Sweet Home Summer

by Michelle Vernal

  Isla dodged past the lads who had been playing pool when they’d first arrived at the pub. They’d moved on to darts and she resisted the urge to yank their pants up for them as she pushed the door to the restrooms open. She was getting old. There was a corridor with the ladies’ room off to the left, the men’s to the right, and a smoke stop door with a large red exit sign over top of it at the end. She double checked the sign on the ladies’ room to be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d accidentally barged in on the wrong gender.

  A few minutes later Isla shook the water from her hands before holding them under the hand-dryer. Apart from the tell-tale bleary eyes of someone who’d been indulging since early evening she didn’t look too bad, she decided, glancing over at the mirror. Hands dry, she ran her fingers through her hair fluffing it out and satisfied that she would do, pushed the door open. Ben exited the men’s at the same time, and they both hesitated. Isla was aware there was nobody else there in the corridor. A dulled beat could be heard coming through the door that led back into the pub.

  Ben spoke first. ‘You look like you’re having fun out there. I told you the band’s good, they always get everyone up on the floor.’

  ‘Yeah, they are, but I haven’t seen you and Saralee have a dance yet?’ She raised a questioning brow.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not much of a dancer you know that.’ It was a phrase he’d uttered many times during the year they’d been together.

  ‘Will you dance with me because I’m wearing pink?’ The words slipped from her lips, and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Sorry!’ That had been their catchphrase; it was his cue to reply, ‘I will because you look so pretty in pink.’

  But he didn’t. He stared at her hard for a moment before indicating towards the door with his head. ‘Is that the new boyfriend then?’

  ‘Carl?’ Isla managed to laugh. She was relieved to move on, to pretend she hadn’t just said what she’d said. ‘No, he’s already got a boyfriend, and even if he didn’t, I could never go out with a man whose skin and hair is in better condition than my own.’

  Ben raised a smile and ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘Oh right.’ He shifted from foot to foot, his hands thrust into his jean pockets. Isla was aware of the smell of him; it was subtle but fresh like the native forest around these parts after the rain.

  ‘Right well, we’d better get out there and see what everyone’s up to,’ she said making no move to break the stand-off between them. She could almost feel the tension crackling in the air and she gasped when he took a step towards her. Her arms seemed to take on a life of their own as they wrapped themselves around his neck. She felt almost disembodied as her fingers entwined and locked behind his neck while he wrapped his strong arms around her waist. He lifted her up to him as his mouth crushed down on top of hers. Oh God, what was she doing? That was her last thought before his lips bruised hers urgently. She wanted more than anything to back up towards the toilets and drag him into a cubicle so they could finish what he’d just started. She moaned, and his hands slipped lower as he held onto her buttocks and pulled her into him.

  ‘He has a girlfriend, Isla. A nice, pretty girlfriend with dimples,’ her conscience whispered.

  ‘Oh shut up and let me just enjoy this,’ she whispered back, pushing her body hard up against Ben’s.

  ‘Isla Brookes, this isn’t you. You are not a boyfriend stealer.’

  ‘Oh crap,’ she said aloud disentangling herself from Ben’s embrace just as a bloke pushed open the door from the pub area. The noise from the band and voices shouting over the music brought them crashing back to reality. They stepped apart awkwardly and the man, who looked like he could do with a hot bath and a shave, winked knowingly at them. ‘Don’t stop on my behalf.’ He leered before swaying into the men’s room.

  ‘Shit.’ Ben ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Shit, I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘It takes two, don’t beat yourself up. Let’s forget about it and just put it down to too much alcohol and old times, okay?’ Isla said.

  She couldn’t read his expression as he muttered, ‘Yeah, old times. I’m sorry.’ He didn’t look back as he strode off through the pub. Isla headed for the sanctuary of the ladies’ room; she needed to splash some cold water on her face.

