Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  'You can't go back yet!' She clung to him, burying her head in his shoulder. 'What will I do without you?'

  'You'll do what I showed you to do.' He rubbed her fanny sensuously and licked his lips. 'Come on, do it now so I know you can do it properly.'

  But Tara didn't want to play that game again, no matter how pleasurable it had been yesterday. It wasn't sex she wanted, it was love. She wanted him to say he couldn't live without her, that he would marry her just as soon as her mother agreed, that she could come to London with him.

  'You'll just forget me in London.' She began to cry, even though she tried hard not to.

  'How can I forget you?' he said. 'I'll remember that hot, tight fanny, those big firm breasts forever. London's where I earn my living, darling. I've got bills to pay.'

  'Can I come with you?'

  He slid his hand inside her shirt and caught hold of her nipple.

  'You must do your exams first,' he said softly. 'When you come to London to work we can see each other. I'm going to miss you far worse than you'll miss me, I promise you that!'

  Instinct told her that she mustn't keep on at him, that pleasing him sexually would hold him longer than tears and demands.

  'You will give me your address, though, so I can write to you?' she asked.

  'Of course.' His hand slid back into her knickers. 'But if you want it you've got to show me what naughty girls do when they're all alone in their rooms at night!'

  'What on earth's the matter with you?' Amy asked as Tara stood at the window on Sunday afternoon, staring out at the rain. Tara had only picked at her lunch, she had a far-away look in her eyes and her shoulders were stooped.

  'We don't mind you going to London for the summer.' Amy put her arm round her daughter's waist and leaned against her shoulder. 'We want you to be happy.'

  Tara felt a stab of guilt. She wanted to tell her mother everything, but she knew she couldn't.

  They had had one last bout of lovemaking early that morning. Tara had gone out on her bike on the pretence of looking for mushrooms. Simon had left the door open and she found him still asleep.

  Looking down on him she thought he must be the most beautiful man in the world. His smooth bare chest was tanned a golden brown and, even though his muscles weren't as well developed as Harry's, his shoulders looked strong. But it was his face she lingered on. The rugged chin, with golden stubble growing through, those fleshy, sensual lips that had explored every part of her, the straight, slender nose, and his hair. No man should have hair like his, so glossy and silky, the colour of buttercups, especially when his eyelashes were brown and long.

  Then he opened his eyes, blinked for a moment, and smiled. She knew then she would love him forever.

  But for now she had to live without him. She would have to remember his kisses and his touch. He was lucky, he had all those photographs he had taken of her, he could bring them out and enjoy all over again those wonderful games they had played when he got her to pose. She had nothing of his but a handkerchief, his address and beautiful memories.

  'I'm OK, Mum.' She smiled weakly. 'Just thinking about all the revision I've got to do.'

  Chapter 14

  'Who's the letter from?'

  'Nobody,' Tara snapped without thinking.

  'I didn't think nobodies bothered to write letters,' Amy said lightly.

  Tara realised immediately she'd made a blunder. Although Amy carried on frying bacon, not even considering that there might be something sinister about a letter from London, Gran's head came round like an owl looking for prey and her eyes glinted.

  'Just one of the girls that left last year, actually,' Tara lied frantically. 'Sally Webster. She's got a job in London. I'd better rush, I'm late.'

  It was just six weeks since she had said goodbye to Simon, but it felt like months. The exams were over, school was about to break up for the summer holidays, and this was the letter she'd been waiting for.

  She never knew first love could be so painful. Every romantic story she'd ever read, every poem, every sad song cut through to her heart. He was on her mind from the moment she woke up till she finally fell asleep. Every doodle she drew had his name in the centre of it. She wanted to confide in someone, but was afraid, and she tortured herself with the thought that he might have someone else in London.

  He had written her just two short notes, the first saying he was rehearsing for a new play in the West End, the second that the show had opened and it would be some time before he'd be free to come down.

  Tara had made plans after his first note. She got a few dressmaking jobs, and some work washing-up glasses in the Pelican. The money was stashed away ready for the end of term.

  There wasn't time to read the latest letter now, especially with Gran hovering, dying to know what was in it. Tara stuffed it in her school bag, planning to read it in the first free period.

  It was almost ten before that chance came. There had been an extra-long assembly because of all the school-leavers, and every minute of it she'd been thinking about Simon.

  She rushed up the stairs to her form room two at a time, practically threw herself at her desk and opened her bag. The envelope was pale blue and quite distinctive, but at the first flick through her bag she couldn't see it. She tipped the contents on to her desk, leafing through each book and file.

  'Lost something?' the girl at the next desk asked.

  'My letter,' was all Tara could wail. 'My letter!'

  But it wasn't there.

  She tried to think back. Could it have dropped from her bag in the house? Her blood ran cold at the thought. She knew her Gran, if she saw the letter lying on the floor, she'd definitely read it.

