‘I’m starting to think it might have something to do with me,’ he said. ‘It’s all right for you, Tom, basking in the love of a grateful sporting nation, your talent moulded and coaxed and cherished, a place in the cricket academy set aside for you, like a seat at the throne of some royal sporting kingdom. What about serfs like me? The talentless scum of the earth? Do you need someone to bleach your whites? Polish your bat? Carry your ball—’
Gracie decided she’d had enough of feeling stuck in a locker room with a thirteen-year-old. ‘Okay, Spencer, thanks. We get the idea.’
He turned his attention to her. ‘We? “We get the idea.” The royal we? The royal couple?’ He laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. ‘How long has this been going on between you? A week? Ten days at the most? No need to carry on as if you’re about to celebrate your fiftieth wedding anniversary, up there on your fluffy white lovey-dovey cloud, Gracie.’ He took a big sip of his drink. His fifth pint. He was drinking two rounds for every one of theirs. So far, Tom had bought every round. ‘Excuse me for putting a dampener on love’s young dream and all of that, but a little look at the facts of the situation here mightn’t do you any harm. In the real world, Gracie, there are things called holiday romances. Have had one or two of them myself, as it happens. Nothing like being a glass collector to be able to scope out a room for visiting international beauties. They come, I see, I conquer. Now, young Tom here, sure, he looks like a gentleman on the outside, beautiful manners, as my mother didn’t stop banging on about on the phone last night – “And he cooks too. No wonder Gracie is smitten”.’ He did an uncomfortably good imitation of Eleanor’s voice. ‘But my role in this family is to keep us all real, Gracie, and I don’t want you thinking more of this than there is, okay? Tom’s here on a holiday. He’ll be gone without a backward glance one day soon and it’s up to me to keep your feet on the ground and stop you from getting too attached or too hurt, or thinking —’
Gracie didn’t stop to hear any more. She stood, picked up her red coat and was outside seconds later, hands shaking from anger or the cold wind, she wasn’t sure which. In less than a minute she’d gone back in time, back to being the little girl standing on the sidelines as Tom and Spencer hatched plans and had fun without her. How dare Spencer come crashing in like this, reclaim Tom as if they were back playing at the Templeton Hall dam again. And why hadn’t Tom said something, stood up for her, stood up for what was happening between them? Because what Spencer had said was true? Of course. That was it. How could she have been so stupid? It was just a holiday romance for Tom, a little interlude overseas before he went back home and his life was taken over by cricket once and for all …
She heard the door open behind her, then a voice.
‘If we hurry, we’ll be able to get to the five o’clock session.’
She spun around. Tom was there, buttoning his coat, carrying her scarf. She’d left it on the back of her chair.
She said nothing, just stared at him.
‘Unless you don’t want to go to the cinema any more? Pity. I liked the sound of that film.’
‘What about Spencer?’
‘I don’t think Spencer would like the sound of that film. In fact, Spencer isn’t invited to see that film.’
‘You don’t want to stay in there? Stay with him?’
Tom pretended to give the idea some consideration. ‘Let me think. Choice one. Stay in a pub and watch an old childhood friend get progressively more drunk and insulting. Choice two, go to see a film with my beautiful, non-holiday romance girlfriend, just the two of us. Or maybe not go and see a film. Go for a walk. Go and count bridges. Do anything that keeps me close to her for as long as possible. I really can’t decide.’
‘But he’s your friend. I thought you were enjoying it.’
‘He’s your brother. I thought you were enjoying it. Sorry, Gracie. I’m not a big drinker. A few pints do me.’
‘So why did you stay as long as you did?’
‘Because he’s your brother. Because he was – is – my friend. I liked him. I still like him. I just didn’t like the rubbish he started to spout at the end. When he sobers up, I’ll tell him. Rule number one for dealing with intoxicated patrons, Gracie.’ He smiled. ‘Spencer’s not the only one who’s worked in bars. You can’t talk sense to anyone when they’re drunk.’
Gracie relaxed.
He gently draped the scarf around her neck, once, twice, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘So, the film? Or the walk? Or the bridges?’
‘Can we just go home?’
‘Option four, you mean?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Can we run rather than walk? Hail a taxi, even?’
