Honeycote Read Online Free PDF Page A

was reaching crisis point. All the pubs owned by the brewery needed massive refurbishments, just to bring them up to scratch and to keep the Health and Safety people placated. Not only that, but the machinery at the brewery was out of the ark: several key pieces of equipment needed repairing. It was only a matter of time before something integral to the whole shooting match gave up the ghost.
    What was needed was a substantial cash injection. He was going to have to sell one of the pubs. Which was ironic, because he knew that he should actually be looking to increase his stable in order to justify keeping the operation going. The prospect broke his heart, but one of them had to be sacrificed in order to save the rest.
    He drained his glass, stood and paced across the ancient wooden floorboards of the brewery office, coming to rest in front of the yellowing map produced for their centenary celebrations all those years ago. It outlined the brewery’s catchment area, with Honeycote and the heart of the operation in the centre, surrounded by a pen and ink drawing of each pub. The artist had added a decorative border depicting their various signs – the Fox and Goose, the Roebuck, the Peacock… Mickey had always found the map whimsical and sickly, but as Honeycote Ales’s image was that of a slice of quintessential English country life, he supposed it was appropriate.
    In moments of contemplation he always came to rest in front of this map and amused himself identifying the animal illustrations with their human counterparts. He, of course, was the handsome, wily fox forever seeking refuge from relentless pursuit. Lucy was the deer, a dainty, wide-eyed innocent unaware of the dangers lurking and who must be protected at all costs. The peacock in the bottom corner crept unwelcomed into his line of vision. It was not an indigenous creature, but an imported trophy that brought glamour and status to its owner. And, apparently, trouble.
    Kay. For the umpteenth time Mickey cursed whatever genetic defect had blessed him with such a surfeit of impulsiveness when it came to her; it was as powerful as a drug. But gradually the stakes had climbed higher and higher, and now he was seeing with a frightening clarity just what he had to lose.
    How the hell had he got himself into such a mess? Wherever he turned, he faced the consequences of either his ineffectuality or his self-indulgence. The thought was sobering, so he went to pour himself another Scotch and was surprised to find the decanter empty. Reassuring himself that there had only been an inch in the bottom when he arrived, he reached into the waxed jacket he’d hung on the back of the door. Relief flooded him as he felt the familiar cold pewter of his hip-flask. As the sweet, fiery sloe gin spread through his gullet the security of its warmth relaxed him, so much so that when he turned to find Patrick in the doorway he was momentarily off his guard and waved the flask cheerily at his son.
    ‘What on earth are you doing here, dad? It’s nearly midnight.’
    Mickey’s eyes slid over to his paper-strewn desk. Was there anything incriminating? Probably not, but Patrick had a shrewd mind and could put two and two together astoundingly quickly for one who’d failed his Maths GCSE three times. He walked carefully back across the office and began gathering up the documents.
    ‘Just looking over the last quarter’s figures. Not brilliant.’
    ‘I know that, dad. We all know that.’
    Mickey forced himself to meet Patrick’s eye. He knew that look from old. The dark eyebrow slightly raised, the sardonic twist of the mouth: exaggerated patience tinged with accusation – it was pure Carola. A selective memory had enabled Mickey to banish the image of his ex-wife from his mind. Most of the time. Now he was all too clearly reminded of the horrible turn events had taken when he’d brought her back to Honeycote all those years ago.
    They’d met at university. Mickey had eschewed Oxford