Lost Summer

by Stuart Harrison

  There was nothing else Adam could think of to ask for the moment, and it was clear that Graham was losing patience so Adam thanked him for his time and rose to leave. Graham showed him to the door.

  ‘That accident had nothing to do with the protest, Adam,’ he said. ‘There’s already been a lot written in the papers about that, and most of it bloody rubbish. Some people around here have had enough of journalists. You might want to remember that before you go around stirring things up.’

  ‘I’ ll bear it in mind,’ Adam said, thinking that if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Graham’s warning had sounded almost like a threat.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angela parked her car in the driveway outside the large red sandstone house that had once belonged to David’s parents. It had a walled garden, and was on the edge of the town. Behind it there was a paddock where Kate, their ten-year-old daughter, kept her pony. Across the fields the River Gelt cut a path through the valley from the fells, which rose up behind the house. In the summer the hills were a patchwork of pale greens and browns and the purple of the heather. In the winter they were grey and barren, shrouded with cloud and often covered with deep snow. In bad years the blizzards could rage for weeks.

  She went inside the house and put away the groceries. When she was done she went upstairs to the attic room that had been converted for use as her studio and checked her email. She loved this room, with its big roof window that looked out towards the river and the fells. There was a message from Julian Crown, who was her publisher. He wanted her to call him.

  As she stood in front of her drawing board looking at the illustrations for the story that she was working on, she wondered what he wanted. The books that she wrote were very simple, aimed at two- to four-year-olds. It was the accompanying pictures that breathed life into her words. It was a career she’d stumbled into almost by accident, when she’d answered an ad in one of the Sunday papers. After Kate was born the doctors had told Angela she wouldn’t have any more children, so when Kate started going to kindergarten she suddenly had the house to herself again and she was bored. David had said she could help out with the office work at the sawmill if she wanted to, but the business was doing well enough without her, and he already had Mollie as his personal assistant-cum-secretary-cum-administrator. Besides which, the sawmill was David’s passion. She wanted something for herself.

  She had phoned her old boss at the mail order company in Carlisle where she’d worked after she’d finished art college, and he’d offered to give her back her old job, but seeing the old office again, and many of the same faces, had made her hesitant. While she was thinking it over she saw an ad inviting people interested in a career as an illustrator for children’s stories to submit samples of their work.

  Believing she had nothing to lose she’d gone to the library and pored over a stack of books like the ones she’d read to Kate when she was younger. Then she had gone home and written one herself, basing it around Castleton and the fells and surrounding countryside, and including a few whimsical watercolours. She’d posted it off quickly, before she changed her mind, not really expecting anything to come of it.

  The publisher, it turned out, liked her work. His name was Julian Crown. Over the phone he told her that her pictures evoked a strong sense of childlike innocence that was, in his words, ‘really quite charming’. She went down to London on the train to meet him, suspicious that there would be a catch, half expecting him to ask her to pay for the production of her book herself. In fact he turned out to be a likable and genuine man who wore a suit with a buttonhole flower. He took her to lunch at a restaurant in Poland Street and told her that if she listened to his advice he thought he could sell her work. She had, and he did. Since then on average she’d produced a book a year. She wasn’t about to retire to the South of France on the proceeds, but she enjoyed the feeling of independence and the sense of purpose it gave her. She only worked a couple of hours a day, usually in the mornings after Kate had left for school. She could have done more if she wanted. Julian was always trying to persuade her that she should.

  She picked up the phone and called the number for Kimberley Books and was put through to Julian.

  ‘Angela, you got my message.’ He sounded pleased to hear from her.

  ‘Hello, Julian, how are you?’

  ‘Marvellous. Couldn’t be better. How’s life in the wild open spaces?’

  ‘It’s Cumbria, Julian. It isn’t exactly the Russian Steppes.’

  He laughed, but to him it might as well have been. On one of her occasional visits to London he’d taken her to meet his wife. They lived in a three-storey Georgian terrace house in a leafy street near Belsize Park. The world of publishing apparently involved an endless round of social events. In between cocktail parties and book launches Julian and his wife, who Angela had thought was beautiful and sophisticated, went to the opera and the theatre and ate at fine restaurants. Their house was tastefully and expensively furnished. Angela had showed Julian on a map exactly where she lived and she recalled his expression of surprise.

  ‘My dear, it’s practically in Scotland.’ He seemed to think civilization ended somewhere just north of Hampstead, and Hadrian’s Wall hadn’t been built for nothing.

  Now, as they chatted, and he asked how her current book was progressing she wondered what he really wanted. She told him the book would be finished on time.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, and there was a significant pause.

  ‘Was there something specific you wanted to talk about, Julian?’

  ‘Actually there is, now that you come to mention it. An American firm is interested in publishing you.’ He paused to allow a moment for that to sink in. ‘They like your work, but they want you to do a series specifically for their market.’

  ‘You mean, set them in America?’

