A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  When she re-entered the kitchen, Simon, casting a quick glance in her direction and sensing a mood change, stood up. ‘I really ought to go. Mrs Tucker. Thanks very much for inviting me. It’s years since I’ve had a tea like this. Stephen, I don’t know anything about farms or farming, but if I can help with business plans, tell my mate, Alison, here, and I’ll do what I can.’

  Alison, deep in her gloom, registered the implication of what Simon was saying. She warmed a little.

  Simon smiled round the table. ‘Bye, Jeff, nice to have met you. Bye Nicola. I look forward to seeing your ‘Dorinda’; perhaps I’ll be able to persuade Alison to take me… Ali, are you going to show me this little heifer of Stephen’s, before I have to go and sample the high life of Summerstoke? I’ve a strong feeling it’s not going to be nearly as much fun.’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time the last of the deliveries had been made and stashed in the field, neatly alongside the hedge, invisible from the road. A small caravan was installed next to the newly padlocked gate, again out of sight of the road. With the fencing that Charlie and Lenny had completed that morning, the field was secure and the man in dark glasses (anyone giving orders wore dark glasses, Charlie noticed) grunted his satisfaction before going off to give a last-minute briefing to the two men who were going to live in the caravan for the next week.

  ‘Care for a pint, mate?’ Charlie asked affably, when, business concluded, Dark Glasses rejoined them.

  ‘No thanks. Early start tomorrow.’ Watched by the two of them, he got into his car, started the engine, then wound down the smoked glass window. ‘Remember what I said. Not a word to anyone. Any publicity is bad publicity. If this gets out, the deal is off. Clear?’

  ‘As daylight,’ Charlie nodded, windows slid back up and the car slipped noiselessly down the lane and was out of sight in seconds. ‘I wonder how much he can see, wearing dark glasses and with a smoked windscreen…’ He turned to Lenny, ‘You heard what the man said, Lenny. Mum’s the word, eh? Time for a quick one?’

  Lenny, remembering a drunken conversation with Paula, felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Sorry mate, best get back or Paula’ll kill me.’

  Charlie decided to give The Grapes a miss until after he’d met Sarah and found out what she wanted, so he took off back to the farm to clean himself up. He turned in to the farm track and met a Golf convertible driven by a pretty brunette. As he reversed into a passing space, Charlie goggled and whistled to himself. ‘Blimey, if that’s Stevie’s crumpet…maybe Lenny has a point!’

  As the two cars crept past, he leaned out of the window, flashed her a smile and enquired, sociably, ‘You Stephen’s friend?’

  The girl looked at him coolly, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Sorry I missed tea then. I’m Charlie. His brother.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So they were all there then, all the family?’

  ‘There seemed to be a lot of them, certainly. Well nice meeting…’

  But Charlie hadn’t finished. Driven, possibly, by his humiliation of the night before, Lenny’s words, the thought of Sarah, or unnerved that Stephen could attract such a classy girl, a spirit of mischief entered his soul.

  ‘So you met our grandmother?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t there. Now if…’

  ‘No, thinking about it, she wouldn’t have been. She and Stephen had a bit of a ding-dong last Sunday. He was right pissed off. Still…’ he paused and looked at her meaningfully, ‘he’s a fast worker and no mistake. Didn’t think he had it in him…’

  Nicola was growing impatient. She’d had enough of Marsh Farm, and the Tuckers, and she didn’t like the way this man, with his lean brown face, mocking eyes, and ridiculous whiskers was looking at her. But she couldn’t get past until he’d moved his car forward. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I’m in a bit of a hurry and…’

  ‘So he didn’t tell you, then?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That his grandmother said he had to get married or she’d cut him out of her will. That was last Sunday and here you are, coming to tea the following Saturday. That’s what I mean. Fast worker!’

  ‘What?’ Nicola was aghast.

  ‘So he hadn’t told you. Well, maybe he had his reasons. Look, you better not say anything to him about our little chat. I don’t want to queer his pitch. I’m sure he’ll tell you, when the time is right…’

  He pulled his car over to allow her to get past, and chuckled as, grinding the gears, she accelerated up to the main road.

