Any Day by Brian Lancaster

General Release Date: 5th October 2021

Word Count: 101,106
Book Length: SUPER PLUS NOVEL
Pages: 381

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY,EROTIC ROMANCE,GAY,GLBTQI,MYSTERY

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Book Description

For some, it takes a lifetime and a mystery to find each other.

Successful businessman Leonard Day’s life revolves around his work until a call from his mother summons him back to his family home in Drayton, Norwich. His father has died.

With a past he would rather forget, builder Adrian Lamperton prefers to live alone. But when Lenny Day arrives in town, feelings of attraction resurface.

Leonard learns he has inherited a Welsh farmhouse, something nobody knew about, and employs Adrian to help inspect the property. But tragedy and mystery surround the house and very soon they start to unearth things that others would prefer remain buried.

Reader advisory: This book contains references to suicide, attempted murder and religious bigotry. There are mentions of drug use, prostitution, child abuse and abandonment, and homophobia.

On Friday morning—the day of his father’s funeral—Leonard stood barefoot in the middle of his parents’ overgrown back lawn still in his grey silk pyjamas. Beneath clear skies and mild sunshine, perspiration beaded his forehead from the range of movements he had performed. At first—for only a fleeting moment—he’d sensed the damp grass beneath his toes and wondered what his mother’s neighbours might make of the strange man performing exotic routines in her back garden. But once he had begun, as soon as his mind switched off and his muscles stretched and burned, concentrating intently on performing the range of precise Qigong movements—The Eight Strands of Brocade—nothing had been able to penetrate his concentration.

Seated finally in a lotus position on his workout mat and surfacing from meditation, conscious once again of his surroundings, he surveyed the yard with a critical eye. Should the weather remain dry, he would attempt to tidy the small garden during his stay. On looking back towards the house, he noticed his mother moving around in the kitchen.

Neither of them spoke as they breakfasted on boiled eggs and buttered wholemeal toast with a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. With all the preparations for the funeral ceremony made—more easily than Leonard had anticipated—they had little left to discuss.

Much to his surprise, his mother had insisted on contacting people herself about the arrangements as well as sorting out the post-funeral gathering. A true professional, the local undertaker had taken care of almost everything else after getting a sense of their budget. Leonard had been left to sort out his father’s correspondence—cancelling subscriptions and removing names from bills—as well as placing a small obituary in the local newspaper. Many of the tasks he remembered from when Kris died, although Kris’ family had snatched those away from him after they’d stepped in and frozen him out of everything. At least today he would be there to bid goodbye to his father, a rite of passage Kris’ family had denied him.

According to his mother, thirty-seven accepted the invitation to the chapel service, most of those medical professionals and other colleagues from the university. The former chancellor of the college agreed to provide a eulogy on behalf of other teaching fellows and the current executive team. Leonard would also speak, albeit briefly. His mother, who had never shown any desire to speak publicly, wanted to get the whole tiresome business over and done with as quickly as possible.

After he’d washed up and tidied away the breakfast things—they had settled into a comfortable routine of his mother preparing food while he tidied up—Leonard had a whole morning free, so he pulled out his laptop and caught up on work. Touching base with his team back in London had become a highlight in the otherwise monotony of staying with his mother.

“Hey, Leonard.” Isabelle’s cheerful face filled the screen. “How are things going?”

“Funeral today, followed by snacks and drinks at a local pub. Then all I have left is a meeting with my father’s solicitor on Monday, to go over his will, which should be routine. So I’ll stay the following week and be back in the office the week after, all going well. How are things your end?”

“Perfectly fine. Don’t hurry back if you’ve got other things to deal with. The accountant meeting went well, as you heard. I’ve sent you a soft copy of the report and put the original on your desk. Murray Drummond and his crew let us down again—”

“What do you mean?”

“Reading between the lines, I think they’ve taken on more than they can cope with, so we’re going to have to source someone else for the Cheltenham manor renovations.”

“Again? That’s four times he’s done that.”

“I know. I’ve tried GHB and a couple of other specialists, but they’re all busy, too. Any suggestions?”

“Yes, delete Drummond from our preferred builders’ list. Shit. I would have suggested GHB, but you’ve already tried them. Heritage. They’re going to be expensive, but give Molly from Heritage a call, see if they’re available. I’m getting a bit tired of us bouncing around trying to source decent builders. When business is good, we’re the first they blow off, because they all want the easy, well-paid work. Of course, as soon as times are hard when the market slows down, they’ll be on their knees begging us for work. Anything else while I’m on?”

