Summer’s Shadow

by Anna Wilson

  Eventually she spotted a lean, tall figure, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. No one rushed to greet him.

  That him?

  She stopped to pull the photo out of her jacket, peered at it in the half-light, then glanced back at the man.

  It was him. He had the same thin face. He was not smiling as he had been when the photo was taken: now sharp cheekbones gave him a hollow look and his dark eyebrows were locked in a scowl. His thick mop of equally dark hair was as unruly as in the photo though. He was wearing a worn, checked shirt and a pair of very shabby trousers that appeared to have a hole below one knee. A raincoat was slung over one arm, pinned to his chest.

  Summer hesitated. Then he noticed her and waved uncertainly with his free hand. The shy, lopsided smile from the photo broke the scowl, softening his features, widening his eyes. She took a step towards him, torn between relief that someone was there for her and a wish that she could make a run for it instead; hurtle across the concourse, out of the building and away.

  I could. I could get back on the train. Hide in the loo. Wait until it turned back to London . . .

  He nodded at her, putting his hand in his hair and ruffling it in a sharp, awkward movement.

  ‘Summer,’ he said, as if stating a fact.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look just like your photo.’

  ‘Er, yeah. You too,’ Summer said.

  ‘You must be exhausted. Here, let me help.’ He wrestled into his coat and then made to take her cases. He paused, looking her up and down questioningly. ‘Is this it?’ he asked, nodding at her luggage.

  Summer bristled, tiredness making her tetchy. ‘Yes. It’s OK. I can manage.’ She gripped the handles of her luggage harder. Her whole life was now crammed into the two bulging suitcases and one little bag.

  Tristan took the largest case, in spite of her protests, and said, ‘Come on. The car’s over here.’ He turned and made for the exit.

  Orange halos of light glowed from the lamps in the car park, illuminating the fine silver needles of rain. Summer felt them brush her cheeks and hair.

  ‘Not Cornwall at its best, I’m afraid,’ Tristan said, turning to face her as he opened the boot of his estate car. ‘It chops and changes pretty quickly down here though. Glorious weather yesterday.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to listen to me babbling on.’

  He heaved the case he had taken into the back, took the other one from her and loaded that too. Then he went to open the front passenger door before she had a chance to slip on to a back seat.

  ‘In you get.’

  She did as she was told, reluctantly.

  I’ll have to talk to him now.

  ‘Feel free to sleep,’ Tristan said, however, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming his door. ‘It’s a good half-hour from here, I’m afraid.’

  Summer reached back to sling her rucksack on to the back seat.

  ‘How far is St Gerran from Penzance?’ she asked, remembering the address she had been given. ‘I couldn’t really tell from the map.’

  Tristan shot her a glance as they waited at the traffic lights.

  He laughed lightly. ‘I’d say it’s near enough. I drive in most days. It’s our nearest town anyway. Unless you count Newlyn. But there’s more happening in Penzance. Not that that’s saying much!’

  Summer said nothing.

  Tristan coughed nervously. ‘All I mean is, it’ll probably seem very quiet to you down here, after London.’

  They drove in silence through the town. He was right about it being quiet, Summer thought, as she took in her new surroundings. She saw only three people walking along the promenade.

  OK, so it’s raining and it’s late – wouldn’t stop people back home from going out, though.

  She slouched down and rested her head against the cool window. Her eyes felt raw, her forehead hot. She was so tired.

  ‘It’s, er, it’s pretty quiet at home too, just now,’ Tristan said suddenly. He sounded awkward.

  Summer glanced at him, but he was concentrating on the road ahead.

  ‘I told you about your aunt and cousin on the phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Becca and Kenan?’ She took a deep breath, the words bursting out before she had a chance to think. ‘If you’re my uncle, and your surname’s not the same as mine, is your wife my mum’s sister?’ She immediately felt stupid. Her mother would surely have mentioned a sister.

  Didn’t tell me about an uncle and aunt, though.

  Tristan cleared his throat. ‘I’m – er – I’m more of a distant uncle.’