She smiled. ‘There’s the minor problem of Spencer having a key. I suppose I could always get the locks changed.’
‘Poor Spencer. Do you want to check he’s okay before we leave?’
She hesitated. Right now, she’d be happy if she never saw Spencer again. She always forgot what a troublemaker he could be. But he was her little brother. Her too-often insulting, annoying, misbehaving little brother … She should say goodbye at least. She put her head back in through the pub door. Spencer was up on a table brandishing a pool cue like a guitar, miming to a Bon Jovi song on the jukebox. A pair of pretty young women were cheering him on. She called his name several times. He didn’t hear her.
‘Bye, Spencer,’ she said. Then, linking arms with Tom, she turned and walked down the street towards home.
Over the next week, Gracie kept waiting for something to change between them, for the gloss to fade. It didn’t happen. It got brighter. London became an enchanted city, filled with beautiful buildings she and Tom wanted to see, plays and films and comedy they wanted to watch, parks and gardens they wanted to visit together. The sun shone five days in a row. They even managed another night out with Spencer, a good night this time, a pizza together and then a band in a local pub. Spencer spent most of the evening pointing out how well behaved he was being.
One afternoon, Gracie was surprised to get a phone call from Hope. Her aunt got straight to the point.
‘Gracie, I hear things have become quite serious between you and this Tom Donovan. I think I should meet him again, don’t you? Cast my approval. No arguments, please.’
The next day she and Tom were standing outside the Dorchester Hotel in Mayfair, as ordered. Tom had been happy to agree, curious to see the ‘new Hope’ in action.
‘Don’t be nervous of her, will you?’ Gracie said to him as they walked in through the grand entrance. ‘She’s really quite different these days.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ Tom said.
‘She’s sober, but she’s still herself, if you know what I mean. Quite sharp-tongued, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not afraid, Gracie. I think you’re the one who is.’
She stopped. ‘You’re right. I am. I’m terrified.’
Hope was sitting in one of the prime positions in the elegant lounge area of the hotel. She stood up, looking every inch the rich, successful woman, dressed in a beautifully tailored crimson suit, very high shoes, her face perfectly made up, her dark-brown hair cut in an expensive and flattering style. Gracie thought of her mother, too busy with her two teaching jobs to spend time on fashion and make-up. She preferred her mother’s looks.
Hope gave her a dramatic kiss on each cheek, told her in an off-hand way that she was looking lovely and then turned her full attention to Tom, gazing from top to bottom.
‘Well, well. Look at you,’ she said in her mannered voice. ‘Didn’t you get tall, dark and handsome while none of us were looking? Come and sit here next to me, Tom Donovan. Tell me everything you’ve been up to since I last saw you. What has it been, five years?’
‘Closer to eight, I think.’
‘Time does fly when one is having fun and sobering up. You’re a cricketer, is that right? I do like an athletic man. You work-out a lot, do you, from what I can see?’
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An excruciating half hour later, Gracie stood up. She couldn’t take much more of Hope’s far-too-flirtatious behaviour, she decided. And as amusing as it was, she wasn’t sure Tom could cope with having his hand held by Hope much longer either.
Hope didn’t try to stop them, checking the elegant gold watch on her wrist and saying she had an appointment to go to herself. ‘Another client, as it happens. My darling Victor and I are fighting them off these days. Society’s mess is fortunately our gain.’ She kissed her niece on both cheeks again, kissed Tom far too close to his mouth and then stood back and looked at them both, nodding thoughtfully.
‘Yes, Gracie, I approve. He’s handsome, he’s smart, he’s got beautiful manners and quite frankly, a gorgeous body. A shame he’s Australian rather than English, but I suppose you can’t have everything. Off you both go now. And I know you’ll talk about me once you’re out of earshot, so do make sure it’s complimentary, won’t you?’
They barely made it out onto the street again before they both started laughing.
Two days later, Tom suggested to Gracie they go travelling together. She’d been dreading him telling her he’d decided to move on from London. She’d heard all about his trip so far, how much it had meant to him to feel so free, to decide on the spur of the moment where to go next. She wanted to travel too, but there hadn’t been the opportunity or the funds yet. She’d thought she’d finish university first. But now she wasn’t so sure about that. Perhaps she could take a year off. After Tom had gone back, for example. Go back to Australia, perhaps, to see Templeton Hall again. See Nina. See Tom.
