The Family Firm

Chapter 30

Freddie watched on as his Beth placed a plate of beefsteak and a generous helping of fresh chips ahead of him. As he sat there in the kitchen of his parents' home in Chingford, his step-mother took time straightening out his silverware and dabbing a stray dribble of meat juice from the side of his plate with a cloth napkin. Under Beth's roof, presentation was everything, from the tasty food being offered, to the woman who did the job herself, and this was not lost on Fred.

'There you are, my son,' she said fondly, and when she had finished tidying, she clasped his jaw with her slender fingers and firmly kissed his cheek. He could smell a potent mixture of musky perfume, fag smoke, and hair spray; the distinct aroma was unmistakable and he recognised it from his childhood.

Nothing had changed in all those years, not really. Beth was the same woman she had been all this time, the same woman that had set young Freddie on the path to become the man that sat before her.

'Smells handsome,' he said, and got to tucking in.

Fred had been stopping by his parents' home more often those days. The older he got, the less he found himself craving solitude, far unlike his childhood want for independence. Lately, his flat in Barking, albeit nice, seemed rather empty. He had no wife, of course, no children, no steady girlfriend, and the birds he regularly rotated were never important enough to be invited to his own flat. He regularly stopped by Frankie's place after working to have tea with her and Junior, but now that they were in the same business as he was, he allotted more time to visit his parents.

It was always bitter-sweet. There had been a reason he left the family home as a teenager, a reason he hadn't spoken to them for years after. It was something he had been suppressing since he was young, a feeling that had been rising in the back of his throat like bile the longer he stayed.

As he ate, he kept his eyes downward but was aware of Beth's presence as she fixed up a plate for his father. Charlie, as always, was lounging away in his recliner in the front room, his watery green eyes focused on the television ahead of him. Ever since they'd moved from the caravan park to their first council flat in Barking, the old Irish fuck had slowly deteriorated before their very eyes. He was a pavee, his life was with the other travellers but Beth had meticulously cornered them all into isolation. He was a mess when Fred's mum Martha had left, and Beth had carefully collected the pieces of his life and fit them together the way that suited her. In the process, Charlie had been completely emasculated and became the fat drunkard Fred knew him to be, drinking and eating himself into an early grave, and never moving from his recliner except to piss. He even slept in the chair those days, because most days he was too bloody rat-arsed to walk the ten paces to the bedroom!

Fred couldn't see them as Beth disappeared through the doorway, but he knew like every meal she would hand him his plate and two bottles of Stella. After he ate, she'd collect his plate and bottles and hand him two more so he could enjoy his Emmerdale. It was his favourite show. Fortunately it was on regularly and kept him from complaining about the state of things or about how much better things were in Cork where he was born, if only for a few minutes.

Fred kept his eyes on his plate as his step-mother returned, busying herself with tidying the kitchen and sorting out a few things. The beefsteak was good, as were the chips; Fred was a good cook, better than most people he knew, but living alone meant he didn't often find the excuse to go "all out" as he would put it. The home-made meal was welcome and warmed his belly comfortably.

'You're awfully quiet,' said Beth, and when Fred glanced up at her, he noticed that familiar little smirk on her face.

'It's good,' he told her in between bites, needing something to say.