Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘Sorry about all that,’ he said. ‘Jill gets carried away.’

  Was it my imagination or was something off with Trish when it came to me or the cottage – or both?

  Jill appeared at his shoulder. ‘You know I don’t like you calling me that.’

  Ben rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry, Mum.’ He caught my eye and smiled as Jill disappeared. ‘Never thought I’d be living at home again, but I split up with my girlfriend six months ago and have struggled to find somewhere affordable to rent near my round.’ He sighed and gave a lopsided smile. ‘I thought a broken engagement might mean a new beginning – instead it seems to have sent me back in time.’

  I stared at him and then Jill. ‘Gosh, engaged? That makes me feel positively ancient at twenty-six.’

  ‘That’s only one year older than me.’

  ‘Oh, sorry… I thought… what with Jill being forty…’

  ‘Mum had me when she was fifteen. My dad didn’t stick around.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, that can’t have been easy for either of you.’

  ‘No. But then sometimes life isn’t – like moving back home at my age. It’s as if time has turned back ten years. She opens my mail, answers my phone and looks at my credit card bills. In fact, I’m sorry if I was a bit abrupt yesterday, of course I’m happy to help you tidy up the cottage – it just niggled because Mum offers my services to people as if I’m some kind of cub scout. She doesn’t seem to realise I’m a grown-up with a life of my own and a job. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for her taking me in but…’ He shook his head. ‘Lately she’s just gone too far. Last night she tried to cut up my pork chop.’

  His eyes crinkled and I surprised myself with another belly laugh. Following it I suddenly thought I might cry.

  I excused myself and headed to the toilets, quickly, before anyone saw. I sat down in a cubicle and pressed my fingers firmly over my eyes. I hadn’t felt such a joyful sensation for so long, not since Mum and Dad… not since Ash…

  A noise from the cubicle next door pulled my hands away from my face and I sat up. I knew that sound well from those first nights after my parents and I fell out, when I’d often leave Ash in bed and sneak into the bathroom. I left the cubicle, washed my hands and dried them on a paper towel. Outside the toilets I waited and was just about to give up when the Ladies’ door opened to reveal a vision of lime with a red nose and eyeliner smeared at the edges. Trish made her way through the crowd and disappeared outside.

  10

  Now

  Gregory Paul McLaren is 100% tattooed, even inside his eyelids

  ‘Hi there… Lizzie, isn’t it?’

  I turned to see a Hawaiian t-shirt. The young man looked nervously around the room before smiling at me.

  ‘My name’s Ryan. I’m Tim’s son…’ He jerked his head over to the owner of Blossom’s Bakes.

  I nodded.

  ‘Is it right that you’re a tattoo artist?’

  ‘I’m not working at the moment, but yes.’

  He swallowed. ‘Would you mind following me for a moment?’

  I hesitated, but he looked so worried.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, still thinking over Trish’s sudden departure.

  We bobbed outside, into the porch, and he undid his buttons and pulled down the left-hand side of his shirt. On the top of his shoulder was the black outline of a pineapple.

  ‘Dad will kill me if he finds out, I had it done in Ibiza last month, after a few beers. I’d just finished my A levels. It’s… it’s pretty cool, right?’

  ‘You were lucky, Ryan. If the artist was unethical enough to ink whilst you were under the influence, they could have used dirty needles.’

  His ears turned red. ‘But everyone gets tats when they’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Not the clients where I work.’

  Ryan cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, it’s still itching.’

  ‘Did you follow the aftercare regime properly and avoid going into the pool or sun too soon after you had it done?’

  He looked sheepish.

  ‘Just for your peace of mind, Ryan, I’d go to the doctor in case there is an infection. The itching can last for a while, and that’s normal, but this does look red. And be more careful next time with where you get one done and how you treat it afterwards.’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not having another.’

  I’d heard that before.

