‘A lot. We own most of the land around here. If there’s going to be an illegal rave on our land, I want to know about it. Is this why Lenny has been too busy to see Hugh this week? We know he has a history with things illicit; is he involved in setting up this rave?’
Paula flushed, and said nothing.
‘Oh dear Paula, I do wish you’d be open with me. I’m going to have to call the police and have them question Lenny…’
Paula was alarmed. ‘Why, what’s he done? He ain’t up to anythin’ illegal…’
‘I don’t know that,’ continued Veronica, thoroughly enjoying her victim’s discomfort, ‘but if the rave is being held on our land, then it is illegal…’
‘Well it ain’t,’ muttered Paula.
‘Ah, then you do know where it’s being held?’
‘Not exactly… I know it’s not on your land, though, and I promised Lenny I wouldn’t talk about it…’
‘Which suggests to me it’s something the police would be interested in… If it’s not our land, whose land is it on, Paula?’
Paula shrugged, but did not reply, her face mirroring the level of resentment she felt.
But going for the kill, Veronica had not quite finished. ‘Lenny works mainly for the Tuckers, doesn’t he? And they’re desperate for cash. Charlie Tucker is every bit as shifty as your husband, I hear… Is the rave going to be on their land, Paula?’
Paula would not be drawn, but from the expression on her face, Veronica knew that she was right.
* * *
Alison was all of a twitch, as Jenny put it, on Friday morning. The precious ticket in her possession, she had phoned round her friends, and there had been an excited discussion about the event; what they were going to wear; where they would meet beforehand; and whose house they would pretend to be staying overnight at, to fob off any anxious parent.
In addition, Al was due back on Friday. She had arranged to meet him outside the village shop at 7 o’clock, and she was counting the minutes. Then she received a text message:
‘V. L8. CU 9 Luv AL’
The postponement of their meeting, by a couple of hours, had a dampening effect on her spirits, which wasn’t helped by the trouble she and her brothers were having trying to work out how to get Jenny and Gran out of the way until the rave was well underway.
They had met in the dairy, where Stephen was finishing cleaning up after the morning’s milking.
‘Gran’s not such a problem,’ said Alison. ‘After all, she goes out every Saturday afternoon as it is. If we can persuade her that there’s gonna be no one here in the evening, then maybe she’ll stay out with her friends a bit longer…’
‘But Mum’ll be here, and we can’t keep her locked in the house. One whiff of this…’ Stephen groaned. ‘Any ideas, Charlie?’
Charlie was feeling battered, both physically and mentally. He had grabbed a quick break from working on the site where he had been since dawn to try and resolve this problem with the other two. ‘Dunno. Ali’s right though, if none of us is here, Gran wouldn’t hurry back. Though Christ knows what she gets up to in Bath. Probably makes her money running a brothel!’
‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said Alison decisively. ‘Stephen, you’ve gotta take Mum out for the day?’
‘Me?’ Stephen was alarmed. ‘Why me?’
‘Cos you’re her favourite, that’s why, and she’d think it very odd if Charlie suggested it, and I can’t drive. So it’s gotta be you.’
‘What about my cows? Where would I take her?’
‘The last bit is easy, Stephen, use your brains – Weston-Super-Mare. It’s bank-holiday weekend, so there should be lots going on and hopefully you’ll be caught up in bank-holiday traffic on your way home.’
Charlie managed a tired grin. ‘Ali, you’re a genius. Do the milking in the morning, Steve, and Ali and I will do the evening shift.’
But Stephen looked far from happy. ‘How on earth am I gonna ask her? Supposin’ she says no?’
But both Charlie and Ali brushed his doubts aside.
Alison had wondered, in the face of their newfound camaraderie, about telling her brothers about the Lesters. But she had promised Simon she would say nothing, and if they really did make all this money from the rave, then the Lesters’ moves would be blocked, at least for the time being.