  Suppose Simon had said something saucy, made some reference to his time at Stanton Drew. What if he mentioned the photographs? The prospect made her feel sick. They would never let her go to London if they knew about Simon! How could she have been so careless?

  Other girls were discussing an end-of-term party as they got out of school, and they waved Tara over, but instead she ran to the bike-sheds.

  She couldn't ride her bike, she had to search. Every hedge, every scrap of grass, every front garden, gutter, pavement and road was scanned for the blue envelope. But it wasn't there! All she could do was offer up a silentprayer that someone thoughtful had picked it up, seen the address and popped it back through their door.

  'Please don't let Gran open it,' she pleaded with God as she pushed her bike into the farmyard. 'Please, please. I'll behave myself from now on.'

  'Did you see that letter of mine?' she asked her mother, as casually as possible given her rising panic. 'I must have dropped it.'

  'No.' Amy shook her head. 'No, I haven't, you'd better ask your gran.'

  Tara went upstairs first, hoping it might be lying on the floor of her room. It wasn't, neither were the jumper or the jeans she'd dropped there. Someone had been cleaning up, or snooping.

  'Was it you who cleaned my room, Mum?' she asked once she'd changed and gone back down to the kitchen.

  'Yes, of course it was. And if you were to pick up your clothes it wouldn't take so long, either.'

  Gran was out helping Stan with the milking. Tara couldn't bear the suspense any longer so she joined her there.

  'Hullo, love, come to help?' Gran asked. She was squatting on a stool dressed in a pair of men's white overalls, her forehead stuck right up against the big Friesian.

  Tara liked milking, but today she hated everything about the farm.

  'I wondered if you picked my letter up?' she asked. 'I thought I'd put it in my school bag to read later, but when I got there I hadn't got it.'

  'I haven't seen it.' Gran shrugged her shoulders. 'Mind you, I've barely been in the house today.'

  Tears pricked at Tara's eyes. She needed words from Simon, she wanted reassurance he still cared. Why hadn't she read it before leaving this morning?

  'What's up?'

  Tara turned away from the older woman's gentle question; she cou
ldn't face the third degree now.

  Tara sat in silence all through dinner. She just didn't know what to do for the best now. He might have said he was coming down. He could even have suggested she came there. If only he'd given her a phone number.

  She could try asking directory enquiries! Almost immediately she felt more cheerful, and as soon as the washing up was finished she ran along to the phone in the High Street.

  'Can you give me the number of S Wainwright, 27 Godolphin Road, Shepherd's Bush, please?' she asked.

  There was a silence while the woman looked.

  'No-one of that name listed at that address,' she said in a bored voice.

  'Well, can I have the number anyway?' Tara asked. 'Mr Wainwright might be sharing with someone.'

  'The two listed numbers are both ex-directory,' the voice informed her. 'I can't give either to you.'

  'But I've got to have it! It's an emergency!'

  'I'm sorry. We aren't allowed to give these numbers under any circumstances.'

  Tara slammed the receiver down in a temper, kicked the telephone box open and glowered at a man waiting outside.

  She was still in a temper when she got home. She snapped at her mother, ignored Gran and went up to her room without even a goodnight.

  'That letter wasn't from a girlfriend.' Mabel winced as she heard Tara kick the bedroom door shut. 'It's a man!' Amy took Tara a cup of tea the next morning. She put it down by the bed and pulled back the curtains.

  'Wake up, sweetheart,' she said. 'It's a beautiful morning!'

  It had rained heavily for an hour or two during the night, but now the sun was up and everything gleamed.

  'I think it's going to be hot again.' Amy opened the window and leaned out. 'Why don't you come to Wells with me today instead of going to school? There's that lovely fabric shop by the Cathedral, we could pick out something for a new dress each.'

  There was a time when she couldn't bear to look out this window, because she relived what Tara had seen from it. But now she saw only the meadow and remembered Paul alive, riding Betsy.

  Tara sat up sleepily and reached for her tea. Her face was pink and sleepy, golden hair tousled, her wide mouth like a crushed strawberry.

  'I ought to go to school,' she said wistfully. 'We're putting on that end-of-term concert today.'

  'I'd forgotten that' Amy perched on the edge of the bed. She'd been up since five, feeding the chickens and helping with the milking, and the whole time she'd been thinking about the best way to get Tara to open up. 'Well, maybe we could do something another day, just the two of us. We never seem to be on our own these days.'

  Tara was tempted to blurt it out right then. Amy wasn't old and fusty like some of her friend's mothers. She would understand some of it!

  But not all of it. Not the deceit, the lies. Or that he was nearer her mother's age!

  'It's only a week to the holidays,' Tara said quickly, before she admitted things better kept to herself. 'We'll go to Wells then.'

  Tara pushed her way through the gymnasium door, a box of paper flowers she'd made in her arms.

  It was a hive of activity, first-years putting out rows of chairs, while up on the stage some of the drama club were laying out artificial grass, others arranging the cardboard forest. Miss Parks was thumping out the musical score on the piano, her thin shoulders and head moving in time, glasses slipping down her nose.

