Pedigree Crush with a Twist of Passion chapter eight

Chapter Eight

Andrew knew the day he left for University that he never wanted to come back to the hotel as a resident. He fully intended to complete his education. He even intended to take the year out after his second year, but it would be done on his terms and under his own steam. He had broken away from his mother on the day of the argument over music practice and they both knew it. Andrew became a man that day and there was no going back.

It wasn’t long before he wished he could be a little boy again, protected and coddled by his overbearing mother. Kept safe, kept out of trouble.

When he came home in the summer holidays of 1984 he had finished his second year at university. He seemed worn and troubled. Violet didn’t know that look. She was used to the hungover, cannabis induced, appearance of him and his brothers when they came home, usually with an entourage of hangers-on, for summer break, but this was different. Andrew was edgy and introverted. He seemed frightened but wouldn’t talk to his parents about his problems.

He was a man weighed down with guilt and secrets.

Andrew left home suddenly and Violet and Donald didn’t see their son again for over five years.

It was the Thirteenth of October 1989. Everybody knew the date. It was firmly branded into all the staff’s brains because it was Violet’s birthday. SP was stomping around in a foul mood. He was on the warpath and everybody was wary of crossing him. Everything had to be perfect, all arrangements adhered to, the staff beautifully turned out and looking fresh and efficient, every attention to detail considered and acted upon. SP’s shrapnel voice rang through the kitchen, the dining hall, the ballroom and reception. The man gave the impression of being everywhere. He held a clipboard on his arm, ticking off jobs as they were done and adding new ones at an alarming rate as they occurred to him. Fag breaks were foregone and coffee cooled in staff room mugs as yet another bouquet of flowers arrived and needed arranging.

Julia Morgan was on reception that afternoon. She was sick of being told, ‘This isn’t right, that isn’t right.’ Julia prided herself on doing a good job, as she kept telling Linda Bell who was working reception with her.

‘If he shouts at me just one more time, I’ll ram his clipboard so far up his arse that he’ll be chanting out his orders falsetto without even having to look at it.’

Linda laughed. ‘You’ll have a job mate; I bet his arse is so tightly clenched that it would take a JCB to prize it open.’

They were still laughing when they saw the couple who had wandered in from the street. They were used to the hippies of course, Windermere, although exclusive in Lakeland society still had its element of undesirables, people who, according to Violet, lived in packs like wolves and roamed the streets in their beards, beads and peculiar odours. She had put a large sign on the hotel entrance, next to the one that said No hikers: boots and backpacks must not be brought into the hotel. The hippy sign said No Hippies: Patchouli oil must not be worn in the hotel. Anybody caught in possession of illegal substances will be prosecuted.

The Halcyon Woods Hotel did not encourage hippies.

The couple looked tired, as though they’d travelled a long way. She was heavily pregnant and he supported her and their possessions, which were packed in the forbidden backpacks. Either they had been too weary to see the sign or had chosen to ignore it. She wore two plaits and men’s boots; he had dirty hair past his shoulders and an unkempt beard that covered most of his face and chest.

‘May I help you?’ asked Julia stiffly in a voice far removed from the one she had been talking to Linda in just moments earlier. She didn’t add ‘Sir’ and there was no welcoming smile to accompany the clipped words. Snobbery, like malice, is an emotion that spreads like infection, but Julia was too caught up in her position of assumed power to notice that.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but SP was already homing in like a torpedo.

‘You people can’t come in here looking like that. We have a dress code. There’s a sign,’ he finished, as though that explained everything.

The hippie’s narrow eyes opened wider and the sun-bronzed crows-feet wrinkled into his hairline. ‘Well SP, you pompous old bastard. I see the old lady has taught you well.’ Despite the insult, the words were warm and the man smiled broadly through them.

SP stood with one arm, half raised, a barrier as he tried to herd the couple back towards the main entrance. He furrowed his brow and then he burst into laughter. People quietly reading The Times in the Chesterfield sofas looked up in irritation. They were amazed to see that the cause of the unruly commotion was none other than one of the Woods blokes.

‘Andy? Is it you?’ he grabbed the filthy traveller in a suit-crumpling bear-hug. ‘Where the hell have you been, you sod? We hoped you were dead,’ he laughed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He held Andrew at arms length and looked at him solemnly, checking that it really was his brother and not some impostor hoping to take his place. ‘Come on, come into the kitchen quick.’ Julia and Linda looked at each other with open mouths as SP shouted at them over his shoulder ‘Not a word to anyone.’

