Summer Love

by Annie Harper

  Jack just smiles in response, figuring that “I know” would sound as daft out loud as it does in his head.

  “Where are you headed?”

  Jack shrugs, fitting the pace of his footsteps to the steady roll of the bicycle. “Nowhere in particular.”

  “Lovely afternoon for it.” The bicycle chain clicks softly. “Have you considered my offer? A cup of tea? I live only a little way down the road.”

  Jack has no good reason to refuse Richard’s persistence, except perhaps for the nerves that line his stomach at the thought of spending time alone with the man. Jack has taught himself to keep his feelings contained, be they lust, desire or affection, ever since Billy. Richard makes that lesson seem hazy, and that frightens Jack. It reminds him too much of how he felt when Billy left: confused, with no one around who could possibly understand or answer the questions that remained.

  “I don’t see why not,” Jack replies finally with a little more spring in his step as he keeps pace at Richard’s side. “If you’re sure I won’t impose.”

  “Why would I offer if I thought you’d be an imposition?” Rich­ard grins and pushes his feet down onto the pedals with more force, and the bicycle picks up speed. “Don’t fall behind!”

  As Richard shoots ahead of him, Jack stutters and starts run­ning: his feet pound against the road; his long legs bring him back to Richard’s side in no time. Richard is laughing somewhat breathlessly, and the sound is infectious. Jack’s stomach hurts by the time Richard pulls up by the side of the curb.

  “There you are! Your sense of time is getting worse in your old age, Rich,” a young woman calls. She is sitting on a low bench outside what Jack presumes must be Richard’s house. Cupping a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, she stands and smooths her long, elegant burgundy skirt. “And who’s this?”

  Jack swallows and glances at Richard. He feels like a child told off for playing in places he shouldn’t—the woman’s voice could be his mother’s.

  “Julie, meet Jack. He’s the Harrisons’ eldest, from down at the greengrocer.” Richard walks his bicycle up the path and kisses Julie’s cheek. “Jack, my girl, Julie Clark.”

  Jack smiles through his teeth; his eyes flicker between the two of them. Richard murmurs apologies for his tardiness; a second kiss lands closer to the corner of Julie’s mouth. Jack hovers on the balls of his feet. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date. Perhaps I’ll drop by another time.”

  Julie replies. “Nonsense! Join us, please.”

  She ushers him in with a beaming smile, her arm slipping through Richard’s with a practiced ease that makes Jack’s stom­ach churn. He gets the distinct sense that he is now an intruder on Richard’s personal life, but he doesn’t wish to be rude when both Richard and Julie seem so persistent in urging him to join them.

  The house is quaint, lined with heirlooms and the odd photo­graph. Jack lingers by a photo on the bookshelf of a young man and a woman with a toddler in her arms. The little boy has a wide, toothy grin. Jack isn’t sure how he recognizes the child as Richard, but he does.

  Richard nods toward the picture. “This was their house.” Jack notes the use of the past tense, but he doesn’t want to ask.

  Richard prepares the tea while Julie shows Jack the vegetable patch with an amused twinkle in her eye. Many of the leaves are withered and limp. Then Richard comes to stand in the doorway and watches them silently. Jack frowns and gently touches a tomato leaf. “Have you remembered to give them water?”

  Richard bites his lip. “Oh.”

  Jack picks up the discarded and apparently unused watering can and fills it from the outdoor tap while Julie cackles with glee.

  Tea is a loud affair: Julie has a large and boisterous personality; her laughter is so exuberant, it fills the room; her shoulders shake with it, and her fair hair falls into her eyes. Jack has no wish to compete with her, so he remains quiet; his fingers trace over the patterns on the teacup. Julie speaks enough for the three of them, with her hands as much as with her voice, although Richard interjects observations of his own.

  “Oh, stop! You’re horrible, I’m not going on one of those rick­ety boats!” Julie bats at Richard’s arm, though she is laughing still. She shakes her head more firmly and then props her chin on her hand and shifts her blue-eyed gaze across the table. “Take Jack instead.”

