A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  The alarm woke him.

  He decided that Nicola had given him an unequivocal message: she had kissed him, twice; she had leaned against his arm… If that was not her saying she liked him, then…

  But Stephen was so unversed in the ways of women. He had never had a girlfriend; had never undergone the cut and thrust of the flirtation game; had never had sex. Oh, he’d heard about it often enough from Charlie, who’d cheerfully shared the details of his sexual encounters ever since he had first got laid, at the age of fifteen, by Aggie Pruett, a cheerful twenty-year old doing a holiday job one summer at The Foresters’ Arms. But Aggie had long gone by the time Stephen was ready for the experience, and there was never anyone else available to oblige him; so taking himself in hand, sex for Stephen was a lonely, secretive affair.

  He decided the time had come to ask Nicola out – not in any bold way…perhaps, just to visit the farm, have tea…show her his cows, and the river, and…

  He washed with great thoroughness before Thursday night’s rehearsal, determined to remove any lingering whiff of farmyard. Patting his chin with some of Charlie’s aftershave, he anxiously scrutinised his face in the bathroom mirror. Yes, perhaps he was a bit on the plump side, but he had a good colour, his hair was thick and wavy – unlike Gerald O’ Donovan, who was getting a bit thin on top – and his Mum said he had lovely eyes. Could Nicola possibly fancy him? Not knowing who else to consult, he thought that, perhaps, before he took the plunge, he would ask Angela’s advice.

  Angela had spent the time since the last rehearsal scouring the internet for information about ostrich farms.

  She climbed into the cab of his Land Rover and beamed at him, triumphantly flapping a large envelope in her hand. ‘I’ve got lots of info, Stephen.’ He looked at her blankly, but not noticing, she enthused on, ‘It’s been terribly interesting finding out. There aren’t any ostrich farms nearby, I’m afraid, but there are about twenty in Britain and the nearest one is near Monmouth, as far as I can discover. It’s not so very far. We could go there, if you like, check it out?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, ostriches…er…’

  ‘And there’s lots about all the other sorts of animals that are bred now. Not necessarily farming them, of course, but keeping them as visitor attractions. There’s so much you could do, Stephen…’

  Stephen tried to match her enthusiasm, but was too distracted by the thought that he would soon be seeing Nicola and wondering where he would find the courage to ask her out. ‘Thanks Angela, that’s great. I’ll have a look, later. I’ve been reading this book on rare breeds… Ange, do you think I should ask Nicola out?’

  Angela gaped at him, temporarily bereft of speech, but not noticing, Stephen ploughed on, ‘Thing is, last Tuesday, she kissed me. Twice. On the cheek. It might mean nothing, of course, but if it doesn’t…mean nothing, I mean… I mean, I don’t want her to think I don’t care when I do, if you see what I mean.’

  Angela was silent and, glancing at her immobile profile, he carried on. ‘Thing is, Angela, you’re my best friend and you’re…a girl, too, so I thought you might know, and I know you wouldn’t let me make a fool of myself, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Angela in a small voice.

  ‘Well, what shall I do? What d’yer think?’

  ‘When did she kiss you?’

  ‘When I took her home; after the pub; when we got into the car, then again, just before she got out.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like’ – there was a slight edge to Angela’s voice – ‘“Thank you”; or, “that was nice, do it again”; or,’ she continued, rather cruelly, Stephen thought, “I love you”.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, rather huffily, ‘nothing like that. In fact, I don’t remember her saying anything except “You can drop me off here.” I’ve been wondering what to do ever since. I was wondering about inviting her over to the farm on Saturday.’

  Angela, who had hoped that she and Stephen might make a trip to Monmouth on Saturday, answered, sadly, ‘Yes, why don’t you. That’s not too pushy. Then you’ll be able to work out how she feels.’

  ‘How?’

  Angela was silent for a while, then turned to him with a bright, encouraging smile. ‘Well, if she says “no” you’ll know where you are; if she says “yes”, you’ll know at least she’s interested in you; then, if she says “yes” you can take her for a walk round the farm and hold her hand; if she won’t let you do that, you’ll know she likes you, but perhaps she doesn’t fancy you; if she does let you hold her hand, then you can try kissing her.’

