Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘There’s only one opinion that matters, Lizzie, that’s if you want a life where you’re happy inside. I’ve learnt a lot the last year or two about being true to myself.’

  As we walked towards the library, he told me about the conversations he’d had with his parents since he was sixteen – about not wanting an arranged marriage; about wanting to go out drinking with his friends. His grandparents had moved over from Pakistan, along with a great-uncle. His mum and her brother were born here and he didn’t embrace all the Pakistani traditions, so Ash’s mum understood how her son felt; said it would take some getting used to but she loved him and knew he had to find his own way just like her brother had.

  ‘Getting my hair cut hardly compares to that.’

  ‘It does if it’s the start of something big, like you finally embracing the real you.’

  I looked at those thin lips and despite what Dad would have said about bad language thought fuck it. I reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. It was a shock when his lips parted but then everything felt warm and soft and he pulled me closer. When I eventually broke away whooping came from across the road as I caught my breath. Heidi was jumping up and down with her thumbs up. I laughed and waved back.

  ‘Just, you know, following your advice about taking risks. I hope you don’t mind.’ Shyly I met his eyes.

  He was laughing too and shook his head. Ash was right, instead of moping I needed to get control of my life. Mum and Dad couldn’t supervise the way I lived forever – it wasn’t right for me or them. They were busy people and surely me leaving home heralded a new beginning for the three of us? My parents would have less to worry about and could now focus on themselves after all these years of looking after their daughter. They deserved that.

  I loved them to bits. They thought of my every need but shouldn’t have to any longer.

  They’d no doubt consider me taking control a huge relief.

  23

  Now

  “As an oak cometh of a litel spyr” – Chaucer 1374

  I opened the front door as rain spat down onto a woman who collapsed her golf umbrella, and with her cap and jaunty black curls pushed past me, without invitation. Indoors she removed the hat and false hair.

  ‘Luckily my sister is into amateur dramatics,’ she said, holding her props.

  ‘I’ve prepared the lounge, you can lie down on the sofa and I’ve set up my machine.’ My inks and cleaning materials were on the coffee table and I’d placed a fresh bed sheet on the sofa. I’d texted her during the week and she’d dropped in to approve the final design. She’d decided against shading so it was a simple black outline of two acorns on the left with oak leaves stretching across to the right.

  My stomach twisted, partly with pleasure, partly with… fear. I felt excited to watch my creation come to life yet I still doubted myself after Katya asking me to take a break. I checked the ink and needle and then checked them again. I gritted my teeth. I could do this.

  I could do this because Leafton was recharging my passion for nature, for sketching, for following my calling.

  ‘Let’s get started; if you could lie on your front. I’ll pull up your blouse and will have to tug down your trousers a bit if that’s okay.’

  ‘Why don’t I just take off my top?’

  Before I knew it, she was lying on her chest, head to the side, in her dusky pink lace bra. I didn’t need to pull down the top of her trousers to know that her underwear would match. You can tell a lot about people’s knickers. Coordination told me that Caroline wanted to impress; that she was organised and valued her appearance, and confirmed what I already knew – that her choice of tattoo would be conservative. Boy shorts and thongs were favoured by sporty, practical, go-getting types who would never admit to any pain. As for those who went commando – they didn’t care about image or people-pleasing and had the most unusual tattoos. The same could be said of their antithesis – the woman who wore big grannie pants or man in white Y-fronts. They felt comfortable in their skin and felt equally at ease with whatever was inked onto it.

  I put on latex gloves and cleaned Caroline’s back with kitchen roll and Dettol. Then I pressed down the stencil and removed it after a few moments.

  ‘Let’s double-check you are happy with the position.’

  I’d brought down the long mirror from my bedroom and leant it against the wall. Caroline got up and went over.

  ‘Is the design low enough?’

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  She lay on the sofa again. I pressed on the machine’s foot pedal and as I predicted, Caroline hardly winced. Nevertheless, I always considered distraction important.