  Jack raises his eyes from the table and looks at each of them in turn.

  “All right,” Richard agrees, leaning back in his chair and look­ing over at him. “What do you say, Jack? Care to join me on a punting expedition? I have yet to explore the river by boat and it’s just eating me up inside.” He punctuates the statement with a smack of his hand on the table. The teacups rattle on their saucers.

  Punting down the river is something Jack has been doing with his sister since he was a teenager; they take turns poling. It’s a perfect activity for a summer’s day.

  “You’ve never been?” Jack repeats, blinking. “Well, that just won’t do. An inability to grow vegetables is one thing—but this is deplorable.” For a moment, Jack forgets Julie’s presence—perhaps due to her sudden unnatural quiet.

  “Ah, a true connoisseur.” Richard nods approvingly.

  Julie claps her hands, clearly keen not to be forgotten in the making of plans. “I’ll make you boys some provisions.”

  * * *

  Saturday dawns crisp and bright. Dewdrops cling to individual blades of grass and catch the bare skin at Jack’s ankles where he’s rolled up his trouser legs. His mother had eyed him suspiciously as he left; his explanation was rather vague, only “plans to spend the day with a friend.” It’s likely that Jack is too early, but he figures that the riverbank is as good a place as any to pass some time before his companion arrives.

  It’s quiet, which he supposes is unsurprising for this time of the morning. He settles onto the grassy bank, kicks his legs out in front of him and takes the apple his mother insisted on sending with him from his handkerchief. He’d been sure he would feel nervous, more bubbling and butterflies at the pit of his stomach; but an unexpected sense of calm washes over him at the prospect of spending his day with Richard.

  Jack doesn’t wait long before footsteps sound behind him, jogging down the sloped bank. “You’re early,” he comments, as Richard helps him to his feet.

  “So are you.” Richard’s fingers close around Jack’s wrist and he tugs Jack toward the boats. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  Jack shakes his head, memorizing the press of Richard’s thumb against the tree of veins on the inside of his wrist. “No, not long. Not long at all.”

  Jack quickly learns that, while Richard may have many fine attributes, the upper body strength needed to pull the heavy wooden boat down from the bank and into the water is not one of them. He, however, has many years of practice, and gently eases Richard out of the way before hauling the boat smoothly down to the river in one swift pull. Richard clears his throat as if embarrassed, rubs his hands together and sets to work gathering their supplies to take onboard.

  “The trick is to stop the heavy end digging into the grass on the way down,” Jack whispers conspiratorially, and the laugh he gets in response warms his chest with pride. He finds he is growing addicted to the way Richard looks at him—not as the child he has grown tired of people considering him to be, but as a man. His equal. Richard hands him the pole. Jack is already in the boat, one foot still planted on the grassy bank to keep it anchored.

  “So, comparatively, how difficult is the actual punting?”

  Jack helps Richard into the punt before pushing them off the bank. He toes off his shoes and socks and waits for Richard to follow suit, by which time the boat begins to drift into the center of the river. “Don’t be discouraged if it seems tough at first. Just try not to lose the pole in the river.”

  Richard grumbles under his breath, something that sounds like “near impossible, then,” but resolutely reaches for the pole and gestures for Jack to sit in
the opposite end of the boat.

  Jack does as he’s told, biting back the suggestion that perhaps he take the first leg to show Richard the basics—he gets the impression that the other man has a stubbornness about him Jack would be unlikely to break through. Instead, he settles against the worn cushion, folds his legs under himself and care­fully watches Richard’s movements.

  “Wrap your hands firmly around the center of the pole,” Jack instructs gently, but with enough authority to indicate that he knows what he’s talking about. “Slide it up through your hands as quickly as you can and then plunge the end somewhere on this side.” Jack gestures to the left side of the boat.

  Richard lifts the heavy pole barely an inch, and it makes a dull thunk as it sinks right back into the same position. Jack tuts playfully under his breath, and Richard rolls his shoul­ders back, ready to try again. “In my defense,” he begins as he raises the pole—far more effectively this time around—“I am far more accustomed to being the teacher than the student. And, I momentarily forgot the context of my instructions.”