  ‘Actually, they want you to make them more English. Or at least more like the average American’s idea of England. Put in a few teashops and the odd m’lord perhaps. There is a catch,’ Julian added.

  ‘A catch?’ She should have known there would be. The excitement she’d begun to feel rapidly dissipated.

  ‘The thing is they want nine books over the next three years.’

  ‘Nine?’ she echoed.

  ‘And they would want you for a publicity tour.’

  Suddenly she realized exactly what would be involved. What had begun as an interest, something she found personally rewarding, would become a full-time career. Three books a year would mean taking on a commitment way beyond her current contract with Julian. She understood that it wouldn’t end there. It would just be the beginning. A tour would mean she would have to go away, perhaps for weeks. Her life would change. ‘I don’t know, Julian. There’s Kate to think of.’

  He sighed. ‘I was afraid you’d say that. This kind of opportunity doesn’t often come along, Angela. It may never happen again. Before you turn it down, at least think about it. Will you promise me?’

  She hesitated before she agreed. She owed him that much. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  He then spent another fifteen minutes reiterating what was at stake. He kept repeating that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If things went well perhaps other countries would publish her books too. The Americans would launch her with a tour of their major cities. New York, San Francisco, Chicago. When he finally let her go her head was spinning with the thought of all those places she had only ever read about. After they hung up she gazed out of the window at the fells. Once she had thought that this was the only life she ever wanted; herself and David and Kate, this house. They had been happy. Her expression clouded with sadness.

  Downstairs Angela paused in the doorway to David’s study. The room smelt vaguely musty so she opened the window to let in some air. She glanced at some papers on the desk. A recent bank statement for the sawmill revealed that there was more money going out of the business than was coming in. She opened the drawer whe
re she knew David kept his Scotch and the bottle she found was only two-thirds full. Yesterday it had been unopened.

  She looked around at the hunting and fishing prints on the wall, the clutter of male effects. Three or four fishing rods in one corner, an old leather shotgun case that he kept behind the bookcase. The room had David’s stamp all over it. It was a man’s room. She used to think she knew him. For most of their married life together they’d been happy. They had the occasional argument and there were things about David that irritated her, but they weren’t important. No doubt he felt the same way about some of her habits. But these last few months he had changed. At first she’d put it down to worry about the sawmill. The local economy, which was so reliant on farming, had taken a battering in successive years, and uncertainty over the estate hadn’t helped matters. But it was more than that. She had the disconcerting feeling that this was the room of a stranger. These days when David was at home he sat in here brooding and drinking. He wouldn’t talk to her any more, though she knew there was something eating away at him. She couldn’t remember when he’d last slept in their bed. A month? Six weeks? It was affecting Kate as well. She avoided her father and these days hardly ever brought friends home from school.

  For the first time in thirteen years Angela faced the possibility that her marriage was in trouble. How much longer was she prepared to go on like this? Briefly she envisaged a new life for herself and Kate. It was just a momentary speculation, prompted in part by her conversation with Julian, partly by an increasing sense of hopelessness. Almost immediately she banished the thought. What was she thinking? Guiltily she left the room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As Adam went into the newsagent’s the bell over the door rang. He paused, savouring the mingled smells of tobacco and sugar confectionary. A middle-aged woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. He didn’t recognize her. He went over to the counter and picked up some chewing gum.

  ‘Wasn’t this shop once owned by George Curtis?’ he asked casually. ‘I noticed the name over the door had changed.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t lived here long.’

  Her accent, he realized, wasn’t even Cumbrian. She sounded as if she was from Newcastle. He smiled, feeling foolish, and went back outside. As he walked back towards the square he watched people pass by, searching for a familiar face. Across the road a woman came down the steps from the bank. She was fishing in her bag, perhaps looking for her car keys because she stopped beside a Renault parked by the kerb. He watched her, his heart beating hard in his chest. At that moment she looked up, and their eyes met.

  Her hair was still long and pale blonde. She wore jeans and a dark jacket, and his secret fear that the years would have changed her was swept away. She broke their gaze and found her keys, but then as she was about to get into her car she looked again, and this time her brow creased in a puzzled frown. All at once her expression slowly dissolved. She gave a small, disbelieving shake of her head and smiled uncertainly. She began to cross the road, and as he went to meet her, her smile broadened.

  ‘Adam? My God. Is it you?’

  ‘Hello, Angela.’

  She was momentarily lost for words. Her eyes were startling. Vivid blue, but paler than he remembered.

  ‘This is incredible. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m, uh, visiting for a few days.’

  A few feet and fifteen years separated them. Neither of them knew quite what to do. In France they would have embraced and kissed, but bound by the reserve of the English they were briefly awkward. Then Angela grinned and stepped towards him.

  ‘Adam, it’s so good to see you.’ And at last, they hugged one another.