She gave him a very brief update on their other sites. Everything seemed to be going fine. Only the building specialist for the listed building in Cheltenham had his temper frayed. He’d bought the property in the hopes of renovating and getting a buyer on board by May. But significant structural work would have to be undertaken, and approvals sought from the local buildings authority to ensure none of the listed building’s original features would be affected.

“Kieran’s out today in Sussex seeing a private owner of vintage Bentleys. Otherwise, I’d put him on. At least he isn’t leaving rude Post-it notes on my screen.”

“He’s doing that to you now?”

“Yep. I think he’s missing you.”

Leonard laughed.

“Keep up the good work, Isabelle. In case I don’t tell you enough, you’re doing a fantastic job. See you soon.”

Sweet girl that she was, she turned away to her right at that remark as though someone or something had caught her attention. But he spotted the telltale red tinges on the cheek caught on camera. She always blushed when anyone complimented her. Funny little thing. To save her embarrassment, he clicked off the program.

 

* * * *

 

Just after midday, dressed in a traditional black suit and tie combination—with an allowance of colour in the trademark handkerchief of light-grey and burgundy polka dot tucked into his breast pocket—Leonard held the front gate open for his mother. She’d chosen a simple long-sleeved black dress and carried a black handbag, but wore no hat or gloves. Across the street, a few neighbours he didn’t know peeked through net curtains or stood outside their front porches to observe the black limousine filling the road. After his mother had called the funeral director’s suggestion of a hearse ‘morbidly garish’ and ‘ridiculously expensive’, they’d agreed for the coffin to be taken directly to the crematorium. Leonard had put his foot down when she’d suggested he drive his own or his father’s car, or that they ride the public bus.

“At some point, you need to take this contraption for a run,” said his mother as they stepped off the kerb behind his father’s navy-blue Astra, ready to climb into the back of the plush limousine. Leonard simply nodded, opening the limousine door for his mother and adding another chore to his already long list. The Astra had a thick film of grime on the bodywork, giving the machine a sheen of neglect. “And soon, too, before it turns into a lump of rust. The thing’s been sitting there gathering dust for over a month.”

“I thought you were going to learn to drive?” he asked before walking around the other side of the limousine and climbing into the soft leather seat next to her.

“Well, I didn’t. Your father did all the driving. And it’s too late now.”

“Why is it too late?”

“My eyesight’s getting worse. And I lack the confidence. Besides, I have my bus pass.”

“Then you’ll need to sell. No point having the car sitting outside the house doing nothing.”

“Sell it then. The old rustbucket’s no use to me.”

“Can you not sort that out?”

“Don’t you already sell motorcars? Besides, cars are a man’s domain. You’ll know what you’re talking about when people come to view the beast.”

And just like that, his mother had landed him with yet another task. Both sat in silence as the limousine moved painfully slowly down the road. Leonard focused his gaze out of the window, through the tinted glass, watching the real world go by. Once the funeral and other arrangements were completed, he would need to sit his mother down and have a serious talk about the future.

At the crematorium chapel two miles outside Drayton, the car park had already half-filled. His parents—both humanists—had specified cremation with non-religious ceremonies when their time came. Entering the small hall to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata felt entirely fitting. Ending the service with his father’s choice of song provided a glimpse into his rare sense of humour. He had chosen My Way by Frank Sinatra, which would undoubtedly raise eyebrows as well as causing a few stifled giggles.

Insisting on speaking first, Leonard struggled to come up with anything meaningful to say about his father and left the heavy lifting to the medical professionals his father, Professor Colin Day, had worked alongside, those who also had—very clearly—been good friends.

“My father and I were not what you would call close. But I believe we shared a mutual respect. One thing he taught me, something that has stayed with me throughout my life, was the importance of ambition, hard work and perseverance. My father personified those qualities and, although I didn’t follow in his footsteps academically, they have served me well in business. I will miss you, Father, your patience, sound advice, and your wisdom. Wherever you are now, I hope you rest well.”

With a quick nod to the celebrant, he returned to his seat alongside his mother. Fortunately, the former chancellor provided a long, polished and heartfelt eulogy, which compensated for Leonard’s concise effort. When the curtains closed around the coffin and the Sinatra classic began, Leonard breathed out a sigh of relief. At a nod from the celebrant, he took his mother’s arm and led them through a side door out to the chapel gardens.

For the next half hour, stood next to his mother, he listened to awkward, often repetitive condolences from people he had never met and thanked them for their kindness.

