A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  Janey. Bloody Janey. Who I’d liked so much. How could she?

  ‘I saw you both leaving the beach party the other night.’

  ‘I know, you said.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Into town. To a club.’

  ‘What – just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, just the two of us, Mum.’

  ‘What – a dancing-type club?’

  ‘No, a pottery-type club.’

  I stared. ‘Peter, she’s in her thirties!’

  ‘I know. Thirty-six.’

  ‘And you’re seventeen!’

  ‘So? Emmanuel Macron was fifteen. Brigitte was forty.’

  I regarded him in horror. ‘Are you and Janey having an affair?’

  ‘Why would it be an affair? Neither of us is married.’

  ‘You know what I mean!’ My temperature was rising. ‘Are you having sex?’

  ‘That really is none of your business.’

  ‘Peter!’

  He drained his glass. Got to his feet. ‘Well, this has been interesting.’ His face was pale. He looked angry. Peter and I had never rowed like this. Not even in the so-called troublesome early teenage years, not ever. My brain was spiralling but I nevertheless caught it into halt. For a moment. I tried a different tack.

  ‘Peter, I can see how this all looks very rosy and romantic, a seminal moment in your life. But trust me, in a few years’ time you’ll look back at it as a summer romance – albeit a highly inappropriate one – and—’

  ‘Fuck off, Mum.’ He glared at me fiercely. I stared, horrified. That had never been said. ‘I love her, all right? Is that what you want to hear? I love her. Satisfied?’ His eyes blazed into mine. Then he strode out, through the French windows, straight through the house, and slammed the front door hard behind him.

  21

  I sat, dumb and dazed. Stared blankly down the garden to the dunes beyond. A seagull, taking advantage of my inertia, hopped on to the other side of the table. He put his head on one side and looked speculatively at the crab sandwiches, then at me. At length, he waddled across and pecked at one. I didn’t stir. Didn’t shoo him away, this rodent of the skies; just watched as another joined him, then another. Snatching, flying away, coming back for more, bringing their friends with them. Not even bothering to fly away now, just eating at the table. One was on my plate. Beady black eyes still darted my way, but they clearly thought I was dead. I felt dead.

  My darling boy. My easy, only child. Who was destined to sail off to Oxford in two months’ time, then on to a brilliant career, hopefully with a lovely, clever, beautiful girl who he’d met at university – not too blue stocking, of course, I’d always hoped: not too terrifying. Not one who used words like ‘empirically’, like Peter, but could talk handbags and shoes and who maybe read, um, History of Art, or something accessible, not Chinese or Greats. Whatever they were. But instead – instead, fucking Janey. What did she think she was doing, taking advantage of a young boy like this, and I’d liked her so, but then … I didn’t really know her, did I? And she was from New York. Sex and the City. Cougar Woman territory. They were probably all at it. This was nothing to her. Small beer. A roll in the hay with a lithe young lad, the only high point in an otherwise stiflingly dull, middle-aged house party. And she was unattached, so why not?

  I tried to make myself breathe from my diaphragm as Celia had taught me, but it was all up in my chest, making me feel a bit light-headed. Why not? Why not? Oh, she’d soon see why not. I’d tell her. Anger – fury, actually – replaced the numbness and rushed into my heart. I was so enraged I could hardly see straight. I flew back into the house, swapped my espadrilles for some trainers; tied the laces with trembling fingers. Then I ran out of the back and down the garden without bothering to close the French windows. On I raced, not towards the dunes and the beach, but to the cliff path beyond.

  As I jogged along, I rehearsed the dialogue in my head, which would be delivered, not shrilly or hysterically, but calmly and reasonably. Without inflammatory and exaggerated language – or swearing – but with a rational, albeit censorious lexicon. It would include words like ‘inappropriate’. And … yes, inappropriate. I’d think of more later. Right now, I had to get down to the beach and that involved getting down this sodding steep cliff. I paused at the top, panting. I’d jogged quite a long way. Celia, a dot in the distance, was still painting in the next bay, much further along. Hers was the easier climb down, the one most people took, but I chose this one: the vertical, more direct route, knowing from childhood experience it was doable. It looked sheer and hazardous, but it actually had good hand and footholds and – if I didn’t break my neck – it was certainly the quickest way down.

