Summertime

by Raffaella Barker

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Hedley looks at the sky, looks at the ground and looks at the tank. ‘Ummm,’ he says.

  ‘Come on, Sale, we’ve got a platoon to command.’ Another voice issues from beyond the cannon, followed closely by a snowy handlebar moustache decorating a large bluff face. ‘Ahh! That’s where you’ve got to.’ There is a smart clicking of heels, and the moustache and I turn expectantly to Hedley, awaiting introduction. Social grace is not Hedley’s thing. Instead of introducing us, he scuttles up the tank steps muttering, ‘That child should not be in there.’

  He opens a lid and, reaching in, pulls The Beauty out like a prize in a lucky dip. She is outraged, and immediately spouts tears, while roaring and drumming her heels against Hedley.

  The moustache is appalled, taking a swift step back as Hedley, holding The weeping Beauty at arm’s length, descends the steps. ‘Christ, Sale, I thought you were well out of all that juvenile stuff. Come on now, we’ve got to get back to the war.’ He doffs an imaginary hat to me, and turns on his heels, anxious to put a decent distance between himself and The Beauty.

  Both Felix and I are engulfed by giggles. Hedley thrusts The Beauty into my arms and attempts to follow his friend, but Felix grabs him in a rugby tackle to the legs. ‘You’re playing war games, aren’t you? Please can I come and do it with you? I love war games, I’ve always wanted to play it. What’s your friend called? Can you ask him for me? Please, please.’

  Hedley is turning redder and redder; I can tell that he would love to deliver a swift kick to disentangle himself from Felix, but luckily doesn’t dare to.

  He manages a twisted smile and says to Felix, ‘Look, we can’t do it now, but I’ll make a date for you and Giles. Now be a good chap and let go.’

  Felix has radar sensitivity to adult intonations, and recognising both finality and desperation in Hedley’s, he allows him to depart to his game, shouting after him, ‘All right then, but I’ll hold you to it,’ before turning to me and whispering, ‘He’s left his helmet.’

  July 5th

  Rose has no idea of the pressures of single motherhood. She has left me a bossy message saying I am too slack, and she thinks I should give up the business and get a job as a supermarket checkout woman as I clearly have no ambition and no entrepreneurial drive. Irritated, I unpack the over-the-head charlady aprons I had previously discarded as too depressing and decorate them with tinsel and fun fur. Send them to Rose with a label saying ‘Production Line’, and take The Beauty to the sea for an afternoon of sandcastles and ice cream.

  July 7th

  Extraordinary. Rose loves the aprons. She has left a mad message saying, ‘Please let’s do more pregnancy wear. I think we should call the whole label Production Line. Clever you. I’ve sold them to The Blessing for one hundred and twenty pounds each. They’re heaven. Can’t wait for whatever comes next.’

  Ego only slightly punctured by attempts to harvest a bowlful of peas from my recently rather neglected vegetable garden. Thought there would be enough to freeze superior spares in the manner of Captain Birdseye, but in fact a whole Production Line apron pocketful of picked pods yields only a saucer’s worth of peas. Thank God for Mrs Organic Veg, as the purpose of the pea harvest was to show off when Vivienne comes to supper tonight. Ha ha, can still do so.

  Give Vivienne delicious pea and mint soup and home-made bread, also made this afternoon especially to impress her. It does. Unfortunately, we are both still hungry, and as I neglected to plan further than this course, we leave our elegant table under the lime tree and head for the fridge, where we find some frankfurters. ‘Oh look, is this one of the aprons?’ Vivienne asks, picking a garment up from the vast laundry pile.

  ‘Oh yes, I managed to find a whole box of them in a charity shop.’

  Vivienne has been grilling me on my business, and through her own fascination, revealing that I know shockingly little about how to run anything properly. Am quite embarrassed, and would much rather talk about Guy Clarke, my new favourite country singer, discovered in the same charity shop as the aprons.

  ‘It’s amazing how attractive a cowboy hat can make men look,’ I say to stop her banging on, and I start to hum ‘Desperadoes Waiting For A Train’. She looks at me very severely.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, Venetia,’ she says, sitting down at the kitchen table to eat her frankfurter. Clearly, the stylish part of our evening is over, and I am quite sure she is not about to start listing her favourite cowboys.

