A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  The café, at the end of a little pedestrian street was buzzing, but they managed to grab a table that had just been vacated, on the pavement outside.

  ‘What’d you like? Cappuccino?’

  She hesitated for only a second and then said, as nonchalantly as if she’d been drinking cappuccinos all her life, ‘Yeah, great. That’d be nice. Thanks.’

  The coffee he bought her was like nothing she had ever tasted. Almost intoxicated, she drank this dark, slightly bitter brew through a layer of creamy foam; her taste buds fooled into thinking sweetness by a thick sprinkling of chocolate.

  The conversation was hesitant and somewhat awkward to begin with, the sort of boy meets girl opener; a ritual, she observed, that seemed to be the tedious prerequisite of any new relationship:

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’m seventeen, eighteen in October. And you?’

  Nineteen… So you go to college in Summerbridge?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going into my second year. You?’

  ‘I’m at uni. At Durham, reading zoology, also going into my second year. What A levels are you doing?’

  ‘Biology, maths and science. I want to go on to Bristol and study veterinary science.’

  ‘That’s ambitious. Do you want to become a vet?’

  ‘Yep. Why not? Or are you like my brothers, and think girls should only aspire to be nurses – animal or human, doesn’t matter which?’

  That acerbic reply made him laugh and the awkwardness eased. He bought her another coffee and neither noticed the time slipping by, so absorbed were they by their conversation, and each other. In repose, his face was stern and his dark eyes glittered. The black T-shirt and biker’s leathers he wore reinforced this slightly forbidding image. But when he relaxed and laughed, his eyes crinkled and softened, and when he talked, his features became animated.

  He told Alison that his first love was his BMW; she made him laugh with a description of her experiences on the back of Charlie’s bike. They talked, with great animation, about their respective tastes in music, and she learned that he was into heavy metal, though that didn’t prevent him from liking other music as well. They swapped favourite authors and favourite films and favourite actors…

  When Alison realised that a considerable period of time had elapsed since she had set out to post the parcel, her bravado suddenly deserted her, and she leapt to her feet – a little like Cinderella rushing from the ball, she thought later – and told Al she had to get back, right away. He made no attempt to keep her any longer, and gave her a lift back to Summerstoke. At her insistence, he dropped her off outside the village shop.

  As casually as she could, climbing off the bike, she asked if he was going into Summerbridge that night.

  He hesitated then answered, ruefully, ‘No. I can’t…I’ve got to work this evening. Are you?’

  Alison was desperately disappointed, but did her level best to hide the fact and replied, lightly, ‘No. I’d no plans to.’

  There was a slight, uncomfortable pause, then, stuttering her thanks once again, she started to undo her helmet.

  He suddenly grinned. ‘Those stars suit you. Pity about the jeepers-creepers on the back. Think you can borrow it again tomorrow?’ Alison gaped at him. ‘ We could go for a proper spin; if you’d like to, that is? I could pick you up about two, if you’re free?’

  ‘Two would be fine.’ She tried not to sound too enthusiastic. ‘I’m sure I can borrow the helmet again – that’s if you don’t think it upsets the BMW’s image too much?’

  ‘Oh, I think we’re big enough to take it. Where shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Here. That would be great. Thanks, Al.’ And she turned and ran down the street. Al watched her until she stopped at the end of the village, by the bridge, and hurried up the path of a shabby cottage garden. Then, with the engine chugging noisily, he turned the bike and headed off in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  ‘She’d been gone for two hours. Two hours! I don’t have to tell you how upset her mother was. Jenny’s always had a vivid imagination, too much for her own good, if you ask me, so that by the time young Alison finally turned up, the foolish woman had lived through her daughter’s abduction, murder, inquest and funeral. When she walked through the door, Jenny, overcome with grief, was one step away from dying herself. Silly woman! Never had any control over those children. If it had been me, I’d have put Alison over my knee and given her a sound spanking.’

  ‘Can’t do that these days, Elsie, love. They’d do you for assault.’ Ronald was an old friend of Elsie’s, and very used to these long diatribes against her family.

