A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  Then Charlie, who never washed up or cleared away at home if he could help it, set to and cleared away the glasses and plates; wiped the tables with a tea towel and straightened the chairs; cleaned the bar and polished glasses. For the first time that day, he felt almost happy. Overhead he could hear Linda moving about, then the warbling of a mobile phone and the low murmur of her voice. He was in no hurry for her to come and take over. A couple came in and he served them drinks. A few more drifted in and he served them. An old drinking companion, Skip, hailed him.

  ‘Charlie, me ol’ mate, what’s this – taken up a new job, eh? Farmin’ don’t pay?’

  Charlie filled him in and Skip gave him a broad wink, ‘Couldn’t be nicer: me ol’ mate behind the bar, how about one, two even, on the house, before she comes down?’

  Charlie, who had quite forgotten to pour himself the pint that Linda had offered, felt uncomfortable, and was about to jeopardise a friendship, when Linda hurried into the bar.

  ‘Oh, Charlie, I’m really sorry to leave you so long. Jess just wouldn’t settle. And I’ve had a call from Beth; seems she can’t make it tonight so I’m all on my tod. Just my luck! I’m really sorry.’

  Charlie was sorry about Beth, and wondered, briefly, why she hadn’t turned up – she’d said nothing to him about not working that evening – but he responded to the note of desperation in Linda’s voice. He put an arm round her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. ‘No wuz, I’ve enjoyed myself, really. Look, Lin, if you’re on your own tonight, shall I stay this side of the bar, give you a hand? I don’t mind, honest.’

  She smiled at him gratefully, and looking across the bar at Charlie’s crony, took him up on his offer. ‘Charlie, I’d be really grateful. If you could cover the lounge, it shouldn’t be too busy in there, and I’ll stay in here. Skip, a pint of your usual?’

  Charlie waited for the opportunity to ask about Stan’s absence and seek Linda’s advice about Elsie. But the opportunity was a long time coming, for shortly after Linda joined him in the bar, a coach party arrived, and she and Charlie were kept busy for the rest of the evening.

  When all but the last reluctant locals had gone, they drew breath.

  ‘Blimey, Linda,’ said Charlie, ruefully, ‘I came here for a quiet pint and a chat, and I’ve not had either! And my stomach’s rumbling a storm. I’ve not eaten since lunchtime.’

  Lunchtime. The memory of it all rose in his gut like undigested grub, lurking to give him bellyache all night. He sighed heavily.

  ‘I’m sorry Charlie, I should’ve thought. Look, pull yourself a pint and I’ll go and put some of the chicken Kiev from lunch in the microwave.’

  Working behind the bar had driven all thoughts of Elsie out of Charlie’s mind; now he could think of nothing else. The beer tasted dull and when Linda returned with an appetising plateful of chicken and chips, he found his appetite had gone. He pushed both plate and glass away with a sigh. The whole evening he had been lively and good fun, charming even the most awkward of Linda’s customers, but now, slumped back in his chair, he looked dull and miserable.

  Linda was concerned. ‘Something up, Charlie? Not like you to be off your beer. You look as if someone’s turned the light off…’

  ‘No, I’m not all right. Far from it, Lin. The old witch has got me by the short and curlies…’ and groaning, he told Linda about Elsie’s ultimatum.

  Linda was gratifyingly shocked. ‘It sounds like something out of Georgette Heyer. People just don’t behave like that any more. What is Elsie thinking of?’

  ‘Screwing me up right and proper, that’s what. Thing is, Lin, you’re my mate, and you know Gran – what’ll I do?’

  Lin looked at him, thoughtfully. ‘Do you want to get married, Charlie?’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders and stretched out in his chair , ‘Who to? All the decent ones are hitched already…’

  ‘What about Sarah? The few times you’ve brought her in here, you seemed quite keen on her.’

  ‘ I was, to begin with, but just because I fancy someone, don’t mean I want to spend the rest of my natural with them.’

  ‘But don’t you think you might want to settle down someday? If you carry on the way you have been, Charlie Tucker, there won’t be anyone available left. Or, more to the point, you’ll decide you want to get married and discover no-one will have you.’

  Charlie sat up and looked at her with surprise. ‘What do you mean? Aren’t most girls dying to tie the knot?’

