A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  He remembered her when she was a girl of eighteen. He’d envied his friend, Jim. Jenny was blond and slim, with soft blue-green eyes and the shyest of manners. But she was his best friend’s girl, and even after both their spouses were dead, he still thought of Jenny as that. She certainly wasn’t slim any more, or very blond, come to that, but when he found himself in bed with her last Saturday night, a passion that he had been suppressing, unawares, for years, welled over.

  He couldn’t wait to share his bed with her again.

  * * *

  Alison peered through the cottage window into the sitting room. She was puzzled. Simon hadn’t answered the doorbell, but she could see a light was on inside, and she could make out Duchess lying on the floor, her head on her paws, next to an armchair. Simon wouldn’t have gone out without Duchess. The dog, sensing the presence of someone at the window, lifted her head and looked in Alison’s direction, revealing, as she did so, a pair of feet. Simon was in – then why hadn’t he answered the door?

  Alison went back and tried the bell again. Again, no response. Remembering how still those feet were, and how mournful Duchess looked, Alison became anxious. She tried the handle and the door opened. She went in. Through the open kitchen door, she could see a large can of dog meat on the table, the can opener stuck in it as if the opening of it had been interrupted. Post, largely circulars, was scattered on the table and floor, and next to the dog food was an empty bottle of whisky.

  She turned into the sitting room and became aware of the mournful sounds of The Ascent to the Scaffold and the bleeping of Simon’s answer-phone. Duchess’s tail started to thump, but she didn’t get up to greet Alison and as she neared the occupant of the armchair, Alison had almost convinced herself she would find a corpse.

  He was lying stretched out, unshaven, very pale, eyes shut. A strong, acrid smell assailed Alison’s nostrils and resting on the floor, held loosely in an inert hand, was a half-full bottle of whisky.

  ‘Simon?’ She touched his arm, gently. His eyes flew open. They were red-rimmed and puffy. ‘He’s been crying,’ she thought to herself, shocked.

  ‘Ali?’ His voice was thick and unsteady. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I brought your jumper back. You lent it to me last night. I rang at the door, but you didn’t answer. Then when I saw Duchess in here, I became worried. Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right, what do you mean?’ He struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much and he fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘Why are you drinking whisky?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ He opened his eyes again. ‘It’s a good drink, Ali.’ He waved the bottle at her. ‘Have some, I can recommend it. It’s a good an…ana…asthet…it’s a good painkiller.’

  ‘No, thanks, not right now. Are you in pain, Simon? Why are you drinking it? I noticed there’s an empty bottle in the kitchen. Have you drunk that much today? You’ll kill yourself.’

  ‘So much the better. Make everything a lot easier.’

  Alison crouched by his side. ‘What’s wrong, Simon? Please tell me.’

  He turned to look at her, blearily. For a moment his drunkenness seemed to lift and he said, softly and sadly, ‘Go home Alison, go home, there’s a good girl. You can’t help me. I need to be alone. Go home, please.’

  She hesitated. His request was direct and unequivocal.

  ‘No,’ she stood up and looked down at him. ‘I won’t. I’m not leaving you like this. For one thing, I don’t know how long you’ve been drinking, but it doesn’t look as if poor old Duchess has been fed.’

  She turned and went to the kitchen. There was a sound behind her. Still clutching his bottle, Simon had staggered to the doorway. ‘Alison,’ he began, desperately, ‘Alison, I don’t want…’ But before he could tell her what he didn’t want, his knees buckled and he passed out.

  Simon was too tall and heavy for Alison to get upstairs, so she dragged him to the sofa and improvised a bed for him there. She sponged his face and body and provided him with a bucket when he recovered consciousness and started to vomit. Finally he fell into a deep sleep. Keeping one eye on him, Alison started to clean up.

  The telephone rang and not wanting Simon’s sleep to be broken, Alison sprang to answer it. It was Marcus.

  ‘Thank God, you’re there, Alison. Is he all right?’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve never seen anyone so drunk. He’s been terribly sick, but he’s fast asleep now. I’m not sure what else I should do.’

