Summer at Shell Cottage

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘I didn’t!’ squeaked Molly, taking a step back, but Freya wasn’t deterred. If anything, she looked like she might very well punch Ben.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Freya replied tartly. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, sneaking around with a fifteen-year-old girl?’

  Oh shite, thought Molly, the romance of the scene evaporating before her eyes, like blight on a rose, a glass heart trampled by a jackboot. She was going to be in so much trouble for this. She should have known nobody else would understand their love! But before Ben could even answer, in came a shrieking hellcat – Mum! – barrelling into the room with such force and ferocity that the walls practically quaked. ‘Molly!’ she cried, making a beeline for her and almost squeezing the life out of her with a wild embrace. Jesus. Hysterical mother alert. Now she was definitely in the shit. But then, as her mum’s arms tightened around her, she was struck in the same moment by how safe she felt, and how relieved she was, deep down, to have been rescued at the last second. Embarrassingly, she almost wanted to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Molly began saying but was almost deafened in the next moment when Mum let out a yell of shock upon recognizing Ben. ‘Mr Jamison? What on earth … ?’

  ‘I can explain,’ Ben mumbled, hanging his head, but Mum was on a total roll now. She let go of Molly and advanced on him, eyes blazing, squaring up to him like a boxer.

  ‘You’re her English teacher, you dirty old sod. She’s fifteen years old! What the frig do you think you’re doing? Wait until the headteacher hears about this. And the police!’

  Everything happened really quickly after that, like a film that had been set on fast-forward. Mum went on ranting, her voice rising shrilly – ‘Is this what you do, prey on young girls? You piece of shit! You pervert!’ – while Ben collapsed into the nearest armchair and put his head in his hands. ‘Please don’t tell the head,’ he said, his voice muffled. He didn’t look at Molly. ‘I don’t want my wife to know.’

  ‘I bet you bloody don’t,’ Freya said with disdain, just as Molly cried, ‘Your wife?’ He still wasn’t looking at her and she felt heat rush into her face, a huge lump of hurt sticking in her throat. He’d never said anything about a wife!

  ‘Welcome to womanhood, darling,’ her mum said in the most awful, angry voice. She glared at Ben; Molly had never seen her face look quite so ugly with hatred. ‘Spoiler alert: they’re all tossers at the end of the day.’

  ‘I’m ringing the police,’ Freya said. ‘This is appalling. You realize you’ve broken the law? Christ, man, pull yourself together. Snivelling isn’t going to help you now. You’re finished, end of story. You’re history.’

  ‘Ben,’ said Molly in a low voice. ‘Ben.’

  Still he didn’t raise his gaze to hers. ‘Don’t speak to him, darling,’ Mum said, as Freya said, ‘Police, please,’ into her phone and began rattling off what had happened.

  ‘Please, Ben,’ Molly said desperately. Even though she was secretly kind of relieved that she hadn’t had to go through with it – sex with him, her thirty-something teacher, in this weird-smelling hotel – she was devastated too. Sorry for him, even. He looked broken and haggard. No more swagger. No more charming smiles, white teeth and suggestive looks. Now he seemed to have shrunk in the space of a few minutes, his forehead lined, a sheen of grease on his top lip. He’d seemed so handsome at school, striding around with an armful of exercise books, reading them Wilfred Owen poems and becoming so choked up with emotion that his voice had caught on the last lines. She had fallen in love with him there and then, swooning in her bedroom later on over the hidden depths of sensitivity, wisdom and compassion that little catch in his voice implied. A man who was unafraid to show his emotions – hell, yeah. Emotion me right up, Mr Jamison, she’d thought dreamily.

  And then he’d caught her eye once, twice, three times in class. He’d asked her to stay behind one lesson – something about a book he thought she should read – and touched her arm, unbearably softly, just with his fingertips. She had gasped and turned red (and had then gazed yearningly, romantically at that same patch of skin on her arm for the rest of the day, unable to believe it didn’t still bear the imprint of his touch). She had even had a go at reading the poetry book he’d lent her, although in all honesty, poetry was so not her thing and she didn’t have a clue what poets were wittering on about half the time.