  Linda laughed at him. ‘That’s terribly old-fashioned, Charlie. Women, thank God, are driven by a lot more these days than finding a man to cook and clean for. And if I was looking for someone to settle down with, I wouldn’t choose a bloke with the sort of reputation you’ve got.’

  ‘Lin!’ Charlie protested, hurt.

  She patted his hand. ‘You’re a great friend, Charlie, but you have to admit, you’re a terrible flirt, and nobody wants the angst of being hitched to a roving eye.’ For a moment, a shadow passed over her face. Then she smiled and said lightly, ‘But you haven’t answered my question. Do you want to get married?’

  Charlie ran his fingers through his hair, thoughtful. ‘Yeah, I s’pose so…but not just at the moment, Lin, and not just because Gran says I’ve got to…’

  ‘Then you’re goin’ to have to find a way round her. I’ll have a think about it…but don’t despair, it’s early days yet, Charlie. She might see how stupid this whole thing and change her mind…’

  ‘And pigs might fly. But you’re right, that’s what I’ve got to do – somehow make her see how daft it is. But Lin, don’t say anything to nobody, will you? If this gets out, I’ll be a laughing stock, and any bird I might fancy won’t be seen for dust…’

  ‘Like Beth, you mean…? No, of course I won’t. You can trust me.’ She got up and started to gather the plates. ‘I don’t know about you, Charlie, but I’m ready for my bed. If you could collect the rest of the glasses while I put these in the dishwasher, I’ll let you out and lock up.’

  On her way to the kitchen, she turned and said, lightly, ‘ Oh, Charlie, I haven’t said how grateful I am you were here tonight. I didn’t explain, but Stan’s Mum is ill and he had to go… I really don’t know how I’d have managed without you. You were great…’

  ‘S’all right,’ said Charlie, and grinned. ‘I enjoyed myself. Really. First time for ages.’

  And he meant it.

  8

  A narrow gravel drive bordered by a high yew hedge skirted the churchyard and led to Summerstoke Manor. The gateway was made even narrower by a pair of stone pillars, on the top of which, balanced precariously, were large, ornamental stone balls, eaten by frost and decorated with ancient grey and gold lichen.

  ‘Oh bollocks!’

  As Hugh drove into the courtyard, his state-of-the-art, glistening, sporty Range Rover, scraped against one of the pillars causing one of the great stone balls to wobble precariously.

  ‘Pity,’ murmured one of the Misses Merfield, watching his arrival from a sitting-room window.

  ‘What is, dear?’ enquired another.

  ‘That the ball didn’t fall on Mr Lester’s car. When he hit the pillar, it looked promising, for a moment.’

  There was no doubt that the manor house had beauty and character where Summerstoke House did not. A long, low building, no more than two storeys high, with mullioned windows and creeper-clad, ancient stone walls, it stretched out either side of a great carved porch. At the back, the wings of the house faced into a courtyard which was bordered by a rose garden, with a wide green lawn stretching beyond that, in a slope down to the river.

  Hugh had always craved the house. Not because he had fallen for its beauty, or its history, but because he knew that it was regarded as by far and away the best house in the village. It was this secret craving that had put its mark on any dealings he had with the Misses Merfield. They were
never going to give him what he wanted, and viewed his want with a polite contempt, which characterised their infrequent encounters with the Lesters.

  Hugh surveyed the scraped and dented paintwork of his car and swore again. He cursed the Merfields for the gate posts; Vee for having made him come, and Cordelia for demanding to be picked up from a friend’s house, which was the reason he had driven and not walked to the manor. He grabbed his mobile and the newspaper, slammed the car door, and walked morosely across to the house. He sighed as he stood at the great, carved portal and looked round for an alternative to the gnarled iron knocker, which clearly hadn’t been used for years.

  He really didn’t want to be here, but Vee had insisted. He knew it was a good idea, but at the thought of having to go ‘cap-in-hand’ to the Merfields he had found all sorts of reasons not to get in touch with them.

  Vee had been furious when she discovered that he had let the weekend drift past without doing anything. He had been playing, that morning, with a newly installed computer when she had come into his study, fresh from putting a feisty young horse through its paces. She had got the better of the horse, and was in good humour. That had instantly evaporated when she had asked him when he was planning to see the Misses Merfield.

