Summer’s Shadow

by Anna Wilson

  Summer held her breath, waited until his footsteps had receded, then hurriedly plonked the hot-water bottle on the bed, pulled her T-shirt and pyjama bottoms from the top of a case and changed. She tiptoed out on to the dimly lit landing and saw Tristan had turned on the light in the bathroom opposite.

  He is trying to make me feel welcome.

  Tiredness weighed heavily on her now. She fumbled her way through cleaning her teeth and using the lavatory before climbing up into the regal bed. There was a dip in the mattress which seemed to fit her body perfectly. She curled into a ball and held the hot-water bottle, cuddling it close, grateful for its comfort and warmth.

  Kind. He is kind.

  She was dimly aware of feeling suddenly completely safe. She tried to work out why this was, to catch hold of a thought swimming through her mind, but it slipped out of reach and became blurred before disappearing under the warmth of the bedclothes and a tidal wave of exhaustion.

  Summer stirred and mumbled in protest as light filtered through her dream-heavy eyelashes. She turned to look at her watch where she had left it on the table next to her.

  Quarter to eleven – not a bad lie-in.

  Her mind snapped to attention as she remembered where she was. The questions she had wanted to ask Tristan the night before jostled and nagged. Why had her mum sent her here? Why had she thought this was a good place for her to be? Why had she never mentioned or discussed it? Tristan had seemed to take it all in his stride. How could he be so accepting? Had he known about her for much longer than he was letting on? What about his wife?

  The questions ricocheted, making her heart pound.

  Then she heard her mother’s voice, so clearly, it was as though she were right beside her: ‘Bye, love.’

  Summer pulled the sheets up over her head, her jaw tight.

  No, no more tears. Can’t go down and face him if I start blubbing again.

  She was about to get up when she heard a scuffle of footsteps and a voice, very close, outside the door.

  ‘Kenan! Come away! Leave her be. We didn’t get home until gone midnight.’

  Tristan’s voice, reprimanding. Then a grumbling younger voice.

  Summer stayed stock-still and listened. There were footsteps again, retreating this time, and then silence.

  Once she was sure they had gone, she breathed again, jumped out of bed and went to the thick red curtains. She was both curious and fearful to see what might be beyond the high-ceilinged, echoey room.

  She took hold of the edge of a curtain in each hand and threw them back hastily, as though ripping off a plaster on a grazed knee. As the wooden curtain rings rattled across the rail it occurred to her that she might be on the point of giving the world a view of her tatty nightclothes. At home the bedroom window looked out on to the street. The block of flats had been close enough to the pavement that people could look in if they had nothing better to do.

  She need not have worried. As she focused on the scene before her, she saw that whatever else was going to happen from now on, one thing was certain: the only spying from outside would be done by tall pine trees, glowing in golden sunlight, swaying in a light breeze.

  There was not one single house to be seen, only lawns, trees, and in the distance, the sea.

  Summer had never felt more alone.

  The bathroom was white: white walls, white bath, white loo.

  Summer bent over to free the bath plug from its coil around the taps, but leaped back in alarm, a scream catching in her throat.

  An enormous brown-black spider with eyes out on stalks was skulking near the plughole. She brushed at it with fearful stabbing motions until it gave up all hope of peace and quiet and reluctantly scuttled down the hole. Summer hastily blocked its escape route with the plug and fumbled with the taps. The water blasted out in a torrent of heat and steam, causing her to jump again.

  Owls. Cats. Giant spiders. Boiling bath water . . .

  Would her heart ever settle back to its normal rhythm? It didn’t help that she felt she was being watched. She was sure she heard scuffling noises outside the door. Was Kenan spying on her again?

  She crept over while the water was running and put her eye to the keyhole. There was no one on the landing. Just in case, she put the key in the lock and turned it firmly, hearing the reassuring clunk of the heavy metal bolt sliding home.

  More noises; this time from beneath her feet.

  Maybe there are mice under the floorboards?

  She reminded herself there was a cat in the house. It would deal with any mice.

  The bath was deep and the warm water gave off a honey-sweet aroma as the steam rose and clouded the room. Summer sank into it, feeling the tension rolling off her shoulders. She looked up at the ceiling and watched the watery patterns reflected there.

  Her moment of peace was shattered by someone throwing something at the door. She sat up abruptly, sloshing water on to the floor tiles.

  ‘When are you going to show your face then?’ said a voice. It was low, menacing, or so it seemed to Summer, who slid quickly down below the rim of the bath in case the key was not enough of a screen against a spy.

  It was him. Kenan.

  ‘I – I’m in the bath,’ she called out.

  Of course I’m in the flipping bath, I’m not snorkelling in here, am I?

  She heard him run away, sniggering.

  Summer scrambled out, dried herself hurriedly. She didn’t want to be here, but she couldn’t hide forever, and even if she did, would he be outside every door, snooping? She decided not to give him another chance.

  At least he wasn’t waiting for her once she had finished in the bathroom and got dressed. Now that she was on the landing, Summer could not hear any more noises, not even the scuttling under the floorboards. The house no longer seemed as forbidding as it had in the dark the night before. The walls on the stairway and in the hall were painted a soft, comforting terracotta and were bathed in light which flooded in through the windows and glass of the front door.

