A Summer of Secrets

by Lorna Peel

  “Thank you. And I mean it; if there is anything I can do?”

  They walked together to the gate then went their separate ways.

  Returning to the flat, she put the cardboard box on the breakfast bar, went to the laptop and opened a new email. She cringed and began to type.

  Dear Lord Heaton

  Please find attached a photo of Danielle, Michelle, my mother and myself at Michelle’s wedding at St Mary’s in 2009. Danielle’s parents are buried right behind the church.

  If you would like me to stop, please just say, and I’m sorry for shouting at you in the graveyard and being a general pain in the backside. I offered to bring you there, it’s my mess, and I’ll clear it up.

  Sincerely

  Sophia Nelson

  She attached the photo and clicked send then returned to the cardboard box and lifted out the diaries. They weren’t yearly diaries, more of a journal where her mum had jotted down her thoughts. She counted the journals, there were seven in all. She put them to one side and brought out the jewellery; two necklaces, a bracelet and her mum’s engagement ring.

  She slipped the small diamond ring onto her finger. It was a little tight so she returned it to the box and took out the photographs. The first was Mum with her parents. The second was herself as a baby. A very fat baby. Sophia rolled her eyes and went to the third. It was a dinner party. She quickly picked out her mum then saw Danielle seated opposite. It must be one of Connolly’s Christmas parties. She left it to one side so she could show Heaton then turned to the journals.

  She opened one but the entry was dated October 1989.

  S fell out of the apple tree and broke her arm. A clean break but S was very annoyed that it was her left arm and not her right.

  Sophia smiled and reached for another. The entry was dated April 1990.

  My menopause has definitely begun. Didn’t really know how to tell W. We will just have to accept that S will be our only child.

  A few days later an entry read;

  W took it well, but deep down I know that he would have loved to have had a son.

  Sophia snapped the journal closed and breathed in and out deeply to try and stop the tears coming. She picked up a third journal and opened it.

  23 November 1974. D is pregnant. What can I say? How can I congratulate her knowing that she is only bearing those people’s child for the money?

  Sophia quickly flipped back a few pages.

  12 November 1974. D finally told me what all the secrecy was about and why she’s been off work pretending to be ill. I just can’t believe it. It’s like something from a film. She showed me a picture of LH and he is handsome but under no circumstances would I do what D is doing.

  Flipping forward in the diary, Sophia read on.

  15 January 1975. D and I are in Blackpool. It’s deserted and freezing. I tried again to make D see sense and to not sell her baby but she won’t listen.

  2 May 1975. D rang me late last night to tell me that she has had a little girl. LH is putting a brave face on it but what he wants is a son. They want her to have another child. I’ve begged her not to but she just won’t listen to me anymore.

  28 November 1975. D is pregnant again and is certain that this one will be a boy.

  7 February 1976. D and I are in Blackpool again. If anything, it’s colder than last year and we’ve just had the most enormous row and I told her that she would regret this for the rest of her life. I feel bad now because D ended up in tears and it can’t be good for her or the baby.

  12 May 1976. D rang me to tell me that she gave birth to a boy early this morning. L and LH are delighted. I bet they are. I tried one last time to make her see sense. This will be her last chance. If she gives this baby up too she will never see it again. But, no, she wouldn’t listen. She’s got her money, she’s marrying DA even though the poor chap hasn’t a clue what’s been going on, and they’re moving to London. I give up. That’s it. Enough.

  Her laptop jingled heralding the arrival of an email and she put the journal down.

  Dear Ms Nelson

  There is absolutely no need for you to apologise. I should be the one apologising. In fact, I’m a bit surprised you haven’t lost your temper with me long before now. :)

  My apologies and kind regards.

  Thomas Heaton

  She smiled weakly and returned to the breakfast bar, reaching for one of the later journals.

  21 June 2010. With W to the opening of the Mining Museum. W’s speech went on far too long so I had to go and put an end to it. He wasn’t very happy. I then had to stand back and watch LH make a much shorter speech. I hadn’t seen him for years, not since he went down the mine as a child. People say he’s becoming a recluse up there at the abbey but he came to this so it’s probably rubbish. He doesn’t look like D but he rubbed the side of his nose exactly like D used to do, which startled me. Maybe his sister looks more like D. I hope they never find out. I wish S and M hadn’t become friends but I wish that a lot of things hadn’t happened. S rang. She’s got a new boyfriend.

  She picked up the newest of the journals and opened it. Many of the latter entries simply contained full names, telephone numbers, dates and even on one page a shopping list. She went back to the start of the journal.

  30 May 2012. I think there might be something the matter with me. I met MG in Tesco and I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name. I think I called the poor girl S twice. This evening I answered the telephone with Mum and Dad’s old number. I’m having to write things down more. I hope it’s just a sign of old age.

  Poor Mum. She closed the journal, not wanting to read of her mother’s descent into dementia. She returned the journal to the box and got ready for bed.

  All in all, it took less than twenty-four hours for Jeff to blab. Michelle rang her at lunchtime the following day.

