Cabin Pressure Fic: Family, part 6/7
Title: Family, part 6/7
Author: spycandy
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: PG
Characters: Martin, everyone at MJN, some small Crieffs
Warnings: Attempted suicide by a parent.
Summary: Martin must take care of his nephew and niece, with a little help from the rest of MJN.
For the next three weeks, the police kept in close contact, issuing everyone with panic buttons and direct phone numbers just in case. But it was clear that they believed, as Martin did, that Simon and Sonia had fled the country with no intention of gathering the rest of their family.
During those three weeks, it gradually dawned on Martin that that meant this was now permanent. While it had still been a case of “until Sonia's well enough” or “while Simon's completing his sentence” all he had to worry about was keeping the children fed, clothed, sheltered, educated and comforted. And that was plenty of worry.
Now that it was forever and always, there was infinitely more to worry over. Now he was responsible for their hopes and dreams.
“... and then there's university! What if the fees get any higher? Veterinary medicine is five years!” he squeaked, having a small meltdown in the flyers' lounge at Toulouse airport. Even now that Carolyn had agreed to pay him something resembling a very junior pilot's salary, the cost of raising two children alone seemed overwhelming.
“Their first heartbreaks! Driving lessons! A levels! What if they're ill? What if they fail at what they want to do?”
“Then they'll still have you there and they'll still know you love them.” Douglas' words were wise and calming, but his tone was morose. As Martin's tizz subsided he realised he might have been a little tactless.
“Oh Douglas, Alex knows. She thinks you're the bees knees.”
The first officer raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“She does! She's hardly going to let on though is she? She's very nearly a teenager - 'my parents don't understand me' is practically compulsory. However, I happen to have been privy to an interesting game of 'my pilot's better than your pilot' while Olly and Alex were trying to assemble that hammock in the garden last weekend.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Apparently you make a brilliant lasagne, are brilliant at helping with geography homework and you make long car journeys totally brilliant even when they should be dead boring.”
“Good lord,” said Douglas. “We're letting them spend far too much time with Arthur. It's ruining their vocabulary.” His damp-eyed goofy smile belied the joking comment though and Martin decided to forgo mentioning that Olly had one-upped all of that with, “Yes but Uncle Martin's the captain.” Not right now anyway.
>>>
“Have you found Simon?”
“Not yet,” said DI Strachan, placing his briefcase on the kitchen table and twiddling the combination wheels with his thumbs. “But the forensic accounting team turned up some things that were missed in the original investigation.”
“Oh?”
“Well, of course there was the money that they failed to notice he was siphoning into secret banks abroad. But there were also some accounts kept in the children's names.”
It shouldn't have been all that startling, thought Martin. Didn't most well-off parents start college funds, trust funds, that kind of thing? But after the insight the past few months had offered into Simon and Sonia's parenting he was pleasantly surprised to learn that, in their own money-centric way, the couple did care something for their children. However, it was no good getting his hopes up, they wouldn't be allowed to keep it.
“I assume it all goes straight to Simon's creditors now.”
“Actually no. That's why I came over. The money's very definitely legally Toby and Olivia's.” Strachan grinned, clearly enjoying delivering some good news for once. “The accounts pre-date the fraud and seem to have been opened with inheritance money from Sonia's father. There's, er, rather a lot of money.”
“A lot?” asked Martin, dazed. “Like, enough to cover university fees?” That would be a huge worry off his mind.
“And then some,” said the DI, finally pulling two bank statements out of his briefcase and pushing them across the table.
Martin stared at the figures for a moment, blinked and then blinked again. The numbers continued to be really very large.
“Golly,” he said.
>>>
“The money is entirely yours,” he explained that evening. “It's £75,000 each, which is quite a lot. I think the best thing to do is to put it into savings accounts until you're 18. Then you can decide how best to spend it, whether that's on studying or whatever you choose.” He'd have spent it all on flying lessons, he knew that much. And it might not have been a wise decision, but it would have been his to make, just as it should be theirs.
“I don't want to invest it all in a savings account Uncle Martin,” said Toby, with his most grown-up face in place. “I'd like to put some of it into property please.”
“What do you mean Toby?”