  Warm and welcoming.

  She told herself to think positive. At least in a house this size she would not be in the family’s pockets. If she and her cousin did not hit it off, they could give each other space. That was good. And there would be something to do today: she could explore. Judging by the view from her window, there was a lot of exploring to do, outside as well as in.

  Mum wanted me to live here. So she must have known the place – loved it, I guess.

  Summer decided she needed to try to see Bosleven through her mother’s eyes. She squared her shoulders and headed for the kitchen, where she could hear a low murmuring conversation, the words too softly spoken to reach her ears.

  As she stepped into the hallway, the door to the kitchen opened slightly and the white cat slipped out. The animal stopped, fixed her with an appraising stare, then yawned abruptly, flicked its tail and was gone.

  Such blue eyes! Must ask what it’s called . . .

  Summer went into the room. Tristan was sitting at the kitchen table which was set against a large, high window overlooking the garden. He rose, smiling uncertainly, as she entered the room, his chair scraping on the wooden floor. One other face was turned up to look at hers, unsmiling. Hostile, even.

  Summer automatically took a step back.

  ‘Summer,’ Tristan said, announcing her presence in the same way he had at the station. Summer felt he might just as well have said, ‘At last.’

  ‘I – I’m sorry I slept in,’ she muttered, lowering her eyes. She wished the boy would say something, not simply glare at her.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Tristan, his smile spreading, reaching his eyes. They were very dark; the pupils merged into the inky irises. ‘You needed a good sleep,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was – I am tired.’

  She wanted so much to look at these people and find a connection, a family likeness, something to reassure her. How well had they known her mother? Were they sad about her death? Maybe
they felt nothing. Maybe she, Summer, was nothing to them either.

  She swallowed, gave her head the tiniest of shakes.

  Mustn’t . . .

  ‘Come and say hello.’ Tristan was holding out a hand as though to encourage her. ‘Have some breakfast. You must be starving. You didn’t have anything last night. We’re on our second breakfast already, aren’t we?’ he joked, nodding to the boy, who continued to stare brazenly.

  Summer approached the table. Piles of paper and recently opened post were heaped at one end. Three places were set at the other, Tristan’s chair at the head, the boy’s so that he sat with his back to the large window. Summer was offered a place opposite him.

  ‘So. This is Kenan,’ Tristan spoke into the awkward silence. ‘Your – cousin,’ he added, reddening.

  The boy let out a derisive snort, but was quickly silenced by a look from his father.

  ‘And, er, Becca – my wife – she’s not joining us just now,’ he said, his smile quivering slightly.

  ‘Not ever at this rate,’ Kenan retorted. His voice had a raw edge, wavering uncertainly between that of a boy and a man.

  Tristan raised his eyebrows pointedly at his son.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ Kenan sneered, then, to Summer: ‘Hi, cousin. Toast or cereal?’ He made it sound as though he was offering the choice between being shot or hanged.

  ‘I – oh, cereal’s fine.’

  Summer took the chair offered her by her uncle and accepted a glass of juice and bowl of muesli with a subdued ‘Thank you’.

  Silence seeped back into the room, reproachful, suspicious. Summer wished that the old grandfather clock worked so that there would at least be a solid, reassuring, ticking sound to listen to as she slowly chewed the oaty chunks of cereal. She thought of how Mum would have been at breakfast if they had a guest – like when Jess stayed over. Music would be playing, the window open in weather like this. Mum would be laughing, singing, offering to make pancakes. Jess and she would be noisy. The house would roar with life.

  Tristan spoke into the heavy atmosphere with laboured cheerfulness. ‘I was thinking you could take Summer for a little tour today, Kenan,’ he said. ‘Show her the farm, the rockery – I’m sure she’d like to see the beach.’

  ‘No way!’ Kenan spluttered through a mouthful of cereal.

  ‘Kenan!’ Tristan objected. ‘Summer has come a long way. She has gone through a lot recently. Remember what I told you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Summer said. ‘I don’t need looking after.’

  Not by you.

  ‘There, see?’ the boy spat. ‘She doesn’t need me. I’m getting the bus into town today in any case.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm . . .’

  Summer focused on working her way through her breakfast. She didn’t feel at all hungry. All she wanted was to get out of that room. Suddenly the prospect of exploring the house did not seem so appealing.

  Kenan pushed his chair back and left the table. He took his breakfast things over to the dishwasher and yanked the machine open, rattling the contents as he crammed his stuff in.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tristan said. ‘We – this is an adjustment for us too. I don’t mean to sound unkind, but it was a bit of a shock. I didn’t know Cat— didn’t know your mum was . . .’ He stopped himself and turned his face away.

  ‘You could have said no,’ Kenan barked.

  ‘Kenan!’ Tristan turned back to face his son, distraught at the boy’s behaviour.

  Kenan’s face was hard, but he said no more. Another heavy curtain of silence fell.

  He is angry. Of course he is. Why should he want me here?

