Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage

by Samantha Tonge

  George leant forward and handed over an envelope. ‘Once again, huge apologies for the delay.’

  Pulse racing, I took it, trying to second-guess what Dad could have written.

  ‘Do you want me to leave you to open it in private?’

  I stared at the white paper. My mouth felt dry and a noise in time with my heartbeat whooshed around my ears. I’d worked so hard at trying to pack away my grief, I was scared that this letter would unwrap it. Opening this envelope wasn’t just about reading words, it was about opening the past, opening the hurt. And opening a puzzle that now couldn’t ever be solved – unless his letter gave me answers.

  For a second, I considered asking George to burn it. Instead I stuffed the envelope into my rucksack.

  ‘My head’s full…’ I looked up. ‘Sorry. It’s just… I need plenty of headspace before reading this.’

  ‘I completely understand. Ring me if I can help in any way once you’ve read the contents.’

  ‘Thanks. In fact, there is one thing, George, that I hope you won’t mind explaining.’

  He put down the pipe.

  My cheeks flushed. ‘I’ve visited Streamside Cottage.’

  His eyes bulged but he didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he got up and paced the room. ‘You parents were quite clear – you were never to know about that place or have anything to do with it and I feel bad enough that I confirmed what you heard your aunt say after the funeral. Did she suggest you take a look at it?’

  ‘No, she still won’t speak to me and has no idea I’m there. I’ve rented it for a month,’ I blurted out.

  He raised his palms in the air. ‘Why, Elizabeth? Your parents must have had good reason to keep it secret.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I don’t like this… I don’t like it at all. I understand your curiosity but some things are best laid to rest.’ His voice softened. ‘Why put yourself through this?’

  ‘I- I have to, otherwise I’m never going to be able to move forwards.’

  He sat down again and squirmed in his chair.

  ‘What I wanted to ask you… when I arrived in Leafton, the estate agent, Caroline, talked of how you turned up, years ago, when the roof had caught fire. Caroline accidentally rang Mum when she shouldn’t have and Mum hung up. You were furious and went all that way to make sure it never happened again. What was the big deal?’

  George flushed. ‘I remember and probably owe this Caroline an apology. I was young and keen. A kind friend of mine recommended me and my rates to your parents and they duly moved their business. I was determined to impress as they were my first big client. When she messed up it reflected badly on me.’ He picked up the pipe. ‘I don’t know why your mother reacted like that – and sorry Elizabeth, I truly wish I could help. Your father had been so adamant that they never wanted to talk of the cottage or speak to anyone from Leafton again. His tone – I’ve never forgotten – it was full of… foreboding, warning me never, under any circumstances, was that rule to be broken.’

  9

  Now

  Cosmetic facial tattoos include freckles to give the appearance of youth

  Back at Streamside Cottage I positioned my cushions on the sofa and immediately it looked more cheerful. I’d packed my hammer and nails and spent a while deciding where to hang my watercolours. Originally the sheets of paper had been stuck to the walls of my flat with Blu Tack but Ash had framed the ones he knew I was most proud of. In the cottage’s lounge I hung my favourite – a pigeon standing in the snow. Those birds’ proportions had always fascinated me, their tiny heads looking as if they still needed to grow. In the hallway I hung a picture of a squirrel nursing an acorn between its paws and in the kitchen a frame that featured the first designs I’d tattooed onto paying clients.

  I put fresh sheets on the beds upstairs and set out my toiletries in the bathroom. In the study downstairs I stored my tattoo and painting equipment and an array of old gift cards I’d made. I’d brought a handful of books for shelves in the lounge. Minute by minute the cottage stood taller as it transformed into a home.

  Okay. So this was over the top for a property that wasn’t mine but I felt a compulsion to give this place the furnishings it deserved. It wasn’t as if Aunt Fiona would ever find out. Next to George’s office was a small florist’s, and on a rusty bracket that was already out front I placed a colourful hanging basket I’d bought.