  By the time Jack interprets Richard’s meaning and his cheeks flare with heat, Richard has managed to land the pole in the correct position.

  “What now?” he asks, his bare toes wriggling against the wood as he keeps himself balanced.

  “Drag. Drag the boat along,” Jack stammers. A splash of water hits his cheek. Richard looks far too pleased with himself for having mastered the art of doing that much with the pole, if nothing else.

  “Relax,” Richard murmurs and although he makes it sound as if he means, “in relation to the boat,” Jack can’t help but think that he means it in some wider context, too.

  They weave their way down the river—not quickly, by any standard, but there is no urgency in the day. Richard fumbles with the pole more often than not; sometimes they don’t move so much as float aimlessly. But no one else is on the river and so they can only collide with the banks, which they bounce off of more than once with a kind of repetitive, albeit unintentional, determination.

  For a while, Richard talks of his allotment and the house that begs for repairs he doesn’t know how to do, and—very briefly—of Julie, too. After that, they travel in comfortable silence as Jack sips his mother’s homemade apple juice from a glass bottle and Richard focuses on steering the boat in a moderately straight line down the river.

  “Uh-oh,” Richard says suddenly, drawing Jack’s gaze away from the butterfly he’d been watching skitter over the edge of the grassy bank.

  “Uh-oh?” Jack echoes, raising an eyebrow. Richard’s knuckles are white where he clings to the pole. Jack doesn’t need to ask; he can tell from the pole’s angle that it is stuck in the mud of the riverbed.

  “All right,” Jack sighs and carefully climbs to his feet. “Time for me to take over, then.”

  Richard looks somewhat sheepish as they cross in the middle of the boat, and on impulse Jack reaches for his forearm and squeezes it firmly in reassurance.

  The pole is fairly easily retrieved with a bit of jiggling this way and that. Jack emits a small grunt as it bobs up. He watches the water sliding down the pole and falling onto his arms as he raises it.

  They pass under a bridge, forcing Jack to duck so he doesn’t hit his head, and he feels cooler for a moment. The boat glides out from under the bridge and Jack doesn’t have time to get the pole back into the water and steer them clear of the overhanging trees before they’re under one.

  Richard bursts into laughter as the branches of the weeping willow tickle their sides and envelop the boat almost entirely. One end of the punt digs into the bank and they grind to a halt. Jack sighs and pushes his hair back from his forehead.

  “This seems as good a place as any to picnic,” Richard points out, then moves the provisions into the center of the boat and encourages Jack to secure the pole in the riverbed and join him.

  Jack’s contribution consists, unsurprisingly, of fruit; its juices run from the small crates he’d packed it in. “Yesterday’s left­overs,” Jack explains, extracting an overripe strawberry as evidence. “No longer fit for sale, but in my opinion the sweetest.” He pops the fruit into his mouth, and the light red berry stain remains, coating the tip of his thumb and forefinger.

  Richard, on the other hand, has made an array of sand­wiches—or more likely, Julie has, although Richard neither confirms nor denies the probability—and presents them, neatly arranged, along with a few cakes wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief. It is pleasantly cool beneath the tree—an appropriate place to have stopped, if only by chance. The branches hang lower at Jack’s end, however, and tickle at the top of his head; Richard seems to find this particularly amusing. Jack finally gives up and moves to the space the older man has preemptively cleared next to him.

  Jack feels pleasantly content as he settles there, with his leg resting idly beside Richard’s. He can’t eat any more—ever the sweet tooth, he has gorged himself on perhaps one too many cakes—but he can’t help but watch from the corner of his eye as Richard bites the end of a particularly shrunken strawberry before tossing the rotten end toward the bank.

  It occurs to Jack that this man, this man whom he doesn’t even know well, who has small leaves and other foliage clinging to the back of his shirt and the ghost of stubble on his jaw—it occurs to Jack that he wants to kiss him. Perhaps more than he’s ever wanted to kiss anyone in his life. Twenty-one years have led up to this kiss that he now craves.