  ‘When did you find out about me?’ Summer pressed on; now she had started, she might as well continue.

  Tristan hesitated before answering. ‘The solicitor got in touch after – after your mother. . . had her accident.’

  Anger flared up in her. ‘What? You didn’t know about me before mum died?’

  Silence. She had embarrassed him.

  Well, why couldn’t people just come out and say it?

  The scene of her mother’s accident flashed before her. She had been knocked down by a car. In front of Summer. The car had rammed into a low wall after it had swerved, its bonnet crumpled. Steam had gushed out of it. The driver had been flung forward on to the horn. It had blared out, once, sounding like an alarm into the stifling London air, before the airbag had inflated, saving him.

  Nothing could save her mother. It had happened so quickly. She had lain there, as crumpled as the car, blood trickling from her nose, pooling on the road behind her head. So much blood . . .

  Those days in the hospital had been a stupid waste of time. Those tubes, those machines emitting constant high-pitched noises. Empty promises that they were doing ‘everything they could’. Cold, mechanical lies.

  Eventually Tristan broke the silence. He made a small, apologetic noise. ‘I, er . . . I am sorry for your loss.’

  Summer seethed at the useless words. ‘Yeah, you said. On the phone,’ she snapped. ‘So how come you didn’t ever call her? Come and visit? Or at least come to the funeral?’

  ‘I – I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘I don’t get it—’ Summer persisted.

  ‘It’s a little complicated. I’ll explain another time,’ he interrupted. ‘When you’re not so tired and, er, upset.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he cut in. ‘I am. Really. About all of this. We – I want you to feel at home. You are my family and I will look after you . . .’ He gave a frustrated sigh. ‘As I was saying, I told you about your aunt and cousin on the phone. Well, I’m afraid you won’t meet them tonight. Which is probably no bad thing as I am sure you are desperate to get to bed. Anyway, Becca had to . . . to stay to look after Kenan. He said he wanted an early night. End of term and all that, I suppose. He goes to boarding school. Pretty shattered when he comes home. You’ll see him in the morning. Probably late, though – you teenagers do love a lie-in!’

  ‘Boarding school?’ Summer said. ‘Is that where I’ll go?’

  Tristan started. ‘I . . . we haven’t thought about school yet,’ he stammered.

  You haven’t thought about me at all, have you?

  ‘We’ll need to talk about it, of course. You’ll have to look at a few different places. There are schools around here. It’s just . . . Kenan didn’t, er, fit in . . .’

  Summer closed her eyes against his nervous chatter. The idea of a new school on top of a new family overwhelmed her.

  A whole new life. A whole new me.

  ‘Mind if I put the radio on quietly?’ Tristan said.

  Summer shook her head without opening her eyes.

  Tristan pressed a button and the sound of strings swelled mournfully through the car.

  Her mother had always listened to classical music, flicking over impatiently whenever Summer had the radio tuned to her preferred stations. ‘It’s real music,’ she would say, when Summer complained.

  Summer kept her eyes closed, tried to let the music transport her,
to find a place in her mind that was far away from the present. She wanted only to sink into a black, bottomless pit of oblivion; to not think, not talk, not listen to any more of her uncle’s empty words.

  Summer twitched and woke to find she had dribbled on to her denim jacket. Thank goodness it was dark. She sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve and prayed that she hadn’t been snoring as well.

  Still raining.

  She looked out of the windscreen at the little darts of water shining in the headlights. Everything beyond them was so black. There were no street lamps. The road was narrow, hemmed in on either side by tall hedges which loomed in the light from the car. Ghostly wisps of mist swam in the road ahead of them. The radio was off: the only sound now came from the engine and the wipers, swiping at the rain.

  ‘Have a good sleep?’ Tristan asked softly.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Summer mumbled. She rubbed her eyes. They felt as though they were coated in sand. Her tongue was furry. She ran it across her teeth.

  Rank.

  ‘Nearly there. Rain’s come on harder.’

  Summer said nothing.

