One Summer's Night

by One Summer's Night (retail) (epub)

  ‘That’s the main theatre over there, and you can just make out the statue of Shakespeare there, see? The bus station’s just over this bridge and past my boss’s ticket boat, not far now,’ Kelsey said authoritatively.

  ‘You really are quite the tour guide, Kelsey.’

  As they passed the barge Gianfranco popped his head out the window and wordlessly, but with a gap-toothed smile, beckoned to Kelsey to come down the gangplank for a word. She introduced Mirren who, rather flirtatiously Kelsey thought, told him she’d heard all about him, and it had been ‘all good things’.

  Gianfranco managed to recover himself enough to whisper, ‘Look what I have,’ with a curiously excited smile.

  Kelsey had never seen her big, quiet friend quite so animated as he reached into his pocket and produced the tiny purple velvet ring box.

  ‘Tonight, I will ask,’ he blushed, his voice barely audible as he opened the box revealing a gleaming amethyst set among tiny diamonds on a delicate white gold band.

  ‘Oh Gianfranco! That’s wonderful, congratulations. Where will you do it?’

  ‘In the gardens here. I walk her beside the fountain and ask her to make me happier than any man deserves to be.’

  Gianfranco’s huge hands shook as he closed the box, replacing it in his pocket, his cheeks flushing pale then pink with emotion and nerves. Kelsey was almost jumping up and down with excitement when she heard the clip-clop of heels on the walkway behind them and Gianfranco’s expression changed to sudden unconvincing nonchalance.

  ‘Hello, darlings. What are you doing here on your weekend off, Kelsey, you naughty thing? Oh, do come and help me with this.’

  Norma was dragging a large A-board sign with her. Gianfranco had already leapt out of the top hatch and was lifting it up onto the roof of the barge where he set it down as though it weighed nothing at all.

  ‘To Let? You really are closing down then?’ Kelsey asked, trying to get her words in between Norma’s noisy directions to Gianfranco as he positioned the sign.

  ‘Back a bit, left a bit more, darling.’ Norma turned towards Kelsey. ‘That’s right, dearie. No time like the present. I’m not one to hang about, Kelsey, as you know, and it’s high time I wound up the tours agency. Oh, hello dear, I’m Norma Arden.’ She interrupted herself to shake a bewildered Mirren’s hand before continuing without taking a breath. ‘And so, it’s all going. Goodbye tension, hello pension.’ She pronounced this with a lavish Italian accent. Kelsey felt glad that she knew ‘pension’ was Italian for hotel. Norma barely paused.

  ‘Just our little joke, you see, we’re buying a little guesthouse in Amalfi. Gianfranco’s taking me home to meet his mother.’ Norma laughed giddily.

  Kelsey had never seen her boss so exultant. She thought of the surprise proposal coming Norma’s way and her heart wanted to burst with happiness for the lovely, batty woman. Neither Kelsey nor Mirren had said one word before Norma was off again in full sail.

  ‘Now, darling, I’m glad I’ve bumped into you. I have a little extra work for you in late August, if you’re interested? Of course you are. The season always culminates with an open-air party, the Summer Gala they call it. Anyway, there’s a few days’ set-up work to be done; putting up lights, making little performance spaces, that sort of thing. It’s easy money but it will make for very long days I’m afraid. Oh, and the director of the American company… oh, what is it called?’

  ‘The Oklahoma Renaissance Players,’ answered Kelsey in a grim, ominous voice, which Norma either didn’t pick up on or chose to ignore.

  ‘That’s the one. Their director needs some extras for a tableau vivant. I said I’m sure you’d be keen. It pays proper Equity rates, you know?’

  Kelsey was too thrown by the mention of Jonathan’s company not to allow the confusion to show on her face. ‘A tableau…?’

  ‘Vivant, dear. A living picture? Goodness, the education system in this country; it’s diabolical. The director needs some girls to be fairies. You don’t move, you don’t say a word, you just strike a pose, the curtain drops, everyone gasps at how lovely and enchanting you all look, the curtain goes up again, you get paid, and you go home. What do you say, sweetheart?’