  ‘That’s half the problem – too much interference from the Nanny State. “Spare the rod and spoil the child”; that’s what I’ve always said, and now Jenny is reaping the consequences. Soft she is; I’ve always said so. Soft! Pah!’

  Elsie almost spat with disgust. Ron patted her hand. ‘Don’t upset yourself, love. You’ve done what you can. Here, have a drop more of this Muscat.’ He topped up the slender wine glass by her side. He and Elsie always ate cake and drank dessert wine on Saturday afternoons. They took it in turns to provide the cake or wine, and part of the pleasure was the challenge to find something different each time.

  ‘I must say, this is jolly nice.’ He topped up his own glass, ‘You found a good ’un here, Elsie.’ He sipped it appreciatively and Elsie watched him with pleasure. He might be eighty, bald and rather stout, but he always twinkled at her, was immensely patient and had a fine palate. She did enjoy his company. He patted her hand again, ‘So, did Alison say where she’d been?’

  Elsie snorted, ‘Oh some garbled tale about meeting a friend and missing the post, so she went to Summerbridge, to the post office there.’

  ‘Why didn’t she phone Jenny? You gave her one of those mobile things for her birthday, didn’t you?’

  Elsie snorted again, ‘Waste of money that was. Hardly ever uses it. Says she can’t afford the top-up cards, whatever that means. The more they have these days, the more they want and they’re no happier for it, nor do they behave any better…’

  ‘Another slice of panettone limone?’ Ronald knew of old that Elsie, out of sorts with her family, if not discouraged would go on to find fault with every one of them, and the world in general, before grumbling herself back into good humour.

  ‘That would be very nice, Ronald, thank you. Those Italians certainly know a thing or two about cakes.’ She bit into the large light slice and a spurt of lemon syrup trickled down her chin.

  ‘So, have you decided what to do about your Charlie? He must be on tenterhooks, you not having said anything?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen the chump!’ said Elsie with satisfaction, dabbing at her sticky chin with a tissue. ‘He’s making a very successful job of avoiding me, but I’ve been in no hurry. It’s Sunday tomorrow. He won’t miss Sunday lunch. They none of them do, no matter how inedible it is. Good time for family business, and I shall give them a piece of my mind; Stephen as well as Charlie. And as for Alison... What does she think she’s doing? It’s time they bucked their ideas up. They can’t carry on like this, and they can’t expect me to bail them out by dying conveniently and leaving them all my money to squander and fritter away.’

  Putting her plate down and swiftly finishing off the rest of her wine, she pulled back the bedclothes and climbed stiffly out of the bed. ‘Ooh, my old limbs are getting stiff!’ She stretched out her skinny arms as far as she was able, her thin, sagging body, corrugated with age. Ronald looked on admiringly from the bed.

  ‘You’re still a fine figure of a woman, Elsie.’

  She looked at him with some asperity and reached for her silk underwear.

  ‘You must be getting short-sighted, Ron. I’m a wrinkled old crone, a sour old woman, a bad-tempered old bag, and many other things besides!’ Then she softened, ‘But Ronald, d
ear, you always make me feel like a fine figure of a woman.’

  6

  Charlie drove his battered van slowly down the farm track, whistling softly to himself. The night was warm, the sky full of stars, and for the first time for days, he felt really cheerful. His appearance in court, like a bad dream, was beginning to recede, and apart from the fine, which would be a struggle to pay, there seemed to be no further fallout from it. Much to his relief, it did not seem as if his grandmother had said anything about it to the rest of the family, nor had she made any attempt to give him an earful. Admittedly, he had gone out of his way to avoid her, but he did not underestimate her determination and knew that if she had wanted to pin him down before now, she would have done. He briefly toyed with skipping lunch the following day, but Sunday dinner was an occasion that his mother had always insisted none of them should ever miss, even at harvest-time, unless they were ill, and he could think of no other excuse strong enough.