  She looked like a startled rabbit caught in headlights when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Other than that, she was relieved to see she did not look like a woman who had just been snogging the face off someone she shouldn’t have been. A minute later, having cooled her face off and reapplied her lipstick, she took a steadying breath. She told herself to get back out there before Carl took it upon himself to check if she was okay. A mental picture of him running in clutching his trusty pack of Diastop, in the false assumption a tummy upset was what was holding her up, flashed before her, but she couldn’t raise a smile.

  The shine had gone off the evening, and she sat down at an empty table with a glass of water vowing there would be no more wine for her tonight. Annie and Kris were still on the dancefloor, and Carl had waved over from where he was in the last throes of his pool match. She was aware that Ben was standing on the edges of the dancefloor with Saralee, but she couldn’t bring herself to look in his direction. She was beginning to feel very bad about what had just happened and she realized she was starving too. All she wanted was to go home, scoff her Gran’s stew and crawl into bed. Sleep would help her forget about Ben and whatever it was that had just happened.

  It was time to call it a night. She got to her feet and made her way up to the bar to enquire about a courtesy wagon. She assumed the pub still operated one. She was in luck, Mick informed her. It was leaving in fifteen minutes. Isla thanked him, hoping Delilah would be alright parked up overnight in the car park. It didn’t feel right leaving her on their first night together, she felt like she was abandoning her baby, but she didn’t have a choice. She headed over to tell Carl that she was going to call it a night. The band announced they were going to take a short break as she felt a tap on her shoulder – it was Annie. Even in the dimmed light, Isla could see that her fair skin was pink and glowing, and she was holding her hair back from her neck in a ponytail. ‘That was fun! I’m boiling, though.’

  Kris grinned down at her, he had his arm around her waist, and Isla felt a pang at their uncomplicated, easy way with each other.

  ‘Yeah, the music’s great guys, but I’m done in and the courtesy wagon’s leaving in ten or so minutes, I’m going to grab a ride home in that.’

  Kris looked at Annie who nodded her agreement. ‘I think we will too. I’m not going to be able to move tomorrow morning after two nights in a row of dancing. Let’s see what Carl wants to do.’

  Carl wound his game up and bade his new friends goodnight. He promised to bring them an autographed photograph of a Victoria’s Secret Model he had photographed last time he was in New York, next time he popped by for a pint. Carl was a man who knew how to win friends and influence people, Isla thought.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Hey Gran, I thought you’d be in bed,’ Isla said, popping her head around the lounge door and spying her gran stretched out in the recliner.

  ‘I do on occasion push the boat out and stay up past nine thirty, Isla. Did you have a nice time?’ Bridget yawned and stretched.

  ‘Yes ta, it was fun, lots and lots of dancing.’ And snogging of an ex-boyfriend, Isla thought, hoping Super Gran with her special powers of deduction wouldn’t guess she’d been up to something untoward. She stepped into the room. ‘What’s that you are looking at?’

  Bridget had spent her evening tripping down memory lane leafing through photographs.

  ‘Oh, just some old pictures.’

  ‘You dropped something.’ Isla bent down and picked up what she saw was an old newspaper clipping and glanced at the headline curiously, Presbyterian Women’s Guild Valentine’s Day Dance a Success! There was a picture of two grinning girls with their arms linked dressed in all their fifties’ finery,
Barker’s Creek Hall in the background. ‘Gran is that you and—’

  ‘Yes, it’s Clara and me.’ Her gran’s expression was sad. ‘I remember that night like it was yesterday.’

  Isla sat down on the floor by Bridget pulling her feet to her chest. ‘Tell me about it, Gran; I love listening to your stories.’

  Bridget looked at the top of her granddaughter’s dark head. She was in the mood to talk, she realized. She wanted to tell her how it had all once been. ‘It was 1957, and I was sixteen years old,’ she began.

  Isla closed her eyes and the more her gran talked, the more she felt she was there with her, a fly on the wall observing a snapshot in time.