  Searching for the right words to let Norma down with, Kelsey became aware of Mirren chortling beside her, her head bowed beneath her huge hat to hide the laughter.

  ‘Well, I… I haven’t really done any acting since school, and I, eh…’ She gave up, seeing the determined look on Norma’s face, and, with a sudden wicked sense of revenge, blurted out, ‘I’ll do it if Mirren can do it.’

  ‘What?’ Mirren snapped her head upright, gaping in shock at Kelsey.

  ‘Right, it’s settled then. Thank you, ladies. I’ll let the director know. And Mirren, is it? Cash in hand suit you too? I’m sure we can sort something out. Jolly good.’

  Mirren was shaking her head and trying to protest, but to no avail. Arguing with Norma was like trying to stop a burst dam with a single dish cloth. Kelsey was slyly looking at Mirren out of the corner of her eyes and grinning widely when she remembered their bus trip. They excused themselves and, after winking conspiratorially at a blushing Gianfranco from behind Norma’s back, Kelsey grabbed Mirren’s hand and they ran as fast as they could for the bus station, dodging the slow-moving tourists who packed the pavements. All the while Kelsey was worrying about the clinking lemonade bottles, hoping their tops wouldn’t pop in her satchel.

  They screamed in delight as they rounded the corner catching sight of the lovely old bus that would be theirs for the day, all gleaming cream and pale green curves, dinky tyres, round chrome lamps, and windows that did up with brown leather straps. As they drew near it, their driver introduced himself with a finger-tap on the peak of his navy cap. His smart uniform and silver buttons set off the whole ‘vintage escapade’ scene perfectly. His name was Jim and, Kelsey thought, he looked as old as the bus itself. After he’d neatly clipped the corners of their tickets and offered them a polite, gloved hand up the narrow steps, he whipped out a chamois and gave the bonnet a quick and totally unnecessary once-over.

  Kelsey and Mirren were the last passengers to arrive, and they greeted the others – smiling holiday makers from all four corners of the world – and made their way to the worn leather seats right at the back. Jim turned over the engine and they began their bumpy, spluttering exit from the bus station, across the busy bridge over the Avon and away from the hustle and bustle of Stratford and the summer season crowds.

  ‘A tableau vivant, eh?’ Mirren asked with a half-scowl, half-laugh.

  ‘Well, you did say you fancied coming back to Stratford at the end of the season; this way you’ll earn back your train fare while you’re here,’ Kelsey shrugged with a sparkle in her eyes. Mirren looked unconvinced, so she quickly added, ‘and maybe you’ll meet Benedict Cumberbatch.’

  Mirren said nothing as she sat back in her seat, gazing out the window, a faint smile forming at the corner of her mouth as she contemplated that possibility.

  The sun blazed down onto their noisy little coach as they made their way among the lush fields of grass, dazzling yellow sunflowers and, far in the distance, long, neat rows of blue Cotswold lavender. They passed solitary country pubs, millionaires’ barn conversions, and farm shops boasting proudly of their freshly laid duck eggs and hothouse tomatoes. Everyone settled into the journey, gazing out at the cloudless skies opening up above them. Kelsey felt a quiet peace descend over her as her body surrendered to the roll and rock of the bumping wheels on tarmac as she and Mirren slumped together, shoulder to shoulder.

  Soon they were approaching the first village. Each of its smart cottages was made of golden barley-coloured soft stone, and had its own immaculate front garden bursting with roses, all enclosed within neat, low, stone walls. Tall oaks, conifers, and monkey puzzle trees peeped over the roofs of the houses, hinting at the grand landscaped gardens hidden away behind them. And everywhere there were sudden flashes of bright red, from the phone and pillar
boxes to the bold little robins in the hedgerows. As the bus bumped on, winding through the lanes and turning tight corners past bakeries and butcher shops and the one lone blacksmith’s forge, Kelsey tried to imagine she was drifting back in time. It was easy enough if she ignored the heavy traffic on the open roads between the picturesque villages.

