A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  Alison stood in the middle of the track, weeping helplessly. She couldn’t think what to do. Simon had told her he was going to be out all day, so she couldn’t apply to him, and Gran? She’d no idea where Elsie had gone.

  She sunk down onto the grassy verge and put her head on her knees. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘somebody help, please!’ She couldn’t bear to think of Al lying in a hospital bed, badly injured… Supposing he died before she could get to him? The tears flowed fast and furious. Such was her state of misery, she didn’t hear a car approach down the track, and stop.

  ‘What’s all this about then, Ali?’ Elsie asked gently.

  On the way to Bath station, Elsie stopped and made Alison top up her mobile.

  ‘I want you to phone me the moment you get to Swindon. I’m going to give you enough money to take a taxi direct to the hospital. I don’t want you wanderin’ round, lost in a strange town. When you leave, you get a taxi back to the station and phone me, so I know what train you’re on. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes Gran… Gran, I don’t know how to thank you. I tried to catch up with Charlie, but…’ The mention of Charlie’s name brought back the whole horror of what she’d overheard and what he was planning. ‘Gran, Gran, you’ve got to stop him. He thinks he’s doing it for the best, for all of us, but he’s wrong…’

  ‘Who are we talking about now, child? For goodness sake, blow your nose. You don’t want your young man opening his eyes and seeing you looking like that, do you?’

  ‘It’s Charlie, Gran. I overheard him talking to an agent. He’s getting the farm valued. He’s gonna give a price to Hugh Lester…’

  ‘Is he now?’ said Elsie, grimly. ‘And how does he think he’s going to persuade me to agree to the sale?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s convinced himself it makes economic sense and that’ll convince you and Stephen…’

  ‘That boy’s always had his head somewhere else; always out for a quick buck, without thinking things through.’ Elsie shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, Ali. I know what to do... Now, I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I like your friend, Simon.’

  ‘And his friend, Marcus.’ Worried though she was, the fact that she was on her way to Al, and that Gran now knew everything, made her feel that life had stopped spinning out of control.

  ‘Yes. Marcus was very nice, too. A bit of a flirt, though. Now tell me about Simon…’

  And so the rest of the journey was spent with Alison filling Elsie in on the details of how she’d met him, how their friendship had grown and the terrible circumstance that had led to him coming to Summerstoke.

  ‘Poor young man,’ Elsie shook her head. ‘He’s going to have to be very strong not to be destroyed by such goings on. How sad, how very sad.’

  Having bought Alison’s ticket, Elsie kissed her goodbye. ‘One more thing, dear, I’m getting too old to drive back home and then back to Bath and then home again, all in one evening. I’ve got some business to sort out so I‘ll stay in Bath until I meet your train. You can contact me on this number.’ She handed Alison a slip of paper. ‘I’ll phone your Mother so she doesn’t worry.’

  But Jenny wasn’t in a frame of mind to worry. ‘Thank you, Elsie,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m off to the cinema with Jeff this evening, so I shall probably be home after you.’

  Elsie sniffed. ‘Seems to me, Jenny Tucker, you’re seeing rather a lot of Jeff Babbington!’

  * * *

  ‘Angela…’ Nicola, after a great deal of effort, it seemed to her, had finally tracked Angela down in a corner of the children’s section of Summerbridge public library. She had phoned the number given on the Merlin Players contact sheet a number of times. Finally it had been answered by an anonymous voice, identifying herself only as Angela’s landlady, who had told her that Angela could be found at the library. The library refused to call Angela to the phone, so Nicola was faced with either abandoning her quest or taking the trouble to go and confront Angela in person.

  Left to herself, Nicola would probably have shrugged her elegant shoulders and moved on. But last night, in the pub, she had spoken long and eloquently about the exploitation of women and how Stephen was going to take advantage of the innocent Angela, and it was up to them, to her, to prevent it from happening. To go back to the Players and say she couldn’t get hold of Angela on the phone would be too feeble for words. So, she had turned up at the library and had been pointed in the direction of children’s books.