  ‘Simon and I are very concerned about you being on your own. You’ve got to grow up and stop living in a romantic fantasy, you know. Just because David is good-looking, and yes, all right, he’s good with the children, and great company—’

  Am astonished at this sudden list of his attributes, as had always thought Vivienne didn’t much like David, but find the shock of hearing him talked about is breathtaking.

  Vivienne continues, enunciating carefully, as people do when they are determined to say something that they feel has to be said but they know will go down very badly, ‘And what it really all comes down to is this, Venetia. Do you really think he is still going to come back?’

  So unfair to ask me that, just as I am pulling myself together and taking my first mouthful of hot dog. Go off it completely and put it down.

  ‘We’ve split up,’ I say bleakly. Vivienne, poised for her own second mouthful, stops, her hot dog oozing unnoticed ketchup in dollops on to the table.

  ‘You haven’t!’ she says in amazement, and then, as my efforts at putting on a brave face crumple and slide, she comes round to where I am standing, leaning on the Aga, and hugs me. ‘Oh, don’t cry, Venetia. I know it seems hard now, but it will be for the best, you know. You’ll find someone older who’ll marry you, not dump you to pursue his own career. More stable.’

  ‘You mean less sexy,’ I say, blowing my nose. We both laugh as she tries to get out of that one.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘you can’t go on throwing your heart after cowboy carpenters, can you?’

  Do not confess to her how very much I wish I could do that, nor do I tell her that it was me who dropped David for precisely the reasons she was outlining. Cannot cope with the searchlight on my emotional life, and can’t wait for her to go home now that she has had her say, so I can go and sit in the dusk in the garden and immerse myself in plangent cowboy music.

  July 8th

  Two long rubber vines arrive by Parcel Force in a wooden crate. The delivery man is clearly the last in a long line of handlers who have all been convinced that the box contains live reptiles. He hurls it on to the doorstep, beeps his horn for a signature and drives away twice as quickly as usual. Giles staggers in with the box. It is plastered with labels which say things like Toxic, or Not to be touched by humans, or Customs Alert.

  ‘It’s probably another parrot,’ I say, eyeing the crate suspiciously.

  Giles and Felix, eyes popping with excitement, prise open the lid and speak as one. ‘Snakes. Cool, man.’

  I grab The Beauty and retreat to the kitchen, shrieking, ‘Call the vet. No, call the police. Call the fire brigade. Call the zoo. Call Charles and have them incinerated. Get them out of here at once. No. Nooo. Don’t. Don’t touch them.’

  Have utterly forgotten that David promised swinging vines, so when Giles opens the kitchen door with a length of sinewy rubber coiled around his neck, am paralysed with dread and convinced it is a boa constrictor, suffocating him.

  ‘It’s all right, Giles darling, stay calm, Mummy will come,’ I shriek, untruthfully, as I am dashing backwards out of the room. Only my brain still whirrs, with a craven desire not to have to be involved in a tussle with a snake, but to have someone else deal with this new drama.

  ‘Can we put these in the trees and have a quick swing before school?’ Giles is manhandling the so-called snake, flipping it about nonchalantly. Felix drags another in, and intelligence flickers once more as I perceive the true nature of these length
s of rubber. But how do we put them into any of the trees? Apart from a topiary yew chicken and four small crab apples in the knot garden, the trees around here are vast and gnarled. A cursory inspection from the back doorstep suggests that even the lowest branch is twenty or so feet above the ground. A more thorough investigation of the crate in which the vines arrived reveals a hastily scrawled note:

  Make sure you put these on a SAFE branch. Get an adult to test first. They need to be at least fifteen feet above the ground, so mind you take care. Gertie will love these. I’ll build you a platform to swing from when I come home xxx David.

  And which adult does he have in mind for branch-testing and vine-fitting? Look from the note to the upturned, expectant faces of the boys and compose withering mental email to send to David along the lines of ‘Hanging is too good for you.’

  July 10th

  Vines unhung, email unsent, as yesterday was spent helping set up Giles and Felix’s stall for the school fête which takes place this afternoon. Arrive with my mother and The Beauty to discover that we have to join a queue to get anywhere near the boys. They have created a bar with a long slippery surface, and the challenge is to try to slide a tankard full of beer along to the other end.