  Stephen went bright red, and to their mutual relief, they arrived at the hall.

  He had nerved himself to speak to Nicola as soon as she arrived, but she was late, and by the time she walked in, the rehearsal was well under way and he had no opportunity to get her alone until they had finished.

  ‘Nicola,’ he croaked, as she was about to leave. She turned. He gulped, ‘Are…are you going for a drink, Nicola?’

  She smiled sweetly at him, ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, probably…’

  ‘I don’t think I will tonight. I drank too much last time and felt awful the whole of the next day.’

  ‘Oh, well...actually, I think I won’t tonight. Got a busy day tomorrow.’

  He knew he was flannelling. He had to ask her, now. Now! He was conscious that Angela was coming over to him and that everyone else was leaving. It had to be now… ‘Er…I was wonderin…’ Damn, he had dropped the end of the word… Ever since he’d joined the Merlin Players he had become conscious of his accent and had done his level best to speak RP when he was with them, ‘Wonder-ring… I was wondering, Nicola…’

  ‘Yes?’ She smiled at him patiently, waiting.

  ‘I was wonderin’ if you’d like to come out to the farm on Saturday,’ It came out in a rush.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, puzzled.

  For a moment, he was floored. This was not part of his script.

  He struggled on, ‘You’ve never been there, and it’s…it’s nice this time of year…and you could have some tea and meet my Mum. It don’t matter if you don’t want to. Really. It’s just that…I thought it’d be nice.’

  His voice trailed away and he desperately wished he were somewhere, anywhere, else.

  She looked at him coolly for a few seconds, a little frown creasing her brow. Then the frown cleared and, for a moment, he thought she was going to laugh. However, she smiled demurely, ‘That would be very nice, Stephen. This Saturday? Give me your number and I’ll ring you for directions.’

  * * *

  ‘What’s got into Stephen this morning?’ asked Alison, looking out of the kitchen window at her brother in the yard, having a mock tussle with Gip.

  ‘He seems horribly cheerful, considering we’re staring ruin in the face.’

  ‘Don’t say such things; you give me goose-bumps,’ tutted Jenny, trying to transform a lump of very hard margarine and some granulated sugar into a smooth paste, in a mixing bowl that kept sliding away from her under the pressure of her spoon. ‘I must say it does me the world of good to see him looking a bit more cheerful. And you, too, Ali, you’ve cheered up since you went off with your gran yesterday. I’m glad you’re friends again. I hate it when there is quarrelling in the family; you and your gran have always been close.’

  Elsie had taken Alison on one side the previous morning and very hesitantly, it seemed to Alison, asked for her help. Taken by surprise, Alison had forgotten to remain cross, ‘Of course Gran, what is it?’

  ‘It’s a little job I need to do, and you can help me. I’ll pay you for it, of course. A labourer is worthy of his hire. Bring that phone of yours and I’ll explain in the car.’

  ‘But my phone won’t be any use – it’s run out of credit. And where are we going?’

  ‘To Bath.
We’ll get the phone filled up, or whatever it is you have to do to it, when we get there.’

  In the car, a little red Rover 100 that Elsie had bought at a bargain price from a friend who had decided he was too old to drive, Elsie had explained to Alison that she had to collect some rent from an elderly tenant. Over time, unfortunately, his mental faculties had deteriorated to the extent that, occasionally, he didn’t know who she was, and had accused her trying to extort money from him.

  ‘The last collection day I called, he waved his fist at me; I was afraid he was going to hit me. So it seemed sensible, the next time the rent was due, to take someone with me for protection.’

  ‘Like a bodyguard, you mean? Gran, is this a good idea? Shouldn’t you get someone else to collect the rent? You’re really exposing yourself to trouble, you know. And wouldn’t it have been better to ask one of the boys, rather than me? No-one’s gonna be frightened of me.’