  Angela, who had been in such a state of rapture since Stephen had proposed to her the night before that she could hardly think straight, was on her knees, ostensibly refilling the shelves. In fact she was reading The Northern Lights, an experience so thrilling she treated herself to five pages at a time whenever she could do so unobserved. When Nicola whispered her name, guiltily she snapped the book shut and looked up. Her eyes widened to see her rival, a vision of prettiness in a powder-blue linen dress with matching espadrilles, leaning over her.

  ‘Nicola. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Angela, we need to talk…’

  Angela was completely confused. ‘Why? What about? Are you having problems with Beaux Stratagem? Don’t say you can’t do it…’

  ‘No, no. It’s nothing to do with the play. It’s about Stephen.’

  An alarm bell went off in Angela’s brain. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Nicola.

  ‘What about Stephen?’

  ‘Can’t we go and talk somewhere else? Can you take a coffee break?

  Angela stared at Nicola. She looked uncomfortable and out of place.

  Angela did not feel inclined to set her at her ease. ‘No, sorry. I’ve had my break already. What do you want to say?’

  Nicola hesitated, then squatting down on her heels, by Angela’s side, she launched into her speech. ‘We couldn’t help noticing, last night, that you and Stephen…that you seemed to have…that you and he…seemed to have become an item…’

  ‘So what business of that is yours?’

  Nicola flushed. She had played this scene so many times in her head since last night, she had never envisaged any aggression or nastiness; rather a pitiful Angela, weeping with gratitude at having been rescued by her kind and beautiful ally. For a moment she looked at Angela with dislike. She really was a plain little thing. Her white cotton blouse and dark blue rayon skirt emphasised the scrawniness of her figure; her skin was mottled, the glasses completely distorted the shape of her face and the sandy hair, scraped back into some sort of pony tail, was wispy and dull. How could Stephen have turned from worshipping her to proposing to…to this? Perversely, Nicola felt mortified, and was ready to lash out.

  ‘Well, none, of course. But, Angela darling,’ she attempted to regain the high ground. ‘There’s something you need to know about Stephen. That is, if you don’t know already…’

  ‘I can’t imagine there’s anything else I need to know about Stephen. He tells me everything.’

  Poor Angela. Her blissful certainty was her undoing.

  Nicola pounced. ‘So he’s told you that unless he gets married within the year, his grandmother will disinherit him?’

  Angela’s eyes widened, her face went pink and her chin wobbled. Hiding her face from Nicola, she gave the pile of books waiting to be put back on the shelves her full attention.

  Nicola knew she was on firm ground. She laughed, attractively self-conscious, a laugh she had worked at. ‘The thing is, Angela, you must know that, until very recently, Stephen thought that I might…he was so in love with me…but…’ She shook her head, sympathetically and confided, ‘Poor fellow, I don’t know where he got the idea from that I might even be a little bit interested… I tried to let him down, as gently as I could, and then I found out about his grandmother’s ultimatum. He’s desperate, Angela. And when you came into the rehearsal last night, apparently so sorted…I just wondered if
he’d told you, that’s all.’

  Angela’s flush deepened. Anne of Green Gables was pushed back on the shelf alongside The Demon Headmaster, The Sheep Pig ended up upside down, its spine against the back of the bookcase, next to Under Sea, Under Stone… Nervously, she rubbed her chin. ‘So, when did Stephen tell you about…about his gran’s threat?’

  ‘I learned about it nearly two weeks ago now. He’s kept it pretty quiet. I’m not surprised. What a thing to have hanging over you. Anyway, Angela, I just wanted to know that you’re in the picture. It seemed such a dramatic changeover… First me, then you… Poor fellow, he really must be desperate…’

  * * *

  The train journey to Swindon seemed interminable. Alison mentally blessed her grandmother for having insisted that she should take a taxi to the hospital, as it turned out to be some distance from the station. The longer she travelled, the more her anxiety grew, and when she finally arrived at the hospital, she saw, with dismay that it was a vast, modern construction. It took some time for her to locate the ward where Al had been put. It was like a long wide corridor, divided on either side by a series of partitions, each section containing four beds, some curtained off. At one end was a larger sitting area where a number of patients and their visitors sat chatting or watching the television, at the other, a series of small rooms and offices. Alison wandered up and down with growing desperation. She couldn’t see Al anywhere. Finally, she found a nurse and asked after him.