  ‘That’s brightened the place up,’ said a voice behind me. ‘It looks as if someone is planning to stay for a while after all.’

  My pulse raced a little and somehow the day instantly felt a little brighter. Ben. Hair appealingly ruffled. Tight jeans, and a sharp tan shirt that lent itself to his robust frame and accentuated his freckles. He carried an old cat bed and two plastic bowls, a camera swinging on his shoulder.

  ‘These are for you,’ he said and handed me the bed and bowls.

  ‘Wow. Forget flowers and chocolates – you really know how to spoil a woman.’

  We grinned at each other.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Matt and spent last night trying to convince Smudge that she could do with a kitten to look after,’ he continued. ‘To no avail, I’m afraid, so you’re stuck with the little devil.’

  ‘These are such a help, thanks. And I’m sure that by the time I leave Taz will have another foster carer or maybe even a permanent owner.’

  ‘You’d better make the most of your last night of freedom. I came to see if you wanted to come to the party, seeing as you’re here.’

  There was something about his smile and the way his eyes crinkled that made me feel as if he genuinely wanted me to go. It was hard to resist even though I wouldn’t really know anyone there. And it would mean… the letter… I couldn’t face opening it yet. A party could be just the distraction I needed.

  ‘I haven’t had anything to eat. You get off. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.’

  ‘I can wait.’ He followed me in, accompanied by a musky aftershave scent. ‘Don’t worry about eating, there’s plenty there, we’ve pulled out all the stops for the Big Four O.’

  ‘Sounds great, okay, I won’t be long. Seeing as you’re here… would you mind looking at this kitchen cupboard for me?’ I pointed to a pine door. ‘I was hoping brute force might straighten the hinge but perhaps you’ll have more luck.’

  Forty? Ben looked as if he were in his mid-twenties like me, but must have been younger. Jill looked fantastic for her age with her glowing, make-up free skin. Ash’s mum always used to say the number of crow’s feet she had were directly proportional to her number of sons but then she did have four to worry about.

  I left him in the kitchen, had a quick wash and changed into a black lacy knee length dress. I wore it with Doc Martens and pink lipstick to match my hair. I completed the outfit with a narrow diamante nose ring and a determination to push my visit to George out of my mind for the time being. I used to chat to Ash’s mum about parenting and she said there were many challenging aspects – colic, weaning, nappy rash, failed exams, bullies at school, restricting computer time, setting fair curfews for nights out… but that there were two things much harder than anything else. The first was accepting your offspring were not you – two of her sons drank alcohol and dated non-Muslims. Secondly, that the time came to trust them to make – and learn from – their own mistakes. My parents had believed the opposite. With their happy successful lives they’d unquestioningly wanted exactly the same for me – a reliable career in finance and dating someone from a similar background. They expected it.

  I stared in the bathroom mirror. Yet who was I to criticise? I’d only ever had to look after myself.

  I came downstairs, fighting the pull of the letter from Dad. I’d left it on the sofa. It had waited this long to be opened, it could wait a while longer. Ben pointed to the frame of tattoos on the wall of the kitchen as we headed out.

  ‘They’re fantastic. Are you a tattoo artist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s amazing, Lizzie. I bet it’s
one of those careers where you never stop learning.’

  ‘So true. A few months ago I learnt all about working with skin that doesn’t hold ink well, for example if it’s aged or oily. And there are always new trends that clients ask for…’ I chatted for a moment, surprised to feel a twinge of inspiration again that I hadn’t experienced for a while, back in London, and the desire to sketch a design overwhelmed me.

  ‘Photography’s the same. There’s still so much I don’t know on the technical side about angles and lenses… and then there’s the artistic aspects. I’ve learnt a lot by not trying to chase the perfect shot.’ He told me about a project he’d set himself last year, focusing on buildings in Leafton – unusual roofs, different types of doors. He made it sound so interesting and promised to show me the collection of photos.

