Mulberry Gin. Chapters Two and Three

Chapter Two

The plane was late and the car that should have been there to meet him hadn’t waited. By the time James had given hell to some poor girl at the office and a car had finally arrived he felt raw and scratchy, the combination of a long flight and a little too much airline whisky. He fell into the car without a word, speech beyond him, and he was starting to wonder if he would ever be able to do anything again. He leaned back and closed his eyes begging for sleep; just a few minuets would make all the difference. But it was no use. Instead sleep was replaced by a creeping headache that started at the back of his neck and slowly worked its way round. Soon his whole head was impersonating a hammer drill. He would never drink spirits on a plane again he promised himself, but right now her could really do with another one.
The car pulled up outside the house. Imogen’s car was gone which blackened his mood even more. He expected her to be there when he got back from his trips, he needed her to be there, he couldn’t have a good moan to himself. He stumbled out of the car without even a glance at the driver. He knew the man would return to the office and complain about what a stuck up bastard Mr Lampress was. This gave him some small satisfaction, if he was in a crap mood he liked to pass some of it on.
The silence of the house when he opened the front door confirmed the Imogen’s absence. He’d have words when she got back. Dumping everything he was carrying in a heap at the foot of the stairs he picked up the post and flicked on the answer machine. He did this in an automatic, robotic movement, the same every time he came home, but today he was too tired to be interested. He started to sort through the letters, vaguely aware of a series of faceless, nameless voices talking at him.
He went into the kitchen for coffee. When he got there he remembered that he would have to make it himself. He slapped the pile of letters down on the counter. Muttering a string of four letter words he started to fill the kettle. When he put the kettle back on its stand and flicked it on he saw the pink envelope. He frowned. What was that doing there? It took his whisky and pain fuddled brain a minute to realise that it wasn’t one of the bundle he’d just brought through, and even longer to realise that it was addressed to him in his wife’s handwriting. He opened it rather absentmindedly, trying to spoon coffee into a mug with the other hand. Eventually he put it down, caffeine was more important than Imogen at that moment.
The coffee was too bitter and too hot but it hit the spot, he started to regain control of his body. He picked the letter up again and opened it properly. Something on the answer machine caught his ear and he dropped it down by the phone. After jotting down a few names and numbers he took the rest of the coffee with him upstairs, he needed a shower and to get out of the clothes he felt he had been wearing for a month.
He threw his clothes in the rough direction of the linen basket and went over to the mirror. He stood there for a few naked minuets. For forty six he was wearing remarkably well, no one could deny he could still hold his own. Tall and lean with just a dusting of light brown hair across his chest. His muscles were not as well defined as they were twenty years ago, but what do you expect? Nonetheless they were still there. And you could count the grey hairs on the fingers of one hand, and not just on his head. Yes, he thought, looking himself up and down, even with rapidly approaching jet lag and what was starting to feel like a hangover, he was still a good looking man. He made this inspection at least once a week, just to make sure he wasn’t letting anything go. He wasn’t vain, oh no, he never used conditioners or moisturisers or any of those dubious, supposedly masculine, products.
He gave himself a last approving look and went for his shower feeling much better. He shaved and dressed, then he got a clean shirt ready for the morning. He was so wrapped up in the reports he would have to write and the notes he had to sort through. He would be expected to give a full account of each meeting and seminar he had been involved in over the last three days. He lived for his work. It gave him a buzz that he could not describe, that no one else could possibly understand. By the time he went back downstairs he was buzzing all over and ready to tackle the pile of work waiting for him in his briefcase, everything else forgotten.
The briefcase had landed near the little hall table. He gathered it up he noticed the half opened pink envelope. Imogen’s letter, of course. Well he supposed he had better read it. He yanked the page from the envelope, impatient to get on with some work. Still standing in the hall he started to read.

Dear James,
I hope you had a successful trip and a good flight. I’m sorry I’m not there to hear all about it( I should bloody well think so, ) but I have gone away (excuse me? ) I have spent a long time agonizing over the best way to tell you this, but the fact is there isn’t one, and I think you would rather I was honest.
I have left you James.

He stopped and started again from the beginning. Now he read each word very carefully

I hope this does not sound to cold and hard. I don’t know if you have been aware that I have not been happy for a long time. I felt the time had come to do something about it.
I hope you won’t miss me too much. As you may have noticed my things have gone.

He looked around but could see nothing missing.

I have only taken the things that actually belonged to me and I won’t be demanding half the contents of the house or anything. I hope I have left everything as it was before I came to live there.
I hope one day we will learn to forgive each other. (forgive him for what?)
Goodbye and good luck.
Imogen.