  ‘Anthony Lester? Yes, he’s here. But I’m afraid he’s not well enough for visitors at the moment…’

  It had never occurred to Alison that having finally tracked Al down, she might not be allowed to see him. ‘Please,’ she said, trying to hold back her tears, ‘please let me see him. I won’t stay long, I promise.’

  ‘You really should’ve phoned before you set out. For the moment, his visitors should really be just close family members. I’m not sure that includes girlfriends.’

  ‘But I know he won’t see his parents. If he doesn’t want to see me, either, I promise I won’t make a fuss.’

  The nurse looked at her for a moment, then relented. ‘Very well, but you mustn’t stay long, and please, don’t get him over-excited about anything.’

  She led Alison to a more enclosed section, close to the nurses’ station, containing four beds, and pointed to one in the corner, half-concealed by a curtain. Alison, hardly breathing, walked softly over to where Al lay.

  One leg was suspended in a hoist, an arm was in plaster, and a long strip of tape stretched from his temple almost down to his ear, which, with his earring, gave him a piratical look. His face was very pale, smudged with bruising and grazes. His eyes were shut and his breathing was so light, for a moment Alison couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t dead. She knelt by his bed and touched his hand. It was warm.

  ‘Ali?’ His eyes were open and he was staring at her. ‘Ali?’

  23

  Alison leaned forward and gently placed a hand on his cheek.

  ‘Ali, I’m not dreaming am I? Tell me I’m not dreaming.’

  ‘You’re not dreaming Al. It’s really me. But Al… I’ll go if you want me to… I promised the nurse.’

  ‘Why should I want you to go? Ali, you’re the one person, the only person, I wanted. But I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’ His voice sank to a whisper and his eyes half-closed, but he seized the hand that caressed his cheek and held it so tightly, she couldn’t withdraw it, even if she’d wanted to.

  ‘Ali…’ He opened his eyes again and stared at her. ‘I don’t know whether I’m asleep or awake, half the time. It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is me, Al.’

  ‘Don’t leave, don’t go. I couldn’t bear it if you left again. ‘Go boil your head in hell,’ you said, and your face… I’ve never seen anyone so angry…’

  ‘Al,’ she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, ‘I was wrong, so wrong. I leapt to a conclusion and it was a totally wrong one. I should have trusted you, Al. I didn’t and I am so, so, sorry.’

  ‘No.’ He gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes, ‘I’m the one that’s sorry.’

  For a long while he lay there, his eyes shut, his hair dark against the pillow, his face so pale and drawn Alison thought he looked close to death, but his grip on her hand was strong. The nurse popped her head around the curtain.

  ‘Well, he looks a lot better, doesn’t he? You can stay a bit longer, dear, if you want. Don’t worry about him dropping off like that – he’s on morphine and it does have that effect.’

  The afternoon ticked slowly by. It was quiet by Al’s bed. The blue floral curtains occasionally rustled, lifting with a slight breeze from an open window on the other side of the room; in another bed, someone was snoring with a low adenoidal rattle; there was the occasional low murmur of conversation from the other occupants of the room, and beyond that, she could hear the distant sounds of hospital life: the squelching of shoes hurrying along the corridor; electronic beeps; the telephone that seemed to sound off every few minutes; voices raised, briefly, in protest; the faint whine and clunk of the lift. Somewhere a clock struck four. The tea trolley shuffled in and out. Alison’s stomach lurched, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she wouldn’t have changed her position, for anything.

  ‘Ali?’ he stirred, his eyes still shut. ‘Ali? I love you, Ali. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, Al.’ She was so overcome, she could hardly get the words out. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Good.’ A little smile flickered across his face, his eyes still closed, as if the effort of opening them was too much. ‘Even though I am a Lester?’