  ‘Secretly I think my mum’s always fancied having a tattoo done,’ he said, looking at the frame of tattoos again and he glanced at his watch. ‘And talking of her, my life won’t be worth living if we’re late!’

  That’s the other thing that struck me about Leafton. People lived near their families whereas my mum and dad had moved away from theirs. I’d barely seen my grandparents on Dad’s side before they died and Mum’s parents had retired to Provence. Other properties in Leafton must have held secrets passed down through related generations. With such a turnover of tenants, Streamside Cottage might have nothing deep-seated to hide.

  I closed the front door behind us, taking one last look at the envelope in the lounge. Ben and I strolled into the village and he briefed me about people going to the party – shop owners, staff from the school, Jill’s colleagues and the vicar who’d christened her. He knew most villagers well from his round.

  ‘Apart from the resident who’s always waiting to grab the post when I push it through and the Rottweiler owner who encourages his dog to snap at my shoes…’ Ben grinned. ‘Plus the pensioner who reads tarot cards, she sometimes tells me my fortune.’ We turned onto the high street. ‘Then there’s the hoarder whose son punched me for delivering junk mail…’

  ‘The cute cottages and twee shop names are clearly a distraction from a very disturbing side to the village. I hope my trip here isn’t going to end like some horror movie. That friendly expression of yours isn’t some mask, is it?’

  He pulled a monster face and I couldn’t help giving a belly laugh. I hadn’t done that for what seemed like months and my stomach gave a big clumsy flip like a gymnast back on the beam after being injured.

  ‘You’ve never lived out of this area?’

  ‘No. Never felt that pull. I like Leafton. I know everyone and enjoy my job. It doesn’t feel like work, really – I speak to so many friends on my round. I travel away sometimes to take photos but I guess I’m kind of old school. Mum could never afford holidays abroad but I wasn’t jealous of school friends’ stories of Spanish beaches or Greek food. We used to go camping, maybe in Devon or Cornwall. Mum would let me take a friend. I loved rockpooling, and eating fish and chips outside at night, under the stars.’ He gave a smile. ‘Some might call me boring.’

  ‘I don’t think that. I travelled the world with my parents and I’m grateful but it wasn’t always fun being in a fancy hotel as an only child, unable to run through corridors or eat meals that didn’t involve at least two different sets of knives and forks. Sometimes I’d envy my school mates who stayed in England and spent their summers mucking in on a farm or living amongst nature in a log cabin.’

  I’d always thought Ash and my parents would have loved holidaying together, having the same high-end taste when it came to destinations – a taste I didn’t share.

  We crossed the road and I glanced up at the sign bearing an illustrated dancing duck with a cigar in its mouth. Ben opened the pub’s door and side by side we went in. Even though I was a stranger to Leafton, it was the oddest thing but he made me feel as if I kind of belonged.

  A well-polished oak bar swept the width of the room with a huge porcelain green and brown duck in the middle, by the till. Oak tables were dotted across the room with matching chairs and a tiny vase with a yellow rose in each one. On the far right were the toilets and a small flat-screen television hung in the far upper corner. By the side window two elderly men sat playing dominoes. Paintings of farm animals hung on the buttercup walls. Dad loved nothing more than spending an evening with board games. He’d seemed as proud as me when I finally beat him at Scrabble, and Monopoly was another favourite. Although one time he threw the board in the air when he lost, paper money and card properties flying everywhere, before he very quickly tidied up. I loved those so occasional, wilder flashes of his sense of humour. Mum would join in the game so long as she could play with the top hat token, in honour of her favourite movie tap dancer, Gene Kelly. Once she put on a movie of his and pretended to tap dance along, eyes closed, hair falling down. She had looked so at peace until the CD jumped and jolted her back to the present where she smoothed down her dress and turned the stereo off.