  ‘Stay with him, Alison, for as long as you can. When he wakes up, give him plenty of fluids to drink. I’ll be down as soon as I can get away, but it’ll be later on this evening, I’ve got a production meeting.’

  ‘What’s it all about Marcus? What’s wrong?’

  ‘He hasn’t told you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Helen?’

  ‘His wife? I’d thought they’d separated, divorce pending…’

  ‘Yep, but the tragic thing for Simon was that not only did he adore Helen, but before everything blew up in his face, she had become pregnant. He was so excited about the baby. He rushed around, buying things for the nursery, read whatever literature he could get hold of, framed the first pictures of the foetus…’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘A couple of months ago she broke down and said she couldn’t go through the rest of her pregnancy living a lie. She was having an affair with someone, and the baby, she said, was his.’

  ‘Marcus! That is the worst… Oh, poor Simon!’

  ‘Yeah, horrible, isn’t it? She left Simon and went off to live with this chap. We’ve all been waiting for Helen to give birth, and for proof, once and for all, that the baby is not Simon’s. He, poor fellow, left London ’cos he couldn’t bear the strain.’

  ‘And now she’s had the baby?’

  ‘Right. Helen told Sue, my partner, she had written to Simon to tell him. He would’ve got the letter this morning.’

  Sitting by the sofa, looking down at the face of her sleeping friend, Alison wanted to weep for him. ‘Poor, poor Simon,’ she whispered. It put her heartache over Al in a different light.

  21

  The church clock was striking five as Stephen, swinging Angela’s hand in his, walked away from the manor. Tea with the Merfields had not been nearly as bad as he’d feared, and the reason for that, he’d concluded, was the presence of Angela. Timid herself, she had made him feel bold and protective. The Merfield women had been kind to her and her ease made him feel easy.

  He laughed out loud. ‘Old Hugh Lester would be as sick as a dog if he knew that it was because of him Mrs Merfield has given us tenure of the land. And for the next eight years, Ange, at a peppercorn rent!’

  ‘It wasn’t because of him,’ protested Angela. ‘It was because you went to their rescue and made nothing of all your hard work and bravery.’

  Stephen wasn’t sure where the bravery fitted in, but he glowed. ‘No, but it helped that she’s still cross with him for not phoning back and not sending any men. Things might have

  been different, Ange, if he’d answered the phone and said, “You’re in trouble, Mrs Merfield? No problem, I’ll come over right away”.’

  ‘But he didn’t, because that’s not the sort of person he is. Mrs Merfield has the measure of him, and of you. You’ve only got what you deserve.’

  He looked down at her and stopped. ‘I don’t deserve you, Ange,’ he said shyly. ‘How you’ve put up with me all these years… I didn’t realise what a treasure I had under my nose all the time – kept on looking for the end of the rainbow somewhere else.’

  Angela was so happy, great tears welled up in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. Stephen was alarmed. ‘Ange, Ange, don’t cry. What have I said?’

  Angela took out her handkerchief, dabbed at her glasses, then realising wh
at she was doing, giggled, took them off and wiped her eyes. ‘It’s just that I feel so happy, Stephen.’

  And to the amazement and very great excitement of Rita Godwin, outside whose shop they had stopped, Stephen, undeterred by inexperience or self doubt, and without any hesitation, took Angela in his arms and kissed her. Perhaps it was because they were both so untried and innocent, but it worked, for both of them, and it was some time later that, with regret, Stephen broke off.

  ‘We’ve got to hurry, Ange, if I’m to get the cows in and milked, and we’re to eat before the rehearsal tonight.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  * * *

  Mournfully, Alison considered the black-fringed eyes of the pink crash helmet staring back at her from the corner of her room. ‘I suppose’ she reflected, ‘I’d better take you back. I won’t be needing you again!’

  She was tired. Marcus had arrived late the previous night and had given her a lift home. Simon had woken once, smiled at her and gone straight back to sleep, but looking a lot healthier. She had let herself in to a silent house, had gone to bed and grieved for Simon, and for herself.

