One Lucky Summer

by Jenny Oliver

  ‘What?’ Dolly called after him.

  He grabbed his bag. ‘Nothing,’ he said, limping to his seat.

  Dolly could feel herself getting riled. ‘What? Tell me! Come on—’ She stood up.

  ‘Sit down,’ he ordered, annoyed at her temper. Then he sat himself, his big body lowered as gently as he could onto the feeble chair, and said with controlled anger, ‘You didn’t apologise for me, Dolly, you apologised for you. It was an insult.’

  Dolly paused, caught off-guard by the truth. ‘Well, I’m sorry, you’re so bloody perfect.’

  Fox undid his bag and got out a bottle of water. He chucked it to her.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he replied, sitting down and inspecting his swollen ankle.

  Dolly begrudgingly unscrewed the water canister and took a long gulp. It was like heaven. Cool down her throat that was parched with heat and corn dust and midges. She stood up and placed it down next to Fox’s chair. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.

  Fox took a gulp of water himself, calmly screwing the cap on. ‘I’m not perfect, Dolly.’

  ‘I’m not perfect …’ she mimicked with spiteful irritation, hands on her hips, looking up at an old pigeon’s nest, the twigs meshed with bits of wire and tin foil.

  Fox shook his head like she was a child.

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ Dolly sighed.

  He raised a brow, taking another gulp of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why not, when you deserve it?’

  His every move annoyed her. His sanctimonious one-upmanship. Irritation bubbled inside her. She came and stood really close and said, ‘What do you want to do? Do you want to hit me?’

  Fox almost choked on his water. ‘No, I do not want to hit you.’

  ‘Go on,’ she goaded. ‘It’d make us both feel better. Come on, I’m as good as any of those guys in the ring,’ she braced herself, good hand on her hip. ‘Hit me.’

  ‘Dolly, I am not going to hit a one-armed woman.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Come on, stand up. You can be one-armed, too,’ she snapped, trying to haul him up off the chair. ‘Just hold one behind your back.’

  Fox stayed where he was, refusing to budge, Dolly yanking at his arm. Then he started laughing. ‘Dolly, I’m never going to hit you.’

  ‘I want you to hit me,’ she said, her anger morphing as she heaved him by the arm into almost crying laughter. ‘Please!’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, still smiling. ‘No. I don’t need to hit you. Nor do I want to hit you. I just want you to admit some weakness every now and then. Realise that not everything is a battle to fight.’ He looked down at her arm still hooked on his. ‘This being a case in point.’

  Dolly sighed, her shoulders sagged. She drew her hand away and sloped away to sit on the edge of the hay. She took a deep breath, nodding. ‘Yeah, I know.’ Head hung, she glanced over at him. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  His face softened, almost in pity. ‘That’s OK.’

  She bit her lip, glancing over at the trashed Kawasaki. ‘I am sorry about your bike.’

  ‘So you should be, that’s travelled the bloody Himalayas with me and it never got scratched up this badly.’

  Dolly looked at him with a questioning expression. ‘You were really in the Himalayas with the monks?’ In jeans and an old faded army T-shirt, big biceps and sweat-stained face, he didn’t look like he’d fit in with the Buddhist monks.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded, reaching into his bag for a first-aid kit that of course he carried with him everywhere and unzipping it. ‘And by the way,’ he said, starting to bandage up his ankle, ‘I really am definitely not perfect.’

  Dolly frowned. ‘I think that’s a double negative.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘It wasn’t. It wasn’t good English but it wasn’t a double negative.’

  Dolly tipped her head. ‘No, I really think it was.’

  ‘Dolly …’ Fox held up a hand. ‘Let it go.’

  Dolly took a breath to say more but stopped herself. Then in the pause she ran Fox’s sentence over in her head and realised it was just bad English. She cringed at herself, then looked across at Fox to apologise again but he was just watching, smiling, knowing. Somehow though, this time it wasn’t quite so annoying.

  Dolly shook her head, embarrassed. ‘I know I need to think more before I act.’

  ‘It would help,’ Fox replied.

