Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘What a beautiful tattoo,’ she said and stared at the top of my arm.

  ‘Oh, um, thanks… open bird cages are a popular theme.’

  ‘Are you a tattoo artist?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That must be such a satisfying job.’

  The manager walked past and she and him exchanged glances. His name badge said Alan. From behind, the athletic body contradicted the bald head. He must have been around thirty.

  ‘I only mention it because I love history books,’ she continued, in a bright tone, ‘and am currently reading about Otzi the Iceman. He was born around three thousand BC and found in an Austrian glacier. He had over sixty tattoos – made by incisions filled with charcoal. They weren’t on parts of the body that would show so experts decided the tattoos were therapeutic and not for decoration.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.

  ‘Imagine getting to touch someone who had walked this earth so long ago.’ She went on to ask me why I’d become a tattoo artist and how long I’d been doing it. I mumbled a couple of short answers before swiping my card.

  ‘Sorry, I’m always getting told off for too much talking. It’s just so lovely to see someone new in the village. You’ll call in again?’

  My phone ringing meant I couldn’t answer and I went over to a nearby chair. I realised it was a wrong number, but then I shouldn’t expect Ash to call.

  I put the rucksack on my back, glad for the bottle of water in the front pocket, and decided to explore a little more before going back to the cottage. The church was Tudor style surrounded by a well-maintained cemetery. On from that was a tarmac car park with a sign saying Churchgoers Only. I pushed forwards into the forest and a breeze ruffled my hair and caught the perspiration – I never even thought the word sweat as Mum had hated it. A small bird flew past with a bluish head and orange chest. The smell of bark and soil accompanied me as I trod on twigs that snapped, and a floor of decomposing leaves. Trees creaked conversations to one another as I headed towards a sunny clearing. I sat on a log and admired toadstools growing up its side like stacked meditation stones. Trees towered around boasting a variety of soft-shaped and pointed leaves and a mouse scuttled into the undergrowth.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been somewhere so secluded. Ash and I visited London parks but often their signature was noisy ice cream vans, passing traffic and the pounding feet of fitness fanatics. My mind turned back to the loud house clearance van in Devon. It was run on diesel and rock music belted out of it. I’d sold off most of my parents’ belongings on the cheap. When I got home, I didn’t eat for two days. Instead my stomach was full of memories as I sifted through clothes I recalled them both wearing.

  I’d let Aunt Fiona select personal items. She took bits of jewellery, a few ornaments and the photo albums. I took a bottle of perfume and one of aftershave. Sniffing them was the only thing that took me back to happy places, like nights out at the theatre and my proud Mum and Dad attending my Duke of Edinburgh award ceremony. I’d lain in bed, back at the flat, hugging their clothes, rueing the fact they’d died before things had been resolved. It all felt so unfair.

  That’s the thing with funerals. You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. It’s an unwritten rule. So where was I to go with all the anger? I’d gone to my drawing book – except this time to write not sketch. I scribbled into the night, asking the questions, listing recriminations. I should have gone down to Devon sooner, to sort things out whilst they were still alive. They’d been forty when they’d had me, their careers having always come first, and had been approaching seventy when the accident happened.

  That was the worst part of losing the other half of a conflicted relationship. Guilt insidiously crept into your mind. Your self-righteousness couldn’t compete with the fact that they’d lost their life. Guilt about the past, guilt about the future – they’d never visit their favourite French restaurant in Chelsea again or meet potential grandchildren.

  I reached into my rucksack and pulled out a sketch pad that I always carried with me. I gazed at peeling bark, a pile of soggy leaves, spider webs and spongy moss. A bush caught my eye, punctuated by bright tangerine berries. A rabbit darted behind a tree trunk and a bird flew down a couple of metres away. It had a beautiful fawn speckled chest. I wanted to draw but still something held me back.

  Drawing tattoos was less freestyle but the creativity hit came not from transferring to the page exactly what I saw, but instead what was imagined inside the client’s head. I felt as if I’d failed at that during recent months.

  The sun had begun to set. I would have liked to find the bank opposite the cottage’s garden but I wanted to get back before darkness. I walked back past the church and onto the high street and eventually passed the estate agency. Caroline must have been working late. She stood outside, arms folded, smoking. We caught each other’s eye and nodded as I continued along the avenue, breathing in the stream’s fresh algae smell – a pleasant change from car fumes. Twilight stars had emerged, already distinct without the orange glow of city lights to compete with. A car passed my house and almost blinded me as it turned. Its lights were set to full beam and an animal bolted towards the water.

  Gravel felt uneven under my feet as I walked down the drive, my phone’s torch highlighting the way. I was just about to get out my key when I noticed a stain on the ground, smeared across the entry. It was red. I bent down and picked a leaf, pressing it against the thick liquid and lifted it to my nose. It smelt metallic – like blood.

  4

  Three years ago

  During World War I women showed support for their men by getting a tattoo of their regiment

  I lay flat on the tartan blanket, head up, chin resting on my hands.

  ‘You could make your staring less obvious,’ said Ash and looked sideways at me. His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘I’m not the jealous type but you’ve not paid me two minutes’ attention. Come on. Focus please. Sunday is one of our precious days off and it’s not often we enjoy a picnic.’