  But he’d kindled something in her. Something hot and exciting and unquenchable. English lessons became the golden hours of her week at school, the hours that sped by fastest, where she drank in the sight of him, her heart fluttering like a million butterfly wings whenever he glanced her way. God, he was beautiful. He was just so manly and knowing and clever. A million miles away from all the spotty jerks in her year, with their bobbing Adam’s apples and disgusting Lynx miasma. Compared to Mr Jamison, they were practically babies who knew nothing.

  Yet now – at last – he was looking up and his gaze was cold and unpleasant. ‘You had to go and open your mouth, didn’t you?’ he said sullenly and she felt sick inside, that this was all her fault, that he hated her now.

  ‘Ben, I swear I didn’t tell anyone,’ she cried in anguish, tears pricking her eyes, but Mum was already flying at him. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she hissed, pointing a finger in his face. ‘Don’t you dare even look at her any more, or you’ll have me to answer to, sunshine.’

  Freya hung up her call and came to stand by Mum in solidarity. ‘The police are on their way,’ she said.

  Molly couldn’t stop staring at Mr Jamison, head bowed, sniffing into his hands. Mr Jamison, who had a wife at home – a wife who hadn’t got the faintest idea that Molly even existed. Mr Jamison, and the naked texts he’d sent her, and the dirty phone calls, and his fingers touching her body in Stratford. All of a sudden she couldn’t wait for the police to get there. She felt repulsed, even to be standing in the same room as him.

  The police came and escorted Mr Jamison away while a crowd of curious holidaymakers watched outside. ‘Shame on you!’ Mum yelled as he was pushed into a police car, much to Molly’s mortification. Glad as she was that Mum and Freya had turned up like they had (how had they even known to anyway?), there was something about having your mother yell things, publicly, in the street, that was never going to be not embarrassing.

  ‘Oh, Molly,’ Mum said, and looked as if she was going to start crying again as the police car drove away. ‘Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you tell me? You stupid bloody girl! Have I taught you nothing? Didn’t it occur to you that you might be getting yourself into danger?’

  Mum had never called Molly a ‘stupid bloody girl’ before. She’d never said anything so horrible to her, ever, and Molly badly wanted to dish out some cool, snarky answer about having a private life, thank you very much, and nobody told their mums anything anyway, and God, Mum, it was hardly danger, but she lost her nerve and then – even more mortifyingly – the shock of what had just happened hit her, and she burst into proper gulping tears herself. How had it all gone so horribly wrong? She would have to go to the station later to be questioned about what had happened, the police officers had said, and even though Mum had promised she’d be with her, and Freya had said Vic – a policeman himself, of course – could help out if she wanted him to, Molly still couldn’t quite get her head around it. All she kept thinking about was Ben’s face, and the ashen look in his eyes as the police arrived and told him he was under arrest. Under arrest!

  ‘I was scared,’ she blubbed. ‘I wanted to tell you, Mum. I did! But he said … he said …’

  ‘I heard him,’ Freya said, putting a consoling arm around her. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry to have eavesdropped, but I heard your conversation with him this morning. That’s how I knew you were here.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sorry you eavesdropped,’ Mum said a bit tearfully, putting an arm around her on the other side so that Molly was like the filling in a middle-aged woman sandwich. ‘Thank Christ you did, Freya. Thank heavens!’

&
nbsp; ‘He was putting a lot of pressure on you, I heard him,’ Freya went on kindly, which just made Molly cry even harder. ‘And unfortunately, men say all sorts of things like that if they think they might have a chance of getting their leg over. When you reach our age, you know better, but we’ve all fallen for it in the past ourselves. Come on, darling, you’re okay, there’s no real harm done.’

  ‘I’m sorry I shouted. You just gave me a fright, that’s all,’ Mum said, rubbing Molly’s back. ‘The fright of my bloody life. I’ll have grey hair by the time this holiday’s out, you wait.’ She kissed her head so hard and fiercely, Molly thought she might get whiplash.