  ‘Where are you going on holiday?’ I asked.

  ‘Italy. Just the two of us for a whole week.’

  She didn’t sound very excited. ‘Are you sure this isn’t hurting? Caroline?’

  ‘It’s fine and no worse than if you were pulling off a waxing strip.’

  I carried on with the outline of the first acorn, concentrating hard on every millimetre of the design. My heart thumped a little less noisily and my breathing calmed as the tattoo started to take shape just as I’d imagined. I was doing okay.

  ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking since our initial chat about this tattoo last week. I can’t believe I almost had Dale’s name inscribed on me, forever. You were right.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s one of my most popular requests. We’re wired to believe a love interest will last.’

  ‘But I’m fifty-one, I should know better. I’ve also mulled over the design and exactly what it means.’

  I wiped down the patch I’d just inked and pressed the power pedal again.

  ‘My divorce… I never thought I’d get over it; never thought anyone would find me attractive again so I focused even more on my job, offering to work every weekend. The money came in handy, now I’d bought Chris out and was paying the mortgage on my own but it was more than that. I- I felt like a failure and knocked back a couple of men of my age who asked me out. I didn’t want to risk getting that hurt again.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘One day a builder helped me pick up shopping I’d dropped. He was only in his twenties. He juggled a couple of loose potatoes before putting them in my bag. He said I smelt great and made me laugh; made me feel good about myself. For the first time I understood the attraction of younger men and then I met Dale in a bar. He came in for a coke after working out and we got talking. Turned out he was a personal trainer. I asked for a few tips and he questioned whether I needed any, said I looked in great shape. I felt ten feet tall.’

  I carried on with my work, letting Caroline talk about how they’d got together. Clients would open up about all kinds of stuff – how they hated their boss, that their partner didn’t understand them, that they were suffering problems with their health.

  ‘I’ve been addicted to that feeling, that high, ever since,’ said Caroline. ‘The thrill when a young man looks at me in a certain way and I realise finds me desirable, despite the age spots and lines I try to hide. But this tattoo has really made me face what I want from a relationship and I realise that’s something more permanent.’

  ‘Not with Dale?’

  ‘He won’t even be fifty by the time I’m eighty, and the way he talks about his nephews and nieces, I know he wants kids. It just wouldn’t work after the initial lust wore off.’ I stopped as she wriggled to get comfortable. ‘After the holiday I’m going to try to be brave and call things off, join a dating site and start looking for someone nearer to where I am in my life.’

  ‘This acorn’s a great tattoo for you then.’

  ‘From little acorns mighty oaks grow? Yes, exactly, that’s what I thought and decided I’d have the design done anyway. Who knows where my life will go from here?’

  I wiped down the skin again.

  ‘Do you get asked to tattoo family members for free?’ she asked.

  ‘No. There was only my mum and dad and t
hey were never fans of my art work.’

  ‘Have you any idea why they didn’t want to take phone calls from my office? Did they talk about Streamside Cottage?’

  I told her about how I’d known nothing of this place, about Mum’s sixtieth party and Dad’s letter and briefly filled her in on what I’d learned about Leafton so far. And I made it clear I didn’t want Aunt Fiona to know I was here. ‘Have you ever heard of people called the Strachans?’

  ‘No, and by the sounds of it, Jill has told you all the gossip from over the years. Not a bad amount, considering the place hasn’t had a steady run of tenants. At the agency we couldn’t get over those who’d been growing weed and ever since then I’ve been more conscientious about checking the property, so like to think I would have picked up anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘What about… I don’t know… the thatched roof fire you mentioned? Could it have been started on purpose?’

  ‘The cause was definitely lightning.’

  Our chat moved onto the village and how it was usually impossible to keep any secret.

  ‘Like young Neve, she got caught shoplifting when she started High School. It’s ironic that she now works in retail.’