  “Just what haven’t you been telling me?” Michelle demanded lightly. “Jeff from next door said, and I quote, ‘Sophia was more or less shagging some posh bloke in a suit in St Mary’s Graveyard last night and he nearly strangled Mike’. So, who was he and why the hell St Mary’s Graveyard?”

  Sophia took a deep breath and tried to get her story straight. Her dad’s disappointment at not having had a son had gone around and around her head for hours the previous night.

  “It was Lord Heaton and I wasn’t ‘more or less shagging him’. St Mary’s was originally a grange, a farm belonging to the old Cistercian abbey, and we were just seeing how much of the old building was still there.”

  Michelle snorted. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Well, I’d be bloody annoyed if you believed Jeff Bateson over me.”

  “So where did he get this ‘more or less shagging’ idea from?” Michelle asked.

  “He was probably high on weed as usual plus the fact that Lord Heaton and I were trying to hide from him. It sounds pathetic but it’s true. I knew Jeff would put two and two together and get ninety, so we tried to avoid him but it didn’t work.”

  “So there is nothing going on between you and Lord Heaton?”

  “Nothing,” she replied simply.

  “So why did he try and strangle Mike?”

  “Mike was bloody rude. They all were.”

  “So you haven’t got your own knight in shining armour, then?”

  She forced a laugh. “No. He’s not a knight, anyway, he’s a baron. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it.”

  “No, barons are usually the baddie, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” Unfortunately.

  “Well, Sophia, I’m very disappointed.”

  “Sorry,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  That evening, she dropped her car off at Tony’s brother’s house in the town. He was a complete petrol-head and was going to service it for her. She walked back to the abbey through the parkland. The stable yard was deserted as she crossed it and unlocked the door to the flat. Des and Helen were out and even Heaton wasn’t in his office. She opened t
he window, pulled off her shoes, then went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Closing the fridge door, she heard a voice.

  “Andrew? It’s Thomas. Have you time for a chat?”

  Who was Andrew, she wondered, before remembering that he was the son of Des’ predecessor.

  She went to the window and peered out. Heaton was in the office, the window was wide open, and he was struggling with his jacket. He pressed a button on the telephone handset, put it down, and shrugged the jacket off.

  “How’s Steph?” a male voice on speakerphone asked.

  “On the mend. She’ll be home in a few days.”

  “Thank God for that. And Simon?”

  “Crawled back under a stone. He hasn’t been seen since.” Heaton reached for a mug and took a sip. “If I see him again, I’ll fucking kill him.”

  “If I don’t do it first. How are you?” Andrew asked and Heaton replied with a humourless laugh. “That good?”

  “That good.” Heaton sat down in the office chair with the mug and put his feet up on the desk. “The place here is completely deserted except for yours truly. It’s pathetic.”

  “Look, tell you what. I’ll come down next week and I’ll drag you out on the pull, yeah?”

  “What happened to what’s-her-name? Jessica?” Heaton asked, before taking another sip from the mug.

  “Julia,” Andrew corrected him. “Dumped me for some tosser of a lawyer with a flash car.”

  “Bloody hell, sorry. I thought that was going quite well?”

  “So did I. So, fancy a couple of nights out on the pull, Lord Heaton?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fucking hell, Thomas. When was the last time you had a night out?”

  “Don’t you start. I get enough of that from Stephanie.”

  “Well, she’s right. Christ, Thomas, you’re forty next Tuesday. How the hell are you ever going to meet someone stuck in that bloody office day in, day out? And now I’m sounding like your mother.”

  “Don’t mention my fucking mother. She doesn’t give a toss.” Heaton roared, swinging his legs down from the desk and Sophia jumped violently. He heaved a sigh to control himself. “Sorry.”

  “All right,” Andrew replied surprisingly calmly. The poor sod must be used to it. “Let’s cut the crap. Tell me what the matter is.”

  Heaton took such a long time to answer that Sophia’s heart began to thump. He wasn’t going to tell him, was he?

  “It’s the tour guide. Her name’s Sophia.”

  “Excellent. And…?”

  “There isn’t an, ‘And’?” Heaton snapped.

  “Why the hell not?” Andrew demanded. “Is she a lesbian, or blind, or something?”

  Sophia rolled her eyes. No. Not even, ‘or something’.

  “No. No, but she’s the tour guide.”

  “And that’s it?” Andrew asked, sounding incredulous. “Jesus. What’s she like?”

  “Stunning,” he replied miserably and Sophia’s cheeks began to burn.

  “Then, what the hell is the problem?”

  “Every time I’m with her, I act like a complete moron. If I’m not practically beating up people she knows, I’m acting and speaking like something out of the Dark Ages. I can’t even call her by her first name…it’s just hopeless.”

  “No, it’s not,” Andrew replied patiently. “Can you actually hold a conversation with her?”

  “Yes. We’ve even been walking together on the moors…but she’s the tour guide, Andrew.”

  “So bloody what? I know you didn’t want one but now you’ve got one I think you should make the most of it, eh? Does she fancy you?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple enough question,” Andrew said patiently. “Does she fancy you?”

  Yes, Sophia wanted to scream. Yes, I bloody do.

  “Well…I don’t know…I mean, she’s been very kind and all that, but why the hell would she fancy someone like me? Oh, fuck it, I don’t know.”