  Tommy was still on the beach, flat out, with Janey’s clothes over him. So she was still there, even though from this vantage point I couldn’t see her. She was most probably on the rocks where people lay and sunbathed – particularly minus a towel as she was now – directly below me. Beneath the overhang of the cliff.

  Unfit I might be, but it helped that I was small and agile. The climb came back to me in moments. The trainers helped. I almost remembered each foothold, each step down, which tussock to trust and hold on to. I eased myself down slowly, facing the cliff. Oh yes, a proper climb. The others would have come around the other way. When I got to the bottom I dusted off my hands, pleased with myself. I turned and trotted towards Tommy, still comatose, glancing about for Janey as I ran. Damn, no sign of her. Where was she? Coming to a running kneel in the sand like a footballer after scoring a goal, I tapped Tommy’s T-shirt-draped arm.

  ‘Tommy. Tommy, wake up.’

  ‘Huh? Whaa?’

  I removed the cap so he could see. He squinted and tried to focus, his eyes cloudy. I gave him a moment. He blinked. Presently he found his voice.

  ‘Jesus. You? Again? Who are you, Macbeth? You don’t half like murdering sleep.’

  ‘Sorry. Really sorry, Tommy, but this is urgent. Where’s Janey?’

  ‘Urgent?’ He blinked. ‘I’ll tell you what’s urgent. I try and catch a few Zs in the study, but no, you have to have me awake. Then I come down here to get away from you, but no, you have to have me again. Are you stalking me, woman?’

  ‘Tommy, please be serious, this is really urgent. Where’s Janey?’

  He sat up. Rubbed his eyes blearily. Gazed around. ‘Damned if I know.’

  ‘But she left her clothes to cover you up. She must be here somewhere.’ I stood up and stared at the rocks. Had she seen me arrive and was hiding?

  ‘That’s what women do, hon. They see me, they take their clothes off, they throw them all over me. Happens all the time.’ He shook the T-shirt and shorts off his arms. ‘Often I get panties, too, but I guess—’

  ‘Tommy, please. Don’t joke about this. I must find Janey.’

  He yawned widely and implacably in my face. Smacked his lips languidly. Then he frowned. ‘Why so?’

  I told him: being as considered and reasonable as I could. Not just detailing the affair, but Oxford as well. The whole story. And using words like ‘inappropriate’ a lot – albeit putting ‘fucking’ in front of it. I also used words like ‘tragedy’ and ‘scheming bitch’, and unfortunately, I did not have complete control of my voice, or as much as I would have liked, at all times.

  He regarded me in wonder as I ranted on. He waited until I’d finished and then stared some more, in disbelief. Suddenly he started to laugh. It started as a chuckle at the back of his throat, but then it got louder. His mirth became more and more riotous, until he was howling. He was roaring, now, in my face, mouth wide. Finally, he flopped theatrically over on to his side in the sand, gasping for air. At length he sat up. Wiped his eyes, which were streaming.

  I watched in horror. ‘What is so funny?’

  ‘You are. Oh God, you are, lady.’

  I gaped at him. He shrugged despairingly. Spread the palms of his hands wide. ‘Dear God, where’s the harm?’ he yelped. ‘A boy of sevente
en gets his rocks off with a fit, savvy, beautiful woman of thirty-six – who’s a real piece of work in the sack, incidentally – and who’s gonna show him all the moves and more, and you call it a tragedy? The real tragedy is it never happened to me. Jeez, I could have done with a girl like Janey before I went to college. Reckon my daddy might even have paid some broad to do it.’

  ‘Your daddy would have done nothing of the kind and you know it. He was a decent, respectable man and this is a seedy, tacky, indecent act of impropriety, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Act of improp—Oh God.’ He was off again, flopping sideways into the sand, holding himself, convulsed with mirth. I fumed silently beside him.

  Finally he sat up. Composed himself. ‘Flora, honey, this is no big story. This is no breaking news. And frankly, if it was good enough for the President of the Republic of—’

  ‘If you mention Emmanuel Macron I will slap you.’

  He gave a rather Gallic shrug. ‘I’m just illustrating that as career moves go, it’s not the worst.’