‘Have you ever been to Scotland, Gracie?’ he asked, as they lay on her bed together, legs entwined. They were both reading, fully dressed, but Tom’s caresses on her bare arm were making her feel it was time they did take their clothes off again.
She looked up from her book, already feeling her eyelids go heavy, the gentle molten feeling in her body, wondering again how it was possible to just want to have sex with him all the time, as though she was some kind of addict. ‘Did I want to make love, did you say?’
‘That was my next question.’ His hand moved further down. ‘But can you answer the Scotland one first? Before I get too distracted?’
‘No, I haven’t been to Scotland.’
‘Would you like to?’
She closed her eyes in pleasure as his hand slipped under her T-shirt.
‘Gracie, are you ignoring me?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Scotland? Yes or No?’
‘Yes. Some day, definitely.’ She kept her eyes closed.
‘On Friday? With me? And then Ireland maybe? Wales? Europe? The world?’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘Go travelling together? You and me? Together?’
‘Don’t you want to?’
She sat up. ‘I’d love to. I’d love to. But I thought this was your big trip, your chance to run free.’
‘I’ve done that. I ran free as a bird in Asia. Now I’m here. Now I’m with you. I want you to come with me. I’m begging you to come with me.’ He rolled off the bed in a graceful movement, landing on his knees on the side of the bed. ‘I beg you, Gracie Templeton. Come travelling with me.’
‘But I can’t. I have to be back at university in three weeks’ time.’
‘I’ll have you back in time, I promise. I’ll walk you to the university grounds myself. Sharpen your pencils. Carry your books. Shine a crate full of apples for your lecturers. But come travelling with me first.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t have a rucksack.’
‘I’ll carry your clothes in mine.’
‘I think my passport is out of date.’
‘We’ll renew it.’
‘I haven’t got much money.’
‘Nor have I. We’ll stay in hostels. Busk together. Eat scraps together.’ He hesitated. ‘So you’ll come?’
She scrambled across the bed, down onto the floor too, beside him. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.
They started with ten days in Scotland, taking buses, trains, even hitchhiking one day. They fell for the grandeur and graciousness of Edinburgh and stayed there for four nights, talking so casually about returning for the Festival one year, perhaps even living there one day. That’s how far it had gone between them, Gracie realised. They’d somehow skipped over the angst-ridden ‘does he/she love me?’ questions Gracie always assumed would happen in a relationship. It felt so comfortable being with him but also so … thrilling, was the only word she could use. Tom thrilled her. She loved talking to him, laughing with him, sleeping with him, making love with him, being with him. It was all so good she started to worry about it. Surely love wasn’t supposed to be this easy?
She raised it with him one evening, as they sat in a bar in a village on the west coast of Scotland. They’d planned to stay there one night. The wild beauty of the area and the promise of a boat trip to the Isle of Skye had turned it into a three-night stay.
Tom listened as she explained her concerns, then nodded, very seriously. ‘You’re right. It’s going too well. Let’s break up. I’m too happy. You’re too happy. It will never last.’
She frowned. ‘Shouldn’t it be harder, though? Shouldn’t we be fighting?’
‘Of course. What’s your stand on the nature v nurture debate? Roe v Wade? Should Churchill have moved against Hitler sooner?’
‘I don’t mean fight like that, about issues, about politics.’
‘We can fight about sport, then. Did Maradona touch the ball or was it the Hand of God?’
‘You’re not taking me seriously.’
‘No, I’m not. Let’s fight about that instead. Should I or should I not take you more seriously?’
She started to laugh. ‘You should. You should take me seriously. You should also adore me, listen in amazement to everything I say and think I am the most beautiful girl in the world despite my unfortunate hair.’
He reached across and tweaked a lock of her still fly-away white-blonde hair. ‘I do adore you, you do amaze me and your hair is what I love most about you.’
The uncertain feeling wouldn’t go away, though. That this was temporary. That it was somehow too good to last.