  When I was a young girl my and Mum’s styles couldn’t have been closer. Like children in the fifties, I simply liked to dress like her, unlike my friends who wore glittery clothes bearing slogans about girl power and unicorns. Sometimes, if I held her hand, she’d let me walk up and down her bedroom wearing her heels. I used to think she looked like a princess when she and Dad went out for business dinner dances.

  But then the teenage years arrived and I became keen to develop my own look. My parents did take me shopping in stores unsuitable for them but they made strict rules about the length of skirts and tightness of trousers. Mum had read somewhere that skinny jeans caused nerve damage. My friends’ parents never seemed as bothered. As I got older, I dreamed of the outside reflecting my true personality, hence the dreamcatcher tattoo down the middle of my back. I got it done to celebrate Katya agreeing to mentor me.

  Ryan and I went back inside. Tim had baked an amazing botanical themed cake as Jill worked in a garden centre and the top tier’s lawn was made up of a dyed green desiccated coconut. Ben took several different angled shots and then he led me to the buffet where I enjoyed a plate of food. I teased him for the fact that every single thing on his plate was coated in pastry so he insisted I try the sausage rolls and vol-au-vents and I had to admit they were tasty.

  Projecting a strong eighties vibe thanks to shoulder pads and sprayed hair, Caroline came over.

  ‘Hello, Ms Lockhart—’

  ‘Please, call me Lizzie.’

  Caroline turned to her companion. ‘This is my boss, Julie.’

  We chatted about the cottage and I asked them both about the buildings in the old photo I found.

  ‘I’ve never heard of a company called G & B.’ Julie shrugged.

  ‘Best Inn used to be a popular restaurant chain years ago,’ said Caroline. ‘Oh for the days when you could smoke indoors when eating out.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Julie.

  As the evening came to a close, I sat with Jill, the two of us in front of large slices of the green birthday cake.

  ‘Is Trish okay?’ I asked. ‘She seemed upset before leaving.’

  ‘She’s recently received bad news. I’m not sure exactly what. I must invite her around for a meal next week.’ Jill picked up a fork. ‘Trish hasn’t always had the easiest of times but she’s always held things together. She’s practically brought Will up on her own but never complained and always offered others a helping hand. I remember babysitters letting me down at the last minute and Trish would always insist Ben go to hers for a sleepover on those occasions.’

  ‘She told me about her husband and his affair.’

  ‘Trish threatened to kick up a fuss in the playground and embarrass the school where his mistress worked, unless he agreed to her divorce terms.’

  As guests began to dissipate, we ate the sponge that tasted more traditional than it looked and melted in the mouth.

  ‘Would you mind if I came over to see Taz?’ Jill asked when she’d cleared her plate.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That’ll be the first pet that cottage has ever seen, apart from a couple of clandestine farm animals.’

  ‘Have you ever got to know any of the residents?’

  I wondered if she could tell me anything about the history of the cottage and my parents’ purchase of it.

  ‘Ben played with various children over the years – that gave me a connection. But it wasn’t always occupied so I haven’t got that many stories. One couple were avid gardeners. The cottage looked beautiful whilst they lived there. I’d let them know if we had
any sales on at the garden centre.’

  ‘Has there ever been any drama?’

  ‘Leafton may not be London but it doesn’t mean we’re without skirmishes… but talking about it in private might be better.’

  I didn’t speak much as Jill, Ben and I walked back. Despite his complaints about her before, they linked arms and chatted affectionately. And surely that was normal for families – to have disagreements but get over them? Dad’s letter was my very last point of contact with my parents. I thanked Jill and Ben for a lovely evening, waved goodbye and headed indoors, stomach twisting.

  11

  Six years ago

  Glow-in-the-dark tattoos made from “invisible” UV ink have become increasingly popular

  Humming, I turned up the festive CD. Katya and Steve downstairs in the parlour didn’t approve of my music choice but I’d bribed them with our favourite brownies from the café opposite. I walked over to the window. Shoppers hurried past bearing bags and stressed out expressions. I’d moved in just under two months ago, not long after Mum’s birthday celebration. Christmas hours meant I could work longer shifts in the clothes shop and the manager said there was a possibility of keeping them after December. Somehow, I managed to free up enough time to shadow Katya and pay the rent.