“I mean, I know you've been house-hunting for somewhere for us to live that you can afford on what you get paid for flying and the allowance you get for having us and so far, everywhere you've found is totally gross and titchy.”
That was true enough. The property search was not going well. He hadn't realised how much of that the children had noticed. But... “I can't spend your money Toby. That wouldn't be right.”
“I didn't say that though, did I? I said I could invest in a house - like, I 'd put in £20,000 and then I'd own ten percent of our house.” For an uncomfortable moment, Martin was reminded that Toby was a businessman's son, who had no doubt heard this kind of thing discussed over and over. But Toby wasn't looking for a profit on this deal, he was looking for a home.
“Oh yes, me too!” said Olly. “That would still leave enough to go to vet school wouldn't it?”
It wasn't actually a bad idea - a pleasant and stable place to live was a top priority right now and with a good deposit they'd even be able to afford the comfortable little three-bedroomed house that an over-ambitious estate agent had shown him the previous week. “All right. How about you both put £60,000 of the money into savings for when you're grown up? Plus you can each invest £10,000 in a house for all of us. And that leaves...”
“Enough to buy a proper piano!” yelled Toby, dropping the grown-up façade and becoming an excited 13-year-old at last. The boy would live in a house totally unfurnished but for a piano and piano stool, if needs be.
“And a chinchilla!” added Olly.
>>>
On the day that they moved in, Martin's van was considerably more full than when he'd first driven it around to Carolyn's. As well as the surprising amount of stuff they'd already managed to acquire over the past few months, it seemed like everyone just happened to be getting rid of various items of furniture that week. Even Sgt. Austin had popped over with a stack of family-sized cooking dishes he claimed his wife was about to chuck out.
Olly had gone to arrange her new bedroom, leaving Martin and Toby unpacking items into the kitchen cupboards. While Toby chattered on about school orchestra, Martin hummed a cheery passage from the medley of Renaissance love songs they had been working on at choir the previous night.
Afterwards, he'd taken advantage of the final evening of having Carolyn so close at hand to spend a couple of hours alone with Neela. A quiet drink at the pub near the rehearsal hall had been followed by unexpectedly giggly sex in the back of the van.
“...and then Jed said liking show tunes made you gay and I said that was an outdated stereotype, but Uncle Martin, how would I know if I was gay?”
Martin, who had been busy replaying the best bits of the previous evening and only half listening up to that point, attempted to catch himself up with the conversation, since the question merited a proper and sensible answer. “You're right Toby, all that stuff about show tunes and fashion, that doesn't tell you anything other than what people like to listen to or wear. I think the only big clue to sexuality is that gay men are attracted to other men, and don't fancy women,” he said.
“What about cricket players?” asked Toby. “Last year I said something to Dad about one of the England players being nice-looking and he said he didn't want me growing up to be a poof and tore all my cricket posters down.”
Damn Simon. Damn him to hell and back. How dare he tell this wonderful, talented, thoughtful boy to be anyone other than who he was? Or whoever he turned out to be.
“In this house,” said Martin, determined to put that right, “You can have posters of whoever you want. And if you want to go and see your cricket player in a live match, then we could do that too. I bet Douglas knows how to get tickets.”
>>>
Dinah stood on the pavement outside the Crieffs' new house, holding a gaudily wrapped gift in one hand and a bundle of documents in the other. She suspected the documents would spark more excitement than the striped teapot, even though she didn't often buy gifts for her clients.
Mind you, when you worked in the family courts, few clients were quite so cheering as the Crieffs. Abandoned children rarely fell on their feet in quite the way that Toby and Olivia had done. They might not be as materially well-off as they'd once been, but never once in all the reports she'd had to write on the family to get to this point had there been any doubt in her mind that they were now well cared for.
She rang the doorbell and a split-second later was greeted by Olivia, who dragged her through to the dining room, where several familiar faces awaited. She'd had to run checks on all of these people over the past few months, most recently the woman who was now resting her chin affectionately on Martin's shoulder as he unwrapped a large rectangular object. Not one of them had ever objected to the prying questions, accepting them as the price for involvement in the children's lives. But not for much longer.
The big parcel turned out to contain a framed vintage BOAC poster, a world map, criss-crossed with flight paths. “Wow, thanks Douglas. That's stunning,” said Martin, whose colleague looked even more pleased with himself than usual. “Hello Dinah, thanks for coming.”
