A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  Harriet was satisfied. She was thinking rapidly. If she consigned Summerstoke Stud to the rubbish bin, she would have to find something else. ‘Country Homes and Gardens is an up-market mag. One that reflects the desirable side of living in the country,’ she began slowly. ‘Occasionally we do before-and-after features, but the property has to be worth it. What’s the house like? Most farmhouses are a ghastly disappointment, in my experience.’

  Simon shrugged his shoulders, indifferently, ‘As far as I can tell it’s Georgian. On three floors, with one of those shell canopies over the front door – far too grand for the likes of the Tuckers, the family in question – and very shabby. They’ve let it go. The kitchen’s a shambles. Large, of course, but with peeling paint, and linoleum-covered flagstones. It could be a lovely place, but would take a helluva lot to do it up.’ He grinned at Harriet, ‘Not your sort of place, at all.’

  Harriet turned to Marcus, ‘Thinking on my feet, is there any mileage in thinking of a collaboration?’

  ‘What sort of collaboration?’

  ‘I need a series – this could make a good one. From the moment your camera goes in – house, garden, desperate, shabby – I write about what you show – pick out the decent features, advise what can be done – monitor the transformation. Then, if they do go to the wall, we could get the house sold at auction – make a nice little finale to my series and yours, I’d have thought. Anyway, I’ll give you a call, I’m sure there’s a whole lot more we could feature…’

  ‘They’re thinking of starting a rare breed collection,’ Simon chipped in.

  ‘Better and better.’ Harriet was starting to feel tingly, the way she used to in the early days of her career, when a scoop was at her fingertips. It was very difficult to have a scoop in the world of houses and gardens. She raised her glass to these delicious and stimulating young men. ‘This is a very nice Sauvignon. I think we should have another bottle, don’t you?’

  * * *

  ‘I think she bought it,’ said Marcus, watching the taxi carrying Harriet Flood drive off.

  ‘She bought it. Thanks, Marcus. In fact you were so convincing, I started to believe that you actually had such a series.’

  Marcus laughed. ‘I almost convinced myself. You know, it’s not such a bad idea. We’re assembling our pitch for the next round of offers at the moment. Maybe I should think of submitting it for discussion at the company’s next meeting…’

  ‘Anyway, thanks.’

  ‘I enjoyed myself. What a revolting woman. Now, Simon, like it or not, you owe me an explanation.’ He firmly steered Simon round the corner, through the portals of The Groucho; ordered a pot of coffee and two large brandies; then sat back in his armchair and lit a slim cigar. ‘So, what was that all about?’

  Briefly, Simon sketched for him the story of Alison and her family and of the threat they faced from the Lesters.

  ‘I still don’t get it, old man. What’s it got to do with you? So it’s a shame that this nice-but-hopeless family is going to be driven off their farm, but it’s an all-too-familiar story. You can’t, single-handedly, ride like a white knight to the rescue. And why should you want to? There’s no sex interest, is there?’

  ‘No. Alison has indicated I’m far too old for her.’ Simon swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘Thing is, Marcus, I left London ’cos I couldn’t hack the tension any longer.’

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marcus made to speak but Simon interrupted him, ‘And dealing with my friends’ sympathy is one of the hardest things to bear and until…until everything is sorted, it gets worse. I can hear it on the tips of everyone’s tongues: ‘Have you heard anything definite, yet? You never know…’ Well I do know, but until I hear finally from Helen, everyone insists on being relentlessly optimistic… So I followed work down to the West Country and just as I thought I would have the screaming hab-jabs living in the country, this…this dryad falls into the river and stops me from drowning in my own self-pity. Call it a displacement activity, call it occupational therapy, call it what you like… but they’re nice people and if I can stop one rotten thing happening to them, then I will.’

  Marcus was watching his friend’s face closely. When Simon had finished speaking, he said softly, ‘Hey, Simon, welcome back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been half-alive since Helen dropped her little bombshell. For a moment, just then, you looked more like your old self. They must have something, these Tuckers.’