  ‘Well, a fat lot of help you’ve been,’ I stormed. ‘As usual. Thank you for that, Tommy. Thank you very much for your help.’ I got to my feet, fuming. ‘I’ll go and find her myself.’

  I made to go, wondering where on earth a girl in a yellow bikini and absolutely nothing else could have disappeared to, when he flicked out a hand and grabbed my ankle.

  ‘Sit down. At the risk of getting sand in my eyes, sit down. I’ll be serious with you just as soon as I’ve recovered my breath. It’s just … boy, you English girls. You crack me up.’

  ‘And I’m sure you know many, Tommy. And no doubt we have different standards and it takes some getting used to. But it’s not all Sex and the City over here, you know.’

  He looked about to dissolve again, but contained himself, with difficulty. His mouth twitched. ‘Sit.’

  I hesitated. Then obeyed. I swallowed hard as I waited for him to speak.

  ‘OK. First off, the sex isn’t a problem and you know it. And I know he says he’s in love with her, but you and I know he’s not really. Agreed? And Janey’s a nice girl, and she won’t have encouraged that. Agreed?’

  My pulse came down a bit. ‘I would have thought so, but it helps to have you say it.’

  ‘OK, well take it from me, she wouldn’t. So relax on that front. And now I’ll help some more. You say Peter originally wanted a year out, but they said no, right?’

  ‘Right, but—’

  ‘So perhaps he still wants one?’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t understand—’

  ‘I do understand. I went there, hon. But Harvard or Yale would have been just as hot.’

  Harvard or Yale. In America.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m just thinking outside the box. Or Edinburgh or Bristol or wherever. I’m just saying, even if he doesn’t get in, he’s clearly a super bright boy so it’s not the end of the world. And frankly, Flora, he’s a lovely boy, but he is quite young. I think he needs a year.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I bristled as I always did when anyone even vaguely criticized my perfect child.

  ‘He’s a delight, don’t get me wrong, but as far as I recall he’s a summer birthday?’

  ‘August,’ I admitted.

  ‘So he’s not even eighteen. And not just that, he’s polite and a bit shy. And so like Hugo at that age, and not a bit like me.’

  ‘No.’ I remembered Tommy. Swearing at his friends out hunting, his face red and heated. A very angry young man. ‘What’s wrong with him being like Hugo?’

  ‘Well, he was kind of wet behind the ears. A bit mothered.’ He caught my eye. ‘Peter is a bit, too.’

  ‘No. I won’t have that. I’ve tried so hard not to—’

  ‘And you’ve done a remarkable job,’ he interrupted. ‘But take it from me, he could do with a year in New York. It’ll make a man of him.’

  I wanted to say I didn’t want a man. I wanted a boy. My Peter.

  Tommy’s eyes were serious now. ‘If he was my son, and I knew he pretty much had the world at his feet anyway, I’d be advocating this. What did Hugo say?’

  ‘Hugo would let him do whatever he liked.’

  We loyally tried not to exchange a look, but we did, nonetheless. Tommy shrugged.

  ‘Well, that’s Hugo. And I’m not saying he’s right, because personally I think a degree of direction helps at this age, and I’m not saying you’re totally wrong, Flora. I do know not many kids would, or should, turn a place like this down. But in Peter’s case, it might be right.’

  I took a very deep breath. Let it out shakily. Knew I was scared. ‘It’s such a lottery. Places there …’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Life is a lottery. And life isn’t fair, either.’

  I blinked at him. ‘My dad used to say that.’

  ‘So did mine.’ We paused. He took a minute. ‘So, what would your dad say if he was here now?’

  I opened my mouth to state categorically that Dad would tell him not to be a bloody fool. To take his place, and go to Oxford in October, but suddenly … I couldn’t. Because it struck me that he might not. He might say quite a lot of what Tommy had just said. Tommy’s eyes were blue and intense as he looked at me. He’d set his cap on his head at a jaunty angle. ‘The Hamptons Country Club’, it read. His arms were linked around his knees which flopped loosely to either side in front of him. I held his gaze for a bit then looked away. Out at sea. Tried to breathe. Tried to think. A small white boat was zipping across the horizon, against the blue sky and the turquoise sea. A speedboat. Behind it, a girl with flowing blonde hair was waterskiing. A girl in a yellow bikini. Tommy saw it, too, I guess, because I heard him give a low chuckle.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  I wondered if he wished she was his girl. I mean, she had been once, but I found myself wondering if he wished this funny, headstrong, likeable girl, who clearly picked up captains of strange speedboats on the beach and cajoled them into letting her have a ski – except I don’t imagine there was much cajoling – was still his.