  ‘Al,’ Alison’s voice wobbled. ‘You’re nothing like your parents and I am so ashamed I could ever have thought you might have been.’ She paused, unused to talking in this way, suddenly feeling shy, then continued trying to be as light as she could. ‘It’s ’cos you got under my skin, Al. I was falling in love with you and I think that’s why I fired off the deep end the other night. It was all too important. When I thought you’d betrayed me, I hated you. But I don’t, I don’t… I realise that. And when I thought I’d lost you; when I couldn’t get hold of you, I thought I’d go mad…And then, when I heard about your accident… Oh Al, I love you, and I want you, I want you so much…more than anything.’

  At that he opened his eyes and gave her a lopsided grin, ‘Well, as to that, we might have to wait a while. But you can kiss me, if you like.’

  It was the sweetest kiss of her life.

  * * *

  After his fight with Alison, Charlie changed his mind about going to The Grapes. He had been unsettled by the confrontation and didn’t feel very sociable. Instead, he turned into Weasel Lane and headed back to the field where he had started ploughing the day before. He phoned Lenny and put off his promised pint until the evening, then, just as he had climbed into the tractor’s cab, his mobile rang. It was the long-awaited call from Hugh Lester.

  ‘What is it, Tucker. What do you want? I’m a busy man…’

  ‘So we all are, Mr Lester… And it’s not so much about what I want, but what you want. You want my farm…’

  There was a short silence from Hugh, before he replied, in a guarded way, ‘You know I do, Tucker. I’ve already made you two offers, which you’ve turned down.’

  ‘That’s because you offered stupid money, and I’m not a fool, Mr Lester. I just wanted to let you know that if you’re seriously interested, and I understand you are, then perhaps we should meet and have a little discussion.’

  A meeting was duly arranged for early the following evening. Hugh suggested Charlie go to Summerstoke House, but Charlie, feeling he had the upper hand, insisted that the meeting take place in the lounge bar of The Grapes.

  This was a development that should have pleased Charlie more than it actually did. He was worried. His fight with Alison that morning had been comp
letely unexpected and he suspected he hadn’t handled it well. She was bound to tell Stephen about the agent’s visit, and the prospect of having to face his brother’s anger, did not appeal to him. Stephen had always been a pushover in the past, but lately, he’d been much more difficult to handle, and Charlie blamed Elsie and her schemes.

  For the rest of the afternoon, he concentrated on the ploughing. The mist slowly lifted, and by the end of the afternoon a milky sun had pushed the temperature up and the weather had become warm and humid. Charlie stopped at the end of his last furrow, wiped the sweat off his brow and looked with satisfaction at the neat rows of turned, rich, brown earth already occupied by flocks of argumentative seagulls. ‘ Stephen might be the better farmer,’ he thought, ‘but he can’t turn furrows as well as I can.’ He glanced at his watch. Not quite six. Rather than go and face Alison and a potential show-down at the farm, he decided to hop into his van and throw himself on Linda’s mercy.

  She was just opening up when he got to The Grapes, and readily agreed to let him use her bathroom. ‘Actually, Charlie,’ she stopped him as he was climbing the narrow staircase that ran up from the bar to the living quarters above. ‘This would be a good time to do it. There’s nobody about and it won’t take long. Give me a shout when you’ve had your shower.’

  Charlie looked at her, uncertain. ‘Are you sure, Lin? Do you know what you’re doing?’

  Linda grinned. ‘Of course I’m sure. You’ll not regret it, I promise you. Don’t forget, I trained as a hairdresser before I married Stan.’

  A short while later, Charlie found himself sitting in a chair, a towel around his shoulders, with Linda attacking his hair with comb and scissors. It seemed to him she was cutting an awful lot off. ‘What am I going to look like?’ he wailed. ‘None of my friends will recognise me.’

  ‘You took the first step shaving off those whiskers. It looked ridiculous keeping your hair so long and slapped into place with all that Brylcreem – so old-fashioned, Charlie. I know you think you look odd, but that’s because you’re not used to it. One of my customers asked me who the dish was behind the bar, yesterday, and she wasn’t referring to the dish of the day!’