  Simon smiled faintly. ‘The ones I’ve met are very decent. The granny sounds wonderful – I’m planning, on Alison’s advice, to seduce her with the biggest, gooey chocolate cake Valerie’s can supply; and Charlie, the oldest brother, sounds like an aspiring Pa Larkin.’

  ‘HE Bates?’

  ‘That’s it. In fact the whole set-up, along with Gran’s ultimatum that the boys find themselves wives or she’ll cut them out of her will, is like an old-fashioned TV sit com. Trouble is, unlike the Larkins, they live in the real world.’

  ‘Simon, I’ve had an idea!’ Marcus sat upright in his chair, his eyes glinting with excitement. ‘It could be just what I’m after. May I pay your ‘Larkin’ family a visit? ASAP?’

  * * *

  ‘Have fun at your party tonight, dear,’ Elsie kissed Alison goodbye. ‘And don’t do anything you’ll be ashamed of later. It’s never worth it.’

  ‘No, Gran, I won’t. Have a nice time with your friends. Bye. See you tomorrow.’

  Watching Elsie drive off to Bath, Alison wondered, in the light of the advice she had just given her, whether her grandmother had any inkling of what was going through her mind. Ever since Al’s return the night before, she had been struggling to unscramble her brain and think clearly about her next move.

  ‘So where do I go from here?’ she thought to herself for the hundredth time, mooching back to the house, which suddenly seemed very empty.

  She hadn’t told Al she was a virgin and she didn’t know when or where the consummation of their relationship would take place. Tonight? And then he was off? ‘Wham, bam and thank you Ma’am!’ she muttered with disgust. That was not how she envisaged it at all. But if he suggested it, would she say no? Could she? And would she tell him she’d never done it before? And how would he react to that? Run a mile?

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if I did say no. He’d respect that, particularly as he’s off the next day and, as he says, we don’t know where things are going; with time and distance so much against us… Better to wait till things are clearer. After all, what do I know about him? Sweet FA! And what does he know about me? Ditto!’

  But the one thing Alison did know was, that unlike anyone she had gone out with before, her body and mind melted under his touch, and that, more than anything, she wanted him to make love to her.

  17

  There had scarcely been a drop of rain the whole of August, for which Charlie, squeezing in a second cut of grass for silage and harvesting his barley, was very grateful, but the ground was hard and parched, and opening the gate for the cows, Charlie shook his head at the poverty of the pasture. Stephen had been moaning for days they needed rain, but Charlie, caught up with the fortunes of the event, hadn’t sympathised. Dark glasses had confessed to Charlie that as far as he was concerned the only thing that could go wrong would be rain, and on site today, looking up at the clear blue sky and blazing sun, he gleefully predicted record numbers.

  It was now nearly seven, and as if affected by the heat, the cows had taken their time strolling back to the meadow. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Charlie cursed. He was running late and he wanted time to change into party gear and to dowse himself in a new aftershave that guaranteed his irresistibility to women, before he was needed back on site. It seemed as hot now as it was at midday, although the sky, Charlie noted, was covered with a milky film. The last lethargic beast had just ambled through the gate when
his mobile rang.

  ‘Charlie? How are the cows? Finished the milking all right? Did you check the water temperature?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, Steve. I’m just closing the gate on the old ladies now. Christ, they took their time getting here.’

  ‘They don’t like it this hot. But at least they’ve got access to the river in that field. Well, since you asked, we’re stuck in a lovely traffic jam.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, all in a good cause. You are going straight to Summerbridge, aren’t you?’

  ‘If we ever get there.’

  ‘Listen Stevie, I’ve had an idea – why don’t you ask Jeff if Mum can stay the night, at his?’

  There was a silence at Stephen’s end of the phone, followed by a desperate, disbelieving ‘What?’

  Patiently, Charlie spelt out what he saw as an inspirational solution. ‘Ask Jeff if he’ll put Mum up for the night. Then there’s no way she’ll find out.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘You’ll think of something. Don’t hang around so she can get a lift back with you, mind… I know, point out to Jeff that if she stays, he’ll be able to put away a bellyful. It’s Saturday night, after all. If he has to take Mum home, he won’t be able to drink.’