After Scotland, she and Tom travelled to Ireland by ferry, catching buses and spending a week touring the country. Two nights in Dublin, a day in Cork, two nights in Galway, a boat trip to the Aran Islands, across to Dublin again, then back to London. Tom’s ticket back to Australia was already booked. They were just coming into Euston station after the overnight journey when Tom spoke.
‘Have you ever been to France, Gracie? To Italy?’
‘No.’ She was getting embarrassed about how little she’d travelled. ‘One day, I hope.’
‘Let’s go next week. For a few weeks. A month, even. We could hire a car, take the ferry from Dover to Calais, just drive when and wherever we felt like.’
‘But we can’t. You have to be back at the academy next week.’
He shook his head. ‘I rang them last night.’
‘You did?’ She remembered him saying he needed to make a couple of phone calls, that he’d promised to call home at least once a month. When he came back she asked if everything was okay and he just nodded and said that Nina sent her love.
‘I’ve asked my coach for extended leave.’
‘But how? Why?’
He looked a little sheepish. ‘I said I was having a few personal issues, that I needed a few more weeks away —’
‘Personal issues?’
‘I was going to tell them I’d fallen in love and that being with you over here was more fun than playing cricket, but I decided that was too much information.’
‘But you love playing cricket.’
‘And I love travelling with you as well. So I was telling the truth. I am having a crisis. You or cricket? Cricket or you?’
‘You don’t have to decide between us, Tom. I know what cricket means to you.’
They’d talked about it as they travelled.
He’d spoken of the discipline of being a sportsman, the physical pleasure of being so fit, so focused, knowing that he was special – one in a thousand, he finally, shyly admitted to her. In the fifteen key matches he’d played so far, each of them leading towards a possible place one day in the national team, he’d taken a record number of wickets. He told her he didn’t just love the matches, either. He loved the training too. The camaraderie with his team-mates. Gracie had heard talk of wild team antics, heavy drinking and misbehaviour. Tom shrugged. Yes, it happened, but it wasn’t compulsory. He kept himself to himself, pretty much. And there were other people around too, experienced people to talk to and work with, mentors really. He had two: his coach, and another man called Stuart Phillips, a well-known cricket journalist who’d swapped sides to work as an advisor at the cricket academy. In his mid-fifties, Stuart had three daughters, none of them sporty. He saw Tom as the son he didn’t have, he’d told him.
‘And you?’ Gracie asked.
‘The father I never had. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?’
He shared the details of his conversation with Stuart and his coach with her now. He’d told them that he knew once he returned home, cricket would take over his life for the next few years, beyond that if he made the national team. He wanted these final, extra weeks of freedom and then his life was theirs again.
‘Stuart gave me the third degree, checked I wasn’t going off on wild drink or drug benders. When I just happened to mention you, he made me assure him you were of sound mind and flawless beauty. I told him you were both and then he gave me his blessing.’ Tom smiled. ‘He told me he was jealous, actually. He loves France and Italy. He also told me if I wasn’t back at the academy in a month’s time exactly, he’d, well, I don’t need to tell you his threat.’ His expression changed. ‘Gracie, I’m sorry. I should have asked first, been sure you wanted to come with me.’
‘Go to France and Italy with you for a month? It sounds horrible. Hateful. The very last thing I want to do.’
‘So you’ll come with me?’
Her smile was her answer.
If Eleanor was surprised with this latest development, she didn’t tell Gracie. As far as Gracie knew, Nina hadn’t said anything to Tom either. Gracie hadn’t written to Nina since Tom’s arrival, but she was sure Nina would be as happy for them as Eleanor had been. There was the minor matter of Gracie having to loan some money from her mother to supplement her savings – she’d insisted to Tom that she’d pay her share of the car hire and trip costs. After a short lecture, Eleanor gave Gracie not just the money, not just her blessing, but also the loan of her own small Volkswagen for the month too. She rarely used it, she told them. Two days later, there was another welcome surprise. A motorcycle courier arrived at their front door bearing a large envelope from Hope. Inside the expensive-looking bon voyage card was a bank cheque for two thousand pounds. The note was brief and to the point. This is a gift, not a loan. Spend it unwisely. Love, Hope xx
At Home with the Templetons Page 28