He stood for what seemed like a very long time without moving. His mind was racing around at great speed. In his hands was a letter from his wife apparently informing him that she had left him, but how could that be? What possible reason had she to leave him? Him for goodness sake! He dashed upstairs and nearly took the wardrobe doors off their hinges to get them open. She was right, it had all gone. He went into the bathroom and scanned the shelves, gone. He pulled open all her draws, gone. What the hell was going on here? How had he not noticed? He looked at his watch, eleven thirty. He wondered how long she had been gone. Had she just left or did she go as soon as she knew he was safely on the plane? And where had she gone? And why did it matter so much?

Eleven thirty. Imogen had been going for an hour or so and decided she needed a cup of tea and the ladies. She was also starting to wonder why James liked motorways so much. Her neck and shoulders were stiff and she had to wriggle her fingers to make sure they were still there. A sign told her she was coming up to a service station so she reluctantly decided to stop. They were always such large places with so many people. She looked around blankly. She had never done anything like this on her own before and she quickly realised she didn’t even know which queue to join. Her stomach knotted up and a nagging voice started to whisper softly, ‘what are you doing?’
With shaking hands she got her tea and managed to take it over to a small table tucked away in the corner by the window. She sat down and took a deep breath. She allowed the chatter and noise going on around her to drown out the little voice, she got the map out. Days ago she had planned the route, highlighting the motorway and all the main roads she needed to take. Now she started looking again at the B roads. They went through some lovely sounding places. It would take her longer but she could stop and have a good look round, maybe even stay overnight, James would never have allowed that. With a quiet smile she sipped her tea.

James took the letter with him into the study. He kept a tight grip on it while he poured himself a large drink. By the time he had finished his second and taken the third with him to slump in his chair it was no longer recognisable. He looked down at the ball of pink paper in his fist. He unfurled it and smoothed it out on his knee. He started to read it and re-read it, hoping he would find something in it that told him it was all a joke and that she would be home soon. What the hell was she doing? How was this going to look? His wife walking out on him without him even getting a hint of anything wrong was not going to show him in his best light, and a lot of people trusted him with a lot of their money. Hell! He hurled the glass at the wall and watched with satisfaction as it shattered and the glass flew across the carpet, the golden liquid trickled down the wall, he knew it would stain and he was glad.
After another glass he could no longer tell what he was drinking. He read the letter again. He was jet lagged and drunk and no matter how hard he tried he could not make the words make sense. He tried to recall the last six years. He screwed his face up and thought hard. She had everything. She wanted it he bought it, she only had to ask. Not that she ever asked for much, it had surprised him at first; he had always been led to believe that a much younger wife would require large amounts lavishing on her. Imogen had proved to be remarkably inexpensive. Eventually he stopped thinking and decided to settle down and finish the bottle while he waited for her to come home.


Chapter Three

Molly turned the key with a shaking hand; she had never known the French windows to be locked. Eleanor was late and Molly hadn’t wanted to do this alone. With a sigh she stepped softly into the sitting room, the sunlight followed her and lit up every corner. Rowena had loved this tiny room so much. But she was not going to cry, she had promised herself, she had promised Rowena. And her first priority was to Boris, Rowena’s cat.
No one had seen him since the day Rowena died. He had stayed on the bed with her once the doctor had confined her there, hardly ever leaving, until the moment she died. When he got off the bed and quietly crept from the room they knew. Molly, Eleanor and the nurse were in the sitting room when they saw him slip out into the garden; no one had seen him since. Every evening Eleanor or herself would put food out for him and every morning it was gone, but no one ever saw him. She went to have another look this morning, no food and no cat. While she was wandering around calling him she heard the gate squeak and saw Eleanor coming up the path.
‘Still nothing?’ Eleanor called.
Molly shook her head. ‘I hope he hasn’t gone for good, you hear such stories.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much. He must be about, the food’s gone again.’
‘But we don’t know that it’s Boris eating it. It could be a fox or something. And Imogen’s due soon. Oh dear.’ Molly was starting to work herself up.
‘He’ll be home when he’s ready.’ Eleanor said. ‘And we have too much to do at the moment. We’ll look later.’
Molly and Eleanor went back towards the cottage. Going in through the windows Rowena came out to meet them in a waft of familiar smells.
‘We have to do this.’ Eleanor said to a wobbly looking Molly. ‘We promised.’
‘But it’s so hard.’ Molly wailed.
‘I know. But we’re getting it ready for Gin.
‘Yes. For Gin.’ Molly let out a deep sigh and together they entered the room they had spent so much time in.
The cottage was in mourning. There was no furniture, instead white, mountainous lumps filled the rooms and the whole place looked deeply offended at being abandoned.
“Come on let’s get started.” Eleanor took hold of the corner of one of the dust sheets and threw it into the air with a theatrical flourish. Molly lifted her sheet more cautiously but between them they soon had everything uncovered. The sitting room started to look as it had always done, which only reinforced the feeling that something vital was missing.

