‘I haven’t got a bloody life.’
Jenna wasn’t sure where the anger came from. Whether it was her recent humiliation, or a genuine sense of waste, or a combination of both. She slammed down her cup, the watery brown liquid sloshing over the edge.
‘You could have,’ she told him. ‘You could have if you stopped blaming yourself and feeling sorry for yourself and wallowing in it all. I mean, what’s the point? It’s like Groundhog Day. Chris gets up. Maybe he gets on the boat to help Vince. Maybe he doesn’t. Then he drinks himself into oblivion, and pisses off everyone in the pub. Gets into a fight or pulls some bird whose name he can’t remember the next morning.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Chris. ‘That’s pretty much how I roll.’
‘But you’ve got loads going for you.’ Jenna leaned into him; looked into his eyes in the hope of getting through. ‘You’ve got more going for you than most people in this godforsaken town. You’ve got a bloody business that makes money, for a start. Have you got any idea how hard it is for most people here? They’d give their eye teeth for an opportunity like you’ve got.’
Chris glared at her. ‘My dad drowned, Jenna. Right in front of my eyes. There was nothing I could do about it. Don’t you lecture me when you don’t know what it’s like to live with that.’ His eyes burned bright with rage.
‘I might not know what it’s like but I do know that drinking yourself to death isn’t going to make any difference. It’s not going to bring him back. It’s not going to make things better. And, apart from anything, what do you think your dad would think if he knew? Do you think he’d think: great, that was worth dying for?’
She knew her words were harsh, but at this stage there was no point in holding back. Maybe no one had ever got through to Chris before. Maybe she wouldn’t now, but she was damned if she was going to let him wallow and defend himself to her.
He looked furious. He gripped his glass even more tightly.
‘Fuck off and save someone else, Pollyanna,’ he said.
Jenna shrugged. ‘You know I’m right. I am right. But you’re too much of a coward to do anything about it. It’s much easier to slosh about in seventeen pints of lager than get help. You’re just on a massive self-pity trip. Poor little me. Well, Vince went through it too and I don’t see him on self-destruct.’
‘Vince is different.’
‘Vince isn’t a self-indulgent tosser.’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘Yep. That’s what I said. Because that’s what you are, Chris. You’re a total waste of space. If you had anything about you, you’d get out there and make your dad proud. You’d create something in his memory. Instead of making yourself a laughing stock for the whole town to roll their eyes at. John Maskell’s son, the drunken loser.’
Chris held his glass to his mouth and drank deep, holding her gaze, then slammed his glass down on the bar top.
Jenna felt as if she had run out of steam. ‘Sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘But that’s what I’m seeing and I find it upsetting.’
Chris got off his bar stool. Even at this hour of the afternoon he swayed slightly. He leaned in towards Jenna.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then, if you find it so upsetting.’
There was menace in his tone. Jenna gave a wry smile and a small shrug. Chris turned and swaggered out of the pub. She felt sad as she watched him go. He had so much to offer. He would make any girl in the world happy. But he was destroying everything he had: his looks, his living, his relationships, his reputation. His health, no doubt.
The landlord caught her eye.
‘That went well,’ he said.
‘Someone had to tell him.’ She looked at him witheringly. ‘Although I suppose you wouldn’t. It would put a right hole in your profits.’
Jenna slumped into a decline that evening, which carried on for the next few days. She knew she would have to snap out of it before Craig came back at the weekend, because she didn’t want to put a downer on things. He worked hard, and he lived for his time at the beach hut with her. And she lived to see him. She just wished she could sort out something that gave her life meaning in between. Not to mention some money. Craig was incredibly generous, but Jenna wanted to pay her own way.
On Friday afternoon, she still hadn’t come up with a solution. She stared at the bedroom ceiling, looking for inspiration in the cracked Artex. She could feel the Tawcombe torpor seeping into her bones; it sapped you of your energy and drive; sucked any ambition you might have right out of you. She’d felt it before. It was soul-destroying. She was damned if she was going to let it get her again.