“Happy house-warming!” she said, putting the parcel down on the dining table. “And I've got some paperwork here that I believe you've been waiting for.”
“It all went through? No problems?”
“No problems at all. The judge signed on the last dotted line this morning. Congratulations Martin, you now officially have Special Guardianship of Toby and Olivia. All legal rights and parental responsibilities are now yours.”
It was scenes like the celebration that followed that made Dinah's job worthwhile.
>>>
Six months later...
Martin waited until they were at cruising altitude before popping the question. “So, er, Douglas. Would you... um, would you be willing... ah...”
“Spit it out Martin. What do you want?”
“Will you be my best man?”
“Damn! You proposed? She said yes?” asked Douglas.
“Yes! You could be a bit more cheerful about it.”
“Hold on,” said Douglas, reaching for the intercom. “Arthur - could you pop up to the pointy end please? It turns out I owe you that banana muffin after all.”
“BRILLIANT!” came back Arthur's reply.
“Now that's out of the way, yes Martin, I will be your best man. And congratulations.”
“Wait a minute! You were betting on her saying no?” Martin was seriously considering withdrawing his request.
“Actually, I bet the muffin on Neela doing the proposing.”
“Will it be a big Indian wedding then?” asked Arthur, bouncing onto the flight deck. “Will you get to ride an elephant?”
“That... seems unlikely,” spluttered Martin. “What with Neela being half Bangladeshi, half Welsh.”
“Oh, no elephants at Welsh weddings then? That's a shame.”
“I'm not sure that it is. Where would we have got an... oh never mind. Arthur, would you be an usher?”
“What would I have to do?”
“It'll be just like being at work,” said Douglas. “Only instead of asking people “window or aisle?” it's “bride or groom?” By the by, that inner ear problem of yours Martin. Is it space worthy?”
“Space worthy?”
“Well, upper atmosphere anyway. I was just thinking about the unique challenge of organising a stag party presumably consisting of one teetotal alcoholic, one 14-year-old boy, one simpleton steward and one you. And it occurs to me that there's a chap at Virgin Galactic who owes me a favour.”
Part 7
Author: spycandy
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: PG
Characters: Martin, everyone at MJN, some small Crieffs
Warnings: Attempted suicide by a parent.
Summary: Martin must take care of his nephew and niece, with a little help from the rest of MJN.
For the next three weeks, the police kept in close contact, issuing everyone with panic buttons and direct phone numbers just in case. But it was clear that they believed, as Martin did, that Simon and Sonia had fled the country with no intention of gathering the rest of their family.
During those three weeks, it gradually dawned on Martin that that meant this was now permanent. While it had still been a case of “until Sonia's well enough” or “while Simon's completing his sentence” all he had to worry about was keeping the children fed, clothed, sheltered, educated and comforted. And that was plenty of worry.
Now that it was forever and always, there was infinitely more to worry over. Now he was responsible for their hopes and dreams.
“... and then there's university! What if the fees get any higher? Veterinary medicine is five years!” he squeaked, having a small meltdown in the flyers' lounge at Toulouse airport. Even now that Carolyn had agreed to pay him something resembling a very junior pilot's salary, the cost of raising two children alone seemed overwhelming.
“Their first heartbreaks! Driving lessons! A levels! What if they're ill? What if they fail at what they want to do?”
“Then they'll still have you there and they'll still know you love them.” Douglas' words were wise and calming, but his tone was morose. As Martin's tizz subsided he realised he might have been a little tactless.
“Oh Douglas, Alex knows. She thinks you're the bees knees.”
The first officer raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“She does! She's hardly going to let on though is she? She's very nearly a teenager - 'my parents don't understand me' is practically compulsory. However, I happen to have been privy to an interesting game of 'my pilot's better than your pilot' while Olly and Alex were trying to assemble that hammock in the garden last weekend.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Apparently you make a brilliant lasagne, are brilliant at helping with geography homework and you make long car journeys totally brilliant even when they should be dead boring.”
“Good lord,” said Douglas. “We're letting them spend far too much time with Arthur. It's ruining their vocabulary.” His damp-eyed goofy smile belied the joking comment though and Martin decided to forgo mentioning that Olly had one-upped all of that with, “Yes but Uncle Martin's the captain.” Not right now anyway.