  Birds issued warnings and joggers’ thumping feet navigated the park’s meandering paths. The smell of sun cream wafted over from a nearby family and dogs barked. Overhead an aeroplane momentarily drowned out a toddler’s crying. I was listening but I was only seeing one beautiful thing.

  Captain Awesome.

  ‘Lizzie!’

  I rolled onto my side to face Ash. I reached out a finger and gently tapped the end of his nose.

  He grinned. ‘It’s only a car.’

  ‘Did you say only? No, Captain Awesome is so much more than that.’ I sat up. So did he. ‘I paid the deposit outright myself and after a difficult two and a half years I’m financially independent, I’ve got a flat of my own and job I love – and now, at last, a car. And that shade of red… it’s like tomatoes just before they ripen – distinct yet not too attention-seeking. The boot’s a great size and the interior just needed a good clean. And as for the way it drives, I never—’

  ‘Enough already. I get it. Although naming a car is really a step too far, but I’m really proud of you, if not a little annoyed you’ve got wheels before me.’

  Ash had secret dreams of one day owning a Maserati.

  ‘You’ve been studying and it means a lot that you insisted on paying my first year’s road tax, especially as it was out of the money your great-uncle left you.’

  ‘As I told you a hundred times, Deepal wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was a practical man. He didn’t have much to leave me and my brothers but would have thought that was his money well spent. For some reason he adored you – despite your tattoos.’ Ash smiled. ‘And what’s mine is yours, you know that.’ He took my hands. ‘We’ve got something special and solid – a future. I’ll finish my postgraduate course next year and then we can really start to make plans. I’ll start my career and we’ll have a decent joint income. We’ll buy an amazing house and enjoy exotic holidays in places like Bali and Dubai…’

>   One thing that had always attracted me to Ash was his unassuming confidence. He wore it like a cloak visible to everyone but himself. I rubbed my thumbs over his palms. I’d felt drawn to him the very first day we met. It was at university in the art society. I sketched constantly as a child and had begun dabbling with watercolours. Thanks to YouTube videos and gut instinct I taught myself. Before his current postgraduate course Ash had been studying textiles and design. In line with my parents’ advice I’d embarked on a business studies degree.

  I’d never met anyone like him. Yes, he was good-looking with his muscular frame and dark bed hair and nothing looked sexier than his long, lithe body stretched across a snooker table, but it wasn’t just that. Along with his kind nature and infectious laugh, I soon discovered an irresistible quality: Ash could see the real me desperate to break through the conservative appearance.

  Within the first week of meeting we’d gone shopping together and he’d taken me to an indoor market.

  ‘Go on, fit on those Doc Martens, I can tell you like them,’ he’d encouraged.

  He helped me see that I was a grown adult who could follow her own path. This had felt like news at the time.

  ‘That’s what my grandparents have taught me,’ he’d said, ‘they were determined to come to Britain in the sixties. It meant leaving their families behind and people tried to dissuade them – even Deepal, before he changed his mind and moved here too – but despite the upset they embraced their own destinies. I believe that’s what we all have to do, otherwise what’s the point?’

  I gave a shiver as the sky darkened.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked, pulling me back to the present.

  ‘You, us – how lucky I am.’ A lump formed in my throat. Ash was the nearest thing I had to family now.

  We packed up the sandwiches and drinks as spits of rain turned to torrents. I drove back to my flat and parked around the back of Kismet Tattoos before letting us in. Ash filled a pan with milk whilst I changed into dry clothes. Despite his damp jeans he fell asleep after the hot chocolate, having been studying especially hard lately. He was similar to my parents in that he had high aspirations to be a success and earn money – I was happier with the simple life, but it would be boring if we had everything in common. I took out my drawing pad and a charcoal stick and did my best to catch the determined line of his jaw softened by long eyelashes. By the time he yawned and opened his eyes the portrait was done.

  He took the pad, studied the lines and shook his head. ‘You’ve got such talent.’

  His hands enveloped my shoulders and turned me around. Gently he massaged, knowing they’d feel stiff after a sketching session. Instinctively he knew the spots that needed a harder rub. Just before finishing he kissed the crook of my neck.

  ‘I love you, Ash Kharal,’ I said.

  ‘Enough to get my name tattooed on your arm?’

  ‘Almost,’ I whispered.

  This had become a private joke. One of the first things I’d learnt from Katya was that inked lovers’ names almost always ended up with laser removal and were to be discouraged where possible.

  He went for a shower whilst I tidied away our mugs and then padded back to the front door. On the way in we’d stepped over the post, being too keen to get out of the rain. Bills, junk mail, a postcard from a university friend volunteering abroad… Tension returned to my shoulders as I recognised the handwriting on the front of a white envelope.

  I slumped onto the sofa and held it for a few seconds. I lifted it to my nose, disappointed I couldn’t detect a familiar scent. It was sterile, just like the two I’d received since we last spoke. Ever efficient it had been posted one week early.

