Summer’s Shadow

by Anna Wilson

  She dropped her eyes to the leaf-strewn, mossy ground and tried to concentrate, to make a plan. She listened to the gentle lapping of the water at her feet and thought of what she knew about streams and rivers.

  ‘Streams flow to the sea.’ So I’ll follow this stream. Maybe it will take me to the beach.

  She did not move on right away. Maybe she should turn back.

  She wavered, was about to retrace her steps, when . . .

  ‘Miaaaow!’

  ‘Oh, hello! You again.’ Summer crouched low to stroke the little white cat.

  The cat tilted its heart-shaped face up to hers, closed its eyes and seemed almost to smile as it rubbed its head against her knees and let forth a deep, jet-engine purr. It had a silvery-grey collar that she hadn’t noticed before, a small name tag dangling from it.

  ‘Let’s have a look . . . What’s your name, eh?’ she caught hold of the metal disc and turned it over. Only the letter ‘C’ was visible, the rest of the name rubbed out, the metal smooth.

  ‘Well, “C”, maybe you can answer another question,’ Summer said, letting go of the disc. ‘Is this garden part of Bosleven? Or are you trespassing too?’

  The cat sat back on its haunches and washed one paw thoughtfully. Then it fixed her with its cool blue eyes and said, ‘Miaoooow!’

  ‘Really?’ said Summer. ‘Don’t suppose you know the way to the beach as well?’

  The cat flattened its ears, hissed, and darted away, down the path alongside the stream.

  Summer straightened up, shook her head.

  Talking to a cat now. Bonkers.

  She followed it, all the same.

  The stream was shallow and the rocks acted as stepping stones. As she passed by the granite faces, she avoided their stony gaze.

  Don’t be stupid. They’re just lumps of rock.

  The cat bounded ahead, stopping every so often as though checking that Summer was keeping up.

  The stream ran on through a thicket lined with rocks and old tree stumps standing silent and watchful.

  Summer glanced over her shoulder as she followed the white cat.

  Still alone.

  The woodland gave way to denser undergrowth. Brambles and nettles had won over this territory. Summer was grateful for her jeans now and wished she had long sleeves too.

  The brambles tore at her bare skin, her hair was caught and tangled on thorns, but she pushed on. The roar of the sea was filling her ears already, its salty tang in her nostrils. She leaned into the branches that stubbornly blocked her path and they gave way, leaving her teetering on a cliff that dropped sharply away to the sea and a rocky cove beneath.

  Summer scanned the cove for the cat. It had disappeared.

  There were plenty of places for it to have gone, Summer saw, as she took in the long curve of the land beneath her. Tumbled boulders lined the coast, as if a giant’s child had upended his box of building bricks and left them, scattered. A small cat could easily disappear for good in between them.

  I hope it’s OK.

  She shielded her eyes against the sun and looked out to the felt-tipped line of the horizon. Light danced off the water’s surface in a million Christmas lights.

  A picture-postcard scene. Perfect.

  In her mind’s eye she saw her mother, face tilted towards the sun, her hair blown back off her forehead, her eyes closed, smiling, drinking this in.

  Did you ever stand here and look down at this, Mum?

  Until she plucked up enough courage to talk to Tristan, she wouldn’t know. Summer sighed. The questions she had had since her mother’s death came crowding in again. Maybe Bosleven, the place, was not the key to her mother’s decision to send her here. Maybe it was Tristan and his wife, Becca, who were important. But then why had her mother never mentioned them or the house? It was too weird to be sent to live with unknown relatives, people she had never even heard of – wasn’t it?

  Mum might have made her will before she’d even met Jess’s mum. Maybe she never thought about changing it.

  Perhaps her mother had broached the subject with Jess’s parents once, Summer reasoned. Perhaps they had said no. She remembered how Jess had backed away from her, not being able to cope with her grief. It would not have worked, staying there.