  Dolly found herself smiling. She leant against the big bale behind her, retying her hair so it was away from her neck in a knot on top of her head. She could see nothing but blue sky and the corn out ahead. The hay itched her back. She looked at Fox, retying the bandage on his ankle because it wasn’t quite perfect, then pinning the cloth in place and putting the first-aid kit away in its proper place.

  If she let it, there was something quite relaxing about being in his presence. Not just the whole military thing that let you know he was prepared for any eventuality, but a calm strength that didn’t encroach. That just let her be. She never got that with men, usually. She never lolled about with messy hair and an admission of being wrong. She was always ready and fighting. In training she had her hair slicked and gripped to within an inch of its life. Even in bed she was up before them, barely having slept, never able to fully relax with someone else there with her.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Fox asked, and she realised she’d zoned out, silent.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, sitting up straight, redoing her hair. Fox didn’t push for anything more. ‘How’s your ankle?’ Dolly asked, standing up, straightening her T-shirt, having another drink. ‘Can you walk to the farm?’

  Fox had pulled his boot on and stood up to give it a test. ‘Yeah. I think it’ll be OK. I’m going to have to leave the bike here, though.’

  Together, they pushed it to the rear of the barn and camouflaged it as best they could under a mouse-chewed tarpaulin. Then they set off into the sun, their bags on their backs. This time though the walk was across lush grass for sheep grazing, tufts of wool caught on the wire fence, clover and buttercups springing up along the edges. The sheep eyed them with disinterest as they trekked slowly down the hill, the incline harder on Fox’s ankle until Dolly found him a massive stick to use as support.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, clearly surprised at the gesture.

  But Dolly brushed away the moment with a ‘Come on, Grandpa!’ as he started to walk gingerly with the stick.

  They trudged on into caramel wheat flecked with red poppies and darting butterflies.

  Fox had to pause by a fallen tree. ‘I just need a second.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Dolly sat down beside him. Not close, a person’s width between them. They sat in silence. A beetle crossed the dry earth with painful slowness. Fox got the water out of his bag, had a gulp then handed it to her.

  ‘Why did you join the police, Dolly?’ he asked as she handed it back, the cool water still in her mouth.

  She swallowed. ‘To save the world,’ she said facetiously.

  He raised a brow.

  She knew exactly why she’d joined the force, just never talked about it with anyone.

  ‘Your record said you’d been arrested. Then you were given the option to go into training.’

  She sat up straighter. ‘You read my record?’

  ‘I read the record of everyone I work with.’

  ‘I haven’t read your record.’

  ‘That’s not my problem.’

  Dolly scowled.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, standing up and dragging a big stone over that he could rest his ankle on as he sat, ‘Tell me, what happened? I’m genuinely interested. I have been dying to know since I read it.’

  She looked across at Fox, still unsure how she felt about him reading up on her, but she was knocked off balance instead by the genuine interest on his face. The sitting and waiting for her to tell him. Not cutting in with his own story or half distracted by something on his phone.
He was actually interested in her. She thought suddenly of the guys who wanted her to handcuff them in bed. The others who wanted the gruesome investigation stories but liked her in heels and a skirt when they went for dinner. She thought of all the faces she’d put on, the people she’d been to please. The questions she’d asked in order to deflect the very few, when she thought about it, that she had been asked in return.

  But now, sitting on the fallen tree, the air still and silent, her skin warm, not a person but her and Fox for at least a mile, there was someone waiting to listen to what she had to say. Whose genuine expression of interest left her disinclined to lie – questioning, even, why she would even consider it.

  ‘I joined because …’ she paused, it was such unfamiliar territory, she had no well-rehearsed story ready to roll out. ‘Because I didn’t want to be living the life I was living any more.’

  ‘What life were you living?’

  ‘A lonely one,’ she said with a half-smile. He nodded like he didn’t actually need any further explanation; it was totally up to her if she wanted to continue. That was the thing about him, his presence was completely unthreatening, like he drew the judgement out of the air. She drank some water. ‘I moved to London when I was about fourteen to live with my Aunt Marge – the one you met – and she wasn’t necessarily the best with children. You could say I was quite lost as a teenager. I got in with the wrong crowd, you know, the cliché.’