She thought a lot about Simon. She knew so little about him and she couldn’t fathom why he should show such an interest in her, or in her family. She trusted him, though. He had made no sexual overtures to her at all, which had been her first dread. And he made her laugh. She wondered, not for the first time, what Al would make of Simon and her friendship with him, and what Simon would make of Al.
The day passed slowly and Alison was periodically assailed by stabs of anxiety. Al had not been in touch, so she had no idea how his time with her-in-Wrexham had gone. He’d been there three nights. If he was going to split up with her, he was taking his time over it. Alison’s fertile imagination, running the gauntlet of a three-day scenario featuring Al and the lovely Rachel – she had become a willowy, sophisticated, blond intellectual in this scenario – found it hard to make the ending a happy one.
She collected Paula’s helmet late afternoon. Paula looked more fed up than usual after a session at the Lesters, and barely smiled at Alison, but upon being pressed, would say no more than how much she hated the ‘Queen Bitch’.
Having changed her clothes, her earrings and her makeup twenty times over, Alison was finally ready and it was time to walk to the village shop at last. Her stomach was knotted with nerves, and as she reached the brow of the bridge, she nervously scanned the street in front of her. There, in the dusk, she could see the shape of the bike and a tall figure straddling it, waiting for her.
Motionless, astride his bike, he waited for her to draw close, saying nothing. His face was cast in shadow; his eyes glinted at her in the dusk. His presence was so physical, she could feel her throat tightening and her breath came and went in nervous little gasps. He barely greeted her and she, aching for a deep, significant kiss, made a flippant reply.
As the bike sped through the country lanes, her arms round his waist and her head resting on his back, disappointment at the coolness of their greeting set a few tears to trickle down her cheeks and spin into the night air.
They stopped at a small pub, and finding their way into the dark and empty garden, sat at a ramshackle picnic table. By the time he returned with their beer, she had decided she couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer. As he put the glasses on the table and made to climb onto the bench next to her, she started to speak, just as he started to say something to her.
They both stopped and then laughed, self-consciously.
‘You first,’ he said.
‘No, you,’ she replied. ‘You’re the one with things to tell. What happened?’
‘In a minute, but first I want to…’
And taking Alison by surprise, he put his hand out and turned her face to meet his, bent forward and kissed her. At first it was a light, exploratory kiss, but the frustration, fears and longing of the last few days, worked on them both: tentative kissing gave way to a hungry, passionate embrace.
They were rudely and forcibly interrupted by the rickety table, which overbalanced and hurled them to the ground. The glasses on the table flew into the air showering them both with beer.
Alison lay on her back, giggling helplessly, Al on top of her, the table looming over them. He started to lick her face. ‘Pity to waste good beer,’ he murmured, then kissed her again and again, till her body was on fire.
The shifting of their bodies released the table and it crashed back to its former position, jolting them violently. Al paused, and looking down at Alison, said, soberly, ‘OK, it’s time for talking.’
They perched side by side on the table, their feet on the bench, Al pu
t his arm around Alison’s shoulder and she snuggled up to him, knowing that whatever had happened in Wrexham, the last five minutes had been magic and that she could swear he fancied her as much as she did him.
‘So, tell me. What have you decided to do about me? About Rachel?’
He took his time to reply, choosing his words with care. ‘I could have rung Rachel, or texted her, or written a letter, but I liked her too much for that, Ali. We had a good thing going at uni, and to be honest, I didn’t know whether what I felt about you was enough to make me want to finish with her.’
Alison held her breath, her insides turning to water. The last thing she wanted to hear was that their relationship was not going anywhere. And was she was wrong? Kissing like that meant nothing?
‘We’d planned for me to go over to hers anyway, before I went off to France, and I thought if I saw her, I would know more clearly how I felt about her, and about you.’
‘And?’
‘She’s nice, Ali, really bright and funny. I like her a lot. But I realised I didn’t want to kiss her the way I want to kiss you, and the whole time we were together, I found I was thinking of you, your green eyes and hair like silk; your oddness, your fierceness, and the way you laugh.’
