Page 2 of A Family Affair
God, Beryl was so flaming angry, she could feel it building inside. Not just for the decades of deceit and the ramifications that her mother’s secret could have if it ever got out. Because before she’d made her unholy confession, Molly bloody McCarthy had extracted a promise and made Beryl swear an oath never to tell a soul, not until she was dead and gone, and only if she felt it was right to do so.Cheers Mother. Thanks for that.
Beryl thought she was going to hear something juicy, or of no real consequence. Had she known what was about to leave her mother’s lips, Beryl would have sellotaped them firmly shut then ran a mile.
But it was said, never to be forgotten. And basically, her mother had very cleverly passed the buck, leaving Beryl to decide what to do about it all. It was up to her whether to keep the secret for the greater good, contain it like a killer virus, or explain it all and hope there was an antidote for the shock and pain she would unleash on the McCarthy clan.
Approaching footsteps forced Beryl to shake off her worries for a second and paint on a smile as the nurses popped their cheery faces around the doorjamb.
‘All done, lovely. She’s clean and changed and fast asleep already. Must have worn herself out chatting to you, bless her heart.’
Making to stand and intent on serving them refreshments, Beryl was halted by a raised palm. ‘You stay there, lovely, and enjoy the peace and quiet. We’ll let ourselves out. See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.’
Before Beryl could object or voice the notion that actually she wouldn’t mind a cup of tea and a natter, they were gone, and she was left alone with a thirst and a problem to solve.
‘What the bloody hell am I going to do?’ Beryl asked the little stone lion who sat beside the doorstep and stared, perhaps needing a tad more information to go on.
One thing she did know for sure is that she would keep her promise and not expose herdearmother. It would all be too much to bear. She had enough to cope with as it was, so a family bombshell followed by a funeral from hell was not Beryl’s idea of fun.
Accepting that the stone lion was going to be of no use, Beryl looked skyward, instead, telling herself it was worth a try. ‘Oh dear God in heaven, what the hell am I supposed to do now?’
A heartbeat or two later Beryl was still on her own. And in an attempt to be logical, focused on the subject of her mother’s life-changing nugget of unwanted information.
Ernie.
Should Beryl decide to share, there was no way of knowing how Ernie would take the news. His relationship with their mother had always been strained, as far back as Beryl could remember, really.
There was so much to consider. The pros and cons of being the one who blew their past apart let alone the hurt it would inflict on Ernie. Because if she was reeling, knowing him, there was a chance he would spiral out of control. No, this wasn’t something Beryl could fathom on a Wednesday evening and have it all sorted by the timeCorriestarted.
It was a biggie. Telling Ernie, her beloved big brother that their unassuming, bedridden, eighty-two-year-old mother was actually a fraud. That the foundations of their family were built on a tangle of secrets and lies.
And how could she – never mind Ernie – come to terms with the lip-numbing, brain-freezing facts about the past? Make sense of their lives? Everything she’d taken for granted for as long as she could remember. As if that wasn’t enough, there was also one stark fact that made her stomach roil and her blood run cold.
Mother Molly McCarthy was a thief. The worst kind of thief of all.
CHAPTER1
HONEY
Present Day
Looking up from the counter, Honey checked the time. She’d been replenishing her stock of French pastries since the first batch had sold out during the after-school-run-rush.
Midday approached and she was a man down. Actually a woman down, but it didn’t have the same ring to it. Honey always imagined people manning the lifeboats when she said it or rushing about in a flap like the dinner ladies at school when it started to spit rain.
Lizzy, their waitress, had rung to say she’d be delayed on account of a traffic jam and one of her longest and most elaborate stories yet.
Something to do with a road-block by the mini roundabout near the humpback bridge, and at least ten police outriders escorting a huge entourage of mysterious limousines. Lizzy had been utterly convinced it was either the prime minister or a member of the royal family. Why they’d be passing through a sleepy village in the Peak District on a Wednesday morning was anyone’s guess. Honey’s especially.
Then again, Lizzy was known for gilding the lily. The customers loved her chatter, and tales of UFOs flying low over the Swizzles factory in the valley. Or the one about the big cat that roamed the tops of the peaks, descended from a leopard once owned by a batshit crazy Victorian mill-owner who collected rare species.
Lizzy could also shift their specials like no other, so as long as she arrived before they got busy, Honey would let it go.
It had been steady during the morning, and she’d managed by herself. The usual coffee-morning mums and then a flurry of hikers, and a couple of regulars from the marina who popped in for the all-day breakfast. Now the lull before the storm.
Behind her she could hear music, accompanied by Gospel, their chef, who she knew would be dancing to whatever was playing on Radio 1. Modern songs weren’t her thing at all. For a start she could never understand the lyrics and found the chatter of the DJ a bit annoying. Gospel, Lizzy and their kitchen assistant Butch, loved it. She saw her café as a collective effort where they all had a say, and their opinions and ideas were respected and welcomed.
Honey checked the counter, and after a backwards glance, satisfied that the beverage station was prepped and ready for action, she took a moment to survey her pride and joy. Honey’s Place. Her real name, Honeysuckle, had been ditched in favour of her shortened version during her schooldays to avoid teasing. In the present, having to pay a signwriter per letter sealed the deal.
Her best friend, Ziggy, had been adamant that Honeysuckle would’ve been a cool name above the shop. Honey’s dwindling bank balance disagreed.