At one point a woman around the same age as his mother came up to introduce herself. Leonard recognised her as the woman who had planted herself in the pew behind them, and throughout the ceremony had muttered muted words to herself. At one point Leonard had turned around, ready to glare, thinking she might be talking on her mobile phone. Instead, he’d seen she had her eyes closed, hands clasped before her mouth, grasping a purple lace handkerchief to her lips and talking to herself.

Although Leonard could immediately see the resemblance to his father—the same grey eyes, straight nose and angular face—he had never met the woman before. Maybe her grey hair tied back severely in a bun accentuated the facial features. By her side a bald, heavily overweight man in dark glasses, around the same age as Leonard but with less family likeness, slouched untidily, giving off an air of boredom and indifference.

“Geraldine,” the woman said to his mother, producing an overly sad smile before thrusting out a black-gloved hand. “My condolences on your loss. And my apologies we haven’t been in touch more. I know you don’t share our faith, but I hope you don’t mind that I prayed for my brother’s soul throughout the service. He is in the hands of Our Lord now.”

Leonard’s mother rarely displayed emotion but appeared to stiffen at the outstretched hand, before accepting the gesture. Once connected, and somewhat affectedly, the woman brought her other gloved hand to place on top of their clasped hands.

“Thank you, Millicent,” said his mother, her awkwardness apparent, especially in the way she pulled her hand away.

“Leonard, this is your Aunt Millicent. Your father’s sister. And this is your cousin, Matthew.”

Taken aback by this new knowledge, Leonard nodded a welcome, before being pulled into a tight hug by the aunt. While holding him, she whispered in his ear.

“God bless you, Leonard. We’ll speak later.”

After another tight hug, she pecked a kiss on his cheek then let him go. The cousin, Matthew, stepped up, nodded and shook hands weakly, his fingers cold, damp and chubby. Leonard likened the handshake to clasping a pack of freshly opened sausages. Matthew also seemed incapable of making eye contact. Noticing other people waiting to pay their condolences, his aunt and cousin stepped away, before being swallowed up by the small crowd.

“My father has a sister? And I have an aunt and a cousin?” asked Leonard as an aside to his mother before the next well-wisher stepped up. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Millicent, the ‘pious, pompous, poodle’ your father used to call her. They live in Clifton, Bristol in the south. I had to invite her but didn’t think she’d come, being as he stipulated a humanist ceremony. You know your father’s views on any form of organised religion. Before you were born, he asserted his opinions at a family gathering—without me, thank goodness, because I was carrying you at the time—and harsh words were spoken. That weekend he came home and told me his sister no longer wanted anything to do with him or us. Not sure exactly what happened, but I know he felt a sense of relief, said he didn’t want her kind of fanaticism infecting your childhood. So we cut all ties. We’ve only met them once since, at your grandfather’s funeral. You’d have been mid-twenties then, living in London, busy working hard. And you have—had—three cousins. An older cousin, Luke, who passed away years ago, and Matthew and Mary, the twins. We still get a Christmas card from Millicent each year, something your father used to open, read aloud, and then, with a snort, cheerfully rip up and throw in the bin.”

Although Leonard knew his father’s views, he never imagined him to be a man who would let them come between family members. Whatever happened must have been severe, especially if he told his wife and son none of the particulars.

Once everyone who could come filled the Red Lion for the post-funeral gathering, Leonard felt grateful to have his cousin Eric attending, even though the conversation wasn’t exactly riveting. Standing in one corner of the room, among other regulars, they could chat in virtual peace. Most of the twenty-something mourners who attended turned out to be college employees, current and former. A few came up to introduce themselves again, but most knew his mother well. The way she flitted from one small group to another, he guessed she enjoyed the attention. One minor consolation was him not having to stick by her side for the whole afternoon. Eventually she settled into a small booth chatting with Eric’s mother, Aunt Marcie. Both sat red-cheeked nursing large glasses of red wine, a plate of sandwiches and sausage rolls between them.

When Eric excused himself to use the toilet and get more drinks, Leonard stood awhile on his own until someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned around to see the solid frame and, frankly, handsome face of Adrian Lamperton standing before him. Adrian eyed Leonard’s chest uncomfortably but stood his ground, eventually meeting Leonard’s eyes. Absently, Leonard realised the man must have been marking his time to speak to him.

“You’re Leonard Day?”

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Brian Lancaster

Brian Lancaster is an author of gay romantic fiction in multiple genres, including contemporary romance, paranormal, fantasy, crime, mystery, and anything else that tickles his muse’s fancy. Born in the sleepy South of England where most of his stories are set, he moved to Southeast Asia in 1998, where he now shares a home with his husband and two of the laziest cats on the planet.

Find out more about Brian at his website.

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