  There had been no further messages from Al. Not that she expected any. She hadn’t responded to his text and now he was away with his mates, putting her out of his mind. Still, she wanted some news of him. It was this unacknowledged need that led her to think of returning the crash helmet to Paula. Paula, working as she did for the Lesters, might be able to throw some light on Al’s relationship with his parents, might even have news of him.

  So she decided she would go over to the Spinks’ after supper, when there was a greater chance of Lenny not being there.

  Supper at Marsh Farm was a quiet affair, Elsie having gone off to Bath, Lenny out somewhere and Stephen and Angela at their rehearsal. Jenny seemed as preoccupied with her thoughts as Alison, so conversation was desultory. Alison asked her mother if she’d enjoyed herself at Uncle Jeff’s over the weekend, but as she was concentrating on how to leave her cauliflower cheese (which was more cauliflower, with a lumpy grey sauce) without hurting her mother’s feelings, she didn’t notice the blush of colour that came to Jenny’s cheeks.

  The telephone rang and as Jenny went to answer it Alison leapt to her feet and, disposing of the contents of her plate, shouted to her mother that she was going over to Paula’s.

  To her relief, there was no sign of Lenny. ‘He’s gone off to the pub with Charlie,’ Paula said, cheerfully, turning the volume of the television down a fraction. ‘He’ll be back later, drunk as a skunk, demanding a pizza. Sit down, Ali. ’Ave a cup of tea. Shove that helmet on the shelf over there. You don’t need it any more?’

  ‘No,’ Alison’s mind went a complete blank. How on earth could she ask about Al and his parents without coming straight out with it? Paula, returning with two mugs of tea, came to her rescue.

  ‘That was a real shiner your boyfriend gave old Lester the other day!’ Paula chuckled at the memory, as she collapsed on the old sofa and swung her legs up, tossing an action man and a plastic tractor onto the floor as she did so.

  Alison stared, ‘What?’

  ‘You ’aven’t heard? He hasn’t told you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘But didn’t Charlie tell you? He knows. Lenny told him. I’d ’ave thought he’d ’ave told you. You mean he hasn’t told you about their row – a real corker it was – and all that stuff about Mrs Lester screwing the bank manager so he could put the screws on you, so to speak?’

  This was so unexpected, Alison’s excitement grew and she could feel her heart thumping. She wanted Paula to tell her everything, straightaway, but Paula was scatty and Alison knew that if she fired questions at Paula, something important might get overlooked. So, slowly, patiently, Alison teased out a more or less accurate account of the fight between Al and his parents on Sunday afternoon. ‘And the man from the bank was called Gordon? You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yeah. Ask Lenny, he heard it too.’

  ‘But no surname, no Gordon something?’

  The frustrated film starlet, dormant in Paula’s psyche, rose to the occasion. ‘No, Ali. They were making such a racket. She was shrieking, he was bellowin’, but I could hear Anthony, cold as ice. “Gordon?” he said. “Gordon. The bank manager you’ve had sex with?” That’s when Hughie rushed up the stairs to hit him and Anthony laid him out cold.’

  ‘And then he left?’

  ‘It was straight out of the movies. He opened the door, it was bloody chucking it down, and he turned and told them they was poison and how they ‘d ruined his life and they’d never see him again. And then he vanished.’

  Alison wanted both to weep and cheer.

  ‘He didn’t say anything else?’

  ‘No. Just told ’em to go and boil their heads in hell. Brilliant!’

  Her heart so full, her mind racing, Alison wanted, needed, to follow every last little detail of Al’s movements. ‘Then you heard his bike?’

  ‘Yes, roaring off, into the distance. And then, nothing…’ Paula’s voice dropped dramatically.

  ‘Has there been any word of him since?’

  ‘No.’ Paula was back to earth with a bump. ‘They treat me like dirt, Ali. I went to work Monday morning, as usual. House was locked up – Chubb locked, so I couldn’t get in. And not a word. No explanation. Nothing. Same thing this morning. I tell you, I’ve had my fill of them, and after I heard what they were on about with you lot, I told Lenny: “Lenny, I said, I’m not workin’ for them any more. They’re fuckin’ evil’.’’ She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘I wonder why Charlie didn’t tell you any of this.’