She rolled off the bed, jumped to her feet and ran out of the door. She wasn’t going to stop and think. She was acting on impulse, fuelled by rage and frustration and the injustice. It took her fifteen minutes to get to the bank, and by the time she arrived she was red-faced and dishevelled. This time, she wasn’t dressed to impress. She was in jeans and a hoodie and trainers. She didn’t care. She marched up to the first cashier to become vacant.
‘I want to see the manager,’ she said. ‘The actual branch manager, not one of his gofers. And I want to see him now.’ She paused. ‘Or her. And, actually, I hope it is a her, because she’ll probably have more sense.’
The cashiers could tell by the tone of her voice, and the volume of it, that it was in their interests to do what she said. They quite often had disruptions, and usually they called Security. But, miraculously, within five minutes Jenna was seated in a slightly larger glass cubicle than the one she’d been directed to earlier in the week, and an upbeat, businesslike woman marched in and shook her hand before sitting down.
‘Well? What can I do for you?’
Jenna took a deep breath. ‘It’s your responsibility to take a chance on me,’ she said. ‘The man who saw me earlier in the week didn’t even look at my business plan. He just crunched a few numbers on the computer and said no. What kind of bank are you, if you can’t see a good idea when you’re hit over the head with it? If you’re not prepared to take risks?’
‘Well, we tend to take calculated risks … We can’t just go throwing money out at random to anyone who wanders in here, I’m afraid. We have a checklist. If you don’t meet the criteria …’
‘But that’s so short-sighted. My plan is as watertight as they come. I know this area. I know the market. I know I can make it work. I might not have a good credit rating but I’ve got experience. I made my last boss loads of money. It wasn’t my fault he threw it all away at the bookies. If it had been me, if it had been my business, it wouldn’t have gone under. It’s just common sense. Common sense and hard graft.’
‘So where is your plan? Let me have a look.’
Jenna hesitated. ‘I chucked it in the bin.’
The woman raised an eyebrow.
‘But I can talk you through it. I can remember every detail. It’s a no-brainer. And it’s not as if I’m asking for millions. Five grand. That’s all.’
The woman held up her hand. ‘Slow down. Start at the beginning. Explain to me just what it is you want to do.’
Jenna shut her eyes. This was her only chance. ‘I’ve been offered a vintage ice-cream van. Thirteen hundred quid. And I need some money to do it up and buy some stock …’
Half an hour later, Jenna walked out of the bank having signed a loan agreement. Five thousand pounds would be in her account the next day.
‘You better not let me down,’ the manager told her. ‘I’ve put my job on the line for this.’
‘You can have free ice cream for life,’ smiled Jenna.
‘I don’t want ice cream. I just want you to make your repayments.’
‘You won’t regret it.’ Jenna thought it probably wasn’t on to hug your bank manager, so she resisted the urge.
She did want to celebrate, though, and share her news with someone, so she made her way down to the George and Dragon. She was surprised
to find no sign of Chris.
‘I haven’t seen him for two days,’ the landlord told her gloomily. ‘My profits are plummeting.’
Jenna felt unsettled. She knew she’d been pretty harsh. What if Chris had buckled under her diatribe? He must be fragile, after all, and she’d given it to him with both barrels. Then just left him to it. She’d been so absorbed in her own affairs she hadn’t thought of the consequences. Feeling slightly sick, she hurried up the hill to Fore Street where Vince and Chris still lived in the house they had grown up in. It was a narrow, cobbled street lined with crooked fisherman’s cottages, picturesque but run-down, more attractive in the height of summer when the windowsills sported geraniums than in the gloomy light of winter.
She banged on the door, imagining the worst: Chris, slumped on the sofa with a bottle of whisky in one hand, unkempt, unshaven, possibly even unconscious. And possibly even … she didn’t want to think about it. She cursed her strong opinions and her outspokenness. As much as they had just done her a favour, she feared their other consequences.