  Richard seems to feel his gaze, for he turns his head, and suddenly their proximity is highlighted. Jack can feel the heat of Richard’s breath over his lips, and it sucks all the air out of his lungs. He feels almost lightheaded by the time Richard’s hand comes up to rest on his jaw and his thumb grazes the bone. It’s as if he’s coaxing Jack to him, pulling him closer on an invisible, utterly unbreakable thread.

  The tip of Richard’s nose bumps against Jack’s, and Jack’s eyes flutter closed. Richard seems to take this as consent; there is no hesitation in the press of his lips on Jack’s, a firm and relent­less pressure. Jack can finally breathe again. His hand falls to Richard’s thigh—for something to cling to, above all else—and Richard in turn tightens his hold on Jack’s face. Richard’s tongue grazes Jack’s lower lip and Jack tastes the sweet tang of strawberry underlined with sharper hints of currant.

  Jack pulls back just as Richard rears forward to deepen the kiss and their foreheads bump gently. Almost in unison, they breathe out and into a laugh. “I’m sorry,” Jack murmurs.

  “Don’t apologize,” Richard responds quickly, biting his lip as if trying to contain a wide grin. “As long as I can do that again.”

  Jack wants to yell, to shout the flurry of fiery feelings rushing through his bloodstream. There is no outside world anymore; there are no people; there is no Julie, nor any fear or worry. There is only the pair of them, and this moment. Jack finds himself laughing, the light in his eyes glowing as much as the flush on his cheeks. “I’d tip you out of the boat if you didn’t.”

  They linger under the willow; the faintest ripple of the wind is all that flutters through to them from the outside world. They share kisses and memorize the press of palm to palm and how their fingers lace together. Jack learns that Richard smells inexplicably of wood smoke at the crook of his neck and that three freckles form a small triangle just above his collarbone.

  Other punts go past now and again, accompanied by the cries and laughter of the people in them, who are struggling with their own heavy boats. They must see the tail end of Jack and Richard’s boat protruding from under the tree, and yet no one disturbs their sanctuary beneath the leaves.

  The sun is low in the sky by the time they pull into the main channel of the river once more, and the two men fall silent, as if unsure what they may say to one another now that they have resumed their places in the outside world. Jack wishes for nothing more than to take Richard’s hand in his own again; he sits alone in some emptiness now, as Richard steers them back toward the
bank from which they departed. He fears they will forget every moment shared beneath the tree, as if it never happened. Even worse, he fears remembering, because that could hurt him more.

  But then he looks up, and Richard is smiling at him, and the only thing Jack seems unable to remember is his anxiety.

  Jack is home in time for dinner, which seems to surprise Kathryn, as if she had been expecting him far later in the eve­ning. It’s clear she’s pleased, though; as she brings hot dishes to the table, she asks questions that Jack answers selectively. She presses his cheek in a gesture of affection, her hand warm from the plates. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips before she pulls away, unties her apron and sets it over the back of her chair. He notices Eliza listening from the doorway, her quick and calculating mind no doubt reading into the silences where their mother does not. For a fleeting moment, Jack won­ders what might happen if he told the truth. Would his mother cry? Would his father run him from the house in anger? Would Eliza support him still, or would she turn her back too?

  They switch on the radio, and all talk of the day’s excursion is abandoned. The tone of the news has shifted in the past few days, with reports now focused on the how and what and when of Britain’s defensive action.

  “The British government is beginning to look more seriously into plans for putting together the armed forces necessary to go to war, should the time come. It is expected that the numbers go far beyond that which the country currently has in its reserves, thus likely turning the emphasis to immediate enlistment.”

  Cutlery remains untouched on plates, save for Jack’s. He keeps his head slightly bowed, and the prongs of his fork tap his plate as he eats. He knows that his family is observing him, waiting for him to say something, anything, about his uncertain future. He is the only man in the family eligible to be sent to the front if war breaks out. And it is with him that the Harrison name rests.