  ‘That’s the point. My tenants are also my friends. I don’t want to frighten them. He’s a poor old soul. With you there, I’m sure he won’t get violent, and introducing him to my granddaughter will probably help calm him down; perhaps he’ll remember who I am. If things go wrong, then you’ve got the phone. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen any use for them.’

  ‘You should get one, yourself, Gran.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl. I couldn’t see the numbers, let alone work out how to use the silly thing. Not a word about this to anyone, mind,’ she added, sharply. ‘ I don’t want your mother fussing every time I have to collect, and I don’t want your brothers trying to borrow money off me when I do.’

  After a few minutes, Elsie, having manoeuvred the car out of a country lane onto the main road that would take them directly to Bath, resumed the conversation in a slightly different tone. ‘Now, my girl, there’s one other thing we need to talk about before we go much further. We need to clear the air, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes Gran.’

  ‘So tell me, truthfully, how often do you sneak out at night like that? Where do you go? I’ve not told your mother – I think she’d have hysterics – but I’m not having you pull the wool over my eyes, is that clear?’

  Alison sighed, deeply. She had been expecting this. ‘It doesn’t happen often, Gran, honest. It’s just that most of my mates live in town and so they meet up all the time; they don’t have to worry about how they’ll get home. Summerstoke is miles from anywhere if you don’t drive. We’re not even on a bus route. So when we have a get-together, I’m picked up from the end of the drive and brought back again. That’s all.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to ask permission?’

  ‘Gran!’

  ‘Well, think about it Alison – supposing something happened to you and we thought you were safely in your bed… These days it’s just not safe for a young girl to be out on her own, in the early hours of the morning…’

  ‘I’m not, Gran, I told you – I’m with friends.’ A note of desperation entered Alison’s voice. ‘Look, I know you think I’m off out all the time and not doing any work, but that’s just not true. I hardly go out at all, and if I didn’t escape sometimes, I think I’d go stark staring mad! I’m the only one of all my friends who hasn’t been away. Do you realise, this is the first time I’ve gone out in the car this summer, apart from the odd trip to Summerbridge with Stephen?’

  Elsie harrumphed. ‘Very well, I’ll say nothing further, on condition, Alison Tucker, that the next time you go off to one of your parties, you go out of the door and return the same way, and you let me know. I won’t stop you, but I want to know. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Gran, thanks.’

  Stopping only to buy credit for Alison’s phone, they eventually arrived in front of a crescent of Georgian houses in a suburb of Bath, beside the river.

  The crescent was imposing; clearly the houses must have been very handsome in their day. One or two of the buildings, cleaned and restored, gleamed honey-gold; others, blackened and peeling, contributed to a pervasive air of depression. Windows were flung wide, and from within, the sounds of human activity drifted out. A group of children were playing with bikes and scooters on the green in front of the crescent. The ground was parched and cracked, the grass thin and patchy and spotted with litter. Iron railings, flanked with straggling buddleia and other tired shrubs, prevented any access to the riverbank.

  Alison stared up at the terrace. ‘Do you own one of these, Gran?’

  Elsie did not reply but climbed up the flagstone pavement, and stopped in front of a house, not as shabby as its neighbours, but from the state of the stained stonework, not recently restored either. Alison caught up with her just as she produced a key and opened the door, pressing one of a row of bells as she did so. Inside, the house was cool and sang with echoes. A stone staircase stretched up in front of them; on one side, a long, bare, corridor ran to the back of the building, providing access to two doors inset into the wall, a little way apart from each other, each with its own doormat.

  ‘There are two flats on every floor,’ explained Elsie as she started to climb the stairs. ‘There’s no lift, so it’s a bit of a climb. Mr Bates lives on the second floor.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Alison, puffing slightly from the steepness of the staircase. ‘You said he was quite elderly, Gran. How does he manage to get up and down these stairs every day?’

  ‘He manages. He’s used to it. There are lots of houses like this in Bath, many occupied by elderly people.’

  ‘How long have you had this house, Gran? Did you ever live here?’

  Elsie ignored her questions. ‘Here we are. Come along, Ali; stand close behind me. Got your phone ready? Good.’

