Bobby's Girl

by Catrin Collier

  When Kate finished Penny took the scissors and used them to cut a thread on her own pair. ‘Two hundred dollars mad money my uncle gave me.’ She pulled out the two one-hundred-dollar bills and tossed them on top of the others on the bed.

  ‘We had to hide it well, because you’re only allowed to take fifty pounds cash out of Britain.’ Kate added hers to the pile.

  ‘You girls are darlings.’ Sandy kissed Kate, but as she was intent on zipping up her jeans the kiss missed her mouth and landed on her chin.

  ‘That will buy us more than enough gas and food to get us to the Cape,’ Bobby said thoughtfully.

  ‘And when we get there?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘We’ll bribe old George. A hundred dollars should be enough to buy his silence. If he doesn’t tell my grandmother’s office where we are, we’ll live rent-free at the Beach House. She hasn’t been to the Brosna Estate in years and never rents it out. There are too many valuable pieces in the main house. The rent she’d get wouldn’t cover the extra insurance.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she won’t think of looking for us there,’ Sandy warned.

  ‘My last room-mate was from Wisconsin. I’ll write him a letter and enclose one to Grandmother that he can post. I’ll tell her we’re fine and enjoying summering at the lakes. She might send someone to look for us, but she won’t come herself. Not when she’s busy setting up the new foundation in Venice.’ Bobby saw her looking quizzically at him. ‘The Brosna Foundation,’ he explained.

  ‘The art foundation. You’re one of those Brosnas?’ She couldn’t believe she’d been so naive. The Brosna Foundation was world-famous in the arts world but she’d never connected Bobby with that Brosna family. Not even when Sandy had told them that Bobby’s grandmother had money and Bobby had admitted Charlotte Brosna was rich. She’d assumed they meant his grandmother was well heeled – and soled – not on a par with the Rockefellers and the Guggenheims.

  ‘We told you,’ Sandy said in amusement.

  ‘People like us just don’t move in the same circles as people like the Brosnas.’ Her voice was hoarse from shock.

  ‘Oh yes you do,’ Bobby contradicted. ‘And I’m not my grandmother. She’s ruthless when it comes to business but she enjoys spending the profits on causes. This week it’s prop Venice up to stop it from sinking. Last year it was to fund a dig and a museum in Egypt. The year before that, the unearthing of an ancient lost city in Albania. Next year …’ Bobby shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘About the Cape, Bobby.’ Sandy steered the conversation back to the practical. ‘Old George died two months ago.’

  ‘George is dead?’ Bobby paled.

  ‘My mother wrote and told me. I assumed you knew.’

  ‘So who’s caretaking the estate now?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Bobby was shocked. ‘Grandmother didn’t tell me old George died,’ he murmured incredulously.

  ‘Presumably because she knew you were fond of the guy. Remember him teaching us to play cricket?’

  ‘I remember we never mastered the rules.’

  ‘The best days were the ones he took us sailing and deep-sea fishing, and the best nights the ones we slept on board the Day Dream and cooked our catch.’

  ‘He was one all-right guy.’ Bobby clenched his fists. ‘If she’d told me I would have gone to his funeral. Damn her, I should know what she’s like by now. My dogs disappeared when I went to school. She told me she’d sent them to a farm that had plenty of space for them to run around in outside of the city. I believed her until her chauffeur let slip that he’d taken them to the vet to be put down because she didn’t want them around the apartment anymore. The woman’s been lying to me all my life—’

  ‘Old George wasn’t a lie, just an omission.’ Sandy cut Bobby short. He knew once Bobby started railing against his grandmother he wouldn’t stop until he was in a foul mood.

  Penny helped Kate gather up the cash. Bobby took fifty dollars and gave the rest to Kate. ‘You girls can take care of it.’ He frowned. ‘I hope the new caretaker of the Brosna Estate, whoever he is, can be bribed.’

  ‘This money, tidy sum that it is, won’t keep the four of us all summer,’ Kate observed.

  ‘It won’t,’ Sandy agreed. ‘But it’s early in the season. Everyone will be hiring on the Cape, especially the motels and restaurants.’