  Fox said, ‘The wrong crowd? Is this the guy who put you off motorbikes?’

  ‘One and the same.’ Dolly nodded, not quite able to smile. She thought of who she was then. Too thin. Didn’t wash her hair. Red-eyed from tears. ‘There are certain people who can sense weakness,’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ replied Fox.

  Dolly thought of Great Destroyer Jake with his long hair and pseudo-Marxist politics. The sharp, angular beauty of his face. The dirty flat owned by his mum that he’d steadily trashed as a gesture of lazy anarchy. The feel of his hands on her face when her phone rang and he silenced it and slipped it into his pocket, saying, ‘You don’t need anyone else, babe. You’ve got me.’ Beautiful, awful Jake. A great destroyer.

  ‘Well, me and the wrong crowd, we got into trouble. Stupid stuff …’ She picked up a twig from the ground and started to strip it of its bark with her fingers.

  Fox grinned at the idea of it. Dolly rolled her eyes. ‘We protested everything. There was no agenda. Just destruction.’

  ‘Sounds like a successful strategy.’

  ‘Well, you know, when you’re young …’

  ‘I know exactly, Dolly.’ He smiled, again totally without judgement. And Dolly found herself looking back on her younger self with a little more sympathy than she ever had. She said, ‘They had found the address of some big corporate investor that they planned to, you know, go and smash a few windows and stuff. God, it’s embarrassing recounting it.’

  Fox nodded for her to continue.

  ‘They swore that there was no one home and they were all there with bricks and started smashing the place up. But it turned out the wife was home with her little kid. It was awful. She called the police. The kid was screaming. I remember being like, this isn’t right. But none of them seemed to care, they kept going till the police arrived. And when they did, the guy I was with, Jake – that was his name – and his mates all just legged it. We jumped on the bikes but he took off so fast and I hadn’t got my grip properly.’ She looked across shamefaced. ‘I fell off. I shouted but no one turned back.’

  ‘You were surprised he left you?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Yeah. No.’ Dolly snapped the twig she was holding. ‘I suppose if I really think about it, no.’

  That was the problem with not talking about yourself, you could be taken aback by your own memories. ‘Shall we walk?’ Dolly asked, getting ready to stand up, thinking that was probably enough about her past.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Fox. ‘So, you were arrested?’

  ‘Yeah, and charged. They locked me up for the night. What I didn’t know at the time was that Aunt Marge had very good friends on the force.’ Dolly smiled wryly. ‘She knows everyone. How she tells it now is that I needed to learn a lesson. I’d, er … pushed her to the limit, I think.’

  ‘What lesson did you need to learn?’ Fox asked.

  ‘The pure terror of being arrested,’ Dolly laughed. ‘I think she just wanted me to stop wasting my life and had run out of ideas. This was the perfect storm. DC Molly Reynolds came to talk to me, who was actually – unbeknownst to me – one of Aunt Marge’s closest friends. I remember looking up at her face in the interview room and she looked so cool and so together. She had these straight across eyebrows and this really sharp suit. And I remember the look on her face when she looked at me, it was so condescending. The pity.’ Dolly sat up, chucked the bits of twig, and tried to tighten her ponytail one-handed.

  ‘She impressed you?’

  ‘She was amazing. Really strong, really confident. She showed me who I could be.’ Dolly’s eyes creased at the memory. The smell of the police station, the cheap coffee, Molly towering over her saying, ‘No more excuses, Dolly. You answer to yourself and you alone. Yes!’

  Fox was watching her, mouth turned down, interested. ‘Lucky escape.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dolly felt the spark fade slightly as she thought about that time, considered how close she had come to disappearing into Jake and his friends. So desperate had her need been to feel something, anything akin to love.

  Fox stayed quiet. The silence hung in the thick warm air.