  “If you just shagged her would it help? Get her out of your system?”

  “I don’t want to just shag her, Andrew. She works here. She bloody-well lives here, too. If it didn’t work out, it’d be far too bloody awkward, so it’s best just left as it is.”

  “What, with her just seeing you being ‘His Lordship’ all the time and not Thomas Heaton, a bit repressed, but a nice guy and a good mate when you get to know him a bit?”

  Heaton gave a short laugh. “Thanks for that; the cheque’s in the post.”

  “Don’t bother, the last one bounced.”

  “Fair enough.” He sighed. “I just don’t know what to do, Andrew.”

  “Is it possible for you to just be friends with her, then?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just too fucking attracted to her. I mean, I just keep wanting to…”

  “Kiss her?” Andrew prompted.

  “I have kissed her. It’s a long story. Complicated. But I have kissed her. Once. Completely unromantic.”

  “Make love to her?”

  “Oh, God Almighty.” Heaton groaned, which she took as a yes. “What I mean is, to draw her. It’s pathetic. I’ve loads of drawings of her in the desk here. I bloody-well hope I’m never burgled.”

  “Why, are they a bit…?” Andrew tailed off.

  “Some of them are. She’s got a fantastic figure. All curves. Jesus, it’s…and I just keep wanting to…”

  “Yeah, you said. Look, you have to decide whether this is a crush, lust, or something more. Spend more time with her, try and figure out whether she fancies you or not. We only live once and even if it doesn’t work out, you’ll have at least tried. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good luck, mate.”

  “Thanks, Andrew.”

  “Give my best to Stephanie, yeah?”

  “I will. Bye.”

  Shaking a little, Sophia watched as he ended the call, reached for his mug again, and drained it. He wheeled the chair closer to the desk and put his glasses on before unlocking the drawer and lifting out some sheets of paper. Resting his head on a fist, he began to look through them. They must be the drawings of her. Suddenly, he gathered them all up, returned them to the drawer and locked it. He booted up the PC, reached for the mouse, and opened a program. He sat back in his chair and ran a hand across his jaw before leaning forward, elbows on the desk, and his head in his hands. He might as well have shouted out, “It’s just hopeless.”

  A couple of hours later Sophia opened her eyes hearing a car approach. It must be Des and Helen coming home. Turning over in the bed, she looked at the clock radio – half past midnight – then rolled onto her back. It was a car being driven at speed into the stable yard and sliding to a halt on the gravel. Then there was an almighty crash and the car sped away down the drive. She leapt out of bed and ran to the living room window. The light was on in Heaton’s office but the window was completely smashed and Heaton was getting to his feet shaking glass from his hair and brushing it from his front.

  “Jesus,” she whispered. Slipping her feet into a pair of trainers, she grabbed her bathrobe and ran down the stairs pulling it on. She flung open the outside door before running across the yard to his office. “Are you hurt?” she demanded.

  “You’re here?” Heaton stared at her in surprise. There were cuts on his cheek and chin. Blood from the cut on his face was beginning to trickle down his cheek and he reached up to wipe it away. “I thought you were away or something.”

  “I left my car to be serviced in town and walked back.” There was a brick at his feet with something wrapped around it. “Your face needs seeing to,” she told him, looking him up and down. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “No.” Bending over, he picked up the brick. He pulled off a sheet of paper attached to it with a rubber band, read the contents, and smiled humourlessly. “From Simon, surprise, surprise.”

  He threw it onto the desk and she read it.

  You owe me, Heaton. Tell Stephanie I’ll
see her soon, won’t you?

  “Come with me.” She eyed the glass lying on the floor, the desk, the PC and the telephone, and glistening in his hair. “Sort this out tomorrow.”

  He nodded, turned off the light, and closed the door before following her upstairs to the flat.

  “I was fast asleep,” he murmured. “Didn’t even hear them drive into the yard.”

  She went into the bathroom and returned with cotton wool, antiseptic lotion, and sticking plasters and found him shaking.

  “Shock,” she said softly. “Come and sit down.” She went to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat him down.

  “Stephanie will be here in a few days. What the fuck is he going to do to her?” He blinked, clearly realising he had sworn. “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She tilted his face up. “This will hurt.” She dabbed at the cuts and he winced. She applied the plasters then poured him a glass of red wine. “Drink this. I’ve nothing stronger, sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He held the glass in fingers which still shook and she gently took it from him and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine then sighed. “Thank you.”

  “Are you going to ring the police?”

  He shook his head. “I know I should, but if it got out that there was even a whiff of something to do with drugs up here, all the tour companies would cancel. And Simon would make doubly sure that there was more than a whiff, believe me. I just don’t know what to do about Stephanie. He’s never openly threatened her before.”

  “She’ll be safe enough in the house, won’t she?”

  “Yes, but I can’t keep her under house arrest.” Taking the glass from her, he drank deeply before setting it down on the table. “And she hates being told what to do.”

  “We could both keep an eye on her?” she suggested tentatively. “But, as you said, you can’t stop her going out. But she probably won’t be leaving the estate for a couple of weeks, anyway.”