  * * *

  ‘Well, what did you think?’ Jenny had her hands in the washing up bowl and didn’t notice Jeff clearing the table and sweeping the remains of her cake into a rubbish bag.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of Stephen’s girl, Nicola. She was very pretty. How old do you think she is? Twenty-three, twenty-four?’

  ‘Oh, older than that. I thought she was OK, but Jenny,’ he tried to be tactful, ‘she didn’t pay much attention to Stephen, did she?’

  Jenny slowly turned to look at him, her hands dripping suds. ‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘I know you think I’m hopelessly stupid over the boys, but even I could see that she was, well, too pretty for Stephen. But she must see something in him, why else would she accept his invite?’

  ‘Lord only knows. I just think he’s out of his depth, old girl.’ He squeezed Jenny’s shoulder. ‘I liked Ali’s boyfriend, Simon. He’s a real find.’

  ‘Oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he? But...you don’t think he’s a bit old for her?’

  Before Jeff had had time to reply, they were interrupted by Alison’s return.

  ‘I was just telling your mother here, that I like your boyfriend, Ali…’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Alison almost snarled. ‘Are you talking about Simon? He’s not my boyfriend. For one thing he’s far too old. He’s just someone I met and we’ve become friends, and that’s all there is to it, for Chrissake!’ And she banged out of the room, almost knocking Stephen over.

  Stephen, in his overalls and on his way to do the evening milking, was miserable and confused. Miserable because he had failed all Angela’s tests; confused, because, as she left, Nicola had kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for a lovely afternoon and said she would see him on Sunday. And when he had asked her if she would come again, she had said, ‘Of course!’ He really didn’t know what to think, but, grasping straws, he was allowing that tiny glimmer of hope to light his way to the milking shed and inform his communion with the cows.

  As he crossed the yard, Charlie’s van screeched to a halt, but Stephen didn’t feel up to any more conversation and hurried on to collect his cows.

  Watching his dejected frame disappearing around the barn, Jenny sadly observed, ‘He’d be better off going with someone like little Angela, poor lamb.’

  ‘That little mouse! She’s got as much sex appeal as Gip’s blanket. No, Jenny, you’ve got to let him have a go. It might wake him up!’

  ‘I had such high hopes: Stephen bringing her, and Ali finding Simon. Seems we’re back where we started.’

  Jeff turned to see Jenny staring gloomily into the bin. ‘And my cake weren’t very nice, either, was it?’

  She looked so deflated, Jeff was moved to console her. ‘Cheer up, Jenny, I’m sure things will work out. Look, I normally go down to my local on Saturday night. There’s always a bit of live music. Why don’t you clear up here and we’ll pop down for a pie and a pint. What yer say?’

  12

  Right,’ snapped Veronica. ‘Everyone’s here –champagne cocktails for the next half hour and then we’ll go in to dinner. Don’t let the sauce boil; I’ll be back to cook the ravioli in twenty minutes. Have the plates ready, as I showed you. In the meantime, you can start tying up the beans into little parcels, and for heaven’s sake, Paula, try not to make a mess of them.’ She swep
t out of the kitchen in a scented waft, ignoring the face Paula pulled at her and the resentfully muttered, ‘What did yer last slave die of?’

  Vee crossed the hall, fluffed her hair and checked her makeup in a large oval, gilt-framed mirror hanging above an escritoire. She smoothed the irritating tic in the corner of her eye, an inevitable consequence of any conversation with Paula, checked her dress, a short, black, backless shift made from raw silk that had, inevitably, cost a small fortune, and schooled her countenance into a more agreeable expression with which to greet her guests. The sound of conversation, the clinking of glass and the loud braying laugh of the editor of a local newspaper – Vee always invited him when she wanted to impress – floated from the drawing room.