‘Yes, Mister Woods,’ they chorused. Old Witchy Woods wasn’t going to like this.

James was still the head chef at the time. It would be another two years before the court case and gossip, and Violet sent him to exile in London. SP was literally dragging the man by the arm towards the kitchen yelling James’ name at the top of his voice. ‘This is going to be the best present ever for Ma, she’s going to be stoked. James, James, look who I’ve got here.’ They disappeared through the swing doors. ‘You are going to have a shave before the party, though, aren’t you mate? You do niff a bit,’ were the last words the receptionists heard or saw of SP and the stranger.

The pregnant woman was left standing alone in the middle of Reception with the two overstuffed backpacks at her feet. ‘Um, you’d better sit down I suppose,’ said Julia, confused. ‘Can I get you a glass of water or anything?’

And that was how the prodigal son returned.

Andrew and his new wife were hidden away until the present giving and for once Violet was speechless and her tears were genuine. Violet was delighted to have her son returned to her and thanked the Lord many times that evening. Andrew refused the tuxedo that SP tried to insist he wear. ‘My days of being told how to dress are long over, bro,’ he said quietly, thinking back to the straw boater and striped blazer days. He wore the least creased and dirty of his own clothes, a pair of khaki shorts and a cheesecloth shirt that bore just the merest olive stain from their picking in Greece the previous summer. He wore battered Jesus sandals, but his feet were clean, his toenails clipped and his beard partially tamed.

Like SP, Violet had not at first recognised Andrew as he was led to her table during the party that evening. Her lip curled first with disgust.

‘And here’s the biggest surprise of all. Look who’s come home especially for your birthday.’

‘Hello, Mother. Surprise!’

And then there was hugging, crying, and more hugging. Mother duck had her little ducklings all present and correct and around her once more. John was back on holiday from his work in London and that night the champagne flowed freely. All ills were forgotten, old scores laid to rest and misdemeanours brushed under the red carpet for the evening.

Violet hated Beth, Andrew’s wife, on sight, not least because of the huge swelling that she carried and flaunted in front of her. ‘You’re going to be a Grandma, Mother,’ Andrew said, glowing with pride. The girl was in her final month; her breasts were swollen and heavy, readying themselves to nourish the infant to come. She wore a thin sundress and no bra, her panties were clearly visible through the sheer material and the way she flaunted her condition was shameless in Violet’s eyes. She wore flat espadrilles on her feet, the laces climbing bare sun-browned legs. Violet even managed to find fault with them and said they were indecent and the type of things that only a shameless hussy would wear. But, for this night only, though her expression said it all, she kept her opinions hushed and shared them with only a select few.

‘So, am I to assume that you are married?’ she asked with just a touch of ice to her tone.

‘You may indeed, Mother. You may indeed. Been married this past three years. May I introduce Mrs Bethany Woods to you? Your daughter-in-law, my wife and the mother of my children, of which there are several and will be many more. And long may I hope to enjoy making every one of them.’

‘Really, Andrew, there’s no need for that kind of talk here,’ said Violet shocked. Andy grinned at a blushing Beth; he had always loved to wind his mother up. ‘You have children? I’m a Grandmother and you never bothered to so much as send us a postcard. Shame on you, boy.’

‘Oh come on now, Ma, this is a day of celebration. Save the recriminations for another day. We’ve come a long way to be here tonight.’

‘Tell me about your children.’ Her voice was frosty and hurt but her eyes burned with curiosity.

‘Let me see if I can remember them all. It’ll be a first if I can reel them off without missing anybody out. We have Rainbow Viola, she’s the eldest. She’s almost five. We call her Raino, and I tell you, Ma, bossy. Phew she’s a madam.’ He gave a little laugh and winked at James sitting on his right.

‘She’s a lot like you, you’ll love her.’

Violet did the maths and bristled visibly. She shot a revolted look at the illegitimate girl’s mother. She decided at that moment that Grandchild or not, it would be impossible to love a child conceived out of wedlock.

‘And then there’re the twins, Denim Sky and Storm, both girls and both, not surprisingly, four years old.’

More of them, thought Violet uncharitably. It’s a bastard epidemic. ‘What kind of names are those for children?’ She nearly said innocent children, but they were hardly that with being born the wrong side of the brush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with good strong names out of the holy book. What are you going to call this poor child when it’s born? Sludge?’

