‘I’m having trouble believing all this,’ began Anna, confusion pulling her brows together. ‘I mean, this is Barnsley and I’m in a train station. And you say you’re Vladimir Darq and want to put me on the telly? I’m beginning to think I’m still on the floor passed out and this is a dream.’ Even more so because every time his lips parted, she saw a hint of fangs in his teeth-line.
‘What is your name, please?’
‘Anna. Anna Brightside.’
‘Then please, Anna Brightside, you think it over,’ he said. ‘Look me up on the worldwide web and see that I am in good faith.’ He leaned in extra close and said in a voice that brooked no debate, ‘We start filming on Saturday May ninth. You will do this with me.’
‘Oh will I?’ said Anna. Cocky git.
‘Yes, you will, and I will expect your call soon to confirm,’ said Vladimir Darq. ‘It is soarta – fate – that we have met. Soarta!’ And before Anna could say another word, he had stood, lifted up her hand, kissed the back of it, and clicked his heels together like Kaiser Wilhelm. Then he was gone in a swirl of black coat.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Anna. She couldn’t think of anything else to say that better fitted the moment.
Chapter 19
Calum had managed to surpass himself: he delivered a hat-trick. Dawn had come in from work to find that her two-pound coin pot had been raided and the Easter egg from Thornton’s she’d had iced with the words ‘Foxy Fiancé’ was half-eaten on the kitchen work surface. Calum had obviously found them both secreted at the bottom of the wardrobe. She felt more like crying at the desecration of the egg than at the missing money. Thank goodness she’d hidden her Grand National winnings a bit more securely, she thought. Then she found chocolatey fingerprints all over her veil in the carrier bag. She sat on the sofa fuming until he turned up pissed at half past ten. He laughed in that casual way he had, shrugging his shoulders as though totally baffled that she was making such a fuss about a few pounds that he’d borrowed, it wasn’t as if he’d stolen it – and a flaming egg that she’d bought for him anyway. She cried that he’d spoiled her surprise for him. Then he shouted back at her that she was a nag and he’d be better off back with his ex, Mandy Clamp, if this was how it was going to be. She screamed back that he was a selfish pig and he slapped her across the face because she was hysterical, he said. Then he went to bed and left her sobbing in the sitting room.
Grace woke up the next morning to the sound of heavy rain battering against the side of the walls of the tinny caravan in which she had just spent a cramped and uncomfortable night. She turned over to view the clock – ten past six – then she buried her head under the blanket on the narrowest bed she had ever had the misfortune to encounter and tried to get back into the dream she’d been having of swimming in the sea whilst a warm tropical rainstorm gently showered her from above. The bubbling rage inside her made that an impossibility. She struggled on, willing herself unsuccessfully into unconsciousness for another half an hour before getting up to make herself a cup of tea in a very poky kitchen area.
A picture of Gordon’s self-satisfied face as he turned off down the motorway the previous evening reared up in her head and flooded her whole being with expletive-flavoured feelings. She’d known instantly then that she was being kidnapped and forced somewhere she didn’t want to go. She would have put her life savings on it being Blegthorpe (a place-name which Gordon had been plopping into conversations for months) where she would be systematically tortured with tours of caravan sites. And boy, had she been right! Gordon had been very put out that she hadn’t been in the mood for cheery chat over a sandwich and tea as they pulled in for a toilet stop at the service station. He had packed a case for her. It contained a pair of old black trousers that she wore when she was cleaning, a blue skirt and a fawn top, three bras and one pair of knickers. He’d put in her hairbrush and a couple of towels, no make-up but three pairs of shoes. No nightdress, no tights.
She switched on the old portable television and twiddled about with the aerial on top until she found a watchable picture. At least the newsreaders’ voices covered the low burr of Gordon’s annoyingly contented snoring in the next bedroom. She was half-tempted to take the car keys and drive home. She wanted to spend Easter Saturday with Paul and watch Joe’s face light up at the sight of the giant WWE Easter egg she had found for him last week. She hated Gordon for this. What Gordon wanted, Gordon had to have, more so than ever recently since the words ‘caravan’ and ‘early retirement’ had started creeping into his sentences. Well, the time had surely come to make some sort of a stand against him. In fact, it was well overdue. She should have done it when he threw Paul out of their home and ignored her son’s protestations not to get herself involved.