‘BLOODY HELL!’ Henry thundered. ‘How DARE she, how BLOODY dare she!’ He shook the letter accusingly at Cherith, blaming the woman present for the deed of the one who wasn’t. His anger had rooted him to the middle of the kitchen floor and he was starting to turn a rather alarming colour.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Cherith had been trapped by the sink when Henry had come thundering in with the letter from Rowena’s solieter, she kept her distance, knowing what this spectacle meant.
‘Rowena. That bitch of a sister. Look at this, just look.’ He thrust the offending piece of paper at his wife. Calmly she took it and started reading. She had been expecting something like this. It was from Rowena via Mr Pengellen, It explained very carefully, honestly, and rather rudely why her brother was not in her will. Henry had been waiting for weeks to hear from him and had had several angry phone calls demanding to know what was going on. It was just like Rowena to make him wait.
‘Well you can’t be too surprised.’ Cherith said handing it back. ‘You must have known she wouldn’t leave you anything.’
‘That’s not the point. I’m her next of kin. I’m entitled.’ he spat.
Cherith sighed. ‘Well it looks as if she didn’t seem to think so. And she can leave it all to whom ever she chooses.’ Over the years she had decided that it was best to adopt the same attitude to her husband as she did to small children.
‘But who else is there? That was family money, from our father, and it should stay in the family. God alone knows what she’s done with it. Some stranger is going to get their hands on my fathers’ money. Well I’m not having it.’
‘No dear.’

Stow-on-the-Wold was beautiful, why had James never tried getting off the motorway? Imogen passed a small car park and pulled in. She was making an unscheduled stop on an unplanned route, whatever next? She felt a strange sense of liberation at this small act of defiance.
A few minuets looking around the shops turned into several hours. When she looked at her watch she realised that she would never get to Cornwall before dark. However brave she was feeling she was not brave enough to tackle a long journey in the dark. As she was thinking this she walked past a very nice looking hotel. With only the smallest hesitation she went in and asked if they had a room for the night.

The room was perfect. Luxurious without being ostentatious, comfortable without being indulgent. Her cases had been sent up to her room while she moved her car to the security of the residents’ car park. Finding things had taken time, she had not packed with the intention of stopping anywhere. Eventually she had found what she needed, and she took her wash bag with her into the en suite and started to run hot water into the very deep and inviting bath. Her baths were one thing James never complained about, although he never understood the desire to spend an hour up to your neck in bubbles. The water was hot and the bath foam had made a delicious head of soft, creamy froth. She sank down deep into it and closed her eyes.
A picture of the house and James came into her mind. How had he reacted? Would he have cared? He should care, she thought, but it would make life much simpler if he would just shrug his shoulders and carry on. Her vanity wanted him to be upset, even if it was only a little bit, but she didn’t like the idea of him suffering. At the same time she didn’t like the idea of him not being affected at all.
Then there was her father. She had been trying very hard not to think about Henry. She knew he had been on at Rowena’s solicitor asking why he had not been contacted about the will. By now he was sure to have found out he was not in it. It didn’t take too much imagination to picture his reaction. She pitted her poor mother, especially when he found out that Cherith was to be left something. Not that he would want anything to remind him of his sister, all he would want was the money and she, Imogen, had got that. How he would take that news she dreaded to think.
Her bath over she dressed and made herself up carefully. James had always liked her to be well presented, and insisted she went to the hairdressers every week. Although she would have loved to go down to the dining room in her jeans she knew it was not appropriate, and she did like to look nice sometimes.

The dining room was rather larger that she had been expecting and she had second thoughts as she stood and waited for someone to attend to her. Everyone would be looking at her, a woman on her own, she would stick out like a saw thumb. What would they think of her? The waiter seemed to be taking forever to get over to her and her nerve was starting to fail. She was just deciding that the room service menu was quite appealing after all when he came and showed her to her table. The small table was towards the back of the room and near the corner, she could have kissed him. No one would notice her there. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and started to read the menu.
When the waiter came back she hesitated for a moment waiting for James to order for both of them as usual. A small thrill went through her as she realised she could order just what she liked. After another glance at the menu she went for the shell on prawns in garlic butter ( “too messy and sticky, not the sort of thing to eat in public, not to mention the reek of garlic“) and the roast cod (“ you shouldn’t have fish for the main course when you’ve already had it as a starter“), she ordered another glass of wine (“it’s never nice to see women drinking too much in public“) and she determined to have desert (“perhaps best not, we don’t want you getting fat now do we.”). It was all fantastically delicious and she savoured every mouthful. She ordered a third glass of wine and a second helping of chocolate soufflé.