Even Andrew had to admit that was quite witty for his caustic mother.

‘Touché, Ma,’ he replied with a good-natured grin. Opposite him, Beth seethed. ‘We worship the elements, Mrs Woods. We see it as an honour to name our children—’

Andrew cut in on her before she could say any more. Beth could be opinionated about her beliefs. It was one of the things he loved about her. That, he thought, and the ability to give the best blowjob in the civilised world. But his mother had a lot to get used to and their lifestyle was just one of them. ‘Ladies, lets drink to life, love and togetherness. They lifted their glasses, Beth’s filled with orange juice, everybody else’s with champagne, and while the two women sharpened their tongues, the toast was made.

Philip, ever the peacemaker, tried to break the tension in the room. ‘Wow, another of my brothers all grown up and married. James was the first. He married a lady from London, didn’t you mate? And just last year SP tied the knot. He and Ros are just coming up to their first anniversary.’ Everybody ignored him. Violet hadn’t finished grilling her second son and his loose wife.

‘You must show me your wedding photos, Bethany. I’d love to see them, seeing as how Andrew’s father and I weren’t invited on the actual day.’ She gave Beth a sickly smile.

‘Oh, there weren’t any photographs, Mrs Woods, it wasn’t that kind of a wedding and we only invited people who we really wanted to be present.’

Let it go, thought Andrew, please just let it go. Violet opened her mouth to speak. Oh well, here come the fireworks.

‘We had a special and unique ceremony, Mother,’ he cut in. ‘We married on the top of a volcano in spring.’

Violet’s mouth fell open and she sat for a full ten seconds resembling the laughing clown at Blackpool Pleasure beach. She turned her head, mouth still open, from side to side, but there was no laughter coming from her. For those few seconds, she even forgot to breathe.

‘What? You weren’t married on consecrated ground? What in the name of the Lord was the priest thinking?’

Andrew shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, Ma, there was no priest. We were married by an elder of our commune.’

Even Beth could see that he wasn’t explaining things very well. She was passionate about her beliefs, maybe as passionate as Violet was about her Catholicism. ‘Andrew and I are Pagan’s. He denounced all ignorant religion when we purified in a sweatlodge together. We don’t hold with false Gods, we worship the old ways before modern religion was founded. Our Gods are the sun and moon, the tides and the seasons. We were married by pagan law in a ceremony of light and petals.’ At this point her eyes went dreamy as she remembered the breeze blowing the fragrant petals all over them. ‘It’s not actually called marriage in the traditional sense of the word. Our ceremony was called a hand-fasting. We are joined in the ceremony for one year and one day, or for as long as both partners want to remain so. ‘We were naked too, so photographs would have cheapened it.’

Violet lost her dignity. She screamed and ranted. Each time she ran out of insults, she returned to her favourite. ‘You witch. You evil, horrible witch. You took my God-fearing son and made him believe all your rubbish. You took my innocent boy and seduced him, you…you…Methuselah!’ Beth sat quietly, not saying a word. She didn’t agree with raised voices.

It was at this point that Violet swooned and had to be helped to her bedroom.

The boys suggested that maybe Donald should go to her. She’d had a shock after all, but Don was having none of it. He knew that somehow, at some point, and in some way, the fact that they had produced a heathen son would all boil down to being his fault. Sometimes Violet was best left to her own devises and he figured that this was probably one of those times. Besides, his son was home, and he had some partying to do.

The night was a tremendous success, from everybody’s point of view except Violet’s. They partied late into the night and ended up having a drunken sing-song, huddled round a fire that Andrew insisted on building on the lakeside. ‘What about the mess?’ began Donald ‘It’ll burn the ground. Oh Sod it, let the fire commence,’ he slurred. Plenty of time to lament his singed grass tomorrow.

Things got tense again, when, bolshy with ale, James started to tease Phil. ‘That’s it now Phil, we’ve all succumbed to the spell except you. You’re the only one left who isn’t married. We’ve never even seen you with a girl. You know what I think, don’t you? I think you’re gay.’