  I tossed it to one side and then picked it up again. I thought about putting it straight in the bin but instead reluctantly ran my finger along the seal. I tugged out the card and read the words Happy Birthday on the front, before studying the illustration – a cake candle. It couldn’t have been less personal. Rolling my lips together, I opened the card afraid of what I would – or rather wouldn’t – find inside. Just like the previous ones it simply said from Mum and Dad. They hadn’t written my name, nor Best Wishes, let alone Love.

  Why did they keep marking this day? Every May it was like picking a scab. Yet, deep down, once a year those cards fuelled a flicker of hope that my parents wanted to finally meet and make up. I’d planned it in my head. When Ash landed a great job and we got a bigger place, when I was earning more, I’d invite Mum and Dad over, they and Ash would get on so well. We’d cook them meals from scratch and they’d admire our wallpapering skills and be so impressed.

  I had to believe in that.

  I’d cried a lot during the first year my parents and I were apart. Night after night I’d lain awake, telling myself I wasn’t a bad daughter. Yet those cards meant my parents hadn’t abandoned me completely – and I couldn’t abandon those cards. I kept them safe, in a box.

  Ash appeared in the lounge, a white towel wrapped casually around his waist.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so late,’ he said. ‘How about I make us an omelette?’

  Dad made omelettes using oak-smoked cheese and caramelised onions. They’d turn out rubbery but the flavours outshone any faults. His mum had been a high-end chef in London and this meant he knew how to cook but grew up lacking practice as she’d always commandeer the kitchen.

  I missed the conviviality my parents and I used to share, we were never apart then. The first night I ever spent away from them was when I was twelve. A school trip that I’d actually been allowed to go on, once Mum and Dad had thoroughly checked the health and safety aspects. Before then I’d never even been away for a sleepover with a friend.

  I breathed in and out, pushing the weight of my memories away.

  ‘Lizzie? Don’t tell me, you’re still dreaming about that hatchback.’

  I met Ash’s teasing gaze. ‘Yes. Accept it. Captain Awesome’s The Man. You’re no longer my number one.’

  With a flourish he pulled off the towel and let it drop to the floor. ‘Are you sure?’

  5

  Now

  Self-professed catman, Dennis Avner, has had full-body tattooing and whisker implants

  I put down my rucksack and cast around the ground with my phone’s torch. There, further along the wall, was a ball of bloodied fur. Poor thing. Perhaps it was a large rat. I jumped back as it hissed and stripes became visible. I touched the soft hair and a head lifted up and spat objection.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,’ I said as my heart swelled. I didn’t need to run my hand down the kitten’s back to see how thin it was. I stood up. It couldn’t stay out here, not injured, with dogs about and it might die with the night chill. I opened the front door and threw my rucksack inside the cottage, then stood for a moment, in the darkness. I switched on the hallway light and immediately I liked what I saw – the mahogany beams, the solidity of the walls. I noticed an old cardboard box to the left of the front door with an empty bottle of cleaning spray in it. I took out the spray, picked the box up and went back outside.

  Wishing I had gloves I took a deep breath and gently slid my hands under the kitten’s body. It weighed nothing. It spat once more but had no strength to fight. I lay the kitten inside the box which I carried inside with one arm underneath. I walked along the hallway to the kitchen that loomed to the right. It was tidy and clean but dated. I searched for a saucer in the pine cupboards. My luck was in and I placed it into the box and poured in some of the milk I’d been carrying in my rucksack, then I had second thoughts. I knew nothing about cats. Water might have been a better option so I replaced it.

  The kitten didn’t even raise its head so I’d have to risk the germs or a bite. I dipped my finger in the water and hesitated a moment before pushing it into the mouth.

  ‘Come on, try to have a little, you’ll feel better for it.’

  The kitten jerked its head and a small tongue licked my skin so I repeated the process
several times, trying not to jump as the teeth nipped. I couldn’t work out where the bleeding was coming from. Perhaps Ben or his wife knew of a local vet. Leaving the light on I hurried out, walked the three doors down and knocked on the front door. No one answered so I tried again and it opened. Ben stood there yawning in jeans and a t-shirt. He smoothed down his hair looking much younger out of his baggy postman uniform.

  ‘Lizzie? Everything all right?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry, um, I won’t keep you a minute. Have you got a vet’s number as I’ve found an injured kitten outside my house? Maybe a car has knocked it over.’

  Ben took a phone out of his back pocket. ‘I’d be surprised. No one races up and down here. It’s a cul-de-sac that ends about ten cottages further on.’ He scrolled through his contacts. ‘We’ve got a cat. I’m good friends with the vet, he’s on my round, let me ring him.’

  ‘It’s okay – if you just give me the number I—’

  ‘I don’t mind, honestly,’ he said. ‘Let me find out what the procedure is for emergencies.’ He raised an eyebrow and I nodded. Ben came outside in bare feet. I liked that. He pulled the door behind as he made a call. I glanced up the road at the silhouette of the cottage.

  ‘Right, shall we go?’ Ben had bobbed back inside to put his shoes on.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Matt, the vet, he’s stayed late tonight as one of the patients unexpectedly gave birth. He says if we can get there in twenty minutes, he’ll take a look. It’s not far.’