  1957

  The carpark in the Barker’s Creek Hall grounds was nearly full as Colin steered the Holden FJ and its three passengers through the gates. Jean pointed to a gap between a shiny Ford Fairlane and a more sedate Morris Minor, and he carefully nosed his father’s car into it. Jean sat waiting for Colin to come around and open her door but Bridget and Clara clambered out the back, far too excited to wait. They adjusted their skirts, gave each other the once over and, satisfied that all was at it should be, they linked arms and headed in the direction of the hall.

  Several groups of lads were leaning up against their cars, a study of coolness as they bantered with one another. One of them clad in jeans and winkle pickers with his hair coiffed, a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth, whistled as the girls passed by. Bridget and Clara did their best to ignore him and saunter nonchalantly in the direction of the hall, their chests thrust proudly forth. But Clara still squeezed Bridget’s arm in eagerness of the night ahead.

  ‘Hey there girls, let me take your picture?’ It was a reporter from the Bibury Times in an ill-fitting suit and with far too much hair cream slicking his hair back. Nevertheless, the two girls paused to smile wide for his camera, chuffed to be immortalized on the pages of the local rag.

  The Valentine’s Day Dance had been organized as a fundraiser by the Presbyterian Women’s Guild with monies raised to go towards a planned extension for St Andrew’s, their parish church. It cost one shilling to get in, and the girls handed their money over to Mrs Taylor who was sitting at a table in the foyer. A cash tin was open in front of her while her youngest daughter checked coats into the adjacent cloakroom.

  ‘You can put your plates in the kitchen, girls,’ Mrs Taylor trilled. ‘Next.’ She shooed them towards the hall with one hand and beckoned to the two lads behind Bridget and Clara with her other. Groups of girls were huddled around near the entrance off the hall to the kitchen and Bridget, and Clara pushed their way through to deposit their plates.

  Inside the small kitchen, which was kitted out with the bare necessities, it was a hive of activity. Three women, one of whom was a biggish lady with horn-rimmed glasses that Bridget recognized as Mrs Staunton, a friend of her mother’s, sorted the plates into the food that could be served as it was and food that would need to be heated. She bustled forward and held her hands out to take Clara’s plate of fish paste sandwiches. ‘Thank you, dear. I shall put a damp tea towel over them to stop them drying out.’

  She placed it on the table and looked at Bridget’s offering, ‘Now … pikelets, jam and cream. Let me guess Bridget, your mother made those.’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘Her specialty. How is your mother?’

  ‘She’s good, thank you.’

  ‘Well, be sure to tell her Irene Staunton was asking after her, won’t you?’

  ‘I will pass it on, Mrs Staunton.’

  Clara tugged at her arm.

  ‘First dance, is it girls?’ Mrs Staunton looked amused.

  They both nodded.

  ‘Well, behave yourselves and have a good time.’ She waved them both out of the kitchen with a flap of her tea towel.

  Bridget followed Clara through the door, pausing to soak up the festive atmosphere. Balloons were strewn from the ceiling beams along with streamers, and there was a low buzzing of excited chatter. The air felt hot and heavy with the tension of youth. At the far end of the rectangular room with its polished floorboards was the raised stage. The band were all dressed in matching blue suits and were busy warming up. To their left, up against the wall, a long trestle table covered with a white tablecloth had been set up for the supper that would be served at the end of the night. Bridget and Clara headed over to join the other girls waiting with an impatient excitement for the evening to begin.

  Clara jostled her way through the gaggles of giggling girls until she was satisfied she had a good position in which to check out the lads, who were lining up on the other side of the hall. They were milling about jocularly in their sports jackets and long-sleeved shirts.

  Clara, who had a soft spot for her older brother’s new friend Tom Collins, was scanning the crowd for him. ‘He’s here! And, oh Isla, he looks so handsome all dressed up. I told you he was gorgeous.’ She clutched Bridget’s arm. ‘Oh no! He saw me looking.’ Her face was puce. ‘He’ll think I’m sweet on him. Quick, look like you’re talking to me and I’m super interesting!’

  ‘I am talking to you, and you are sweet on him, you’ve told me so at least a hundred times and I can see why. Mmm, he’s very dashing and yes, Clara sometimes you are interesting.’ Bridget laughed rubbing at her arm.