‘Get stuffed, James, Phil said. ‘Just because you like to go around in a dress,’ James coloured, it was a subject that the family avoided talking about. James was married now and all of that unpleasant stuff was behind him. He had Tammy and had settled any silly confusion that he had suffered. Philip felt guilty for bringing it up again, but he’d had his mother whining on at him about grandkids earlier. Then SP had asked him if he was seeing anybody yet. He felt left out and secluded at family gatherings. He was always the one on his own. The brothers all had man-talks, moaning about their wives. Phil wanted a woman to complain about, too. It wasn’t the first time that James had called him gay. He looked up about to apologise, just as James jumped him and the brothers sprawled onto their backs in the grass.

The party began to disperse after that. The cold night air drove people back into the cosy warmth of the hotel. Watching their breath dance in the air made the guests long for warm beds with fluffy duvets and central heating. Soon only Donald, Philip and Andrew were left. Philip sensed that Donald wanted to talk to his son alone. They had a lot of catching up to do, so after shaking Andrew’s hand and reiterating how good it was to have him home, Philip also headed for his bed in the early hours.

Left alone, the two men sat for sometime in companionable silence. Andrew took rolling tobacco and papers out of his shorts pocket and rolled a cigarette. He would have preferred a joint, but in deference to his father, he contented himself with a roll-up. He concentrated on the task while his thoughts drifted. He licked the paper and made sure that the finished product was smooth and even before putting it to his lips and lighting it. He offered the pouch of tobacco to his father and although Donald hadn’t smoked for over twenty years he took it from him and attempted to roll his own cigarette. The paper tore under his callused hands and tobacco spilled to the floor. They both laughed. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done this, son.’ Andrew took the fixings from him and rolled a second cigarette. ‘Your mother would kill me if she knew.’ They laughed again.

‘It’s going to freeze tomorrow, lad. Look at that rag around the moon.’ The conversation was sparse and held no substance, but it wasn’t stilted or awkward. They were two men, sitting by a fire in the moonlight, happy with each other’s company.

‘So what are your plans, son?’ asked Donald as he stubbed the end of his smoke out on his precious grass. ‘Are you staying awhile?’

‘Nope,’ answered Andrew slowly. He was in no hurry and took the last draw on his smoke before elaborating. ‘No, we’re not staying awhile. This is home dad. I’ve seen the world, seen some fantastic places and lived some crazy dreams. And now I’ve come home,’ he finished simply. ‘If you want us, we’re back for good.’ He emphasised the word ‘us’, letting his father know that if his wife and children weren’t accepted into the family, then this wasn’t the home he was looking for. ‘She’s a good woman, you know.’ Neither of them had mentioned Beth since she had kissed her husband goodnight hours earlier. He wasn’t asking his father to like his wife. He was merely stating a fact, in the same lazy way that they’d talked about the weather.

‘Aye lad, aye, I reckon she is.’ Donald put his hand on his son’s knee and gave it a little pat. He coughed, embarrassed and moved his hand to the grass, picking at an imaginary weed. ‘Reckon your mother’s just going to have to look beyond her blinkers. So, what are you going to do? Any ideas?’

‘Were going to look at property tomorrow. We’ve left the kids at the commune in France. We need to arrange collecting them. Home has to be right, Dad, you know? It has to have the right feel. It has to sit right with nature. I need a place with outbuildings that can be used as workshops. I’ve build myself a name as a pretty good watchmaker. I do clocks, too. Beth’s an artist. We need a studio for Beth, space for the kids and a barn to turn into a shop. I’m looking at buying a working farm, you know so that we can put something back into the land.’

Donald didn’t answer for a second or two. ‘Sounds expensive,’ he said at last. ‘Clockmaker, eh? That’s a fine occupation, lad.’

‘Oh, we’ve got money, Pops. That’s not a problem. And I don’t mind if the place needs work. We’d like that, doing our own place up the way we want it. We’re in no rush to have it done and we’ll be comfortable while we work on it.’ At this point his voice turned bitter. There was hardness to it, something below the words that Donald couldn’t work out. ‘We’ve got more money than we’ll ever need.’

Donald was about to press his son to explain. Andrew sounded troubled; something was on his mind, but at that moment the heavens opened and raindrops the size of pennies dropped from the sky, soaking them through in seconds. The rain would take care of the dying embers of the fire. They ran drunkenly for the hotel laughing like kids.

Andrew’s words came back to Donald as he waited for sleep to take him. The lad seemed to be doing okay financially. He had a lovely, feisty wife, a family, and yet something wasn’t right. The way Andrew spoke, it was as if his money was a curse.

We’ve got more money than we’ll ever need.