  ‘I can fix you a hot drink once we get in; a snack, if you like?’

  He was trying too hard.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Or you can just go straight to bed. I’ll make you a hot-water bottle.’ He let out a nervy chuckle. ‘Hot-water bottles in July – crazy! But you’ll see, the house can get quite cold. It’s an old place. Gets damp, you know.’

  No, I don’t know.

  Even as she wished he would shut up, she felt a stab of guilt. He was only trying to be friendly. She was wasting this time with him, being so sullen. She should be using the journey to ask him things, to prepare herself.

  She opened her mouth to form a question.

  ‘Here we are!’ Tristan announced. The car turned sharply to the left and two great stone pillars came into view. ‘Welcome to Bosleven,’ he said with a note of pride.

  Passing between the pillars, the car continued down an even darker, narrower road. The headlights revealed huge bushes of nodding, phantom-pale flowers lining the way.

  ‘The hydrangeas. Welcoming us home,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those bushes.’ Tristan nodded towards the windscreen.

  Summer peered out at the blossomy heads, knocking together in the rain, smashing against the side of the car.

  ‘Hydrangeas,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll see them everywhere. They like the warm climate.’

  Summer was confused. ‘You said we’d arrived.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘So why are we still going, then?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, this is the drive. Not far now.’

  Not far now, not far.

  He kept saying that. The house must be enormous to have such a grand entrance. Why would her mother send her to a massive house down a dark lane at the far end of the country? Summer’s skin crawled. Right now, all she could think was that she was an orphan, sent away to live with a strange uncle in a scary big house. Like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden, she thought, with a touch of drama.

  She rubbed briskly at her arms and sat up straight.

  You’re being ridiculous.

  Then the house was in front of them; a small light on outside the porch, trees swaying; the facade of the building, imposing, tall and dark.

  She got out of the car. Her trainers crunched on gravel underfoot. She pulled her thin jacket tightly around her. The rain lashed her hair across her face.

  Not a ‘barbecue summer’ down here then.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you inside quickly,’ Tristan urged.

  He battled with the front door, wiggling a key in the lock and muttering under his breath. An owl called, high and desolate. Summer jumped, then, embarrassed, glanced at Tristan to see if he had noticed, but he was still engaged in his battle with the door. It cooperated abruptly without warning, opening inwards. Tristan lunged forward.

  He recovered his footing, muttering apologies, and flicked a switch. Pale light fell in a pool on the floor, bringing to faded life the dimly lit features of a large hallway. A grandfather clock stood against the wall to the right, aloof and dark.

  ‘Two o’clock already!’ Summer exclaimed, peering at the hands on the worn, dirty face.

  Tristan turned and smiled. ‘No, no. That old thing hasn’t worked for years. It’s half past midnight – give or take,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’d – I’d rather go straight to bed. Please,’ she added.

  A look of concern flickered across her uncle’s face.

  ‘Of course.’ He took off his raincoat and hung it on a wrought-iron coat stand, overloaded with other coats, jackets, hats and umbrellas. ‘I will make you a hot-water bottle though – I’m going to have one! Do take your jacket off. You must be soaked.’ He continued talking about the rain and how he was sure it would be gone by the morning while he bustled into the kitchen to make the hot-water bottles.

  Summer hung her jacket on top of the other paraphernalia on the coat stand. She did not know whether to follow Tristan or not. She did not want to encourage him to make any more conversation or press her to have a hot chocolate, so she decided to stay where she was, waiting, as she tried to focus her tired eyes.

  She wanted to take in every detail of the hallway, but it was so big, and still gloomy, even with the light on. Shadows flickered in the corners; the ceiling went on forever; the floor was tiled, black-and-white; everything looked ancient. There was wood panelling on the walls up to waist height and ahead of her an imposing, winding wooden staircase which spiralled up into the pitch blackness of the floor above. It was a house straight out of a fairy tale, and not a good one: one about a stranger luring a girl into a house and then . . .

  Panic crawled over her skin.

  I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here.