  Although me shadowing actual tattooing wasn’t exactly the truth, not yet. I cleaned and topped up the containers full of surgical grade soap and Dettol. I replenished stocks of kitchen roll and petroleum jelly. I made drinks, answered the phone and logged appointments. Last week I’d been shown how to sterilise the equipment. But I’d already learnt so much about the different inks and needles and every spare second was spent practising my own designs.

  My creative skills had been needed this Christmas. I’d made my own bunting out of paper and painted it green and red before adding a sprinkling of glitter. Ash’s older brother gave us fairy lights that his wife hung in the lounge all year round. They’d replaced them and were going to throw these away.

  The letter box sounded. Katya was good about sifting my mail if any got mixed up with the parlour’s instead of being delivered to my private entrance door around the back. I was on my lunch break and finishing off a painting I was doing for Ash’s mum. She didn’t celebrate Christmas but had been so welcoming I wanted to show my appreciation. She was very proud of her Pakistani roots so I did some research and found out that the attractive Chukar Partridge was that country’s national bird. The family had a large cage that was home to two budgies so I thought something avian would be perfect. I was nervous of showing it to her but Ash had encouraged me.

  I put down my brushes at the breakfast bar and wiped my hands. There was one week to go until Christmas and last week – seven days ago precisely – I’d made and sent a card to my parents. I’d thought it best to give them some space after the party and now seemed like a good time to break the silence we both held and give them my new address. I’d wished them a Happy Christmas and suggested meeting up in the New Year. They liked traditional scenes so I’d painted a reindeer in snow.

  I’d got used, over the years, to giving them – or rather Mum – some space. Not after arguments – we rarely had those – and never for so long. Just for a few days. Over time I worked out it was usually once a year, in the summer, that she’d become morose and go to bed. Dad would say she’d been working too hard and needed to rest. Occasionally she’d leave all together and, on her own, visit her parents in France but as I became older, tear-stained eyes couldn’t hide from my growing awareness. I asked her about it once. It was just after my GCSEs and one warm, sunny day I heard her crying in her room. She said it was nothing for me to worry about. Dad got cross when he found out I’d disturbed her so I concentrated on making it easier for them both by keeping quiet and doing the housework.

  Since sending this card I’d been hoping for a reply. Like a child excitedly anticipating Santa on Christmas Eve, I’d wait for the postman to call every day.

  ‘They may need more time,’ Ash had said.

  What worried me was that time had no deadline.

  My heart pounded as I spotted a card on the floor. I picked it up. My stomach lurched.

  Return to Sender. It was the card I’d sent. No longer at this address.

  There had to be some mistake. I checked the address I’d written. Everything was in order.

  That left only one alternative. Dare I phone my old home’s landline?

  A wave of nostalgia hit me as Silent Night rang out. I’d always go to church with Mum and Dad on Christmas Eve, even when I’d started to question whether I believed or not. The twenty-fifth without my parents would be like holly without ivy, like Christmas Day without the Queen’s speech and turkey without stuffing. I picked up my phone and took a deep breath.

  What if Mum or Dad actually answered? Would they hang up? Or maybe they’d be glad to speak to me. I’d practised the words so often in my head. It’s me. How are you? It’s been a while. I’m sorry about the party. I love you. I’d lain in bed at night, imagining our first meeting. The hugs and apologies; how we’d fill each other in on the weeks we’d missed of each other’s lives.