  * * *

  At about the same time in the evening as Charlie was talking to Stephen, a large black stallion, trotting down a tiny country lane, was reined in to a standstill. ‘Bingo,’ drawled Hugh Lester. He stood up in the stirrups to get a better view of the site. He was impressed. ‘The boys in blue are going to love this!’

  It had taken him some time to find. It was two miles or more down Weasel Lane. The site had been well chosen. A bend in the river and a convenient line of trees screened it from the sight of Summerstoke, or any houses on the other side of the river, and on this side, the fields were bordered by an almost vertical hillside covered with hornbeam, birch and hazel, and thorny, inaccessible, undergrowth.

  ‘Quite an operation, Hugh murmured. ‘Tucker must be making a tidy sum out of that. Well, well, boy,’ he caressed the neck of his black stallion, ‘we’ll just have to make sure it’s a night they won’t forget, eh?’

  The stallion’s ears flicked in response.

  With great satisfaction, Hugh looked around him. ‘Black Jake, between you and me, it’s in the bag. After tonight’s little operation, it shouldn’t be too long before these fields will be full of your chums…’

  * * *

  ‘There he is!’ Beaming, Jenny waved across the crowded pub at Jeff chatting to a group of friends. He waved back, broke off and pushed through the crowd to greet them.

  ‘Here you are, at last. I was beginning to think you’d miss the first set. Had a good day? Hello Steve, Angela.’

  He took Jenny’s arm and guided her across to his group of friends. Stephen and Angela were introduced and Stephen was quite taken aback by the warmth with which Jeff’s friends greeted Jenny. It was clear that he was not going to be needed to stay and look after her.

  Jeff pushed a pint into his hand. ‘Going to stay for this set, Stephen? Good little group.’

  ‘Er, no…I…er…’ Angela was at his elbow, sipping a pineapple juice. He took a decisive plunge. ‘I thought I’d take Angela out for a bite. We went to a rare breeds farm – she did all the leg work, so I thought…it’d…be nice…’

  Angela looked up at him, her face suffused with pleasure. Stephen looked at her with some surprise. For that moment, he thought, she didn’t look plain at all. Maybe that was the trouble – she didn’t have much to make her happy.

  Jeff had lost interest. ‘OK, fine. Don’t worry about your Mum. I’ll see her home.’

  Stephen remembered Charlie’s request, closed his eyes and took the plunge. ‘Er…don’t want to ruin your evening, Jeff…you won’t be able to…you know…drink much…Saturday night…seems a pity…can’t you…you know… er…’ Totally ineffectual, his voice tailed away.

  ‘Don’t worry, Stephen. I’m used to restricting my drink – on call often enough, after all. Leave Jenny to me. It’ll be a pleasure…’

  Stephen floundered. ‘No, no, what I mean is…’ He had known Jeff all his life and had known nothing but kindness and support from him. He took a deep breath, dropped his voice and whispered in Jeff’s ear, ‘The thing is, Uncle Jeff, it’d be better if Mum didn’t go home tonight, so if you could…like…put her up for the night…’

  It was the rare use of the infantile epithet as much as the extraordinary proposal that caused the smile to vanish from Jeff’s face. He stared for a moment at Stephen’s red and sweaty face, guileless and concerned, then took him by the elbow and whispered back, ‘See you in the Gents, in five minutes.’

  Having taken the decision to come clean to Jeff, it didn’t take long, in the privacy of the Gents, for Stephen to put him fully in the picture. ‘The thing is,’ he said, finally, ‘We need this money, like, right now. If I’m to keep the dairy going, if we are to get the bank off our backs for another month, we need it. But Mum is so dead against the whole idea of raves, she’d be really upset, and I don’t want her to be.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ Jeff thought for a moment. ‘Well, thanks for trusting me, Stephen. I can’t say it’s a form of farming I understand, or approve of, but if it gets you out of a hole… I don’t promise anything, but I’ll suggest to your mum that I’ve got a very nice little guest room, with a bed ready-made… But if she says no, then I’ll make sure she gets home, whether I drive her or not. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Jeff. Thanks, thanks very much…’

  ‘One other thing, Stephen. This rave – is it legal?’