  ‘It’s not really beer, it’s just a mixture of old tea and liquorice water so it won’t smell too bad,’ I hear Felix comforting a small girl with bunches, who has spilt this substance down her front.

  ‘Oh good, a pub,’ says my mother, brightening considerably from a slight sulk she was in because I wouldn’t let her enter The Beauty into a ‘Guess the weight of this item’ stall near the entrance to the fête. ‘Can we keep the drink if we win?’ she asks Giles, handing him her money for a turn.

  ‘If you must,’ he says, ‘but it’s harder than it looks, so be careful.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ve been to rather more bars than you have,’ Granny responds, and slides three tankards in quick succession down to the end of the bar.

  Felix leaps about excitedly. ‘Well done, you’ve got the best score so far, Granny. Did you once work in a saloon bar?’

  Duck away with The Beauty as the headmaster approaches. Do not feel equal to discussing saloons and nightclubs with him, Felix and my mother. The Beauty and I notice a washing line, and intrigued, approach the stall, which is manned by Carmel Butterstone, sister of Giles’s friend Byron.

  I proffer my fifty-pence piece. ‘What do you have to do?’

  Carmel simpers a reply. ‘Mummy thought of this one. You have to see how quickly you can hang out the basket of washing on the line. The quickest wins a place in one of Mummy’s Cabouchon groups, or a box of chocolates.’

  How ghastly. Just do not want to have anything to do with Bronwyn Butterstone’s jewellery parties, but the game sounds perfect. Amazing, though, that something so un-pc is allowed. Am very keen for a go, and am sure I will triumph and win the chocolates for The Beauty. After all, I have spent most of my life hanging out washing, so should be of Olympic standard by now.

  Carmel blows the whistle and I begin, The Beauty trotting behind, handing me pegs and garments. ‘Here, Mummy, do this hanky now.’ Find myself fumbling a little with the first vest, but years of practice kick in and in moments I am pegging with easy rhythm. Finish, I am sure, streets ahead of all others, and return to Carmel with confidence in every step.

  ‘Well done, Mrs Summers, two minutes forty isn’t the last,’ she tells me encouragingly. ‘But Mummy does it in one minute fifty-two, so you’ll just have to keep trying.’

  She smiles sweetly and turns to her next victim, an unsuspecting father wearing a linen suit, who looks as though he has never seen a washing line before, but is guffawing away, ‘Marvellous, must have a go and see if we can’t beat the ladies at their own game.’

  Have to move away to watch Splat the Rat to avoid the ignominy of this chauvinist pig eclipsing me at my own sport. Bronwyn Butterstone, her helmet of tawny hair immaculate, her legs like tweezers, long and bandy in gingham pedal pushers, is marching up and down with a megaphone bossing people around. Shrink away as she accosts my mother, but their encounter is short-lived. My mother is more than a match for La Butterstone, and we go to find tea with her puffing indignation.

  ‘She wanted volunteers for the Red Cross stall which she’s supposed to be running. Or rather, Red Crawss as she calls it. She said she could see I was a pillar of the community.’ My mother stops in her tracks to rummage for a cigarette in her handbag. She exhales the first puff with a ‘Pah!’ and continues, ‘Pillar indeed. It makes me sound like a colossus.’ She broods darkly on Bronwyn’s iniquities then adds, ‘That woman is enough to turn all of us into hardened criminals.’

  We find a table and sit under the green crêpe shade of a vast cedar tree, planning hideous embarrassments for Bronwyn. The Beauty removes her T-shirt and skirt, then uses the skirt as a napkin to wipe cake crumbs off her mouth. I tell my mother about David’s vines, adding a final soliloquy about the hellish parrot. She shoots me a sharp look, as I foul-mouth him and his absent indulgence of the children.

  ‘Just make sure you know what you’re doing,’ she warns. Am about to ask her what she means when the conversation on the next table distracts me. It is between another adult mother-and-daughter combination, recognisably related by their hooked noses and almost non-existent chins. Am looking at them, wondering which feature my mother and I obviously share, when I suddenly find myself tuned into them.

  ‘Well everyone is saying that Hedley Sale will either marry or leave,’ booms the senior one. ‘And if you play your cards right, Lucinda dear, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be you.’