  ‘Really, Hugh, what are you playing at?’ Impatiently, she slapped her crop in her hand and tossed her netted head. ‘You had two simple things to do and you’ve not done either of them. Why haven’t you phoned the manor? And why haven’t you spoken to Lenny Spinks yet? It’s pathetic! Are you serious about the stud? Because if we don’t get this land, then we might as well forget it!’

  Hugh looked up from his computer screen and flushed resentfully. He withered when her anger was directed at him. ‘I played my part,’ she continued. ‘Even though I found it distasteful enough. But if you’re not even going to try…’

  Hugh ground his teeth and found a bell concealed in the ivy. He pressed it, but could hear no responding sound. He waited a few moments, his irritation with the whole situation growing by the second, then he pressed it again, more viciously, and holding onto it longer.

  ‘All right, all right, all right! I heard you the first time.’ An elderly woman, with cropped grey hair and a neat unassuming appearance, glared at him from the door she had just opened. ‘We’re not deaf, you know. One ring is quite sufficient.’

  Hugh, mumbling an apology, put on his most ingratiating manner and attempted to retrieve the situation. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Mrs Merfield. I won’t take up much of your time, but I am sure…’

  Before he could get any further, he was abruptly interrupted, ‘Good heavens, I‘m not a Merfield. I’d have thought you’d know that by now; you’ve lived in the village long enough. I’m Nanny.’

  There were three Misses Merfield resident in the Manor House: Mrs Merfield and her sisters-in-law, Miss Merfield the older, and Miss Merfield the younger. Very few people in the village knew their Christian names and could only hazard a guess at their ages, but it was believed that the youngest Miss Merfield was probably in her late seventies, and the oldest, Mrs Merfield, was in her mid-eighties. Nanny had joined the household as a young girl to care for Mrs Merfield’s son, and when he left home, she had remained to look after the senior members of the family as they, in turn, sickened and died. She had always been known as Nanny by everyone, and as to her age, speculation had it that she was older than the young Miss Merfield, but not as old as Mrs Merfield. They were all strong women, but appeared to live together in complete harmony, deferring to the senior Mrs Merfield in the event of any disagreement. They were known to be staunch Christians and to hold strong views about the ‘moral decline of contemporary society’. Which was why Hugh was hopeful that the newspaper he clutched would prove useful in undermining whatever opinion they had of the Tuckers.

  He followed Nanny across the hall and was shown into a sitting room, a long rectangular room, with a low, decoratively plastered ceiling and wainscoting, painted silver-grey. The mullioned windows, in three panelled embrasures on his left, sent twinkling contortions of light dancing across the room. A large fireplace occupied the far end of the room, in which, Hugh was amazed to see, because the summer was one of the hottest he could remember, a small fire glowed. Around this were grouped a selection of huge sofas and elegant, button-back chairs, where the ladies were sitting, sipping tea.

  Mrs Merfield, upright and elegant, like a queen cobra, surveyed him from under hooded eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Lester, come in and sit down.’

  Hugh sank into a deep, squashy settee, which immediately engulfed him. He had to struggle, his legs being rather short, to put his feet back on the ground and regain some semblance of dignity.

  Mrs Merfield continued, graciously but without any warmth, ‘We are having tea, as you see. Nanny, be so kind as to provide Mr Lester with a cup.’

  Hugh, who hated tea, but lacked the courage to ask for coffee, weakly accepted the fragile cup and saucer handed to him. He declined the offer of milk or lemon, wondering how to broach the subject and get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible. He sipped his tea, to give himself a moment. It was horrible, scented and bitter.

  ‘We get our Earl Grey direct from Gillards. Quite the most refreshing tea to drink in this hot weather, don’t you think?’ One of the other Miss Merfields, equally elegant but with silver hair, boyishly cropped and streaked with pink, closely watched him. ‘Have a biscuit. We’ve eaten all the chocolate ones, I’m afraid, but the arrowroot are very nice.’

  He accepted her offer, hoping the sweetness of the biscuit would remove the horror of the tea. It was dry and cloying.