  ‘We fought like cat and dog,’ he told me, as if reading my thoughts. His eyes were still on the boat. ‘She’s too tricky for me. Got a bit of baggage.’

  ‘Who hasn’t,’ I said softly. We watched the boat slow down, the engine cut, and saw her sink gracefully down into the water. The boat circled to pick her up.

  ‘Oh sure. But some people make an effort to unpack it and put it tidily away in the closet. At least, that’s what I was taught. And some people don’t.’

  I turned to look at him. It struck me that this was rather a wise thing to say, and I told him so.

  ‘Really?’ His eyes widened in amusement. ‘I heard it on Family Guy. Must use it some more.’

  I felt my mouth twitch involuntarily. I turned away so he didn’t see me smile. Janey was being helped into the boat now by at least three eager young men. One of them then resumed his place at the engine to bring her back to shore.

  ‘Now you get back up this cliff, Flora, honey, and leave this to me. I’ll talk to Janey. But not necessarily now,’ he said, holding the palm of his hand up as my mouth opened. ‘Not right this instant, like you ladies like to have things done. All your ducks in a row. All tidy and lickety-split. When I find a good moment. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. OK? And I’ll talk to Peter, too. I’ll make sure he at least thinks about this.’

  ‘Will you? Will you really, Tommy?’ I spotted a glimmer of hope. ‘I mean, you are his godfather, so—’

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I? But not in a dictatorial fashion. Just making sure he’s considered all his options, OK?’

  I badly wanted that conversation to be now. This minute. Today. Ducks in a row. A quick fix. But I made myself nod.

  ‘OK. And you don’t think I should talk to Janey, woman to woman?’

  ‘No, I do not. Because, trust me, if you kick off like you did with me, with all that righteous indignation, she may not roll in the sand laughing. I
told you. Janey’s not straightforward.’

  ‘OK.’ I breathed. I got to my feet. Swallowed. ‘And, um, Tommy …’ It took me a moment but I did get there. ‘Thank you.’

  His mouth twitched. ‘Twice in one morning. Bet that hurt.’

  I didn’t respond. But he gave me an American-style army salute, and, as Janey swam ashore, and assorted men watched admiringly, I made my way back up the beach. On to the cliff I went, in my ancient trainers, my five-year-old summer dress, the bulldog clip in my hair I wore for painting, whilst Janey, as I glanced back, strolled up the beach like Ursula Andress coming out of the sea. She was only really missing the dagger in her bikini bottoms.

  22

  I’d considered cancelling my dinner with Ted that evening. As I walked back to the cottage, I’d told myself I was too upset, too distracted and emotional to have a romantic tête-à-tête, which, however much I reminded myself it was just supper at my place, I knew it would be. I’d also bitten all around both thumbnails, taken my phone from my pocket and even composed the text to him, but then I thought – no. I’ll do it later, if I have to. If I decide I really want to be on my own to think. However, the rational side of my brain, which has always been very, very small, told me that actually, if I didn’t see Ted, I was indulging my much larger, overdramatic, unrealistic side. And that I needed to be doing something, in order not to be doing something else. Not to be drinking a bottle of wine on my own, reigniting the fire of indignation and injustice, and striding up to the house in high dudgeon to have it out with Janey, thus ruining any clever, patient damage limitation Tommy was to perform.

  It wasn’t going to happen, this U-turn of Peter’s, of that I was absolutely certain. Tommy hadn’t convinced me otherwise – and neither had he intended to. What he had done was persuade me that there were other ways of getting what I wanted. Well … obviously what Peter wanted. And that going about it in my own sweet, loose-cannon way was a guaranteed suicide mission. I could see that. I could see that getting Peter to really think about it was smarter.