  I stared at my phone and paint-stained fingers. The Chukar Partridge had the most amazing red ring around its eye. I’d wanted a tattooed ring on my finger but Katya wouldn’t do it because the ink fades and wears off too quickly on that part of the body. However, I loved the paintbrush she’d agreed to ink down the inside of my left arm, a few weeks before Mum’s party when I decided, for sure, that I couldn’t spend my life doing business studies; that I was an artist and had to follow my heart.

  The idea of my future career had crept up on me slowly since starting at the University of London. No one in the Sixth Form had a tattoo – at least not to my knowledge. But during that first term away I’d seen new friends’ tattoos on lower backs, wrists, down legs, across shoulders. They’d fascinated me and each told a story, whether it represented a difficult time the person had got through or simply a fun holiday. Increasingly I thought how amazing it would be to have my art on a permanent, living canvas; commissioned art that would mean so much. I began to create my own designs and show them to friends. By the end of that first year they were asking me to draw their ideas to take to tattoo artists.

  ‘Tattooing isn’t real art,’ Ash would sometimes say, with a sideways glance.

  ‘As an art form it goes back much further in history than any style you’ve ever appreciated,’ I’d hotly reply, my determination strengthening. ‘You can think what you want. I’m not going to stop.’

  Ash was clever like that and I often thanked the universe that I’d met him, that very first term.

  New trends in the tattoo world were always appearing, such as creating designs made from white or UV ink. Watercolour tattoos were my favourite, perhaps because I also practised the brush-to-paper form of that art. They were less pronounced than traditional tattoos, with subtly merged colours that weren’t solid. Their wild aspect appealed because they were freeform. My finger hovered over my parents’ number and I studied the old-school paintbrush tattoo on my arm. The brush’s handle was slim and dark brown. It was about fifteen centimetres long and ran down to the wrist joint where the inked wood turned into a point of bristles.

  If only I could paint a cosy reunion with Mum and Dad and bring the picture to life. Wishing I’d got a drink of water, I pressed dial and sat down on the sofa, the card next to me. The number rang out and I fought the sudden desire to run away and hide under my duvet.

  ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’

  I took the phone away from my ear and looked at it.

  I pressed dial once more. The message repeated.

  My fingers clutched the edge of the sofa. What if the house had burnt down or they’d lost all their money and the phone had been cut off? I got to my feet and paced up and down. Aunt Fiona. She’d know what was going on. I turned off the music and wandered over to the window. It
had started to snow. As a child I’d impatiently wait whilst my parents dressed me in boots, a scarf, hat and gloves. I wouldn’t be allowed to sledge down hills on my own but they’d take it in turns to sit behind me. That was more fun anyway as we went quicker. Then we’d rush back home for hot chocolate with marshmallows on top and Mum would run me a bubble bath.

  One time, however, they took me ice-skating and I begged them to allow me to have a go on my own. They’d looked at each other and then, reluctantly, Mum let go. I zoomed off, only to topple forwards and graze my face on the ice. My parents never took me ice-skating again.

  The winter seemed to be their favourite season, all of us cosily, safely, holed up indoors. One especially cold Christmas – I was about seven – they’d bought me a microwave heatable soft toy. It was a penguin in a green hat. I called it Jimmy Jammy after a friend I once had and carried it around the house the whole time. My parents said it was a silly name for a penguin and made me change it even though I got upset. It didn’t make sense. My teddy bear was called Fruity Tooty which I thought was much sillier, but they’d been adamant. It sometimes felt, even then, that I didn’t know them entirely, that I couldn’t reach them in some way.

  My phone rang out.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a polite voice down the line.

  ‘Hello. Aunt Fiona. It’s—’

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice was cool. Perhaps it was snowing in Devon as well.

  ‘I- I sent Mum and Dad a Christmas card but it’s come back, so I rang the house. What’s happened? The number wasn’t recognised.’

  Silence.

  ‘Aunt Fiona?’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It’s not that long ago you broke their hearts.’

  ‘They broke mine too,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Well, yours must be more resilient because they don’t want any contact. They’ve got new mobile numbers as well as a new address.’