| |
JAMES FOUND ALEXANDER slumped on the floor amid a ruin of furniture, an empty whiskey bottle beside him. He shook him. ‘Alexander!’
Alexander took a moment to surface. Confusion muddied his face before he scrambled to his feet, too quickly, given the pallor that greyed his skin. He swayed, put his hand out and grasped the upturned leg of the sofa. He didn’t meet his older brother’s eye, and his words came out gravelled and hoarse. ‘James. Must have overdone it last night.’
Neither man mentioned the broken lamp and the splintered coffee table or the elephant in the room; the event that had caused such disruption.
James shifted his feet and pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. ‘Right! Well, as long as you’re alive, I’ll leave you to it.’
He nodded his head. Whiskey, shame and bitterness tasted rancid in his mouth and closed his throat to explanation. A throb of despair bashed at his skull. His voice didn’t sound like his own. ‘Of course.’
And still there was no eye contact.
James turned to go.
He almost stopped him. He opened his mouth, but the words were trapped. Darkness seeped through him, the unwelcome return of an enemy, turning out the lights, shutting him down.
James paused at the door. ‘You know where we are if you need us.’
He didn’t answer.
He showered and walked to the practice that morning – too soon to drive, too painful to run.
––––––––
ALEXANDER WAS GRATEFUL for every farm call-out over the next few days. The practice had its own sign-painted Range Rover now, loaded with veterinary supplies and medications. In it, he drove miles and miles on country lanes, visiting cows with mastitis, lame sheep and colicky horses. Unsociable hours meant driving through the darkness as the days drew in, but he was better off out on the road.
Plans to develop the equine practice meant meetings with architects and investors, and always there were more clinics and more surgeries to carry out, but the walls of the clinic pressed in on him. The work was too often routine and standard, insufficient challenge to shutter his emotions. And his days off loomed like storm clouds, threatening and unwanted. He’d offered to cover out of hours, but the partners wouldn’t hear of it and to push it would have seemed strange, unusual. But mind-focusing diagnostics brought welcome order to his thoughts.
He drummed his fingers on the treatment table as he waited for his next patient. He knew he had to keep occupied so he didn’t have time to feel. Don’t think. Bury the weakness so deep it can never get out. He’d done it before, he could do it again. His phone vibrated. He grabbed it from the pocket of his surgical coat, grateful for the distraction. He read the message, removed the phone’s sim card and dropped it into the waste bin.
Three strides covered the distance to the rear door of his clinic that opened onto the treatment rooms. ‘Ruby, sort me out a new sim card. A new number too. I’ll need it today.’ He shouted a final comment as the door swung closed behind him: ‘And don’t forget, the on-call system will have to be updated.’
––––––––
IF HIS COLLEAGUES WERE unaware something was wrong, Celia wasn’t. She found reasons to call at the Gatehouse and spent Alexander’s Sunday off tending the garden, just to be near if he needed her. Artie and Fred walked down from the Hall to find her there.
Alexander came outside then, kicked a football with the boys and hoisted Fred onto the branch of a tree. He dug for earthworms with Artie while Fred rode on his back. But the mood didn’t last, and when the boys wandered off, red-faced from the midday sun, Alexander laced on his trainers and went for a run.
The hardness of his blue eyes made Celia anxious, and she shared her worries with Grace.
James told them not to meddle. ‘It will all blow over. Storm in a blasted teacup!’
But their hushed discussion carried on after he left. The Melton men had history, after all, when it came to black moods and grudges. Not James, of course, but William, and now Alexander. ‘We can’t let him go back to the awfulness before Hettie, before he got back in touch with you.’
‘But what can we do if he won’t even talk? God knows I’ve tried to speak to him.’
‘I’m worried for Hettie, too. I’m sure she’s the last person you want to hear about, but she’s not talking either. She won’t answer her phone, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her since she left.’
––––––––
A SHORT DISTANCE FROM the Hall, Anna was in Bert’s cottage, readying his evening meal with the few implements available in his rustic kitchen. She’d brought the ingredients with her – Bert’s larder held only canned food. Bert sat in his Windsor chair, next to the boiler, with his leg propped on a cushion set on an upturned bucket.
Anna talked over the radio. ‘I shouldn’t moan. Poor child is down in the dumps, and I do feel sorry for her, but she won’t talk, and when she does it’s only one-word answers.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Bother, I forgot my potato peeler.’ She rummaged through a drawer in search of a substitute and spoke over her shoulder. ‘It’s been like having a teenager back in the house, and I can’t say I’m entirely sorry she’s moved to the bungalow. Selfish maybe, but she wasn’t the easiest teenager the first time around.’
Bert watched Anna moving around his kitchen. In the background, Racing FM played a commentary of the 5.35 at Chepstow. A tempting aroma wafted out of the oven. He sniffed appreciatively and shifted his leg on its cushion. ‘It was never going to be easy, that particular pairing. She jumps before she thinks, and the lad lays in wait for heartache.’
Anna sighed. ‘Maybe he’s right to. He’s had more than his share.’
‘Aye, and more to come with this blasted will business. I’m not one to bear a grudge, but it’s ’ard to forgive that man. Disinheriting those boys, on top of the damage he’s already done. An’ it makes me feel dirty, being dragged along in his scheme.’
Anna set down her paring knife and crossed the kitchen to perch on the arm of his chair. ‘Don’t be daft. You didn’t ask him to leave the estate to you.’
‘Neither do I want it, nor aught to do with punishing them lads.’
She rubbed his shoulder. ‘They know that.’
‘Since when were it a sin to speak to your mother?’ Bert shook his head. ‘I wonder now if he knew I kept ’em in touch with her. Maybe he’s punishin’ me too.’
‘That’s enough, Bert O’Brien. You did what was right, just like you always do. And you’ve outwitted the old bugger by passing it back in your will. You mustn’t dwell on it.’
‘Dirty doings.’
‘Lord M’s dirty doings. You’ll set it right.’
Bert nodded. ‘Dinner smells good, what’re we having?’
––––––––
ALEXANDER WAS IN HIS garden, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, which he dragged on often and deeply. The evening air was cool, and her presence was everywhere in that house. In his bed, on his sofa, making a fool of him.
It had all been a lie.
The night was too still, the dusk too heavy around him. The cooling settle of air should have been calming, but it wasn’t enough to quiet his thoughts.
As August stumbled, moody and humid, into September, Alexander had run so many miles, both he and the dogs achieved a lean, strung-out fitness.
He couldn’t sit idle, and the running became almost obsessive: get up, black coffee, run, work, run again. Whiskey to induce sleep, get up, black coffee, run... The cycle repeated. Deep in what was left of his senses, he knew this dark mood wasn’t helping anyone, least of all himself.
But he was powerless to change it.