  In her head, Dolly suddenly replayed her fantasy of seeing Ruben de Lacy again. How she’d imagined the low whistle between his teeth. Practised her own pithy yet flirtatious comeback. Hoped he’d be wowed by her glossy hair and sculpted muscles. She’d never once considered a conversation they might have.

  ‘Right,’ said Fox, ‘I think I’m OK to walk now.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Dolly stood up and brushed tree bark off her jeans.

  Fox nodded and heaved himself up. Instinctively, Dolly gave him her arm to lean on. He took it to get his balance and she was suddenly really aware of his hand on her skin. She turned her head and their faces were almost touching. Dolly found herself noticing how dark his eyes were. Then Fox moved away and Dolly worried suddenly that she’d been staring.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, all casual nonchalance. Embarrassed that she had noticed anything about him. He might be willing to listen but he was still bloody annoying Fox Mason.

  He looked at her, amused, like he could tell exactly what she was thinking. Nose in the air, she chucked her bag over her shoulder and walked off ahead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olive, Ruben and Zadie ate at Angelica’s Trattoria in the village, which was still going after all these years. A dark nook with the same candles in Chianti bottles and pictures of old Italy on the walls that had been there when they were kids. The eponymous Angelica stalked menacingly out from behind the counter but softened the instant she saw Ruben and Olive. ‘Just the same, the two of you! Oh, how lovely. I have missed you. And this is your beautiful daughter?’

  Olive had to awkwardly explain that that wasn’t the case, but then her phone rang and Angelica moved on, slinging her conker-tanned arm around Ruben and pronouncing him as handsome as Gregory Peck before ushering them to the best table in the house.

  ‘Olive? Marge here,’ her aunt’s voice boomed out of the phone.

  Olive followed Ruben and Zadie to the table, weaving her way through the restaurant diners. ‘Hi Marg—’

  ‘I can’t get through to Dolly,’ Marge bulldozed through Olive’s greeting. ‘I went to see her, told her to go on this hunt but then nothing and now her phone is going straight to answerphone again. I called her work and they said she’s been suspended. Did you know that?’

  Olive’s back seemed to go into spasm whenever she heard from Aunt Marge. Like a Pavlovian stress reaction. Her late
teenage years were basically spent teaching Marge how to be a parent while working furiously to get into art college and worrying about Dolly, who’d crashed off the rails spectacularly. Whenever Marge rang Olive it was always for her to sort something to do with Dolly that would leave Olive a tight ball of stress. In the whole time she’d known her, she’d never once rung Olive to ask her anything about herself.

  ‘What’s she been suspended for?’ Olive frowned, then immediately smiled her thanks as Angelica drew out a chair for her and handed her a menu.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, they don’t tell you these things over the phone. What shall we do?’

  Olive closed her eyes. It was all too similar to the times as a teenager – when both sisters were out of their depth in their new London life, struggling to make any sense of what had happened to them – that she’d sat up pleading with Dolly to go to school, to stop bunking off with the crowd of useless idiots she now idolised, panicking about the booze and pills, not with her mother this time but with her younger sister, holding her hair as she vomited in the loo, and Aunt Marge hovered in the background completely clueless. Being back at Angelica’s Trattoria was almost laughably symbolic. ‘Look, I can’t really talk right now, let me think about it,’ Olive smiled up at Ruben, who was watching with interest while Zadie was saying, ‘They’ve got dough balls! Oh, and profiteroles!’

  Olive turned away, ‘She’s probably just annoyed that she’s been suspended and gone to the gym or something. You know Dolly, she never answers her phone …’ Olive didn’t want to get sucked into this, it made her heart beat too fast with familiar concern. The police had been Dolly’s saving grace, Olive didn’t want to consider what she’d be like without it.

  Marge said, ‘Possibly,’ unconvinced.

  In a momentary lapse of frustration, Olive sighed, ‘Why does she always have to do this? Why does it always have to be a drama?’

  Marge, who couldn’t bear any sign of conflict, immediately cut in with a placating, ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right. Perfectly decent explanation. I’ve got a supper tonight but I’ll pop round her flat again in the morning, just to check. There’s every chance she’s on her way to you. She did say she might.’