She texted Paul to say that she couldn’t make tomorrow afternoon. Her battery went flat as soon as she had pressed send so she didn’t know if the message had gone through. The dead screen on her phone made Grace feel more isolated from the world than she could ever remember being before.
Dawn awoke at ten on the sofa, where she had sobbed herself to sleep the previous night, and drove over to Muriel’s house whilst Calum was still wrapped up in his quilt in bed, looking more as if he were hibernating than sleeping.
‘Hello, lovey, this is a nice surprise,’ said Muriel. Her soft voice made Dawn burst into tears and Muriel gathered her into her plump arms and, patting her back, led her across to the couch. She kicked off the greyhound that was dozing on it and pushed Dawn down onto the dog-furry cushion.
‘You and our Cal had a fight, have you?’ said Muriel.
Dawn nodded, unable to talk for all the tears clogging up her throat.
‘On account of him being given a final warning yesterday for lamping that bloke?’
Dawn looked up.
‘Oh, he hasn’t told you that bit yet then?’
Dawn’s face crumpled. Could this get any worse?
‘Not his fault. Our Calum said the bloke had a black eye coming for months.’
So Calum had told his mum about his warning, then went off to the pub and got drunk before coming home, thought Dawn. It wasn’t hard to see where she sat on his list of priorities.
‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ said Muriel. ‘His dad was just the same when he was younger. Feisty bugger Ron was, especially when he’d had a drink. Took him years to get his act together, but he did in the end. Look at him now, wouldn’t say boo to a bloody goose. You’ve just got to hang on in there, girl.’
‘He hit me across the face, Muriel,’ said Dawn.
‘You should have hit him back,’ said Muriel, amazed at her apparent stupidity. ‘He wouldn’t do it again so quick then, I can tell you.’ She laughed, then she took a close look at Dawn’s tear-stained face and her voice hardened.
‘He couldn’t have hit you that hard, there isn’t a mark on you. What did he hit you for anyway? You must have given him a reason.’
‘He said he’d be better off with Mandy Clamp.’
‘Well, he would say that if he was trying to get your back up in a row. You should have told him to bugger off and go to her then; I would have.’
Dawn wouldn’t though. Mandy Clamp was a big, nasty thorn in Dawn’s side. She and Calum had had an on/off relationship for years. Then, when Mandy dumped him for the last time, he’d taken up with Dawn in that fateful window of opportunity. Then Mandy decided she wanted him back and had chased him blatantly on several occasions. Dawn always took an obvious delight when Muriel said that none of them liked her very much. The Crookes were all deliciously bitchy about her wonky eye.
But, wonky eye or not, Calum might have visited Mandy, just to teach Dawn a hard lesson. And Mandy Clamp would have been happy to get one over on Dawn and open her door to Calum. And her legs.
‘He shouldn’t have hit me,’ wept Dawn.
‘You want to grow up, Dawn,’ said Muriel, a sudden sharp tone to her voice. ‘He’s told us that you nag him to death. Sooner or later a man will blow if you nag h
im like you do, we’ve all said as much.’
Dawn drew in a shock of breath. It had never crossed her mind that Calum had run to his family and moaned about her and then that the family had discussed her behind her back. What else had they said about her? It was obvious they would believe his side of things, but still, surely they didn’t think he was entirely blameless? She wanted to say that she didn’t nag and that asking him to put some money towards the wedding instead of spending it all across the bar wasn’t nagging, was it? And it wasn’t nagging to tell him off for raiding her savings bank. But, for the first time, she felt that Muriel wouldn’t listen to her counter-claims. A Crooke’s word to a fellow Crooke was gospel, it seemed. Even if one had gone so far as to slap one’s girlfriend in the process.