  Jill waved from the left-hand side of the room, next to reserved seating. Her hair hung in carefully crafted curls and a hint of apricot highlighted her lips. She wore jeans and a satin grey blouse with sleeves down to the elbows. The overall effect was modest. Behind her were a small dance floor and a large table inviting us over with plates of food. Hits from the sixties played in the background. On this side of the bar, was a large glass jar that bore a small scribbled sign saying church repairs donations. Tim chatted to other men his age. Jill came over.

  ‘Lizzie! So lovely to see you again. I’ve been secretly fretting no one would turn up. You know what people are like – you tell them the party starts at seven so they don’t turn up before half past eight.’ She guided me to the table, at the end of which were drinks. ‘What would you like?’

  I lifted up a glass of wine. Ben was already taking photographs of camera-shy guests.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Can I just say you look lovely? I wish I had the nerve to be more adventurous with my hair.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I pulled a small present out of my bag and a card.

  ‘Lizzie! What a kind gesture. You didn’t need to do that.’ Carefully she undid the wrapping as if it were as valuable as the gift. She examined the earrings. They were studs, cat faces in oceanic blue and silver, made by Steve. I’d picked them up for myself this morning in Kismet Tattoos but then when I decided to come chanced that Jill might like them.

  ‘Oh my days. Ben, look at these.’ She beckoned to him. ‘They are just perfect, you thoughtful girl.’ Jill opened the card. I’d sketched a neighbour’s cat in Finsbury Park a while back – a ginger tom with a black-studded collar and claws that would do more than ladder tights. She looked at the back and saw my name next to the copyright sign. ‘Aren’t you talented? This will have pride of place on my mantelpiece. Trish, come over here.’

  Trish was fully focused on everything Neve was saying, the cashier from my first day. Jill called her name again and finally she turned. Her face looked paler than the other day and concealer had been thickly applied under her eyes. Slowly she approached, her demeanour contrasting the cheerful lime jump suit.

  Jill lifted up the card. ‘Only yesterday you were saying The Pen Pusher could do with some new gift card stock. Here’s your answer.’

  Ben shot me an apologetic look. ‘Lizzie might not want—’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jill. ‘It’s the perfect solution. You could do local views, I’m sure the villagers would snap them up.’

  ‘I’m only here for a few—’

  ‘Fingers in lots of pies, that’s the key to success. It’ll give you an excuse to visit Leafton after you’ve gone back to London.’ She beamed and pushed the card into Trish’s hands before walking off to greet another arrival.

  ‘Sorry, Lizzie, it wasn’t my idea,’ Ben mumbled as he followed Jill with his camera.

  Trish studied the card. A feather earring hung from one of her ears. ‘I do need new stock. My ex-husband used to be good
at sourcing cards from local artists that proved popular.’

  So she was divorced, yet she’d stayed in Leafton with all the memories of her marriage. Perhaps this village was one of those places that slowly wrapped its arms around you, like the cottage was doing with me.

  ‘He was good on the marketing side and pitched our products to the local school. We ended up supplying them.’ Her lips pursed. ‘In case no one here has already told you, in time they supplied him with a new wife.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Not a muscle in her face flinched. ‘It happened over twenty years ago. In the end I was glad to see the back of him.’ She looked at the card again and her face softened a little. ‘Anything to do with nature goes down well. Does it take long to draw something like this?’

  ‘Not at that size but I’m picking up a kitten tomorrow so won’t have big chunks of time to spend outside for a few days – not before he’s settled. But until I get into the forest you could look at my old stock and I could do scenes of the stream and trees from the back garden. Why don’t you come around and—’

  ‘A kitten? So you’re going to be here for a while?’ she said. ‘You… you like living there, then? You feel… safe at night? I mean, it has often stood empty over the last couple of decades.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘The cottage used to belong to my parents.’

  Her cheeks looked even paler than before.

  ‘They died last year. I haven’t mentioned that to anyone because it’s been hard coming here. Things were difficult between the three of us at the end and…’

  Trish bent the card. ‘I see. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ She’d dropped the card and I picked it up, almost colliding with Ben’s chin as I straightened up. Trish had gone.