  Jim spoke occasionally into a crackling microphone, pointing out important landmarks, like the church that had held onto the secret of its plague pit, sunken by mourners four hundred years ago just inside its lichen-speckled lychgate where the tragic bodies of mothers and husbands and adored children had been placed without ceremony and forgotten by the generations afterwards, only to be discovered recently by horrified workmen repairing a water main.

  Jim revelled in the gothic horror of each tale he told and they grew increasingly far-fetched. Here, they were on a stretch of road frequented by a dashing seventeenth-century highwayman who always stole a kiss from the ladies in the rich carriages he stopped before tearing their shining jewels from heaving chests. Then there came a spot made famous in the civil war, but neither Kelsey nor Mirren could have told you precisely how it found its fame, they were only half-listening now, almost snoozing behind their sunglasses. Kelsey was so glad someone else was the tour guide for a change.

  After an hour or so the little bus pulled into a larger village, constructed of a yellow stone as deep in shade and pitted and crumbling as a madeira cake. A wide, shallow river flowed right through its centre. There were day-trippers padding in the babbling water. Kelsey leaned across Mirren to peer out the window at the lovely shops lining their route on the far side of the river: cafés, bookstores, outdoorsy-type shops with waterproofs and sturdy boots, even a Christmas shop, its artificial fir trees in the window displays dripping with pale pink frosted-glass baubles, white feathers, and crystal angels, striking an incongruous note alongside the happy children in their brand new summer holiday shorts and T-shirts, gazing up at them, dreaming of December.

  Jim found a spot in a busy coach park behind a pub and everyone stepped out into the sun to stretch their legs for a few moments. Kelsey had just enough time to take a few hurried pictures of the little footbridge that spanned the river while Mirren queued for ice lollies. As they boarded their bus again, Kelsey felt relieved to be leaving the crowds.

  They headed out into wilder open countryside, passing a chandlery and the odd micro-brewery, farmhouse and parsonage. Jim pulled the bus into a large lay-by with a sign declaring it a ‘beauty spot’, as if that were in doubt. He stopped the engine and made his announcements into the microphone.

  ‘We’ll be making a stop here for lunch. If you walk a little further down the road, there’s a very fine church of Norman origin, nice for a quick visit. Across the road and over this field you’ll find the Wheatsheaf Inn, does a nice steak pie, it does. That’s where I’ll be. Or the river is a hundred yards in that direction.’ He pointed a gloved finger across a wild-looking fallow field. ‘Just hop over the stile and stick to the path.’

  ‘River,’ said Mirren decisively as they gathered their things, hoping no one else on the coach would follow them on their way, which, to their relief, no one did.

  Away from the road and over the grassy field the traffic sounds faded away. As they followed the narrow path, made from hundreds of years of footfall, down towards the treeline, they set butterflies and moths fluttering up into the air from the bobble heads of flowering clovers.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mirr. I’d never have done this without you, and it is gorgeous out here.’

  ‘Can’t have you mooning about the gift shops of Stratford by yourself all day long, can we? How are you feeling anyway?’ Mirren asked, as they strode along under the white sun.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it. I’m so tired of it all, and it’s such a lovely day.’ Kelsey craned her neck and shielded her eyes as she looked up at a buzzard hundreds of feet above them. It flew around and around in increasingly wide circles, its mate soaring around in a gyre even further above it, so free and breathtakingly high. In a few seconds they were nothing but indistinct black dots seemingly on the very edge of space.

  They found the river running through a deep, narrow channel just on the edge of the field margin where it met the trees. Its waters provided a gentle shushing soundtrack to their lunch on the dry shady bank.

  ‘Ah, I could get used to living down here,’ Mirren said with a sigh. ‘And it looks as though you have, Kelse.’

  ‘It’s true. I love Stratford. I love the job, the theatres, the buildings, everything. I’ll really miss it.’ Sitting by the bank, she unwrapped the sandwiches and took a big bite to punctuate her sentence, savouring the creamy avocado, before shovelling a forkful of tomato salad into her mouth. ‘Mmm, and the food. I love the food too,’ she mumbled.