Dawn’s parents had been so easygoing, kind to each other, loving, respectful. Unlike some kids who went to sleep with a lullaby of their parents arguing, she had never heard them raise their voices to each other. She was sure they must have had their moments of disagreement, but she hadn’t witnessed them. She had had a sweet, gentle upbringing with a family who loved and laughed together and the pain that she felt at being left alone took her years to recover from, if she ever had. Then the Crookes had stormed into her life and like a dry sponge she had sucked them up like a pool of clear water. But their world was so very different from the one she had been used to. Screaming to get her point across had never been her way and sometimes mid-argument she didn’t feel like herself at all. She wondered if she would ever be able to adjust enough. She often hated that she had adjusted so much already.
Unlike Muriel though, she did accept that there were two sides to a story. Maybe she was coming across as a nag, even though she didn’t mean to. Maybe she did need to cut Calum some slack. The more she nagged, the more she would drive him away, maybe to his waiting munter of an ex. She didn’t want to fall out with Muriel on the point, so she conceded it for the sake of their continued harmony and said, ‘You’re probably right, Mu, I do nag a bit.’
‘Get yourself back home,’ said Muriel. ‘Go and make it up with him. You’re getting married in a few weeks. He’s a good lad, Calum. He just needs a bit of love and support, not someone on his back all the time and moaning about him going out. If you want a caged animal, love, buy a hamster.’
Calum was Muriel’s little blue-eyed boy. He could do no wrong. Dawn would do well to remember that.
Chapter 20
A few determined holiday-makers in cagoules were walking on the beach the next day, their umbrellas blowing inside-out; a full aerobic session’s worth of wrestling with them followed, turning them into the wind to reform them into umbrella shapes. Grace decided to throttle back her rising temper and play Gordon’s game. One, because she was too tired to resist him and two, because then she could at least say she had tried to like blustery, boring Blegthorpe but, surprisingly enough, had failed dismally.
So, while she should have been sharing tea and scones in the lovely Maltstone Garden Centre café with her son and the person he was keen for her to meet, she was taking refuge from a force eighteen gale in a basic, no frills dump, eating a sandwich made from tasteless cheese, cheap white bread, spread with even cheaper margarine and drinking tea from a mug that had a big chip knocked out of the rim. Gordon was tucking into a greasy fish the size of a small whale.
‘Can’t beat good old seaside fare,’ he said, hooking a fishbone out from in between his teeth. The café sign outside was blown into the window with a bang. ‘By, that’s a hell of a seabreeze,’ he chortled.
‘What time do you have to be at that caravan park?’ asked Grace. She took a sip of tea and hoped Paul had got her message and that he didn’t think anything was wrong because she hadn’t turned up to meet him.
‘Half an hour,’ said Gordon, checking his watch. ‘I’ve just time for a pudding. Want anything?’
I want to scream, thought Grace, but she answered tartly: ‘No thanks. I’ll pass.’
After he had eaten a monster-sized portion of treacle sponge and custard, they braved outside to find the wind had dropped and the sun was playing peek-a-boo behind very grumpy-looking clouds.
‘This will be bonny in the summer,’ said Gordon, zapping the car open. He whistled an annoying loop of ‘Oh I do like to be beside the seaside’ all the way to Bayview Caravan Site, three miles down the coast road.
They called in at the caravan reception office and a lady with a too-small suit straining over a very generous apple-shaped figure welcomed them warmly and led them over to caravan number one after a chirpy bit of sales banter. It had flower pots outside containing plastic plants and a staged barbecue next to the steps. Inside, Grace had to admit it was impressive. Twice as big as the one she had spent two uncomfortable nights in. Four rooms, three with double beds and built-in wardrobes, and a bathroom that a cat could have looked forward to a fair swinging in. It was very nice, just not her sort of thing at all. She was sick of camping and caravanning holidays, the only sort of ‘breaks’ Gordon acknowledged. She wanted a change, she wanted holidays where someone else was making her meals for her and there was guaranteed sunshine. She wanted to spend a week or two in a place where she could truly unwind instead of merely transferring domestic chores from one destination to another. Gordon might have had the chance to relax on the holidays, because he never lifted a finger while Grace cooked, cleaned, washed up and made the beds. Women’s work.
