Emmerdale—’

‘So why did she swallow a bottle of painkillers?’ Angela’s voice went up an octave.

‘Now let’s just calm down,’ said Rob nervously. ‘I don’t think there’s any point in trying to apportion blame at this stage.’

Angela gave him an evil glare.

‘At what stage do you suggest, then?’ she demanded.

Rob stepped back. He knew Angela’s type. Nasty. Best to stay out of arm’s reach.

‘Can I see her?’ Mayday asked with a quiet dignity that made him feel proud.

‘Yes. Might as well have a look at your handiwork,’ snapped her mother.

‘She’s in the lounge,’ said Rob. ‘We’re just waiting for the undertaker to arrive.’

He put a protective hand on Mayday’s shoulder as she walked towards the living room. Angela followed, her diamanté flip-flops slapping on the quarry tiles, and he resisted the urge to tell her to keep her nose out. He wanted Mayday to have peace and quiet when she paid her respects, but he didn’t want to antagonize her mother, so he said nothing. He was on hand to intervene if things got out of control.

Elsie looked as if she was sleeping. Sat back in her chair with her eyes closed, her hair still in the curls Mayday had set less than twenty-four hours ago. The most remarkable thing was that her face seemed ten years younger, presumably because she was no longer in pain.

Mayday swallowed down a lump that rose in her throat. She couldn’t have done any more for her. She knew that. She’d left no stone unturned in her quest to alleviate her agony. She’d been to the GP with her on countless occasions, and raged about the futility of it. She’d tried to arrange for a home help, but had been rebuffed - and she couldn’t blame her grandmother for not wanting the indignity of a stranger in her house. She’d tried to get her to try acupuncture, but Elsie didn’t hold with it. She’d looked at diet, but to no avail. Elsie was matter of fact about her fate.

‘Look, love, I’m crippled with it and that’s the end of it. You can’t fight Mother Nature when she’s made up her mind.’

All that was left was to be able to make her life as comfortable as possible. She’d bought her an electric blanket, to warm her aching bones. Twice a week she brought her food from the hotel. On a Friday afternoon she cleaned the house from top to bottom, changed the bed linen (she suspected that Elsie had been having accidents at night, unable to face the arduous journey to the bathroom, but she never mentioned it). She’d bought her the remote for the television with extra large buttons, so she could negotiate the channels. And a walkabout phone so she could clip it to her belt, instead of having to try and rush to answer it.

‘After everything we did,’ Angela’s voice wavered. ‘You can’t do enough for some people. It’s a wicked thing to do, take your own life. What about the people you leave behind? I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.’

‘I’m sure you will, when you get the cheque.’ Mayday knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she couldn’t bear the pantomime.

Angela’s head whipped round, her face a mask of fury.

‘Have some respect, can’t you?’ she snarled. ‘And rest assured there’s nothing in the will for you. So all that dancing attendance on your grandmother was a total waste of time.’

Mayday looked at her evenly. ‘Funnily enough,’ she replied, ‘I didn’t do it for the money. I did it because Gran looked after me when I needed her.’ Despite herself she found her voice rising, furious at her mother’s implications. ‘I did it because I loved her!’

‘Are you saying I didn’t love my own mother?’ Angela’s voice was even more shrill.

‘Ladies. Please.’ Rob, who’d seen a few spats in his time, was appalled by their behaviour.

Mayday scolded herself silently. The expression on Rob’s face was warning enough.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

Angela pressed her lips together. The last thing she wanted was an apology from Mayday, because it meant that she had to accept it graciously. Her instinct was always to carry on an argument to the bitter end, like a war of attrition, until the other party was worn into the ground.

‘We’re all upset,’ she conceded reluctantly.

Mayday looked at her grandmother again. The baggy blue top and elasticated trousers she was wearing made her want to howl.

‘I don’t know how long the undertaker’s going to be, but I’d like to choose what Gran’s going to wear. If nobody minds.’

Angela frowned. This practicality hadn’t occurred to her.

‘In the coffin, you mean? Won’t she just wear what she’s got on?’

‘No. Gran hated these clothes. She should wear something pretty. Maybe we should get her something new, from one of the department stores in Cheltenham?’

‘Are you mad?’ Angela looked totally bewildered. ‘Mum was never interested in what she wore.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Mayday. ‘You never took any notice of what she thought of anything. She often pointed things out in magazines that she thought were nice.’

‘If it makes you happy.’ Angela threw up her hands in despair. ‘I’m more worried about where to have the funeral tea. This place isn’t big enough.’

‘We could have it at the hotel. We can do sandwiches and cakes in the lounge bar. Then everyone can have a drink.’

Angela surveyed her daughter beadily for a moment. The temptation not to be bothered with any of the catering was great, but not as great as the fear that public sympathy might swing towards Mayday if they used the Horse and Groom. She didn’t want to be upstaged.

‘No. We’ll have it at Pantiles.’ This was the name of Angela and Roy’s ranch-style bungalow. Mayday had pissed herself laughing when someone had once added an extra ‘s’ to the sign on the gates. Although it was quite clear that Angela wasn’t pantiless today, as her black g-string was poking out of the top of her tracksuit bottoms. Rob’s eyes had goggled when he’d spotted it. ‘Roy will do us a bar. The boys can hand round sandwiches.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Mason and Ryan. What do I do about them? Should they go to the funeral? I don’t think they should. They’re too young to be subjected to a trauma like that.’

Mayday didn’t like to say that it would take more than that to traumatize Mason and Ryan. The last time she’d been round, they’d been watching a pirate DVD called Electric Blue Asian Babes. But it wasn’t up to her. She looked out of the window and saw the undertaker pull up outside.

‘I’ll go upstairs and have a look in her wardrobe. See what there is.’

‘No,’ said Angela quickly. ‘You’re right. We should get her something new.’ She burrowed in her bag, pulling out her purse. ‘You pop into House of Fraser. Get her something nice. Their spring sale’s just started.’

She thrust a wad of cash at Mayday. She didn’t want her going upstairs until she’d had a chance to root through Elsie’s drawers herself. She was pretty sure there wasn’t anything of any great value, but she wanted to be sure.

 

By lunchtime on Tuesday, Mickey decided that he couldn’t get through this latest fracas on his own.

He had had nightmares all night. The worst one being coming last in the Father’s Sack Race at sports day, and everyone laughing because he was so old. Lucy woke him at one point, asking what on earth it was he was moaning about in his sleep. He told her it was too much rich seafood, even though he had barely touched his supper.

By the time he and Lucy had got rid of Bertie the night before, it had been too late to start bringing up the ghastly events of the day. Besides, Lucy had been so happy. As they lay in bed she’d burbled on about the wedding, and the email she’d had back from Sophie saying she and Ned would be back from Oz just in time. He couldn’t bring himself to burst her bubble.

Come the morning, he was knackered. He scrambled out of bed and into his clothes of the day before, making his escape as quickly as he could, just about managing a cup of tea. He was at the brewery by eight o’clock. He sat in the car park for a while, looking at the familiar buildings clustered around the millpond. It was hard to believe in an hour’s time it would spring into life. Sacks of grain would be upended and liquor poured into the huge vat ready for another day’s brew, and the air would soon fill with the rich scent of hops and malt. Lorries bearing the Honeycote Ales logo would whiz in and out, ready to take on board their cargo of silver barrels and wend their way across the Cotswold countryside. The walls would ring with shouts and laughter and the sound of the local radio.