  She entered the room – a light, bright room, tastefully furnished, in her opinion, with wall-to-wall, pale gold carpeting complementing the even paler gold paint of the walls and the long white drapes with a gold leaf design that framed the windows. From these her guests could look down over the river valley, and they had all been thrown open to offset the warmth of the evening. A gentle breeze wafted the scent of the huge lilies displayed in the fireplace around the room. Smiling gaily, and taking a glass from Hugh, Vee went to join her guest of honour, Harriet Flood, who was standing in the bay of one window, talking to her son. Vee insisted that her two children join their guests for pre-dinner drinks as part of her effort to ‘introduce them to society’ as she put it…

  Cordelia, fifteen, loud and self-possessed, in spite of being short and inclined to pudginess and spots, needed no encouragement. She loved grown-up parties, and had smothered her acne in foundation, brushed her waist-length blond hair till it crackled with static, and was wearing a sleeveless, multi-coloured, chiffon blouse with a matching skirt that parted company every time she moved, revealing a comfortable little roll of flesh for a waistline. Vee could hear her loudly enthusing about her latest mount to Gavin Croucher, the ex Olympic show jumper and Isabelle Garnett, married to Richard Garnett – he of the braying laugh.

  Anthony, however, was the antithesis of his sister, and had refused to attend at first. It wasn’t until she had lost her temper, all cajoling having proved ineffective, that he had backed down. He stood, in a white shirt she’d pressed on him, and jeans, which he had insisted on wearing as a condition of his presence, a lanky, glowering, rebellious, mute, nineteen-year-old, on the edge of a small group that included Harriet Flood and Vee’s best chum, Marion Croucher, Gavin’s wife. Marion was an interior designer, short and plump, but very well-dressed, and Vee thought she would be a good conversational match for Harriet.

  At the sight of his mother, Anthony made his excuses to leave, much to the clear disappointment of Harriet Flood. ‘I’m so sorry you’re not joining us for dinner, Anthony. I’m sure your mother could squeeze you in. I’d love to have a chat about dear old Durham. I’m sure it’s changed a lot since I was there…’

  But, with a polite smile, he was gone. ‘I do so love young people,’ drawled Harriet. ‘They have such a refreshing attitude to life, don’t you think? He tells me he rides. He must look quite something on horseback. Don’t you agree that men on horses look really sexy? You will persuade Anthony to show me round the stables, tomorrow, Veronica, won’t you?’

  When Veronica Lester met Harriet Flood for the first time, that evening, she had found the County Homes and Gardens’ lead feature writer, disconcertingly intimidating – an unusual experience for Veronica. Harriet was in her early fifties, taller than Veronica, and she had shaken her hostess’s hand with a veiled air of contempt. She had malicious dark eyes, which flickered everywhere, registering, assessing, mocking, and Veronica, used to being in complete control of any situation, was unnerved by this. She had been very put out when, contrary to what had been arranged, Harriet had turned up only just before the other guests were due. Originally, she had planned to impress the writer with a tour of the house and gardens before the dinner party, but having met her, it was with some relief that she turned Harriet over to Hugh, and had made good her escape to the kitchen. So, if Harriet liked the look of Anthony, so much the better; Anthony could look after her tomorrow.

  ‘Of course, whatever you want,’ she said, smoothly, smothering the alarm bell that had sounded off somewhere in the brain where her maternal instincts were meant to lie. ‘And please, call me Vee. Now, have you met Richard Garnett? He’s our local newspaper man and a great friend, and Gavin Croucher, the Olympic show jumper. We’ve known him for years!’

  Vee loved dinner parties; loved showing off her prowess as cook and hostess; took pride in the selection of her guests and in keeping them stimulated; for her, a successful evening was measured by non-stop conversation and endless praise for her culinary achievements. Hugh was generous with the wine, and the loquacity of her guests this evening left nothing to be desired.

  Having sat her guests down at the long table in the elegant, high-ceilinged dining room that glowed with polished wood, sparkling crystal, silver candelabra and flickering candlelight, Vee served them first with crabmeat ravioli.

  (Paula had tasted a rejected misshapen one and had spat it out in disgust.)

  Then a champagne sorbet.