  ‘But she seems so… straight.’

  ‘She always had a wild side. Before Alan she had a boyfriend who’d annoy her neighbours by revving his motorbike. And then there was Ryan, Tim’s son. Did you know he once dated a pole dancer? And…’

  I learnt a lot about Leafton’s inhabitants as the inking progressed. I could see how knowing stories about each other bound them together; the embroidery of life in the village was colourful but reliable.

  ‘How about Ben?’ I said in a bright voice. ‘He’s always lived here, hasn’t he?’

  Caroline’s voice couldn’t hide a smile. ‘Why are you asking? Has anything happened?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied hurriedly as a flush of heat made my cheeks burn. ‘It’s just that he’s a good neighbour.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a good guy. When my husband first left, I realised how much I’d depended on him for the practical stuff around the house. My dishwasher flooded and I’m embarrassed to say I hardly knew how to turn off the water supply. Ben happened to be there, delivering mail. He rolled up his sleeves and helped me clean up and promised to mention me to a plumber friend of his. True enough he did and my dishwasher was sorted that evening and Ben gave me his number and said to call if I ever needed any help.’

  ‘All done,’ I said, swiftly changing the subject. I leant back and a lump formed in my throat. I’d done it. The tattoo looked perfect.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the cottage’s downstairs study, currently home to my tattoo equipment. It would make the perfect treatment room. I could set up my own business. How amazing it would be to carry out my job with such a beautiful view out of the window.

  I shook myself. But that would never happen. This beautiful place belonged to Aunt Fiona and in any case, I was going back to London… right?

  Caroline was still smiling. She stretched and went over to the mirror and swivelled her body from side to side. There’s nothing quite like seeing a client’s face when they see their tattoo for the first time. I covered it in cling film and taped that down, then gave her a sheet of paper with aftercare instructions and a sachet of cream.

  ‘Any problems just come and see me,’ I said as she put on her top and paid. ‘Try not to sleep on your back for a couple of days, especially in this weather as you will sweat and that’s the perfect background for bacteria to grow. And tonight, use freshly cleaned sheets and change them regularly. Remember to put sun cream on in Italy otherwise it will fade.’

  ‘Thanks, Lizzie, for taking the time and for not just doing anything I asked.’ She put on the wig. ‘Oh, and I almost forgot, there is one incident that stands out about this place. I wasn’t sure whether to mention it as it’s probably nothing. It was nine years ago, just after the pot-growing tenants left.’ Caroline reached for her hat. ‘A young couple with a baby moved in. They were only here for six months. Quite rightly they freaked out one day because a woman turned up and let herself into the back garden. She just stood there for a few minutes. They asked her what she was doing and told her to leave but she wouldn’t explain and stayed glued to the spot. They threatened to call the police, worried about the safety of their baby. She threw a red rose into the stream. By the time the police arrived she’d disappeared.’

  24

  Now

  Breast cancer survivors can get 3D nipple tattoos

  Since my last visit with Ben my creative juices were back in full force, and I’d been keen to pay the forest another visit so headed out after lunch. Tomorrow I’d be too busy going to Frederick’s book signing. I walked along the high street and noticed a bunch of red roses in the hairdresser’s window.

  I felt a pang in my chest as I thought of Mum. I never really understood why I loved roses so much, growing up, but when I gave her yet another drawing or gift with one on, I always felt something indefinable hang in the air between us. It didn’t make sense. She never grew them or didn’t use rose water and I only recall her mentioning the word as a name once. She and Dad were talking over breakfast, one Saturday morning. She’d popped in to wake me up for my swimming lesson and I’d moaned that I didn’t want to go, tired from a busy week at school. As I came into the kitchen the conversation hushed. I’d raised an eyebrow and Mum’s face looked blotchy and she muttered something about problems with a staff member at work.

