Relative Love (77 page)

When they were a few yards short of the party. Theo came to greet them. ‘You took your time.’ He grabbed the sparklers from Clem’s hand and ran back to the fire.

Maisie looked at her sister in astonishment. ‘What’s up with him?’

Clem shrugged, equally unsure why she was suddenly out of favour with their cousin, who had left the attic before the rest of them and been decidedly frosty ever since. ‘You know Theo, moody as hell.’

‘And, by the way, do you have a clue what the grown-ups were all huddling about this afternoon? Talk about moody, they all trooped in like they were going to a funeral and next thing
they’re all smiles and hugs. Ed said something weird was going on and he was right. I asked Mum about that, too, and she just said it was business about the future and not to worry. She looked bloody happy, though, and so did Dad, so I guess it must be good. Some
future
good … What do you think?’

Clem, unable to maintain interest in any future beyond seeing Jonny on Monday morning, gave a dismissive groan. At which point Chloë and Roland trotted up, gleefully sky-writing shapes with their lit sparklers, and shrieking for the twins to watch.

‘Firework time,’ announced their grandfather, as they rejoined the group. ‘Now, all of you stay here. Girls,’ he said, addressing the twins, ‘were Samson and the puppy safely inside?’

Clem and Maisie looked at each other and nodded.

‘Here we go, then. I don’t think any of you will be disappointed,’ John added, with a chuckle, and set off, spill in hand, to light the fuses Sid had helped him plant across the field.

Depends what you mean by being disappointed, mused Theo, watching his grandfather’s receding figure with a disgust that astonished even as it consumed him. After leaving the others in the attic he had spent several minutes crouched outside his grandparents’ bedroom door, his uncle’s army boots and helmet clutched in one hand. He hadn’t heard it all, but he had heard enough. His uncle and aunt were to have Ashley House, he had heard that all right – and his aunt Cassie crying, everyone consoling her, and his own father, saying loudly that the children weren’t to be told. Not yet. Not until they were older. The first rocket bombed into the sky, then exploded in shards of silver that sprayed downwards, disappearing before they touched the ground. Over my dead body, thought Theo, noticing Ed approach and moving away. Ashley House should go to his father, and then to him. That was how it was
supposed
to be. The thought of one of his twin cousins, or Ed – daft Ed with his football and silly jokes – getting the place one day made him feel sick.

Behind Theo the grown-ups had clustered into a group to watch the display. Peter had a fierce grip on Helen’s right hand, while the other rested lightly on his mother’s shoulder. Next to him Charlie and Serena had their arms round each other’s waists, mute still with a sense of good fortune that they had thought never to know again. I don’t need to move Tina here, thought Serena suddenly. She’s here anyway, in our hearts.

Beside her Elizabeth, chin tipped to the sky, watched the bursts of colour in a daze, her mind fixed upon the new conundrum of Lucien and what to do about him.

Cassie stood a few feet from her, a little apart from the group and feeling somewhat apart herself. They had comforted her, saying that no one was going to die just yet, that with the insurance market one never knew, that things might still come right, that it was important for her to be happy with the arrangements, that there was still plenty of time, and who knew what the future would bring? Who knew indeed? reflected Cassie now. Of course Ashley House mattered more than anything, of course it did. And if Charlie and Serena ended up living there, she knew they would make her feel welcome whenever she chose to come and stay. It was just the thought of being alone, she decided, shivering in spite of her thick coat. With no partner, the prospect of money simply mattered a little more, that was all. But she would get used to it. One got used to anything with time. The family came first, it always had. The way they had rallied round the various crises of the year proved that. Suddenly she remembered the mysterious ‘
C
’ on the dedication of Stephen Smith’s book, and frowned. She would ask him, she decided – gatecrash the launch party if necessary and ask him outright. Though small, the diversion of this thought lifted Cassie’s spirits immeasurably. It would be interesting to find out. Interesting, too, if she
was honest, to see Stephen again. ‘Lovely,’ she exclaimed, as three Catherine wheels, pinned along a line of fence posts, fizzed into action, ejecting smithereens of blue and gold.

‘You look cold,’ scolded Elizabeth, tugging on her sleeve. ‘Come here.’