  ‘Sorry Mum,’ she mumbled. ‘And thank you for coming to get me. Both of you. I’m actually sort of glad you did.’

  And then they were all hugging each other and even though it was, like, soooo embarrassing, and Molly would totally die if anyone from school ever saw her do anything like that, it was also weirdly nice. Even if Mum never let her out of her sight again and grounded her for ever – she was so going to ground her once she’d got over the shock and the hugging had ended – Molly had a feeling that everything might just be okay.

  Only one thing was puzzling her. Why was Mum being so down on men when Robert was, like, the nicest, funniest man ever?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The three of them were all so charged with adrenalin after the teacher-pervert was taken away that nobody was in any hurry to get back in their cars and leave the scene of the crime. Harriet was tearful and shell-shocked, thanking Freya repeatedly for what she’d done, Molly was subdued, and Freya … Well, Freya felt quietly proud of herself for once, for having done something really, really good at last. It was a bloody great feeling. Thanks to her, disaster had been averted. Thanks to her, they were all sitting safely on the prom now, with takeaway cups of tea and a bag of iced buns for the shock. And would she have acted so quickly if she’d been groaning with a hangover that morning? Probably not.

  Maybe, just maybe, this was some divine kind of recompense, a sign that good things came to those who drank lemonade. Or something.

  Besides all of that, she was just glad to have been able to help Harriet, when her sister-in-law had been such a good friend to her on this holiday. Now they were bound together, battle comrades who had both been there for each other in their hours of need. Freya wasn’t used to this sort of kinship with another woman, the sensation of a friend ‘having your back’, as Vic would say. That felt pretty bloody brilliant, too.

  In all, the whole experience was a definite reminder that life was short, she thought, getting back into her car after the buns had helped revive them. In a few years, it might be Libby falling in love with the wrong man and cycling off for clandestine meetings (God forbid). Dexter was already talking longingly about motorbikes (over her dead body) and Teddy had told her matter-of-factly the other day, first milk tooth in hand, that he knew the tooth fairy was only a story, and could she just give him the pound now, please? The years were passing, the children were growing up fast and one day a summer would come when all three of them would rather be off doing their own thing, having adventures, falling in love. This morning had been a wake-up call, she realized, starting the engine and driving away. She had to make the most of these precious summer months while they were still together, because you never knew what might be around the next corner.

  As she dropped a gear to climb the steep hill up and out of Ennisbridge, a memory tickled at the back of her mind and she smiled. Oh yes, she thought to herself, banging the steering wheel in the triumph of a good idea. Thank you, subconscious. Now she knew exactly what to do that afternoon.

  ‘Wheeeeeeeee!’

  ‘Aaaaarrrgghh!’

  ‘Watch out!’

  It was later that day, and she had brought Victor and the children out to the very same National Trust house they’d visited all those years ago, with the big beautiful house, gorgeous flower-filled gardens, and the best hill she’d ever seen for rolling down like lunatics.

  They had grass in their hair, green smears across their clothes, and – ‘I’ve broken my glasses!’ cried Teddy in excitement, poking his finger through the now empty bit where a lens had once done its duty. But none of it mattered. None of it was important, compared to the raucous shrieks of laughter that floated through the summer air, as they each tumbled down and down and bumpily down. Raucous, shrieking laughter was the very best sound in the world today.

  And actually, she thought with a grin, rolling down a hill, holding hands with your husband or child in a wobbly human line, seeing the world twist and rotate at dizzying breathless speed … Well, that was up there with the best sensations in the world too. It felt like pure, undiluted happiness, in fact; an espresso of joy.

  ‘Listen, Frey … I just want to say I’m sorry,’ Vic said, as the children raced back up the hill for their tenth roll, leaving just the two of them dishevelled and giddy at the bottom. ‘I’m really sorry I didn’t notice that you haven’t been yourself lately.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, leaning forward and plucking a clump of dried grass from above his right ear. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘No, love. It’s not fine. I’ve been so wrapped up in what happened to me that I stopped seeing what was happening to you – or anyone else.’ Now it was his turn to lean over and gently tuck a daisy into her hair. ‘And I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, all right? I promise.’