Alison found breathing less painful. ‘So what did you say to her? You were there for three days...’
‘No, I left after the first night. I got there so late, we had supper with her parents and then I went to bed. She said, the next morning, that that was when she knew something was up.’
‘How?’
‘Because I didn’t go to her room.’
‘You were…you were sleeping together?’ A spasm of jealousy – or was it envy, she wondered – resulted in the question coming out as little more than a whisper.
‘Yes, which was why I owed it to her, to me, to go and see her.’
‘Did you tell her about me?’
‘As much as I could, which wasn’t a lot. I couldn’t even tell her your name, Ali. Ali what?’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘She asked if you and I’d slept together, and when I said “no”, she asked if I intended to.’
‘And do you?’ Why was her voice so shaky? It was what she had wanted, after all…
‘It’s not just my decision, is it? The thing is Ali, I don’t know where we go from here. I’m off on Monday for three weeks, back here for two, then off up north. Is this just going to be a quick fling? Shall we just make the most of the moment and draw a line? Shall we end it right here, because I can’t make any commitments to you?’
She groaned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were back two days ago? There is so little time.’
‘My parents weren’t expecting me until today. I went to see a couple of mates in Lancaster. I needed to clear my head.’
They sat staring out into the darkness of the garden. The bushes rustled with a slight breeze; the air was sweet with the smells of cut grass and honeysuckle; a solitary street-lamp cast shafts of orange light across the grass, picking out abandoned glasses, ashtrays and crisp packets; an owl called and was answered.
‘So what do you want to do, Ali? Stop it here, now, before we go any further?’
‘I so don’t want to. But I don’t want… Oh Al, I don’t know, I don’t know… Kiss me again, please!’
And he had.
When he dropped her off at the village shop, he had looked at her intently and had said, low and soft, ‘I would like to have sex with you, Ali. Very much.’
* * *
Stephen had not gone to the rehearsal the previous night, in spite of the fact that disaster had been temporarily averted. He had been through so much emotionally, touching rock-bottom on more than one occasion, that he felt drained and not at all up to dealing with The Players. So he had held his breath and phoned Mrs Pagett. Fortunately for his resolve, her answer-phone was on, so he left her the briefest of excuses. She had phoned to speak to him that morning, but Jenny took the call and Stephen sent a message ‘that he was busy and would call her back’. He hadn’t done so.
In the evening, Stephen was in the sitting room, watching a reality game show on the television with his mother. They were by themselves, as Alison was out, as was Charlie, and Elsie eschewing ‘such rubbish’ had taken herself off upstairs. The sitting room was Stephen’s favourite room. It was panelled in dark wood; old tapestry curtains, the lining in shreds, hung at the windows. The carpet was threadbare and the yawning fireplace smelled of old stone and wood ash. The furniture in the room was as shabby as the rest of the house and the large sofa, on which Stephen sprawled, was a lumpy mixture of sag and broken spring. Jenny sat in an old Queen Anne chair, a small table at her side, on which sat her knitting basket. As they watched the television, she was carefully unravelling an old jumper, so, when the telephone rang, she expected Stephen to jump up and answer it.
Stephen looked uncomfortable. ‘Mum – you answer it. It might be Mrs Pagett again and I really don’t won’t to talk to her – not now.’
Sighing at this strange state of affairs, Jenny put her wool down and went to answer the phone. One hand over the receiver, she hissed, ‘It’s Angela…shall I tell her you’re not here?’
Relieved that it wasn’t June Pagett again, Stephen took the receiver from his mother. ‘Hi, Angela…’
‘Stephen, hello. Are you all right…?’ Angela sounded out of breath.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Oh, that’s good…only…you didn’t come to the rehearsal last night…’
‘No.’
Angela paused, waiting for Stephen to explain. He didn’t.
‘Oh…er…it shook everyone up, you not being there…’
‘Did it?’