‘Careful with Lucien, Lizzy,’ she whispered, side-stepping obediently to her sister’s side. ‘Call him, but be careful.’

Her sister gave her an arch look. ‘Thank you, Cassie. I’ll bear that in mind.’

Pamela, feeling Peter’s hand on her shoulder, seeing the grandchildren’s transfixed, upturned faces, and her daughters huddling together while Charlie and Serena clung to each other like young lovers, wished that the moment would never end. The bonfire was subsiding now, the bag of baby clothes she had tucked into its centre nothing but burning ash. The relief was like a taste in her mouth, sweet and satisfying. If only I had known, she thought; if only I had known that good can come of bad, that it’s how we react to things that matters, not the things themselves.

John, working his way back up through the field, crouched stiffly to light the last rocket, then paused. Ahead of him the bonfire still twisted and curled, a triangle of violent oranges and yellows. After the first lighting he had stood back between his sons to watch the drama of the flames licking up the steep sides and engulfing the guy. ‘He’s falling,’ Roland had shouted, tragedy in his shrill voice, as his straw creation keeled to one side, then sank, suddenly and rapidly, into the waves of fire.

‘He’s gone,’ someone shouted.

‘Gone,’ John echoed, straining through the screen of smoke and his own tear-filled eyes, to discern any last glimpses of his old pinstriped trousers. It could have been me, he thought, it could have been me. Eric might have been an unsung hero, but so were Pamela and Peter, and the whole damn lot of them. The acceptance, the sheer generosity of his family’s response to his dreadful news, still took his breath away. After years of priding himself on his own strengths, openly relishing the roles of protector, guide and patriarch, the one holding the family together, it had been humbling beyond words to realise, as he had during his shameful episode in the garage, and that afternoon, that his strength existed only by virtue of his family, that without their love he was nothing.

‘It’s coming,’ he shouted now, touching the spill to the fuse and stepping back. ‘It’s coming,’ he repeated, although with the wind and the crackle of the bonfire there was no way any of them would hear. He needed to shout for himself, to release the emotions welling inside. He had lost a fortune, a grandchild, a brother, a beloved dog; the ache in his back was infernal. He was eighty and would die, but not just yet, not now. Now he was alive and loved and full of hope. At the sight of the flame racing down the fuse of the last and biggest rocket, his heart thudded just as it had when he was a schoolboy, with Eric at his side and their father barking at them to stand back. ‘Eric,’ he shouted, bidding a last, proper farewell to his brother as, with a hiss of air, the rocket took off, scudding upwards with a great whine. It travelled higher than any of the others, seemed to disappear into silence, then erupted in a deafening volley of gunshots.

Inside the house, Samson and Little Boots crept under the piano, united in mute terror.

Outside, vast flowers of colour mingled for a moment with the stars themselves, then cascaded downwards, over the fields, the barn and Ashley House, illuminating its great grey presence, its white-framed windows alert as watching eyes. John, admiring the spectacle, felt his heart constrict. Would the house prove a unifying force or a separating one, he wondered suddenly. A burden or a blessing?

Then the cries of congratulation from his family reached him. He forgot his fears and moved towards them, the stump of the spill still smoking in his hand.

A Letter to the Reader

Hello there,

Publishing a novel is a bit like putting a message in a bottle. It bobs off on a big ocean all by itself while you keep your fingers crossed that it finds its way to readers who will appreciate it. So I want to thank you for finding my story and hope that you got pleasure from reading it.

Relative Love
was first released in 2004. It took two years to write and by the end the Harrison family was completely under my skin. So this chance to share the novel with lots of new ebook readers is very exciting.

I'd love you to get in touch with me so that I can keep you informed about new books, or further ebook publications of my backlist. Why not follow me on Twitter @ABrookfield1 or check out my Facebook page
https://www.facebook.com/amandabrookfield100

If you enjoyed this novel, I'd be thrilled to read your review on Amazon or Goodreads. It might also please you to know that I have written a sequel called
The Simple Rules of Love
which is published by Penguin and already available to download. It picks up the story of the Harrisons five years on, when Charlie and Serena are living in Ashley House and Cassie is engaged to be married. But Pamela is now lonely and frail and the grandchildren are forging lives that cause chaos. What should be a year of celebration turns steadily to upheaval, stretching family bonds to breaking point.