  Lucinda mutters, ‘Mummy!!’ in deepest embarrassment, but the mother booms on. ‘Nonsense, dear, no point in beating about the bush. You’ve got little Archie to think of too, don’t forget. And you know, don’t you, that now that monstrous excuse for a man, your ex, has stopped the alimony, you’ve got to sort something out.’ Lucinda nods, and I could nod with her, so close do I feel to the situation.

  ‘I could be very happy spending his money,’ she laughs, changing the tone. This time, I do nod. My mother nudges me reprovingly.

  ‘Stop picking up fag ends,’ she hisses. The megaphone booms the news that the presentation of the prizes is about to take place. Felix and Giles appear by our sides, and Bronwyn Butterstone starts drawing the raffle. None of us is listening. I am engaged in trying to persuade The Beauty to put her clothes back on, and in digesting the new version of Hedley as seen by other neighbours. Maybe they don’t mind the temper. Or maybe he doesn’t show it to them.

  Suddenly Felix nudges me. ‘Mum, it’s you. Go on.’ Bemused, I stand up, and find that the headmaster is beckoning me over and presenting me with a box of chocolates. Carmel Butterstone puts a hand on my arm.

  ‘Sorry Mrs Summers, I made a mistake with the timing of your washing on the line. In fact you did it in one minute forty, which is twelve seconds faster even than Mummy. She said you must have done an awful lot of washing in your day!’

  Lucinda and her mother join in the general mirth at this sally, and I am unable to think of anything at all witty or mordant to say. Victory can be the most poisoned chalice.

  July 11th

  My vegetable garden is of textbook loveliness when viewed from a distance with partially closed eyes. Splashes of orange and yellow from the marigolds I bought at a roadside stall last week dance out against a background of silver-green sage, bright lettuce leaves and feathers of rocket and parsley. Have taken the modern approach as far as sweet pea and tomato canes are concerned, and have a line of aluminium wiggles, each about five feet high, which make my potager appear half traditional and half like a meeting place for aliens. This, at any rate, is Felix’s view. The Rousseau fantasy has long been abandoned, and I am under no illusions that my garden is for anyone but me, and of course a multitude of snails, slugs and the hens. Giles is away on a cricket tour, and I have tried to convince Felix and The Beauty that we can have quali
ty time after tea in the vegetable patch.

  ‘But I hate vegetables,’ protests Felix, ‘and I hate being made to work in my time off. I have to work hard enough at school.’

  ‘Eughhh,’ agrees The Beauty, picking up the general tone of discontent and running with it. ‘It’s really gross and gosting out there. I will not go. I will not.’ She shakes her head in regret.

  Am at a loss. Should I insist that they help me, thus creating a Solzhenitsyn-style work camp, or should I bow to their ‘disgost’ and let them do as they please? Mothering skills, including tolerance and especially cooking, are at an all-time low.

  Am becoming like the shoemaker elves of fairy tale in having to sew or rather glue my adornments on to garments after the children are in bed in order to meet Rose’s demands for the clothes before the school holidays begin. Have no sense of achievement now in finishing one jersey, as all it means is that I must do the next one. Every spare moment is occupied with the search for more outlandish trims. Yesterday I struck a rich seam when an ear of corn attached itself to my skirt while I was walking the dogs. Imagined how ravishing it would look when laid carefully on a pale blue skirt (courtesy of the Aylsham charity shop) and picked a huge bunch. Dry the wheat to a pleasing greeny-gold colour and crackling texture on the Aga, then attach stalks all around the hem, thus creating ‘Free and Easy’, so named because it was both.

  July 13th

  Mid-evening, high summer, and I would like to be out in the garden inhaling the nostalgic sweetness of night-scented stocks and contemplating my white flowers which float, perfect and ethereal, on their dark leaves at this gloaming time of the evening. However, I have just put the children to bed and am in the kitchen, sewing and listening to Sounds of the Seventies on the radio. Am just thinking that I may as well go the whole hog and invest in a rocking chair and crocheted blanket when the doorbell rings. Jump as if scalded, but am too late to do anything except throw a blanket over Gertie’s cage to stop her saying something appalling about pants, and Hedley appears in the kitchen holding a bottle of wine. Very embarrassing to be caught in such fogeyish pursuits, as if I am some old biddy in a Trollope novel rather than a contemporary chick with my finger on the pulse.