  ‘Cape?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Cape Cod.’

  Penny and Kate recalled the Southern girl, Marion. ‘There’s always work on the Cape in the summer,’ they chanted in unison.

  It was Bobby and Sandy’s turn to look quizzical.

  ‘The runaway bunny,’ Kate explained.

  Sandy looked at his watch. ‘We have ten minutes to pack and get out of here, guys, before we’re charged for another day. Let’s go.’

  The ride to Cape Cod took the rest of the day. The police stopped them twice. Once when Bobby ran a red light. After a grovelling apology they were allowed to drive on. The second time the police pulled them over because Sandy and Kate were drinking out of Coca Cola bottles in the back of the car. The officer informed them it was illegal to drink in a car in Connecticut – even soft drinks.

  Kate protested ignorance in her best ‘British’ accent. A few smiles and a mild flirtation later she and Sandy were let off with a caution. The boys hadn’t said a word.

  They reached Hyannisport shortly after midnight. She and Kate couldn’t believe how many places were open, or the number of people on the streets. With promises of ‘showing you around tomorrow’ Bobby drove straight through.

  The Brosna Estate was a few miles out of town on the beach side. The entrance was marked by high metal gates and a high fence. Bobby parked in front of the gates and pressed an intercom. He had to press it twice more before a voice answered.

  ‘What do you want at this time of night?’

  ‘Admittance,’ Bobby replied curtly.

  ‘Go away until morning.’

  ‘You’re obviously new,’ Bobby replied.

  ‘Been here a year.’

  ‘I’m Robert Brosna and I resent being kept waiting, so get up here.’

  That was the first time she realised Bobby could be imperious.

  Five minutes later an enormous black man rode up to the gate on a bicycle.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Sandy left the car and went to the gate. ‘You’re young George, old George’s son.’

  The man smiled. ‘Sandy, good to see you.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, George. This is Bobby Brosna.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the man apologised to Bobby, ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Bobby allowed. ‘I haven’t seen you in what – must be ten years.’

  ‘Probably more, sir. Mrs Brosna never did like the staff’s kids hanging around, except for Sandy here. And talking about kids. That’s what I thought you were when you hit the intercom. Kids messing around.’

  ‘You often get kids messing around with the intercom on the gate?’ Bobby questioned.

  ‘Sometimes, sir.’ Young George blustered.

  ‘We’re here to spend the summer, so open the gate please, George.’

  ‘Mrs Brosna said nothing to me about you or anyone else spending the summer here, sir. The main house is shut up. I’m the only full-time staff. The rest are all with Mrs Brosna …’

  ‘We know that, George. And we’ve no intention of staying in the main house. There are four of us, so two of the guest houses or the Beach House will suit us fine.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir …’

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, George?’ Bobby snapped. Although he and Sandy had shared the driving he was tired and irritable. ‘It’s my grandmother’s place and I’m ordering you to let us in.’

  Slowly, and clearly reluctantly, George activated the control that opened the gates. Sandy climbed back into the car, Bobby drove through and down the drive. The moon was full. It illuminated a dozen houses,
some with lights on, and the largest swimming pool Penny and Kate had ever seen. It could have swallowed the one in Pontypridd Park ten times over.

  Bobby jammed on the brakes.

  ‘You trying to kill us?’ Kate cried out.

  Bobby’s only answer was to reverse at speed until he drew back alongside George who was relocking the gates.

  ‘Sir … there’s something you should know—’ George began.

  ‘Too damned right. I know you have permission to live in one of the guest houses. But I counted lights on in ten. What the hell’s going on?’ Bobby demanded.

  ‘They’re homeless.’

  ‘Homeless what?’

  ‘People, sir. Some of the Southern states are giving black folk twenty dollars and a one-way ticket north.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ Sandy said. ‘It’s a national scandal.’

  ‘They heard there was work going in Hyannisport. They turned up with no money left and some had kids …’

  ‘So you took them in?’ Bobby guessed.