  She pressed a doorbell. For a moment they stood there, waiting, listening. No sound.

  ‘Perhaps he’s out, Gran?’

  ‘He’s not out,’ replied Elsie, grimly. ‘He doesn’t go out much.’ She rang the bell again.

  Straining her ears, Alison could hear a faint shuffling on the other side of the door. ‘He’s coming!’ she whispered, suddenly nervous.

  There was the faint sound of scratching.

  ‘He’s looking at us through the spyhole,’ hissed Elsie, then tilting her head, shouted, ‘Mr Bates, it’s me, Elsie Tucker, your landlady. Open the door, please.’

  ‘Why should I?’ The voice was aged, querulous, suspicious. ‘I don’t know you. Bugger off!’

  ‘You do know me. You’ve known me for a long time. I’m Elsie Tucker. Open your door.’

  ‘You can’t make me. I know your game, so bloody well clear off out of it before I call the police.’

  ‘You can call the police, if you want to Mr Bates, and they will put you in prison for being a nuisance…’

  ‘Gran!’

  ‘Who’s that with you, who’ve you got there?’

  ‘My granddaughter, Alison, Mr Bates. I’ve shown you her photograph. You said you’d like to meet her one day. Well, open the door and you can.’

  Somewhat to Alison’s surprise, Elsie’s words seemed to have the desired effect. After a slight pause, there came the sound of a latch being lifted, a chain unhooked, and the door opened on a rotund, bald head with a pink, shiny face and round blue eyes, red and watery, but shrewd. He was a bent old man, and Alison, having no notion of age, thought he looked ancient.

  ‘My dear Mrs Tucker, how lovely to see you. Do come in. And is this little Alison? My, my, isn’t she a pretty thing? You must be very proud of her. Do come in.’

  Alison was spooked by his complete change of manner and would rather have stayed outside, but Elsie took her firmly by the arm and marched her into the flat.

  The very corpulent figure of Mr Bates led the way into a comfortable, overheated, old-fashioned little sitting room. A faded leather armchair stood by the window, a tidy pile of newspapers folded up on the parquet floor next to it; a large
Persian rug covered most of the floor, and next to the sofa, which was by the gas fire, was a small coffee table, bearing a fruit bowl containing one apple, one pear, and one banana.

  He was evidently a man of some education, for a large bookcase occupied the whole of one wall, the shelves of which were crammed full of books, principally hardbacks, including a whole section devoted to an author bearing the name of Ronald Bates, for he had been a prolific and popular writer of adventure stories for boys in the1950s. The prints, covering the walls of the little room, were the originals of the frontispieces to these books, depicting his boyish heroes in a variety of valiant or perilous situations.

  The whole episode, for Alison, took on a surreal air. Mr Bates gushed, simpered, and fluttered. He insisted on giving Alison a glass of lemon barley water, something she’d never had before in her life, and poured Elsie a glass of sherry; making them sit down while he looked for his rent book. He chatted the whole time, swooping in on Alison from time to time with: ‘The little granddaughter, well, well, well,’ and turning to Elsie with, ‘So like you, my dear Mrs Tucker, so like you.’

  Alison could have sworn that Elsie was enjoying herself, but she herself was completely on edge. ‘He’s absolutely nuts!’ she thought. ‘One minute completely abusive; now this!’ On balance, she preferred him abusive. She found this attentiveness really creepy, and watched him closely, in anticipation of the moment when his manner would change again, and he would lash out at her grandmother.

  It wasn’t until business concluded to Elsie’s satisfaction, and they were back in the car, that Alison relaxed.

  ‘Well,’ said Elsie brightly, ‘that wasn’t so bad after all, was it, dear? Thanks for coming with me. You made all the difference. Sweet as honey, once he knew who you were…’

  ‘It was horrible, Gran. He’s bonkers! You shouldn’t be going, alone, collecting money off people like that. He’s a psychopath! I know I should feel sorry for him, being old an’ all that, but suppose I hadn’t been there and he’d gone for you? Really, Gran, he shouldn’t be living alone there, like that. He should be in Care…’