  He and Lenny had worked until nearly dark. Lenny had not hung around for his customary pint, as he was babysitting; Paula was working for the Lesters that evening. Charlie himself had had two dates lined up. He grinned in the dark. He’d managed the evening all right, he thought, and the prospects were looking good.

  His current girlfriend, Sarah, was a pretty blond girl in her late twenties, who he’d been attracted to because not only did he find her sexy, but she was full of high spirits and lots of fun. They had been going out for three months – almost a record for Charlie, but, as he’d described to Lenny, since they had started going out together, she’d become more serious, possessive even, and for Charlie, that was a death knell. ‘It’s always the way with birds,’ he thought, as the van, like a boat in a choppy sea, lurched from pothole to pothole along the track. ‘Soon as they get a partner, they want to tie the knot… I like being free, I like having fun… Why should I want to get married and change all that?’ Sarah had recently started dropping hints, lingering outside jewellers’ windows, and making him spend more time with their married friends; Charlie was more than ready to cut loose. There was part of him that was regretful. He’d had a really good time with Sarah, but he was eager to move on, and meeting Beth had helped that decision.

  Beth had recently come to work at The Bunch of Grapes, and from the first, Charlie had been attracted. She was, he thought, the model of an ideal barmaid: about twenty-five, of medium height, shoulder-length blond hair, great, dancing blue eyes and, best of all, large shapely breasts and a tiny waist. From the moment she started work, she was a hit with all the customers, and from the way she chatted, joked and flirted with them all, Charlie had no expectations that she might view him any differently. But then, yesterday evening, he and Lenny had gone to the pub for a few pints after work.

  The pub was crowded and Charlie, pushing his way through to be served, caught sight of Linda in the lounge bar looking, unusually for her, rather out of sorts. In the public bar, however, where Beth and Stan were serving, the atmosphere was lively, with plenty of good-humoured back-chat between themselves and the drinkers. Beth served Charlie, and, counting out his money, he made a play at persuading her to make a date. Beth was, Charlie could have sworn, about to refuse, when Linda appeared behind her and asked her, rather coldly, Charlie observed, to go and bring up some bottles of juice from the cellar.

  ‘OK, Linda, I’ll just sort Charlie out with his change. Oh, and Charlie – I’d love to… That is, if Linda doesn’t mind me dating a customer!’

  Linda flushed and smiled at Charlie, relaxing a little. ‘Don’t be daft – why should I mind? Hello Charlie. Your gran shown her hand, yet?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘No and I don’t think she’s going to now.Fingers crossed.’

  Beth was working Saturday night, but as he had already promised to take Sarah to the cinema that evening, Charlie arranged to pick her up at closing time and take her, at her suggestion, clubbing.

  The evening had worked like a dream. True, Sarah was very put out when Charlie dropped her back home immediately after the film had ended, but she couldn’t deny that he had been yawning all the way through the film and needed to get some sleep, as he had to be out early to cut barley the following morning. He had resisted her attempts to tie him down to their next date, saying he would phone her, and closed his eyes to the look of misery that had settled on her face when he left.

  He just made it to The Grapes just in time for last orders. It was Stan’s turn to be in a sour mood this evening, and he was barely civil to Charlie when he served him his pint, but Charlie, his head full of the prospect of having Beth to himself for the next few hours and wondering if he would make it with her that night, was unconcerned.

  The clubbing scene was one that Charlie was not used to. He was amazed at the youthfulness of the average clubber; he disliked the intense heat, the volume of the music, and the crowds of giggling, drunken clubbers four deep at the bars, queuing for the toilets, and occupying every available table in every nook and cranny in the subterranean premises. He’d hoped that, in semi-darkness, he and Beth would snog the night away. No such luck. There was no room for snogging couples on the crowded dance floor and Beth resisted sitting out on the black leather couches, for more than one number. Charlie was also aware of being stared at, which made him uncomfortable. A drunken youth shouted out something, which made a couple of girls turn, stare, and then start giggling.

  ‘What are they staring at?’ he asked Beth, plaintively. ‘What did he say?