  ‘They’re all working. The women cleaning hotel rooms, the men doing whatever they can get. A couple of the grandmothers are looking after the kids. As soon as they get enough money together to rent somewhere they’ll leave.’

  ‘You’re not charging them rent?’

  ‘No, sir, Mr Bobby. I told you they have no money. If they did they’d rent a place elsewhere.’

  ‘You haven’t said a word about this to my grandmother?’ Bobby guessed.

  ‘No, sir. Knowing Mrs Brosna, she’d flay me alive if she found out what I done. My father always said she was a charitable lady as long as her charity didn’t impose on her comfort.’

  Bobby snorted with laughter. ‘Your father was right, George. Anyone in the Beach House?’

  ‘No, sir, just ten of the guest houses.’

  Bobby thought for a moment. ‘This is what I’m going to do, George. I won’t tell my grandmother about your charitable enterprise, provided you don’t tell her, or anyone she sends, that we’re here. If anyone telephones, wires or asks, you haven’t seen us. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bobby, sir.’

  ‘Plain “Bobby” will do, George. Got a spare key for the gates?’

  ‘I can give you the code, sir, and the key to the Beach House. Cleaners come in once a week to check it out.’

  ‘Keep them away. Tell them Mrs Brosna’s rented it to friends and they need privacy.’

  ‘Will do, sir. I’ll get it and meet you down there.’ George gave Sandy the code, and Sandy wrote it on his arm in biro. Bobby waited for George to cycle back to the guest houses then drove on down towards the beach.

  The white clapboard Beach House shone silver in the moonlight. The small garden, separated from the rest of the grounds by a picket fence, was pristine, as was the outside of the house. As soon as Bobby parked in the driveway, Sandy opened the trunk and deposited their bags by the door.

  Feeling stiff after sitting in the car for so many hours, and unaccountably tired considering all she’d done was be chauffeured around the countryside, Penny left the car, turned and stared, mesmerised.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Sandy saw what she was looking at and joined her.

  ‘It’s a mansion.’

  ‘Turn of the century, financed by the first Bobby Brosna and expanded by the second who was hell-bent on spending his daddy’s millions, so no expense spared,’ Bobby explained. ‘It’s full of priceless antiques and expensive works of art, which is why I hate living there. You feel as though you’re in a bloody museum.’

  ‘Showing off your English cursing,’ Sandy ribbed.

  Bobby smiled self-consciously. ‘I picked up a few odd words.’

  George cycled up and Bobby took the key he handed him. ‘Thanks, George. There’s just one?’

  ‘The cleaner has another. I’ll ask her for it when I warn her off the place. If there’s more they’ll be in the main house.’

  ‘We’ll manage with this one until I can get more cut.’

  ‘If you need anything—’

  ‘You’ll be in number one guest house,’ Bobby guessed.

  ‘That’s it, Mr Bobby. See you around and have a good summer.’

  ‘You too, George,’ Sandy called after him.

  The Beach House was furnished simply but someone had arranged the pieces with flair. It had a warm, lived-in, Bohemian look and Penny was relieved when she saw the bathroom had a spotlessly clean tub and shower and clean unstained floor and walls. The simple place appeared luxurious after the horrors of the motel the night before.

  ‘You girls hungry?’ Sandy asked. ‘If you are we can send out for pizza.’

  ‘All I want is a shower and bed.’

  ‘Me too,’ Kate agreed.

  ‘Up bright and early tomorrow,’ Bobby warned. ‘We need to go job hunting.’

  ‘We’ll find something.’ Sandy sat on an easy chair and propped his feet on a driftwood table.

  ‘We’ll just have to,’ Kate the worrier said. ‘Rent-free is good. But I was hoping to earn enough this summer to supplement my grant next term.’

  They started at a knock on the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Bobby called out tentatively. Penny realised that despite his assurance that his grandmother would remain in Europe for the summer, he was not only wary of her but feared her.

  ‘It’s me – George, Mr Bobby. I realised when I got back to my guest house you have no bed linen or towels.’

  Bobby opened the door and took the bundle George handed him.