  (‘Give me Ben & Jerry’s any time – tasteless or what! What are they doin’ eatin’ ice cream in the middle of a meal?’)

  Paula was kept out of sight of the guests.

  Vee was clear that all credit for the seamless presentation of the feast was to be hers. So the dishes came and went amid satisfying little crows of delight and appreciation.

  She sat at one end of the table and glowed.

  Paula stood at the kitchen table, struggling to tie little parcels of fine beans with chives (‘What a bloody waste of time,’ she snorted, dropping a large portion on the floor, trying to tie them), that were to accompany the main course, duck, on a bed of Puy lentils, and glowered.

  * * *

  Charlie’s departure to meet Sarah was delayed by an unexpected telephone call.

  ‘Is that Charlie, Charlie Tucker?’

  It was a female voice, faintly familiar, Charlie thought.

  ‘Yeah, this is Charlie Tucker. What can I do fer you?’

  ‘It’s Tricia, Charlie, Tricia Stevens. You remember. We went out together when we was at school…’

  Charlie struggled to remember. He thought he recognised the name, but he couldn’t put a face to the voice. ‘Er…yeah… How are you doing, Trish? Long time no see…’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She paused slightly. ‘I’ve been away and now I’m back, I thought I’d look up me ol’ mates. I got yer number off of Skip. He said to give you a ring…’

  ‘Oh?’ A warning bell went off faintly in the back of Charlie’s brain.

  ‘Yeah. Look, I know yer busy with the farm an’ everythin’ – but d’ya fancy comin out for a drink, for ol’ times sake? It would be nice to meet up again, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Why not? Thing is, I’m a bit busy right this minute but give us your number, Tricia and I’ll give you a ring. Fix something up.’

  Tricia Stevens. No, it was no good. He couldn’t remember ever going out with a girl of that name. He supposed he might have snogged her; he’d snogged a lot of girls by the time he’d left school. Linda might know. He’d ask her.

  Sarah, who worked in a travel agency, lived in a small semi-detached, near the centre of Summerbridge, which she rented with two other girls. Charlie had toyed with taking her out for a pub meal somewhere in the country, but then changed his mind in favour of a Chinese in the town, on the grounds that service would be quick and it would enable him to get Sarah home and himself to The Grapes before closing time, and also that, if things turned nasty and she wanted to leave, she would be able to walk home, leaving him free to scoot off to the pub.

  What did she want to talk to him about? The question occupied his thoughts as he drove to Sarah’s place. ‘Pregnant?’ Ev
en the thought sent a cold shiver through him, but he thought it unlikely. She had told him she was on the pill and she wasn’t the sort of person to do the dirty… ‘Perhaps’, he thought, optimistically, ‘she’s found herself another fella. That would let me out, nice and dandy.’

  Sarah was ready when he arrived, and fell in with the idea of going for a Chinese meal. While she was studying the menu, he studied her, surreptitiously. She looked all right. She had her hair up, which looked nice, he thought, and that blue dress suited her; it was plain and straight and she certainly had the figure for it. For a moment, he felt regretful, but then a picture of Beth, laughing and teasing, flitted across his mind.

  They ordered the food.

  They chatted about work, the harvest, the weather, how they each were. Charlie was puzzled.

  The food was served. Charlie, trying to make his chopsticks work in a coordinated way, suddenly thought of a question he wanted to ask, himself. ‘Sarah? May I ask you something?’

  She looked up and smiled, anticipating. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be honest, now, what do you think of my sideburns?’

  She looked startled, ‘Er…they’re fine, Charlie…very distinctive. Why?’

  ‘Do you think I should shave them off?’

  She hesitated, ‘Um…if you want to, then, yes.’

  ‘But I don’t. I just wanted to know what you thought of them.’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Good. That’s all right, then.’

  Then Sarah looked up from her chow mein and regarded him seriously. ‘Charlie,’ she began, almost shyly, ‘I said on the phone that I wanted to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Talk away,’ he said, with a nonchalance he wasn’t feeling, ‘I’m listening.’