>>>
“Have you found Simon?”
“Not yet,” said DI Strachan, placing his briefcase on the kitchen table and twiddling the combination wheels with his thumbs. “But the forensic accounting team turned up some things that were missed in the original investigation.”
“Oh?”
“Well, of course there was the money that they failed to notice he was siphoning into secret banks abroad. But there were also some accounts kept in the children's names.”
It shouldn't have been all that startling, thought Martin. Didn't most well-off parents start college funds, trust funds, that kind of thing? But after the insight the past few months had offered into Simon and Sonia's parenting he was pleasantly surprised to learn that, in their own money-centric way, the couple did care something for their children. However, it was no good getting his hopes up, they wouldn't be allowed to keep it.
“I assume it all goes straight to Simon's creditors now.”
“Actually no. That's why I came over. The money's very definitely legally Toby and Olivia's.” Strachan grinned, clearly enjoying delivering some good news for once. “The accounts pre-date the fraud and seem to have been opened with inheritance money from Sonia's father. There's, er, rather a lot of money.”
“A lot?” asked Martin, dazed. “Like, enough to cover university fees?” That would be a huge worry off his mind.
“And then some,” said the DI, finally pulling two bank statements out of his briefcase and pushing them across the table.
Martin stared at the figures for a moment, blinked and then blinked again. The numbers continued to be really very large.
“Golly,” he said.
>>>
“The money is entirely yours,” he explained that evening. “It's £75,000 each, which is quite a lot. I think the best thing to do is to put it into savings accounts until you're 18. Then you can decide how best to spend it, whether that's on studying or whatever you choose.” He'd have spent it all on flying lessons, he knew that much. And it might not have been a wise decision, but it would have been his to make, just as it should be theirs.
“I don't want to invest it all in a savings account Uncle Martin,” said Toby, with his most grown-up face in place. “I'd like to put some of it into property please.”
“What do you mean Toby?”
“I mean, I know you've been house-hunting for somewhere for us to live that you can afford on what you get paid for flying and the allowance you get for having us and so far, everywhere you've found is totally gross and titchy.”
That was true enough. The property search was not going well. He hadn't realised how much of that the children had noticed. But... “I can't spend your money Toby. That wouldn't be right.”
“I didn't say that though, did I? I said I could invest in a house - like, I 'd put in £20,000 and then I'd own ten percent of our house.” For an uncomfortable moment, Martin was reminded that Toby was a businessman's son, who had no doubt heard this kind of thing discussed over and over. But Toby wasn't looking for a profit on this deal, he was looking for a home.
“Oh yes, me too!” said Olly. “That would still leave enough to go to vet school wouldn't it?”
It wasn't actually a bad idea - a pleasant and stable place to live was a top priority right now and with a good deposit they'd even be able to afford the comfortable little three-bedroomed house that an over-ambitious estate agent had shown him the previous week. “All right. How about you both put £60,000 of the money into savings for when you're grown up? Plus you can each invest £10,000 in a house for all of us. And that leaves...”
“Enough to buy a proper piano!” yelled Toby, dropping the grown-up façade and becoming an excited 13-year-old at last. The boy would live in a house totally unfurnished but for a piano and piano stool, if needs be.
“And a chinchilla!” added Olly.
>>>
On the day that they moved in, Martin's van was considerably more full than when he'd first driven it around to Carolyn's. As well as the surprising amount of stuff they'd already managed to acquire over the past few months, it seemed like everyone just happened to be getting rid of various items of furniture that week. Even Sgt. Austin had popped over with a stack of family-sized cooking dishes he claimed his wife was about to chuck out.
Olly had gone to arrange her new bedroom, leaving Martin and Toby unpacking items into the kitchen cupboards. While Toby chattered on about school orchestra, Martin hummed a cheery passage from the medley of Renaissance love songs they had been working on at choir the previous night.
Afterwards, he'd taken advantage of the final evening of having Carolyn so close at hand to spend a couple of hours alone with Neela. A quiet drink at the pub near the rehearsal hall had been followed by unexpectedly giggly sex in the back of the van.
“...and then Jed said liking show tunes made you gay and I said that was an outdated stereotype, but Uncle Martin, how would I know if I was gay?”