  I passed the church and the cemetery yet a strange sensation swept over me as I approached the car park. I passed a large white van and turned around. The pavement was empty yet I could have sworn someone was following. Perhaps the gravestones had unnerved me. I hurried straight towards the clearing with its diffused sunlight and woody fragrances. As I strolled amongst the trees the differences made me impatient to get out my pencil. Some trunks were smooth and white with patches of ivy or moss, others were rust-coloured and corrugated, boasting hideouts for animals. However another instinct told me to go back to the cottage and leave this deserted area. A noise like heavy breathing had crept over my shoulder but when I dared to look, again no one was there.

  A tiny bird flew past like last time with a bluish head and orange chest, except now I knew what it was, a Nuthatch, as I’d gone on the internet after my last trip. I pushed forwards into the forest and the trees thinned. I’d almost reached the clearing but then a twig snapped and bushes rustled. I quickened my pace as a bird gave the alarm call and my foot got caught. I looked down to see a horizontal tree root. My chin slammed onto the ground and I tasted blood. I lay for a few moments, taking in what had just happened then my heart pounded louder as footsteps sounded, crushing leaves as they neared me. The breathing became heavier. I scrabbled to get up.

  ‘Trish?’

  She came into view, eyes red with hay fever and wearing matching scarlet shorts and a fringed blouse.

  ‘Lizzie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ She guided my face to the sun and took off purple-rimmed sunglasses to get a better look at my chin. ‘I think you’ll be okay. Sorry again. I feel terrible.’

  Trish held my elbow and steered me over to the log. She sat down next to me. My lip stung where I’d bitten it.

  ‘I spotted you in the village and wanted to talk, privately. Yet every time I caught you up, I changed my mind.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I should have thought that you might hear and feel spooked.’

  ‘It’s okay, you didn’t know this would happen,’ I said and took a mouthful of bottled water, swilled it around and spat into a bush. Trish passed me a tissue and I wiped my mouth.

  ‘Quiet here isn’t it?’ She picked up a fallen leaf and twisted its stalk between her fingers. ‘It gives you time to think, which isn’t always a good thing.’

  ‘I was thinking about people I’ve lost,’ I said, rubbing my chin.

  We sat in silence for a while.

  ‘I lost m
y sister three years ago. The cancer took her quickly. We used to get together every Christmas and I’d moan that she cooked everything in goose fat. I’d do anything for one of her greasy roast potatoes now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said and paused. ‘My parents left me a long time before they died.’

  ‘Loss comes in different shapes – a malignant cell, an angry mouth, a broken heart. Sometimes I still think about Frederick and how badly things ended and how he’s gone from my life for good.’

  Trish closed her eyes and leant back, her face catching sun rays that had found a way through the thick tree canopies. My lip hurting less, now, I retrieved my sketch book from my rucksack, intrigued by the different shaped leaves carpeting the ground. Had Mum and Dad become fans of nature whilst living in Devon or did they miss the hard-hitting architectural lines and energy of the city? I thought I’d find it hard to live without the dining choices, the entertainment, the people-watching, yet was beginning to appreciate the simplicity of rural living.

  They and I could have been happy in a place like Leafton, me going to the local school, the three of us enjoying cake in Tim’s shop, the fresh air and tranquillity of the garden. Without the dangers of London life, perhaps they would have trusted me to be more independent. Perhaps they wouldn’t have done the terrible thing Dad had talked about in his letter. Sometimes, at night, I’d try to imagine what that could have been, sweating under the covers, stomach churning. Neither parent was a violent person. Both put spiders outside instead of squashing them. They didn’t want pets but always contributed to animal protection charities if collectors came around. They paid their tax and carefully respected speed limits, never driving after drinking alcohol. Mum left a shop one day and accidentally forgot to pay for a magazine. The next day she went back to confess.

  How could they have ever done something really bad?

  Trish opened her eyes, glanced at me and then went to get up.

  ‘Sorry. You wanted to talk? It’s hard to stop drawing once I start.’