  ‘There’s six bed sets and a dozen towels there, Mr Bobby. Give them back to me when you want them laundered.’

  ‘You get them laundered on my grandmother’s account?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘My sister manages a laundromat. She does them for free.’

  ‘Thanks, George. Goodnight.’ Bobby closed the door. Kate took the bundle from him and handed Penny two towels. ‘You have first shower, I’ll make up the beds.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Sandy disappeared into the bedroom after her and she and Bobby heard them giggling.

  Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘The sooner you shower, the sooner we can get to bed.’ He switched on an ancient-looking TV.

  ‘Ten seconds, I’ll be with you.’

  ‘I’d be happier with two,’ he smiled.

  That smile sent her heart racing again. She’d never felt that urgent need and obsession with another person when she’d been with Rich.

  It took six minutes to shower and wash her hair, two to clean the bathroom after she’d finished and gather her dirty clothes. Swathed in an enormous bath towel, her hair wrapped in a hand towel, she returned to the living room. She knew something was wrong from the muted tones of the newscaster. She didn’t know how wrong until she looked at Bobby and Sandy’s faces. They were both numb with shock.

  Sandy said what Bobby couldn’t bring himself to put into words. ‘Bobby Kennedy’s been shot.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Pontypridd, May 1987

  Penny looked up from the album. She rose from the floor and walked over to the window but she didn’t see the blossom on the apple and cherry trees, or the bulbs flowering amongst the perennials in the flower beds her father and mother tended. She was back in the Beach House on the Brosna Estate in 1968.

  That night Bobby had set a pattern to their lovemaking. Passionate, urgent, all consuming, he had lived as though they were running out of time.

  Which, with hindsight, they had been.

  Hyannisport, June 1968

  Their bodies had been damp from the shower because they hadn’t delayed long enough to dry themselves properly. Her orange-based perfume had vied with the scent of his pine until they mingled, creating a new fragrance that blended the alpine north and tropical south.

  His skin tasted of soap, his lips of toothpaste. Their wet hair soaked the pillows and the dampness coupled with the murmur of the waves breaking on the shore outside the window lent the feeling tha
t they’d become part of the ocean.

  They moved over the bed in an erotic ballet, roused, exhilarated, revelling in the pleasure they gave and accepted. Passion crested, climaxed and fell in waves as mouths, lips, tongues, hands came into play until finally they lay spent, too exhausted to move.

  It was then she made the mistake. The beach wasn’t overlooked and Bobby had left the curtains open so they could see the ocean. Moonlight streamed in, silvering a vista of foam-topped dark sea outside and plain white walls and bed-linen inside. She looked across at Bobby and saw that he was staring at her. But she misread his mood. Because his face was dark with sorrow she offered solace.

  ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I love you, Bobby Brosna, and I always will.’

  He turned his back on her. Refusing to accept his rejection, she moved with him, snuggling close to his shoulders, wrapping her hand around his waist. He gripped it and caressed her fingers but didn’t turn back.

  He whispered, ‘I love you now. Isn’t that enough?’

  She recognised the quote. ‘Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.’

  ‘He was right.’ Bobby’s voice was harsh. ‘It’s no use making plans or talking of “always”. The “now” is all we have.’

  She learnt her lesson. She never told him she’d love him “for ever” again.

  Had Bobby made a conscious decision that there would be no tomorrows? Not for them. Or, knowing the power his grandmother could wield, had he simply sensed that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay with her?

  Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her for hours that first night on the Cape. And, although Bobby was also awake, they lay in silence. Each locked into their own thoughts.

  George brought boxes of crockery and cutlery the next morning, along with brown paper bags filled with groceries: bagels, butter, cream cheese, lox, coffee, orange juice, melons, apples and grapes.

  Sandy and Kate set out breakfast on a wooden table in the ‘garden’ that was a fenced off area of the beach. She sat with them and watched the giant horseshoe crabs crawl along the shoreline as she drank coffee. Bobby joined them after watching the news. He told them the only news about Bobby Kennedy’s condition was ‘he was gravely ill’.