  It was no good. Too many maybes, too few clues. Thinking like this only brought more useless tears. She should not have run off like that. She needed to talk to Tristan.

  I am an idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  Summer took a deep shuddering breath and told herself to make a decision. She would climb down on to the rocks and find her way to the water’s edge. It would be something to do to distract her.

  She picked her way carefully down the side of the cliff and found her way to the far side of the beach. Rocks, rocks, rocks, as far as she could see to the left and right of her. A moonscape in bright sunlight. She tried tracing back in her mind the way she had come. Could she see the house from here? She looked up at the cliffs. No, she would have to be far out in a boat on the water to be able to see it. Which meant they wouldn’t spot her either.

  To the left, the bay curved round, framed by orange-red cliffs. A peak of bald rock jutted out, shielding the view of the rest of the coastline; the cliff there rising and falling in a craggy point. She imagined trying to climb it.

  You’d need ropes and stuff. This is wild!

  She glanced up at a helicopter going over, tried to envisage what she would look like to the pilot. She would be a speck in this landscape, if she was visible at all. She was tiny, insignificant.

  I am alone now. Alone in the world.

  The thought should have made her sad again, but as she inhaled the salty-sweet air, she felt free. She stretched and felt a pleasant pull along her spine. She was stronger, taller. Un-Summer-like.

  Climbing across the rocks had been exhilarating. It was good to feel something physical, rather than the tears and tiredness of recent days. She checked to see no one was watching her, then raised her arms to the sky and threw her head back.

  On top of the world!

  She could hardly remember the last time she had seen the sea. There had been bucket-and-spade holidays as a little kid; she knew that, but remembered it only as though looking at a faded photograph. She tried to recapture the sensation of wading into the shallows, her hand held hotly in her mother’s.

  She closed her eyes, trying hard to focus, to hold on to that picture. She was already forgetting things about her mother. She was alarmed that she could not picture her face in detail.

  And then I see her when she’s not there.

  Summer opened her eyes again and looked cautiously ahead.

  Will I see you again?

  She was beginning to feel heavy and melancholy once more, and berated herself for foolishly running away from the house.

  What did you think you were doing?

  She saw herself walk across the surface of the water before her, walk right to the edge, and then step off the planet. Falling, falling . . .

  It would be good to fall. To disappear so that she did not have to deal with anything or feel anything any more.

  She shook herself.

  Need to do something. Stop thinking.

  She edged forward, going as close to the water’s edge as she dared, and plonked herself down on a high rock. It was warm. She lay back and spread herself on its pitted surface, soaking up the heat from the earth beneath her and the sun above. It was a different kind of heat from the sticky closeness of the city she had left behind: a cleaner, searing heat, as though she had been dropped on to a griddle pan.

  She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down into the water.

  So clear!

  The rocks below formed a square pool. Summer leaned over and inspected the space more closely. It looked deliberately sculpted.

  Could you cut into rock like that?

  Peering down into the luminous water, she knew she had to dunk herself in it right away. It would probably be fre
ezing, but she didn’t care.

  She kicked off her trainers and saw that blisters had formed in painful red welts on her heels and insteps.

  Another swift check to make certain sure that she was alone, then she pulled her T-shirt over her head, tugged her jeans down. So what, if anyone saw her in her underwear? Then, before the sensible little voice inside her could insist that she get dressed and forget it, she sat on the edge of the pool and pushed herself off the side, slithering into the bright water.

  She had known the water would be cold, but nothing could have prepared her for the iron grip that seized her lungs, squeezing the life out of her. She hauled herself out immediately and hopped from one foot to the other, holding her arms and whimpering. What had she expected?

  Numpty! You haven’t got a towel or anything.

  She bunched up her jeans and gave herself a brisk rub down, scrambled back into her clothes, embarrassed at her stupidity. Then she sat, hunched and shivering as she looked out at the infinite sea.