As she waited for an answer, she wondered why she couldn’t keep her opinions to herself and mind her own business.
She was wrong-footed, therefore, when Chris answered the door vertical, if a little pale, but definitely having shaved, his skin looking pink and clean as a newborn piglet.
‘Oh!’ she squeaked.
‘Hi,’ he replied.
‘I was worried. The landlord at the George said you hadn’t been in. So I thought you might be …’
‘Lying in a drunken stupor and a puddle of wee?’
Jenna shrugged and nodded.
Chris leaned against the doorjamb, smiling proudly. His jumper rode up and she caught a flash of his washboard stomach.
‘I haven’t had a drink since the night before last.’
Jenna blinked. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. After I saw you in the George I went up the road and got totally bladdered in the Town Tavern. The worst bender ever. Believe it or not. Threw up so much my eyeballs nearly came out …’
Jenna winced. ‘Too much information …’
‘I’m not kidding. Then I woke up yesterday and I thought: Jenna’s right. She’s totally nailed it. Drinking myself to death is pointless. It’s not fair on Vince, more than anything. I keep letting him down. And if we lost the business, Dad would never forgive me …’ He looked subdued, and she saw, despite the pink newness of his shaven skin, that there were dark rings under his blue eyes; darker than the rings around his irises. ‘So that’s it. I’m on the wagon. From now on, not another drink will touch my lips.’
Jenna could see that under the bravado he was trembling; whether from the emotion or the need for a drink, she couldn’t tell. Probably both. She touched his arm.
‘Chris, that’s amazing. That’s so brave.’
He shook his head. ‘I know I’ve got a long way to go. I don’t trust myself yet. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to last. But if I can do one day without drinking, then maybe I can do two. And if I fall off the wagon, I can get back on it again. He gulped, slightly overwhelmed by his outburst.
‘If you ever want to talk about it,’ said Jenna. ‘If you need a mate, you know where I am.’
He gave her a grateful smile. Yet again, she thought how gorgeous he was; how the girls would be queuing up.
‘You’ve already done enough,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to have to find myself stuff to do. Maybe start surfing again. Get a dog, maybe …’
She held up the bank’s paperwork. ‘I got my loan,’ she told him. ‘For the ice-cream van.’
‘Awesome.’
‘And now I need to find someone to help me do it up.’ She grinned up at him. She knew he was handy: the Maskell brothers did all their own repairs and building work and kept their boats in working order.
Chris took the bait quite willingly.
‘Hey, listen. Look no further. I need a project to keep me out of the pub. That’ll do nicely.’
‘Well, I know how good you are with your hands.’
Jenna wasn’t flirting. She’d known Chris since forever.
‘We can take it down to the boatyard. You can keep it there for the time being.’
‘Great. Cos if I take it back to mine, some bright spark will take it for a joy ride.’
‘Do you want me to come with you and try and knock Weasel down?’
‘Do you know what? I can handle Weasel. And now I’ve got the money I can negotiate.’
‘Spoilsport.’
Jenna felt a burst of excitement. Her recent victory still tasted sweet, and she felt so proud of Chris. Not to mention relief that her outburst hadn’t tipped him over the edge.
She put her arms round his neck. ‘You’re going to be OK. You know that?’
Chris patted her back. ‘I hope so. I feel like shit, if I’m honest. I’ve been held together by Beck’s for the past six months at least. I’m not sure my body can take it.’
‘Just call me,’ said Jenna, ‘if you ever think you’re going to cave in.’
‘I’m not caving in,’ said Chris. ‘Come on. Let me come with you to Weasel’s. Please. I could do with someone to take my frustrations out on.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Jenna. ‘If you can knock him down to twelve, I’ll split the difference with you.’