  Mirren smiled to see Kelsey so relaxed though she could also see the dark shadows under her friend’s eyes from the evening before. After a few silent, appreciative bites of baguette, Mirren spoke tentatively.

  ‘Kelse, I hope you don’t mind, I found your photographs this morning… the ones of the town and your tour guide friends. They’re really good. I mean, they’re really good, your best yet. It was like there was something different about them. I can’t put my finger on it, really.’ Mirren tipped her head, squinting into the bright sky in thought. ‘If they made me the newspaper’s art critic… I’d write that there was a new freshness of composition and framing. No, more than that, more technical proficiency, too. You’ve managed to capture something special in them. They look like you’ve found a place for yourself here and I can see the excitement and the… fullness of your life here in the pictures.’

  ‘Wow! Well thank you, here’s your promotion,’ Kelsey said with a laugh. ‘If you think those pictures are good, you should see the headshots…’ She stopped herself, not wanting to think about how carried away she’d let herself become with thoughts of gorgeous, unavailable Jonathan after the magic of that day in the studio.

  Mirren quickly steered her away from danger. ‘Hon, why don’t you exhibit some of your landscapes, or the ones of the narrowboats? They were beautiful. Surely you could find a photography club in town, or you must know some nice restaurant owner by now who’d display them for you? I’ll bet they’d fly off the walls. The tourists would love them. You could make some extra cash… and you’d be doing the thing you love again.’

  ‘Naw, Fran was right when he said old school photographers were a dying breed. Who’d buy them anyway? Everybody’s got a camera phone and they’ll leave Stratford with a thousand pictures of the place. They don’t need my ones too.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re a proper photographer. Those are just crappy snaps that they’ll never look at again or they’ll end up deleting or losing them. People still need treasured photos of special places and their special people.’

  ‘OK, but how am I supposed to make any money, Mirr? Getting films developed is so expensive these days, and I’d need a digital camera and it would have to be a really good one.’

  ‘Well then, invest in one, second hand if you need to. You’d soon make the money back. Anyway, didn’t Fran give you your share of the deposit back? It’s like life’s telling you what to do. You can’t be a tour guide for much longer, can you now?’

  Kelsey thought about Norma and Gianfranco selling up and leaving town and the huge gap they’d leave in her little world. The agency had been her family and her home all summer. She sighed, wiping thin smears of mayonnaise from her fingers onto the dry grass beside her.

  ‘I could do some teaching, I guess, retro photography, that sort of thing? Evening classes maybe? There’s lots of retired folk looking for a hobby, and people our age who’ll never even have seen a camera as old as this before, let alone know how it works.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Mirren nodded approvingly and popped the stopper on one of the bottles of lemonade before handing it to Kelsey who was deep in thought.

  ‘But, how much
do they pay to teach evening classes? Not enough to live off, not in Stratford anyway, I’ll bet. I’d need two or three jobs to survive here forever,’ said Kelsey pensively.

  Mirren flinched inwardly at the word ‘forever’ and, not without some pain, let it dawn upon her that Kelsey would, more than likely, never be content to move back home to the village again, not after all this. Kelsey, who was staring down into the shimmering water of the river, lost in the effort of trying to imagine her future, kept talking.

  ‘I suppose I could get work as a baby photographer, you know, on the wards at the hospitals? One of them used to come into Mr McLennan’s shop to get her prints done. Gemma, her name was. She used to hang around the maternity wards and photograph all the babies on the day they were born and she’d get the mums’ credit card details there and then. Made good money too.’

  Kelsey remembered the times she’d sneakily looked through Gemma’s prints after they arrived from the developer’s. The babies looked lovely, of course, but Kelsey had felt sorry for the poor startled-looking mums at the edges of the pictures. They’d barely had time to brush their hair, let alone compose themselves for a high definition photo under a blinding flashlight. ‘No, on second thoughts, it’s not for me.’

  ‘Just keep thinking of a way to make it work because you’re the best photographer I know, and you’d be mad to throw away talent like yours.’