  She looked amused. ‘He called you Fred West…’

  Charlie threw back his head and laughed. ‘Why on earth should he call me that? Do I look like a mass murderer?’ He was wearing a white cotton shirt, tucked into a pair of jeans, with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. With his clear, tanned skin, even, white teeth, strong chin and long, muscular body, Beth readily conceded that he did not, but she said, pointedly, ‘It’s probably your whiskers, Charlie. They’re real mutton chops, aren’t they?’

  Charlie fingered them with pride, ‘Yep, but I don’t see as they are anything to laugh at…’

  ‘But they make you look like Fred West – or worse, The Wurzels,’ came the reply. And thereafter, when he had tried to kiss her, she had complained about his whiskers tickling her.

  In spite of all of that, they’d had a good time. Beth was an energetic dancer, and in a short fitted red dress, shaking her bosom and her bum, every which way to the rhythm of the music, she attracted a lot of admiring glances. In the end, however, Charlie was caught out by a genuine, not-to-be-ignored fatigue. The time it had taken to get to Bath, his long day in the field, the oppressive heat and the general crush in the clubs finally led to huge, irresistible yawns, and at three o’clock in the morning, he had driven Beth back to her home and accepted, without much fuss, her refusal to allow him to share her bed.

  But it was a promising start, he said to himself, as he drove into the farmyard. She was not going to make it easy for him, and he liked that. But she had promised that she would go out with him on her next day off, although she was not sure when that would be.

  Charlie let himself into the kitchen. A faint moonbeam was shining through the kitchen window, its shaft dimly illuminating the dead cactus and the dying Busy Lizzie on the window sill, touching the edge of the sink, the back of a chair; the silvery, grey pathway losing itself in shadows across the kitchen table. The silence of the room was interrupted only by the busy tick of the electric clock and the rumbling snores from Gip, in her basket. She knew her master and did not wake from a well-earned sleep, even when he snapped on the electric light.

  ‘I won’t take her clubbing, though, that’s for certain,’ Charlie thought, rummaging in the bread bin for a couple of slices. ‘Blimey, it cost a bomb, and for what? Jigging around to rotten music and drinking fizzy water.’ He found some margarine and a pot of strawberry jam and made himself a sandwich; collected a bottle of beer, and took his snack up to his b
edroom.

  He didn’t bother to put his light on, but stepped over the piles of clothes, boots, CDs, motorbike brochures and motocross magazines, his old guitar, and the odd beer bottle that formed a permanent obstacle course between his door and his bed, and lay on his duvet, fully clothed, munching his sandwich in the dark. His last thought, before he fell into a deep sleep, was of Sarah. He’d have to give her the old heave-ho. A pity – he liked her and he hated the thought of giving pain to anyone he liked. Beth wouldn’t expect him to go down on one knee, he was pretty sure of that. She’d be fun, without strings.

  * * *

  ‘Bloomin’ ’eck, what’s this doin’ ’ere?’ A bleary-eyed Lenny, in crumpled T-shirt, and pyjama bottoms liberally decorated with the unshaven yellow features of his favourite cartoon character, stared with astonishment at the huge black eyes staring up at him from the chair on which he’d been just about to sit. He held up the pale blue crash helmet. ‘Paula? You bin goin’ out with someone I don’t know about?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Paula amiably, patting into place the back-combed tower of hair that was teetering off-centre through lack of attention. ‘Alison borrowed it off me yesterday and wants it again this afternoon, so it didn’t get put away. Here’s yer breakfast.’ She placed a large plate of fried eggs, bacon, sausage and beans in front of him, poured out two mugs of tea and joined him at the wobbly, Formica-covered kitchen table Lenny had rescued from a rubbish skip. She lighted a cigarette, glancing as she did so out of the open door at her children charging around the long, untidy garden, which was littered with myriad bright plastic toys.

  ‘I don’t know how they keeps on goin’ like that in this heat. I reckon it’s hotter today than it was yesterday. Will you fill the paddlin’ pool up for ’em, later?’