  How could the world carry on existing like this, so unfeeling? Her mum was dead, but nothing else had changed. The sun still rose, the clouds still gathered, the rain still fell, the tides kept coming in and out, in and out, day after day after day.

  Summer had felt like this even more so in the days before the funeral: how could people drive cars, run to catch buses, eat takeaways, go to the cinema, as if her mother had never existed? It was so – in your face. It wasn’t right. Surely her mum had made more of an impression on the earth? How could she have simply disappeared without a trace?

  So did I see her back at the house, or what? And if I did . . . was it her watching me earlier?

  She shook her head angrily.

  I have got to stop this.

  She stared and stared, fighting back the tears, wanting to blame someone, to shout and hit and scream and punch someone for the unfairness of it all.

  The sea remained majestically beautiful; glittering and calm, unaffected by her emotions.

  Had her mother sat here once, staring out to sea, thinking, dreaming, laughing, talking with a friend? Holding hands? Maybe even in love?

  Where did that come from?

  Collecting her trainers, she crammed her sore feet back into them. Then, with one last heavy sigh, she started back to the house.

  Summer hovered in the kitchen doorway. The clock above Tristan’s head read five past four.

  Her uncle was standing in the alcove, cooking something on a large, old-fashioned range. She coughed to get his attention.

  He looked up sharply, a spoon half raised to his lips.

  ‘Oh!’ he breathed. ‘You . . .’

  She caught a fleeting look of alarm in his eyes as he dropped the spoon and fumbled to catch it.

  He’d forgotten about me!

  She was surprised by how much the thought upset her. After all, she felt nothing for this man other than resentment at the fact she was forced to live with him. But the idea that she might also mean so little to him – so little that he could simply forget she was in his house at all. . . it made her dizzy. She turned to leave.

  Tristan immediately called her back. ‘Summer!’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I’m so sorry. You startled me. I was miles away! I was thinking about . . . Never mind. You’ve caught the sun already,’ he said, covering his confusion with a smile, his head on one side.

  Summer kept her face blank.

  What do I say to him?

  She had no idea how to bend the conversation round to the things she wanted to know. It was easier to stay silent.

  Tristan carefully laid down the spoon. He looked up at her sheepishly, brushed his hands on the flowery apron he was wearing and laughed, ‘I know, not a great look, is it?’

  Summer’s heart gave a little as she took in his bashful expression together with the ridiculous apron. She remained stubbornly silent, however, fighting the urge to laugh along with him.

  Tristan fumbled for something to say. ‘Ah, is – is Kenan with you? I was going to take you both into town but I couldn’t find you. The day has rather run away with itself. Did you get any lunch? I suppose you did have a late breakfast—’

  ‘Dunno where he is,’ Summer cut in, terse and sullen.

  ‘Oh? I thought you and he had gone off together. On a tour.’ Tristan’s brow furrowed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Bit of a fight.’

  ‘A fight—!’

  ‘No, no I don’t mean like a fight-fight,’ Summer said.

  Flip, he’s going to wonder what kind of a nightmare he’s got on his hands.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I mean . . . like a disagreement. It’s nothing.’

  Tristan looked genuinely upset. Summer felt a twinge of guilt.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Summer,’ he was saying, biting his lip. He pushed at his hair again. ‘As I said, this has been a surprise for us – to have you come and live here like this. Kenan will be all right, he just needs a bit of time. As I’m sure you do too. Maybe I was wrong to throw you two together so quickly. He’s used to his own space here.’

  Summer nodded. ‘’S OK. I understand.’

  I understand perfectly. I’ve upset poor little Kenan by just being here. I’ve clearly upset his mother, wherever she is. I’ve upset everyone.

  ‘Plus, I’m not sure he’s that comfortable around girls.’ Tristan was doing that light-hearted, jokey thing again. ‘My fault for sending him to an all-boys school! Which reminds me, we need to talk about school. There’s a good one in Penzance. Might be the place to start. To take a look I mean . . .’

  Summer shrugged.