  ‘Did you hit one of the pillars when you drove in?’ asked the third Merfield, her eyes bright and wide, her smiling mouth vivid with lipstick, ‘Only you should really be more careful. Those pillars are very old, you know. We don’t want them damaged.’

  ‘No, no, of course not…’ Hugh, thoroughly discomfited, started to stutter out his apologies.

  The Misses Merfield said nothing, but sat and watched him. His voice trailed away and there was silence. In desperation he took another gulp of tea. He decided to launch straight to the point, ‘Er…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lester?’ Mrs Merfield, cool, collected. ‘What can we do for you?’

  * * *

  Alison took the call from the bank. She had been in her bedroom, at her desk in the window overlooking the yard, wrestling with a knotty equation. But her mind was not on her maths, and her eyes kept wandering off the page to the distant view of the woods, and her thoughts drifted into dreamy recollections of the previous afternoon.

  Al had taken her down to the Dorset coast, near Durdle Dor, somewhere she had never been before. Once they had left the car park, they had climbed a stile and clambered up a steep green slope and then she saw it in the distance, sparkling to infinity – the sea. The smooth green folds of the downs, which broke off dramatically high above the water, were so different from the limited exposure to the seaside she’d had with her mother, that at the edge of the cliff she could only stand and stare, amazed and exhilarated. They had scrambled down a precipitous path to a tiny rocky cove; Al had taken her hand to help her down, and then hadn’t let go…

  Then the phone rang. She knew her mother was outside wrestling with some weeds and wouldn’t hear, Elsie, as a matter of principle, never answered the phone, and both her brothers were out on the farm, so she had jumped up and rushed down to the hall to answer it. As she sped down the stairs, an illogical voice at the back of her brain teased her with the fantasy that it might be Al…that he’d got her number, somehow, and was phoning to say… But it was the bank manager, wanting to speak to Charlie, as a matter of urgency.

  Alison tried Charlie’s mobile, but with no success, which didn’t surprise her. He was in the middle of harvesting and would have turned his phone off. She sighed, and abandoning her maths and her daydreams, grabbed her old bike fr
om a shed in the yard and cycled up the track in search of her eldest brother. The dust raised by the bike settled on her arms and legs and the afternoon sun was strong on her back. It was with some relief that she reached the road, which was shaded by an avenue of horse chestnuts. She thought that Charlie was probably harvesting in the fields at the far end of the valley, so she turned down Weasel Lane in search of him. The lane was very old and narrow, with the occasional passing place, and with high banks on either side on which grew wild honeysuckle, white bryony, dusky pink foxgloves, bright yellow toadflax, straggling purple vetch and frothy, creamy-white hedge parsley. At times, the banks of flowers were replaced by an overreaching arch of trees, of sycamore and rowan, oak and hazel, forming a cool green tunnel through which she sped. She passed a big bramble bush growing down the bank which made her think, with guilt, of the blackberries she still had not picked for her Gran, and then she spotted the combine harvester in the middle of a half-cut field, a tractor and trailer trundling along by its side.

  Charlie was not best pleased to get the bank’s message. ‘Don’t they know I’m in the middle of harvest? What do they bloody want?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say. Just that you were to phone them, pronto.’

  She lingered, as Charlie made the call, and Lenny, never sorry to seize the opportunity of a break from work, climbed down from the cab of his tractor to greet her.

  ‘Hi Ali. Who’s the boyfriend, then, eh? Didn’t think bikers was your sort?’

  Alison wasn’t ready to share yesterday with anyone at the moment, least of all Lenny Spinks.

  ‘They’re not, and he’s not. I went out with a friend.’

  Lenny was distracted from further teasing by a groan from Charlie as he finished his call, his face a picture of gloom.

  ‘What’s up, mate?’

  ‘Never rains, but it pours: first Gran, and now the bloody bank. Want to see me tomorrow, bugger the weather, bugger the harvest. They want to discuss the overdraft. “What’s to discuss?”I say. “It’s time to discuss how we might reduce it,” he says, all prissy. Bloodsuckers! It’s all very well you griping on about not having had fifty quid this month, Ali. Where am I going to find the necessary to get the bank off our backs? Fancy tellin’ Gran I’m gonna be up shit creek without a paddle and the last thing I want to do is saddle myself with a wife?’