  It was not a question that had occurred to Stephen and he was, for a moment, totally confused. ‘Legal? Why shouldn’t it be? Charlie never said…I assumed…do you think it might be…bloomin’ heck, Jeff, what if it’s not?’

  Jeff patted him on the shoulder, ‘It’s obviously too late to go into those sorts of niceties, but I think I’ll persuade Jenny to take advantage of my spare room. You take that little Angela out and try and forget all about it. But I will say this, Stephen, if you’re going to try and make a serious go of Marsh Farm as a legitimate business, this racketeering of Charlie’ s has got to stop.’

  * * *

  ‘Wow!’ ‘Hey! Wicked!’ Hannah and Alison had just clambered out of the battered old van Nick had borrowed from his dad and were staring, with increasing excitement, at the transformation of the field.

  From the improvised car park, they could see across the hedge into the adjacent field. Three large marquees, more like inflated canopies than tents, sat like alien spaceships, side by side. Illuminated from within, they emitted a glow that throbbed, rhythmically, to the music, spilling out across the fields, light and sound reflecting off the dark hillside behind. Laser beams danced across the site and raced into the evening sky, which was competing with its own colourful display. The sun was just below the horizon, and the sky to the west was an intense red and gold, but the last of the blue sky, above, was almost drained of colour, and a strange dirty yellow cloud was creeping across, followed by an inky, black curtain, drawing in from the east.

  Alison stared at the sky and for a moment she felt uneasy. But the music was already loud and insistent, the car park was filling rapidly, and somewhere by the entrance, Al would be waiting for her.

  ‘Come on Ali, what are you waiting for? You look great. Let’s go find Al…’

  Alison had gone over to Hannah’s after she and Charlie had finished the milking. The girls were going to be picked up by Nick shortly before nine, so they had a glorious couple of hours, swapping clothes, makeup and gossip. Alison had known Hannah since they were in junior school together. As an only child, Hannah’s parents indulged had her, and Alison had benefited from a continuous flow of unwanted clothes. Hannah was smaller than Alison, dark-haired, with big brown eyes; quit
e plump and full of fun, and brimming with self-confidence. Her face was carefully smothered with pounds of foundation, her bulging mid-riff was displayed without dismay, and she chattered and laughed with the greatest good humour.

  Hannah’s bedroom was completely different from Alison’s ordered one. Chaos reigned, every available wall space was plastered with pouting, posturing posters of her favourite musicians and movie stars; the mirror on her dressing table was liberally smothered with photos of Nick, and on the dressing table itself, tubes of foundation cream without caps, tubs of moisturiser without lids, lipsticks without tops, eyeliner, mascara and eye makeup of every hue mingled in one glorious muddle; one drawer hung open and contained myriad earrings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches entangled with a variety of different coloured scarves and tights, camisoles and scraps of lingerie; the thickly carpeted floor was invisible under layers of discarded clothes, bags, trainers, sandals, books, DVDs and magazines. A ghetto blaster, balanced on the top of a television set, belted out Schizophrenic, Hannah’s favourite album of the moment, and the two girls, chatted, laughed and sang as they tried on clothes and swapped gossip. Alison was not as forthcoming about Al as Hannah would have liked, but then, she was used to her friend.

  At one point, however, looking into the mirror and concentrating on applying a lip liner, her eyes followed Alison, who was critically surveying her slight figure in a silky boob tube and dusky pink skirt, and casually she asked the question she’d been dying to put, all evening, ‘So are you going to make it tonight, Ali?’

  Alison went slightly pink and studied the pair of high-heeled sandals Hannah had suggested she wear. They were purple satin, the toes were long and pointed – not at all what she was used to – and decorated with a gold rosette. A bit over the top, possibly? Al had never seen her in anything but jeans and T shirts. What on earth would he make of her dolled up like this?

  She mulled over her reply to Hannah’s question. She had told Hannah of her determination to lose her virginity when they had broken up for the summer, but they had not discussed it since.