  There was another awkward silence, then they both started speaking at once.

  ‘Well, maybe I should show you—’

  ‘So when do I meet Becca?’

  Tristan’s face flushed suddenly. He looked as though she had slapped him. ‘I . . . soon. She did pop through to get some stuff. You, er, you just missed her. Shame. She’s a bit busy right now. You know how it is . . .’ He turned back to stir a pot on the stove.

  ‘Sure.’ Summer scuffed at the wooden floor and stared at her feet. How was she going to get anything out of this man? Every opening she made was slammed shut again. Mum and she had talked, had shared everything.

  Not quite everything. Not this place. Not Tristan and his family.

  She was going to have to play along until he was ready. She tossed her hair, tried to look nonchalant. ‘D’you want some help with that?’

  Tristan looked over his shoulder.

  She gestured to the pots simmering on the stove.

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. I’ll stick it in here for a bit,’ he said. He bent to transfer the pans into the oven. Then, straightening up, ‘So where did Kenan take you? Before you . . . fell out.’

  ‘Outside, mainly,’ said Summer.

  ‘Did he take you to the beach?’

  ‘No.’ Heat rose to her face. Should she say she had found it? Or thought she had?

  ‘What about the rockery?’ Tristan asked.

  Summer looked at her feet, shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’

  What if he doesn’t like me poking around on my own?

  Tristan sighed. ‘Oh dear. I had hoped he would be a bit more welcoming.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I think he just had stuff to do . . .’

  Great. He’s going to have a go at Kenan. He’ll really hate me then.

  Tristan was taking off the apron and washing his hands. ‘Right, well, I’ll finish showing you round,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll track Kenan down and have a word with him. You must go to the beach. Especially when the weather’s like this. Going to be a hot one tomorrow too, so they say.’

  ‘No, it’s OK . . .’

  But he wasn’t listening. He had left the sink and turned to a door set into a recess to the left of the stove. She had not noticed it before.

  As she followed Tristan, the little white cat scuttled past, nearly tripping her up.

  ‘Oh! There you are.’ Summer sa
id softly, bending to stroke it, but it zipped away again before her fingers could brush its gleaming fur.

  Tristan turned. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just saying hello to the cat . . .’ she mumbled, embarrassed at being caught talking to the animal.

  Tristan looked at her oddly. ‘What?’ He shook his head, frowned.

  He doesn’t want me here.

  ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this. If you’re busy,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Tristan said. ‘Let’s go through here first.’ He turned the door knob.

  Summer followed him into a small room with dark green, panelled walls. Overloaded bookcases, a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of comfy chairs and a couple of tables stacked with yet more books lent the room a cosy atmosphere. There was a woodburner set into the wall which backed on to the kitchen, and large French windows overlooking the garden. Summer saw they had a view across the lawn to the path where she had been earlier with Kenan.

  ‘Can you see the sea?’ Tristan said, coming over to stand beside her. ‘There, through the pines,’ he said, pointing between some tall, spindly trees.

  Summer nodded as she glimpsed the water sparkling in the sunlight. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting the salt.

  ‘You can’t always see it through those trees. If it’s a grey day, or it’s raining, the sea sort of merges into the sky and everything looks silvery,’ he was saying. He paused, lost in thought. ‘Anyway . . .’ He blinked and turned. ‘This is the little sitting room. Sometimes we call it the library, because of all the books. Obviously.’ He chuckled. ‘TV room too.’ He pointed to the television, almost hidden behind a couple of chairs. ‘We don’t use it much when Kenan’s not around. He watches stuff on his laptop anyway a lot of the time. I suppose you do that too?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Used to. On Mum’s. Sometimes.’

  Wonder if they’ll send it on for me.

  She had not wanted to go through her mum’s stuff; had left that to Jess’s parents. It had felt wrong, riffling through clothes and belongings – things that brought up such painful memories. She regretted it now. It would have been good to have had some of her mum’s things with her.