Here in the meantime is the opening chapter of my novel
A Family Man
, which I have also just published as an eBook for the first time. It is a story that asks lots of questions, including, how could a mother ever decide to walk out on her own child?

Reviewing
A Family Man
, Elizabeth Buchan said:

“It walks a fine line between comedy and wrenching sadness.”

Let me know if you agree…

With warmest wishes and Happy Reading,

Amanda

‘A FAMILY MAN’

2001

Chapter One

Released from the nose-to-tail traffic which had persisted since the Isle of Dogs, the taxi accelerated noisily across Tower Bridge. Matt sank farther into the beaten leather seat, tightening his grip round the edges of his briefcase. Although it was only 2.30, the afternoon had already been sucked of light, surrendering to the drabness of a January dusk. Through the smeary window there was nothing to see but a canvas of greys, an almost seamless sweep embracing the band of river water, city buildings and the thick umbrella of cloud overhead. Against such a backdrop, the huge steely wings of the bridge looked faintly unreal, like cardboard cut-outs stuck on for dramatic effect.

Glancing at his watch, Matt swore quietly. ‘It’s quicker if you cut left at these lights,’ he called, sliding his briefcase on to the seat beside him and leaning forward with both elbows pressed to his knees.

The taxi turned off the Kennington Road with a lurch, flinging its passenger sideways and causing the briefcase to shoot on to the floor.

‘Just here will do fine,’ said Matt a minute later, judging from the traffic that it would be quicker to walk the last few hundred yards. He handed over seventeen pounds, tapping his fingers impatiently while the driver wrote out a receipt. By the time he turned down the cul-de-sac that housed the red-bricked horror of a Gothic church in which his son attended nursery school, it was spitting with rain.

On the church steps, next to the billboard saying, ‘Bright Sparks Montessori’, a couple of mothers were chatting while their children played tag on the steps. Relieved not to have missed the collection process entirely, Matt increased his stride to a trot, the tails of his long dark overcoat flapping round his shins. Joshua was standing in the doorway, his hand slotted firmly in that of the school’s head teacher, Miss Harris. She was talking earnestly to a woman with a baby in a sling, her billowing flowery skirt exposing thick tights and wide knees. Joshua’s new blue anorak was buttoned up to his chin, it’s too-large hood pulled so thoroughly over his head that all Matt could make out of his face was the lower part of his nose and his mouth.

‘Josh,’ Matt called, all his irritation at having the Friday school pick-up so suddenly thrust upon him dissolving at the sight of his four-year-old son, so small beside the wide woman and the vast spires of the church looming behind. ‘Josh,’ he called again, more urgently, feeling a knot at the back of his throat at the realisation that the brown eyes peering from under the blue hood were looking for Kath and had yet made no connection to the man in the overcoat jogging towards the church gates.

Miss Harris spotted him first. ‘Ah, Mr Webster, here we are at last.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Matt bent to scoop Josh and a creation of egg-box and yoghurt cartons into his arms. ‘And how are you, little man?’

‘I made a ship.’

‘A ship? Fantastic.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘At the supermarket, I think. She asked me to get you for once. Let’s go.’

‘Oh, and Mr Webster…’ Miss Harris had almost closed the door when her ruddy-cheeked face appeared back round the side of it. ‘The parents meeting is now at eleven next Friday, not ten, as I told Mrs Webster. I hope that’s still convenient.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is – I’ll tell Kath.’ Having got to the bottom of the steps, Matt set Joshua down on the ground.

‘Come on, then.’ He held out his hand.

‘Where’s the car?’

‘It’s at home, or maybe with Mummy. So Daddy and Josh have to walk.’

‘Car,’ Josh wailed, hurling the word from the back of his throat with all the volume and energy which had made parenthood – the first twelve months in particular – enough of an ordeal for neither Matt nor Kath yet to feel tempted to repeat the experience. ‘Want Mummy,’ he sobbed. With theatrically perfect timing the specking rain chose that moment not only to transform itself into fat wet dollops, but also to adjust the angle of its fall from a gentle vertical trickle to a slanting barrage of what felt like vindictive ferocity.