  Clara gave a little jump of excitement and clapped her hands. This caused several of the fellas across the way to elbow one another as her well-endowed chest jiggled with the effort. ‘Oh, I hope he asks me to dance and not spotty chin Jim. I’ll die if he does.’

  ‘Well, you know Jim’s keen on you because it wasn’t my order he put an extra scoop of chips in.’

  Both girls knew enough from listening to Jean talk about past dances to know that when the band started to play the rush would be on. The lads would stampede over in their haste to ask the girl they liked the look of to dance. The fear on the girls’ part was that if you were picky and said no to the first chap to ask you, then you ran the risk of being left on the sidelines, while everybody else filled the dancefloor. That was a mortifying thought indeed. Bridget spied the short, squat figure of George Donaldson and remembered Jean’s advice to her that afternoon, in a rare show of big sisterly concern.

  ‘I just remembered that Jean said we’re to be careful if George from the butcher’s asks either of us to dance. He’s quite likely to, given that we’re new blood, Jean’s words not mine. Apparently, he’s a member of the WHS and Jean reckons his nose only comes up to here.’ She pointed to the dip in her blouse, where her chest jutted forth on either side thanks to the special powers of her bullet bra. It would take a brave member of the Wandering Hands Society to attempt anything even vaguely inappropriate on the dancefloor, Bridget thought, her gaze swinging over to the back wall by the entrance.

  Three older members of the Presbyterian Ladies Guild were seated in a prim row, hands folded in their laps, ankles crossed. They were positioned strategically so that they were as far away as possible from the band, but could still keep their beady eyes on any shenanigans the young ones might get up to. A tongue lashing from Biddy Johnson was not something you would live down easily, Bridget thought, taking in Biddy’s pushed in jam tin expression and lemony lips.

  She turned her attention back to the lads milling about with nervous energy across the hall, equally eager for the dance to get underway. Her eyes met those of a leanly built, tall chap she’d never seen before. She smiled at him, having forgotten the plan hatched with Clara to act coy and shy around members of the opposite sex. He had a lovely smile. Bridget found herself unable to tear her gaze away from his. His hair was so dark it looked to be black, but that could be the dim lighting in the hall, and he wore his suit jacket and trousers with ease. She put this down to his being older than most of the other boys she knew. He looked to be around twenty, at a guess. The local lads looked awkward by comparison, like they were playing at dress up.

  She was the first to look away, turning to Clara and whispering
that she’d spotted who she hoped would ask her to dance. ‘You can look over at him but don’t make it obvious, alright?’

  Clara nodded.

  ‘He’s one but right from spotty chin Jim. I think he’s new in town because I’ve never seen him before.’

  Clara did her best to look over while surreptitiously informing Bridget of her findings. ‘Well, given he’s talking to the man of my dreams, I’d say your fellow must have started work up at the mine too. And yes, he’s rather dreamy but not as dreamy as my Tom.’

  Bridget flashed her friend a grateful smile for the information.

  ‘Ooh the band’s about to start, wish me luck,’ Clara screeched excitedly as the boys swarmed forth like bison stampeding the American plains to the first notes of Shake, Rattle, and Roll.

  ‘May I have this dance?’

  Bridget blinked to make sure it was him. He was even more handsome up close, and she looked up into his dark, dancing eyes. And yes, his hair was black. With his olive colouring and dark features, he looked Italian. Bridget was already conjuring up romantic images of them whizzing around Rome on a scooter like Joe and Anya in the film she’d seen last year, Roman Holiday. He smelt of soap, fresh and clean, and she let him lead her by the hand out onto the dance floor that was already thronging.

  A thrill ricocheted through her as his hands settled on the sides of her waist and he lifted her effortlessly high up into the air. She felt like she was flying. She suppressed a smile as she came back down to earth and spotted a less than pleased Clara being twirled about the floor by Jim. She bet her friend was willing the song to finish, but she never wanted it to end. There was nobody else that she wanted to dance with.