  They went to the New Inn for coffee, and sat at a table in the corner of the bar. As they chatted, catching up on the main events of their lives, he had to force himself to concentrate on what she was saying. He knew he was staring. Until they’d hugged he hadn’t really understood how much he’d wanted to see her. Maybe he’d never allowed himself to acknowledge what she had meant to him. He had put away his feelings all those years ago, closed the door and turned the key on some inner sanctum. Now, seeing her again had let loose emotions he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  As she talked he compared her with the mental image he’d preserved. Of course she was older, but when he’d left she’d been a girl. Now she was a woman, and more beautiful than ever. Her skin was smooth, though there was a tiny scar on her jaw that he didn’t remember being there before, and her voice had altered, having lost the girlish inflection of youth. It was richer, and when she laughed, as she did often, it produced a yearning in him that was almost physical. He wanted to touch her. He also experienced an echo of bitterness that he had ever lost her.

  He learned that she had a daughter, and she mentioned David’s name. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that they had married. He kept his expression carefully neutral, though he noticed the hesitation in her voice, and when he steered the subject towards other things she happily asked him about his work. She wasn’t surprised that he’d become a journalist. When she told him about her own career there was a note of pride in her voice.

  ‘That’s fantastic. Mind you, I always thought I would become the writer,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly Harry Potter, but I do love it.’ She told him about her conversation earlier with her publisher.

  ‘What will you do?’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

  He sensed there were undercurrents, considerations that he didn’t feel he could ask about. Her expression became clouded for a moment, and then she changed the subject.

  ‘You haven’t told me if there’s a Mrs Turner yet.’

  ‘There’s an ex-Mrs Turner.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do you have children?’

  He shook his head. ‘We weren’t together long enough for that.’

  As they skipped over the years, filling in the gaps, she told him her parents had sold the shop and retired, and mentioned the names of people he remembered.

  ‘What about Nick, is he still around?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘And Graham too. You’ll never guess what he does now.’

  ‘Let me try. He joined the police force and runs the local station.’

  She pulled a face, her surprise spoiled. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I saw him earlier.’

  He explained how they’d met and she looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘What were you doing visiting the local police station? Does it have something to do with why you’re here?’

  ‘I’m working on something.’

  ‘A story?’

  ‘It could be.’

  She looked intrigued, but before she could ask any more questions she noticed the clock on the wall. ‘Christ! Look at the time. I’m sorry, Adam, I have to go and pick Kate up.’ She hesitated, weighing her thoughts. ‘Look, why don’t you come for dinner tonight? If you’re not doing anything of course.’

  ‘I didn’t have anything planned.’

  ‘Great. Let’s say about eight? You know where we live, it’s David’s parents’ old house. We moved in after they died.’

  Suddenly, confronted with seeing David again, seeing them together, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. He sensed Angela’s own reservations, no doubt wondering as he did if they could forget the past. But he wanted to see her again, and it was that and perhaps curiosity that made his decision. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good.’ She stood up then leaned over to kiss his cheek. ‘See you later.’

  He watched her go, his senses filled with her scent, his emotions in turmoil.

  Adam sat in his room aware that he ought to leave otherwise he’d be late. Was this a good idea he wondered? Of course it wasn’t. So why was he going? He got up and went to the door and when he opened it a blast of freezing cold air hit him. It was dark. He could have stepped back into another dimension, cast back through time. Only it had been early morning instead of night
.

  He remembered looking out of the kitchen window, though he couldn’t see much. It was dark outside, and cold. Summer had ended and he was in the last year of school. The idea of freezing his nuts off waiting to blast a few ducks out of the sky was definitely unappealing. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was only three in the morning.

  When the kettle boiled he poured hot water into his thermos. At least he’d have hot soup. He tasted it, and grimaced as he examined the packet. It was supposed to be chicken but it tasted of salt.

  Outside it was even colder than he’d thought. The moon appeared briefly through a gap in the clouds then vanished again. Kyle had said he could borrow the Land Rover and as he drove into town Adam turned the heater on full blast, shivering while the cab slowly warmed.

  ‘You’re late,’ David said, when he arrived. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure we’d still be going. It feels as if it might snow.’

  Nick threw him a contemptuous look. ‘A bit of snow won’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘Fine,’ Adam said, unwilling to argue.

  The others threw their gear in the back and they started off. It was normally a half-hour drive up to Cold Tarn but it took them longer because as they climbed towards the fells it began to snow. Adam stared glumly into the swirling flakes that blew out of the darkness. When they reached the forest they turned down a rutted frozen track and drove as far as they could. Where it ended they had to leave the Land Rover to walk the final half-mile or so.

  Adam had borrowed Kyle’s shotgun, which he carried in the crook of his arm, with the barrel broken and unloaded as they began to follow a trail towards the lake. Within five minutes the snow started really to come down, turning the forest into a hushed and eerie, almost otherworldly place. The ground beneath the pines was quickly covered, and the air was filled with softly falling flakes, acting as insulation, deadening sound. The moon had vanished and all around there was only the black of the trees and the white of the snow.