  She had the same sudden urge to turn and run that she had felt in the station and had to grip the side of a shelf by the door to steady herself. She made herself look at the shelf, talk herself through what was on it: a bowl of keys, some large, rubbery green gloves, a golf ball, a table tennis bat with chewed edges.

  ‘Oh!’ She started as she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something white skitter up the stairs.

  ‘There you are.’ Tristan had come back with the hot-water bottles. ‘Sorry, did I make you jump? You do look pale. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t witter on. Straight to your room, yes?’

  Summer nodded, tried to calm herself.

  What was that thing? A mouse? Maybe they have a cat.

  Tristan had already turned to the stairs. He flicked another switch, this time to turn on the wall lights, and beckoned to her to follow him up the staircase. There was a half-landing with rooms off it, then the staircase turned, leading to a longer corridor with more rooms and a bookcase at the end. There were stairs to the left leading up to another floor.

  The house was vast! Completely silent too. Summer picked up a faint damp smell and felt the walls close in around her. The light from the wall lamps was as dim as that in the hall, so that when a white shape darted across the floor of the landing in front of them, Summer gave a gasp and stumbled.

  Tristan stopped. ‘All right?’

  It was a cat. Get a grip, Summer.

  ‘Yeah, I’m – I’m fine. Just tripped over the—’

  ‘Oh, the carpet!’ Tristan exclaimed. He pointed down sheepishly at Summer’s foot which had got caught in a hole in the frayed Persian runner. ‘Sorry about that. It’s very old,’ he said.

  ‘No worries.’ Summer pulled her foot out of the ragged hole.

  ‘OK.’ Tristan gestured ahead to the right. ‘Your room’s just along here.’

  ‘Next to the bookcase at the end?’ Summer asked, pointing to the end of the corridor.

  ‘Yes. Your room’s just above the
old kitchen passage, where the servants worked – years and years ago, I mean. No servants now, more’s the pity.’ He was trying to keep his voice light and jokey. ‘You can access it from the hall – Kenan will show you tomorrow. The attic’s above you. Nothing to show you there – just boxes of junk.’

  Attic? Kitchen passage? Servants?

  What was this place?

  Tristan saw the look of confusion on her face. ‘Don’t worry. I know the house seems enormous, but it’s really not as muddling as it seems. You will have a proper tour tomorrow.’

  Summer could not help smirking at that. A tour of her old home in London would have taken all of five minutes: lounge, two tiny bedrooms, kitchen, shower, loo. Done.

  They walked along the landing and stopped by the bookcase. Summer glanced at the books. The spines looked ancient: broken, dusty with gold embossed lettering.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ Tristan pushed open the door, pulled a cord hanging to the left and showed her the illuminated room with a flourish.

  She had been determined not to be impressed, to hate what she was shown, to reject everything offered, but the room was beautiful. She imagined standing in her own home (her old home, she corrected herself), saw this bedroom land on top of it, swallowing it up in one gulp. The ceiling soared, the curtains were floor-length, made of some heavy, faded red fabric with tassels on the ends. As for the heavy wooden wardrobe and chest of drawers, they were surely antique. The very air in the room seemed antique; thin, as though it had been breathed a million times before over hundreds and hundreds of years.

  I could reach out and touch the past.

  And the bed!

  It was a four-poster, high off the ground, set against the middle of the wall and filling a good portion of the room.

  The Princess and the Pea! Proper Fairy Land now.

  Tristan chuckled. ‘Bit over the top, I know. Hope you don’t mind. It’s been in the family for a while.’

  Unlike me.

  ‘Yeah, it’s – cool,’ she managed, blushing.

  ‘So I’ll leave you to it – oh, and the bathroom’s opposite, across the landing. It’s all yours: ours is on the half-landing, next to my room. No one’ll disturb you. Sleep as long as you like. As I say, Kenan will, no doubt! I won’t clear breakfast away until you’re down, so there’s no hurry in the morning. Night, then.’ He handed her one of the hot-water bottles, gave a small smile and closed the door softly behind him.