  As Alison raced over to Simon’s cottage, the same question jostled in her thoughts together with a tortured condemnation of herself. She had been so unfair. If she had stopped to think, to remember, Al himself had told her about his relationship with his parents. She went over and over all the conversations they’d had together, all the things he had let slip about his home life. ‘He said he’d planned to go to Durham and not come back,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He said he had as little to do with his parents as he could…’

  She should have listened to what he was saying, she thought bitterly. He obviously disliked his parents, and she’d accused him of being like them, of conspiring with them, of planning to strip her of her virginity…as if she hadn’t got any say in the matter! She blushed, and in the darkness outside Simon’s cottage cried bitter tears of recrimination. It was some minutes before, sniffing deeply and wiping her face, she could ring on his bell.

  Any embarrassment that Simon might have felt on seeing Alison vanished as, at the sight of him, she collapsed, weeping desperately, in his arms. He led her into his sitting room, sat her down and gently questioned her. Through hiccups and tears, she told him of Al and everything that had passed, including how she had nearly made love to him; and then of Paula’s revelations including Gordon somebody at the bank. Simon sat her on his lap, and rocked her in his arms, kissed her head, and wiped her tears, until she finally stopped crying.

  He’d lit a fire against the damp of the early autumnal chill, and for a while they sat there, Alison sniffing occasionally, watching the flames flickering in the hearth.

  ‘Alison,’ his voice was quiet, ‘you’re the best sort of sister a man could have. Thank you for looking after me last night. I don’t remember much, but Marcus told me what you did.’ He stroked her hair. ‘And thank you for sharing this with me. I can’t make any promises about your Al, but he sounds OK and while there’s hope… Have you tried to text him?’

  ‘No.’ Alison sniffed.

  ‘Well, listen, I’ll go and make us a cup of hot chocolate while you do that.’ He nudged her off his lap and started towards the kitchen. ‘Oh,’ he turned, ‘and as for Gordon, I’ve a good idea who this Gordon might be. Veronica Lester likes to wear the colours of her conquests for all
to see. She introduced me to a Gordon, the last time we played tennis.’

  * * *

  Stephen and Angela arrived ahead of the rest of the Merlin Players, and were busy setting the stage when the actors started drifting in. Their presence was greeted with pleasure and some relief. ‘Thank God, you’re both here.’ There was a note of reproof in Gerald O’ Donovan’s voice. ‘It was chaos on Sunday. Mrs P really had her knickers in a twist.’

  If Mrs Pagett was relieved to see them, she didn’t show it. ‘The one thing I expect of my stage-management team is reliability,’ she said coldly. ‘Sunday’s rehearsal was very difficult, very difficult indeed. If you’re not going to turn up, I would appreciate a phone call, at the very least.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Stephen did not sound in the least sorry. ‘We had a bit of an emergency.’

  ‘We had to go and rescue Stephen’s cows.’

  ‘The river was in flood…’

  ‘The poor things were marooned…’

  ‘Too frightened to move…’

  ‘So we had to wade into the water ourselves…’

  ‘Took some budging, they did…’

  ‘But they finally moved. One knocked me over and Stephen rescued me…

  ‘She was very brave, not everyone would have helped the way she did…’

  Someone giggled. June Pagett was slightly mollified. ‘Well, well, as it was an emergency, I can understand. But please, don’t let it happen again. We’ve got very little time to get this play off the ground.’ She raised her voice. ‘Quiet, everybody. May I have your attention, please! Thank you. Now, we’re going to have a run-through this evening. You should all be off your books; Angela will prompt. Stephen, when it comes to it, will you read Scrub?’

  ‘No.’

  June Pagett stopped in mid-flow, startled, and turned to stare at him, her face turning slightly pink. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said no, Mrs Pagett. I volunteered my services as a stage-manager. That is what I do, stage-manage. I do not act. You must find someone else to read Scrub.’