‘Yes.’ Angela continued, cautiously, sounding disconcerted by this ungiving brevity of Stephen’s. ‘Mrs Pagett got into a right tizz and kept on shakin’ her head and demandin’ to know why you weren’t there, and did anyone know if you was ill.’
Stephen digested this with a certain amount of pleasure. ‘Did Nicola say anything?’
‘Not really. She was a bit quiet, though, and when I was packing up she asked if I’d seen you. I told her I hadn’t since the last rehearsal. Is…everything all right, Stephen?’
Stephen was touched; she sounded so anxious. ‘Yes, I’m fine, Angela. I went through a bad patch, but for the moment, things are sortin’ themselves out.’
‘Will you be there on Sunday?’
‘Who read Snuff ?’
‘I did, in between prompting and things.’
‘And settin’ up and striking, and makin’ the tea?’
‘Yes.’ Angela was obviously puzzled at the turn the conversation was taking.
‘Hmm… Mrs Pagett needs to cast Snuff. I’m really busy this weekend, Angela, and I might not get to the rehearsal on Sunday. It depends…’
‘Oh, right…’ Angela was clearly deflated by his stand, and Stephen was moved; she’d always been there for him. Whatever issue he had with The Merlin Players, it had nothing to do with Angela. ‘Listen Angela, I’ve bin’ goin’ through some of the rare breeds stuff you’ve got for me. I reckon we should take a trip out and go to some of these places…’
After he had hung up and resumed his place on the sofa, Stephen was thoughtful. So they’d all fussed about him not being there, but apart from one call from Mrs P, Angela was the only one to take the trouble to phone. Most significantly, Nicola hadn’t rung.
At heart, Stephen was a humble person; he hadn’t expected his non-appearance to cause much of a stir, nor had he expected many concerned calls, but after his conversation with Angela, something like steel entered his soul, and the phrase ‘taken for granted’ flickered through his brain. ‘What I’d like to do’, thought Stephen, in this unaccustomed frame of mind, ‘is not to go on Sunday, and persuade Angela not to go, as well. That’d show ’em.’
He had no intention of giving up entirely on the Merlin Players, but he had been badly upset by Nicola and he couldn’t help feeling that her dalliance with him had been for some other reason that had nothing to do with him at all. He had adored her for so long and had been so overwhelmed at being kissed by her, he had suppressed his common sense and allowed himself to become an object of ridicule. He blushed hotly when he thought of showing her around the farm and trying to hold her hand. He should have remembered what Angela had said: ‘If she doesn’t want to hold your hand, then she just wants to be friends…’ Huh, some friend.
Unlike Angela.
* * *
The rest of the family had been in their beds for some considerable time when Charlie let himself into the farm kitchen, in the early hours of the morning. They had worked without a break, well on into the night, and he was exhausted, and very hungry. His mother had left him out a plate of food and he lifted the cover to discover mashed potato, sausages and baked beans. She had once given him instructions, as he was often late in for supper, about how to re-heat his food between two plates, over a pan of boiling water, but he couldn’t be bothered, so he sat at the kitchen table and ate his six-hour-cold supper.
He was not feeling very cheerful. Charlie was a spontaneous, impulsive person, full of energy, who would cheerfully discard, without much regret, ideas, schemes, and even people, if they didn’t work out. He didn’t often think long-term about anything. But, maybe because he was as tired as he was, the events of the last two weeks had finally got under his skin and it was in a very depressed frame of mind that he sat and ate.
He still shivered when he thought of the awful shock he’d got when Sarah had suggested marriage. And then there was Tricia – what a bad joke! He fingered one of his sideburns, thoughtfully. If Gran had wanted to really punish him she couldn’t have thought of a more effective way of doing it… And what on earth had happened to Beth? The only way he had been able to disentangle himself from the appalling Trish had been to leave the pub, so he had not had the chance to question Linda further about that little mystery. He was disappointed, there was no denying it. He had set great store on impressing Beth with a ticket for the disco, and had planned, that during the course of the night, their relationship would be well and truly launched. Fat chance of that happening now!
A Tangled Summer Page 26