  She smiled at him – a tentative smile of hope. She had a feeling that they had turned a corner together, that they were going to be okay. And then – ‘WHOOOOAAAAAA!’ – down tumbled Libby in a flurry of screaming and flying plaits straight into Victor, and they were all laughing again.

  Afterwards, when everyone was too weak and giggly for any more rolling, and the subject of ice creams had been raised by several hopeful voices, Freya glanced over and saw a couple on a bench nearby smiling across at them. We’ve become that family, she thought, smiling back. The family I always wanted us to be, right back when Victor and I came here that first summer’s day, all those years ago. Sure, they would still have their bickering, door-slamming moments and laundry panics and homework dramas ahead, she wasn’t kidding herself that any of the chaos would miraculously cease. But in years to come, she and Victor would be able to look back on this afternoon and think, We got it right that day. It would become a proper, lovely, gold-tinged memory for all of them.

  ‘Let’s go and track down some ice creams,’ she said, to wild whoops of delight.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Once they had finished at the police station, Harriet drove the two of them back, Molly’s bike strapped onto the roof rack. She kept glancing sideways at her daughter along the way. It was as if a mask had slipped – a mask on her own daughter’s face – revealing this beautiful young woman in place of the little girl Harriet had seen there all this time. How had she failed to notice? Somehow, in the blink of an eye, Molly had transformed into a semi-adult who fell in love and plotted secret getaways. Who had almost gone to bed with Mr Sleazebag Jamison.

  Harriet could weep at the very thought of that creep getting his hands on her daughter. And she a child protection officer, too. Well, she hadn’t exactly done a brilliant job of protecting her own child. She had failed dismally, in fact. Thank goodness Freya had been there, she thought for the hundredth time.

  That afternoon, back at Shell Cottage, Freya disappeared off with Victor and her children, while Harriet and Molly felt the need to stay close together. Harriet was reminded of penguins huddling against one another for comfort and protection from battering storms, as the two of them set up sun loungers in the garden beside each other and lay there, two penguins eating ice creams in the sunshine, reassured by the other’s presence. She kept having to resist reaching out and touching her daughter, just for the physical contact, just because she was there. She never wanted to let her out of her sight again. Not until she was at least thirty, anyway.

  Molly looked pa
le and wrung out, and Harriet felt a twist of sympathy for her. Even though she’d been boiling over with rage back there in the hotel, fists clenched as if she might actually deck the sleazoid and bust up his shifty, weaselly face, her heart had cracked a little at the agony apparent in her daughter’s shocked expression. She wasn’t sure that crack would ever heal over. Mothers always felt their children’s pain; this was just how it was. ‘How did it all start, then – with you and him?’ she asked gently. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Molly’s eyes hooded over and for a moment Harriet thought she would pull down the shutters and mumble that no, she did not want to talk about it. She did not want to talk to Harriet about anything, ever again. She was probably embarrassed that her mother and aunt had dragged her away and kicked up such a loud, shrill fuss in public. Was the door now closed to future confidences and confessions? Would Harriet be frozen out for her crime of compassion?

  ‘He was just really nice to me. At school,’ Molly said eventually. ‘He made me feel … special.’ She winced, obviously aware that this was no longer the case. ‘And it was exciting too. Having to keep the secret.’

  Harriet’s heart ached with the memory of what it was like to be fifteen and in love. That delicious soup of feelings, so vivid and intense, so all-consuming. The girls at the school where she worked were always coming into her office, starry-eyed, throwing themselves into a chair and pouring their hearts out about this boy or that. ‘He is so fine, miss. I am well in love.’ She knew this. She saw it every day. So how on earth had she failed to notice her own daughter going through this electrifying experience herself?

  ‘When a boy – or a man – starts making you keep a relationship secret, it’s not generally a good sign,’ she said gently. While she didn’t want to alienate Molly by being patronizing, there were some things a girl had to know.