Martin, who had been busy replaying the best bits of the previous evening and only half listening up to that point, attempted to catch himself up with the conversation, since the question merited a proper and sensible answer. “You're right Toby, all that stuff about show tunes and fashion, that doesn't tell you anything other than what people like to listen to or wear. I think the only big clue to sexuality is that gay men are attracted to other men, and don't fancy women,” he said.
“What about cricket players?” asked Toby. “Last year I said something to Dad about one of the England players being nice-looking and he said he didn't want me growing up to be a poof and tore all my cricket posters down.”
Damn Simon. Damn him to hell and back. How dare he tell this wonderful, talented, thoughtful boy to be anyone other than who he was? Or whoever he turned out to be.
“In this house,” said Martin, determined to put that right, “You can have posters of whoever you want. And if you want to go and see your cricket player in a live match, then we could do that too. I bet Douglas knows how to get tickets.”
>>>
Dinah stood on the pavement outside the Crieffs' new house, holding a gaudily wrapped gift in one hand and a bundle of documents in the other. She suspected the documents would spark more excitement than the striped teapot, even though she didn't often buy gifts for her clients.
Mind you, when you worked in the family courts, few clients were quite so cheering as the Crieffs. Abandoned children rarely fell on their feet in quite the way that Toby and Olivia had done. They might not be as materially well-off as they'd once been, but never once in all the reports she'd had to write on the family to get to this point had there been any doubt in her mind that they were now well cared for.
She rang the doorbell and a split-second later was greeted by Olivia, who dragged her through to the dining room, where several familiar faces awaited. She'd had to run checks on all of these people over the past few months, most recently the woman who was now resting her chin affectionately on Martin's shoulder as he unwrapped a large rectangular object. Not one of them had ever objected to the prying questions, accepting them as the price for involvement in the children's lives. But not for much longer.
The big parcel turned out to contain a framed vintage BOAC poster, a world map, criss-crossed with flight paths. “Wow, thanks Douglas. That's stunning,” said Martin, whose colleague looked even more pleased with himself than usual. “Hello Dinah, thanks for coming.”
“Happy house-warming!” she said, putting the parcel down on the dining table. “And I've got some paperwork here that I believe you've been waiting for.”
“It all went through? No problems?”
“No problems at all. The judge signed on the last dotted line this morning. Congratulations Martin, you now officially have Special Guardianship of Toby and Olivia. All legal rights and parental responsibilities are now yours.”
It was scenes like the celebration that followed that made Dinah's job worthwhile.
>>>
Six months later...
Martin waited until they were at cruising altitude before popping the question. “So, er, Douglas. Would you... um, would you be willing... ah...”
“Spit it out Martin. What do you want?”
“Will you be my best man?”
“Damn! You proposed? She said yes?” asked Douglas.
“Yes! You could be a bit more cheerful about it.”
“Hold on,” said Douglas, reaching for the intercom. “Arthur - could you pop up to the pointy end please? It turns out I owe you that banana muffin after all.”
“BRILLIANT!” came back Arthur's reply.
“Now that's out of the way, yes Martin, I will be your best man. And congratulations.”
“Wait a minute! You were betting on her saying no?” Martin was seriously considering withdrawing his request.
“Actually, I bet the muffin on Neela doing the proposing.”
“Will it be a big Indian wedding then?” asked Arthur, bouncing onto the flight deck. “Will you get to ride an elephant?”
“That... seems unlikely,” spluttered Martin. “What with Neela being half Bangladeshi, half Welsh.”
“Oh, no elephants at Welsh weddings then? That's a shame.”
“I'm not sure that it is. Where would we have got an... oh never mind. Arthur, would you be an usher?”
“What would I have to do?”
“It'll be just like being at work,” said Douglas. “Only instead of asking people “window or aisle?” it's “bride or groom?” By the by, that inner ear problem of yours Martin. Is it space worthy?”
“Space worthy?”
“Well, upper atmosphere anyway. I was just thinking about the unique challenge of organising a stag party presumably consisting of one teetotal alcoholic, one 14-year-old boy, one simpleton steward and one you. And it occurs to me that there's a chap at Virgin Galactic who owes me a favour.”
Part 7