‘This is our new model, the “Monte Carlo”,’ said Small-Suit. ‘Twenty thousand pounds, but if you buy it this weekend we have a special offer of eighteen.’
I’ll get my cheque book immediately, thought Grace sarcastically. How many weeks in Sorrento wandering along the paradise of streets would eighteen thousand pounds buy? She watched Gordon’s shoulders flinch at the price. He knew how much the caravans were because he’d done his homework. Said aloud though, it sounded scary to a man who had never flashed his cash about freely.
‘I don’t think we’d need as much space as this,’ said Gordon. ‘Can you show us something else?’
‘Certainly,’ said Small-Suit. She had gauged now that this couple weren’t going to be the biggest spenders and showed them the ‘Cannes’. It had had one lady owner for the last five years. A colour-blind one at that, thought Grace, judging by the ghastly mix of orange soft furnishings. It was like being inside a giant rotting mango.
‘Twelve thousand, three hundred pounds for a quick sale, this one,’ said Small-Suit. ‘It’s a six berth, one of those being a double. But it does boast a separate dining area.’
The shower room was generously proportioned and Gordon obviously hoped Grace would be impressed by the galley kitchen – her future domain. She could see his brain working behind his glittering eyes, imagining them there in tropical sunshine British summers, Grace happily baking apple pies while entertaining the children and feeding the new baby and loading the washing machine and sweeping the floor with a broom stuck up her bottom, while he read yet more seed catalogues and waved amicably over to the neighbours.
‘I think we’ll be saying yes to this one,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s got a lovely feel to it.’
‘Gordon!’ said Grace crossly. ‘Excuse me, could I just have a word?’
She pulled Gordon’s sleeve, leading him into the corner, and Small-Suit melted into the background to allow them to discuss.
‘It’s a lot of money, Gordon,’ said Grace.
‘You’ll be getting a lump sum soon, I’m sure of it,’ said Gordon.
‘You can’t rely on that,’ said Grace.
‘Well, OK then, we can still afford it from the savings. No pockets in shrouds, Grace. It’s a good price and we’re having it.’
What a time for him to suddenly become extravagant, thought Grace. She wanted to scream at him that there was no way she would spend whole summers in Blegthorpe. No way would she be dragged from a set of pots and pans that needed cleaning in Barnsley out to the coast to do more of the same, but she knew the fight was
lost before it started. Gordon didn’t lose arguments, instead he wore his opponent down with persistence and she was too tired to fight back after a second night of rubbish sleep. She felt trapped, imprisoned by Gordon’s will more than ever since Paul had fallen out with his father.
When Gordon barred Paul from the house, there had been a change in how she saw her life, as if, for the first time, a big light had been shone onto it. She had realized then that there was no parity in her marriage. Gordon mowed the lawn, mended things and took care of the money; she cooked and cleaned and saw to the children but, where he expected total respect for his male role, hers was taken for granted as ‘what women did’. Her opinion did not matter. She did not matter. Gordon was a dictator, not a democrat.
Grace watched helplessly as he opened his cheque book and wrote out the 10 per cent deposit. He was smiling while his pen moved. ‘Chirpy’ wasn’t a word Grace would ever have associated with her husband. It was weird to see him so elated, as if someone else was inhabiting his body but the fit wasn’t quite right.
They spent that night in the ‘Robin Hood Club’, listening to a mediocre singing duet, ‘Paradise’, accompanied by resident organist, ‘Trevor Starr’, who was wearing a suit so glittery that it could have come from one of Liberace’s car boot sales. Then Blegthorpe’s own Celine Dion, ‘Lynn Laverne’, took the stage and warbled out some power ballads. Then there was a break for bingo. Then Lynn Laverne came back on with a costume change and Gordon ordered scampi with chips and side salad for two while LL shattered some more glasses. Gordon picked up a couple of die-hard caravanners at the bar who came over to join them. They enthused over sea-air and camping life and invited Gordon and Grace over for morning coffee and to look over their brand new de-luxe Rolls Royce of Caravans, the ‘Monaco’. Grace tried to smile but inside she was screaming. Gordon Beamish, however, had come home.
A Summer Fling Page 9