  Summer tried to imagine how she would be if her mum had told her one day that another child, a stranger, would be coming to live with them. She knew her mother would be gentle in her persuasion that it was the right thing to do. It would be a decision they made together. Her mother would not impose something this big on her unless it was hugely important, and Summer would understand that. She and her mother had never spoken to each other in the harsh tone Kenan was using. They had disagreed, Summer had moaned about things, said things weren’t fair. Somehow, though, being just the two of them, they had been a team. But she knew that no two families worked the same way. She would have to find out how this one operated.

  Other people’s houses. Other people’s rules.

  With some obvious effort, Tristan resumed a more reasonable tone. ‘Kenan, will you please put off your plans to go into town and show Summer around. I have some work to do until lunchtime, then I’ll run you both in later if you like. Save you the bus fare.’

  ‘Looks like I don’t have a choice,’ Kenan muttered.

  It was going to take some doing to get to know this boy, Summer thought. But she would have to.

  Neither of them had a choice.

  Summer followed Kenan out of the kitchen. He waited until they were out of earshot, then he hissed, ‘Just so you know, I am doing this for Dad.’

  ‘Just so you know, so am I,’ Summer snapped back.

  Not going to let him think I’m a walkover.

  Her retort clearly took him by surprise. His eyes widened for a second. ‘Fine.’

  He turned his back to the kitchen door and made for a corridor Summer had not noticed in the dark the night before.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘What do you mean, where am I going? I’m showing you around, aren’t I? Coming, or what?’

  Summer frowned and glanced at the front door.

  Kenan gave a snort of laughter. ‘We don’t go out that way unless we’re taking the car.’ He said it as though she were dense not to realize how and when the front door was used. She would not have been surprised if he had started talking about there being a ‘tradesmen’s entrance’.

  ‘So where are we going? Aren’t you going to show me the house?’

  His narrow eyes glinted. ‘Why? Planning on ripping us off, are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just stop asking so many questions and follow me.’ He had already turned away and set off down the corridor at a pace.

  I haven’t even started with the questions yet, mate.

  Light filled the passage, which was airier than the panelled hallway. She looked up to see skylights in the ceiling, far out of reach, coated in cobwebs on the inside, birds’ droppings on the outside. She pictured Tristan using a long brush or feather duster to clean it, his arms at full stretch, reaching into the corners.

  There was a clattering noise from the other side of the right-hand wall.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

  But Kenan did not seem to have heard.

  ‘This is the kitchen passage,’ he was saying in a bored voice. ‘Used to be where the servants worked,’ he added, looking at her pointedly.

  ‘Yeah, your dad said. So tell me about these servants then?’

  I have soooo much in common with these people . . .

  Kenan rolled his eyes. ‘There aren’t any now. God, Mum would kill for a couple of servants. Running this place is hard work.’

  My heart bleeds . . .

  ‘The old kitchen was down here, but we don’t use it now. These rooms are all storage,’ Kenan continued, waving vaguely at doors to the left. ‘Then there’s the—’ He stopped abruptly, seeming to have changed his mind about something. ‘Yeah, anyway, you don’t really need to know about this,’ he went on hastily. ‘Like I say, we don’t use it.’

  Summer frowned. ‘Bit of a waste of space, all this?’ she said.

  ‘Well, not that it’s any of your business, but this part used to be for holiday lets,’ Kenan muttered.

  Summer shrugged. The mood the boy was in, this could turn out to be a long morning. She made a show of looking into the rooms on the left as they passed them so that she could avoid any further conversation. They were rammed with jumbled items. Large green shutters kept out the light, so that it was hard to discern the objects. She thought
she saw a bike, some old furniture, paint pots, ladders, an ironing board. The right-hand side of the passage was smooth, red wall; no doors, apart from one ahead of them at the end.

  ‘Locked,’ Kenan muttered, when he saw her looking. ‘Like I said, it’s just storage. Junk rooms.’

  Summer made a face. ‘Whatever.’

  There was a faint, pleasantly briny smell and a damp chill in the air. The smell of the place and the reddish-brown paint brought to mind a small villa that a friend of her mother’s had lent them a couple of years back. A holiday abroad. A rare treat. The thick stone walls had provided a soothing, cool fortress from the Mediterranean furnace-blast that hit them whenever they had ventured out in the middle of the day.

  A sudden noise brought her out of her reverie. It was coming from beyond the wall to her right.

  ‘Are there more rooms on the other side?’ she asked, pointing in the direction of the sound. It was as if someone were moving furniture around, dragging something heavy across the floor.

  Kenan’s face darkened. ‘Listen, this is my house. I’m the one showing you around, OK?’ he snapped.

  ‘Hey, chill! I was only asking—’

  ‘Yeah, well don’t. I’ve already told you. We keep stuff in there and it’s locked. So don’t go getting any ideas!’

  Summer’s jaw tightened.

  I swear I’m going to hit him if he carries on like this.

  Kenan must have realized he had gone too far, for his eyes softened and he seemed to make an effort to relax. ‘There’s a table-tennis table in here,’ he said, gesturing casually to the last room on the left.

  She ignored him, straining to catch the sounds from beyond the wall again, but they had stopped.

  ‘Do you play?’ Kenan persisted.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well . . . I could teach you,’ he said.