Just over a month later, Jenna was dozing in bed early one morning. In her sleep, she could hear the chimes of ‘Greensleeves’; at first from a distance, then coming nearer and nearer, slightly out of tune – a nostalgic sound that conjured up images of children running from afar, clutching a few coins in their hands, eager to queue up at the window and survey the price list before choosing.
The next thing she knew, her brother was banging on her bedroom door.
‘Here – there’s a bloke outside for you.’
She scrambled out of bed and downstairs to open the door.
Outside, on the pavement, was her ice-cream van. Fully renovated, the paintwork gleaming, painted in cream and pink stripes with ‘The Ice Cream Girl’ emblazoned along the top of the window. At the wheel was Chris, grinning from ear to ear.
He got out and handed her the keys.
‘MOT sorted, tax sorted, new tyres, resprayed …’
He gave a little bow.
‘Oh my God, she’s beautiful,’ breathed Jenna. ‘More beautiful than I could ever have imagined.’
She could picture the van resting at the top of the beach, her paintwork gleaming, a long queue of people snaking from the window while she scooped out ball after ball of ice cream to cool them down. It would be hard work, she knew that – she would have to find as many opportunities as she could to make a decent profit – but Jenna wasn’t afraid of hard work.
She threw her arms around Chris’s neck and squeezed him. ‘You are amazing,’ she told him.
‘Well. Enjoy her. And I want the first ice cream, when the day comes.’ He turned to go.
‘Hold on – let me give you a lift back at least.’ Jenna lived on the outskirts of town and it was a good walk back in.
‘It’s OK. I’m going to run. Part of the new fitness regime. Gonna get myself back into shape.’ He patted his already flat stomach with a grin and started to jog along the road.
Jenna watched him go. She prayed that he would find the strength to stay on track. He’d been a wreck for a long time. But she would keep an eye on him, from afar.
She turned back to the van. She climbed inside, pressed the button and listened to the jangle that would herald her arrival. She threw back her head and laughed with joy.
She spent the day in a frenzy of excitement, unable to wait for Craig to come home so she could show him. She unpacked all the dresses that she had stowed away when she moved back to her mother’s, disillusioned: the ones that had been her trademark when she sold
ice cream from the booth on the front – fifties halter-necks with circular skirts in bright colours, splattered with flowers and cherries and hearts. She’d wear a different one every day again, she decided.
And when Craig arrived back from his course that evening, she couldn’t stop laughing when she saw his face.
‘What on earth is that?’ he asked, looking at the van parked on the road outside. No one would dare touch it now they knew he was home.
‘This,’ said Jenna proudly, ‘is going to make me my fortune this summer.’
Craig looked at her for a moment, puzzled. She could see he wanted to ask where she had got the money to buy it, but didn’t quite like to.
‘I went to the bank,’ she said, ‘and forced them to give me a loan. I wouldn’t leave until they coughed up.’
She took him by the hand.
‘Come inside,’ she commanded him. And inside the van, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, for if it wasn’t for Craig, goodness knows where she would be, but certainly not where she was now. And the future was even brighter. She could feel it in her heart.
The Ice Cream Girl was back. All she had to wait for was the summer.
That
Summer
ELODIE
There was nothing more thrilling than being handed the key to a new house. Nothing to beat the sensation of sliding the key into the lock and pushing open the front door, wondering what you would find, breathing in the stillness, knowing that now you could do what you liked; that you could make it yours.
As she held the cold metal in her hand, Elodie thought of the times she had gone through this ritual over the years. Five or six, she calculated, each time with an incremental rise in property value. She was, after all, her father’s daughter more than her mother’s, and she had inherited his business acumen rather than her mother’s spendthrift tendencies. Not that she didn’t like spending money. On the contrary, she had already spent several thousand in her mind before she’d even got to the front door, putting up a new set of gates and re-landscaping the drive and pulling down the awful flat-roofed garage someone had stuck up.
The Beach Hut Next Door Page 4