  Wendy Carter, the head girl, was rehearsing her part as Guinevere with Michael Trotter as King Arthur. They looked and sounded ridiculous. Wendy was big and horsy-looking, with a posh accent, while Michael was small and weedy with a Somerset dialect so thick it sounded put on. Every time they rehearsed someone got the giggles when they had to kiss. Michael was enthusiastic enough, but Wendy behaved as if she'd rather swallow poison.

  'These flowers are beautiful.' Miss Kemp, the Bohemian drama teacher, lifted out one of the crepe-paper roses. 'I take it you made these, Tara? They have that special Tara touch!'

  'Mum and Gran helped.' Tara smiled. Miss Kemp was her favourite teacher and, even though Tara had no real interest in acting or singing, she helped out with costumes and props in the drama club just because of her.

  'I don't know how we'd have managed without you.' Miss Kemp sighed. 'It was a bit foolhardy picking on something medieval. If you hadn't come up with the idea of painting sacking silver, our knights would have no chain-mail.'

  'I'm sure you'd have managed very well.' Tara smiled shyly, pleased she was appreciated. 'I'd better go and get my costume on.'

  'Where's your hat?' Miss Kemp looked askance at Tara's duffle bag. 'Surely you haven't squashed it in there?'

  Tara clapped her hand over her mouth. She wore a long pointed bonnet with trailing chiffon, and she'd left it adorning her dressing table.

  'Hell! I left it in the bedroom!' she exclaimed.

  "Then you must go home and get it at lunch-time. It will entirely spoil the effect if one of you is dressed differently.'

  Tara rode into the yard, propped her bike by the back door and paused for a moment to catch her breath. The only sounds were the tractor way down in the lower meadow where Stan was cutting hay, and the scratch of the chickens' claws on the cobbles.

  She gagged as she went into the kitchen. Gran was boiling up some fish for the cats and it smelled disgusting. Holding her nose she ran straight through, up the stairs and across the landing to her room.

  She stopped short in the doorway. Gran was sitting on the bed, rifling through Tara's handbag.

  'What are you doing?' Tara managed to get out. 'Why are you rummaging in my bag?' But even as she spoke, she knew! Simon's first two notes lay there in her lap.

  'Is this Simon the actor I met?'

  Tara looked at her grandmother and in that moment hated her – for her age, her wrinkles, her sarcasm and her prying.

  'What's it got to do with you?' Tara rushed forwards snatching up her things and shoving them back into her bag. 'How could you go through my private things?'

  'It's a good job I did, isn't it?' Gran pursed her lips the way she always did when she thought she was in the right. 'He's old enough to be your father! You'd better tell me what he means by "my sexy little schoolgirl"! Are you pregnant, Tara? Is that why you got so upset yesterday when you couldn't find that letter?'

  'Leave me alone!' Tara screamed out. 'No wonder Mum ran away from you! You want to know everything, to control everyone, and you don't care how you do it. I hate you!'

  'Well, that's nice after all I've done for you!' Gran rose from the bed, hand raised as if she were going to strike Tara. She was formidable when she was angry, but Tara wasn't going to be brow-beaten.

  'Don't you lay one finger on me,' Tara warned her, backing away. 'I'm not like Mum. I'll hit you back.'

  The smell of fish wafting up the stairs now had a different tang. Gran momentarily paused, sniffed the air, then looked back at Tara, her face like stone.

  'I'll deal with you in a moment,' she said. 'That fish is burning.'

  Tara waited till she'd gone downstairs, then she quickly ran to her grandmother's room.

  'She must have had that letter,' Tara muttered, scanning the dressing table with its silver-backed hair brushes, the big carved bed, the bedside cabinets and even the bookcase.

  It was clear to Tara now. Gran found that letter and there was something in it which put the wind up her. Perhaps Mum was in on it, too. Was that why she suggested going to Wells today, to give Gran time to search for more evidence? Maybe Simon had said something about the photographs! What if he enclosed one?

  She couldn't see it. In panic she fled back to her room, her heart thumping. She wasn't going to stay here to be punished; she would run away to London now.

  A car came into the yard as she grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into a rucksack. She could hear Greg Masterton's voice through the open window.

  'How are you, Mrs Randall? What's that awful smell?' He sounded as if he was holding his nose. 'Where's Amy today? Or is t
hat her you're cooking?'

  Any other time Tara would have laughed. Greg Masterton always made jokes about Mabel being a witch, but today it was too near the truth. Hastily she tore off her school uniform and pulled on jeans and a shirt.

  Greg had obviously come to see Amy, but now he was politely setting off towards the lower meadow with Gran as if to see something. It was a golden opportunity. If she ran for it now she could be well away from the village before Gran even realised she'd gone.

  The contents of her money box went into her purse, Simon's notes, her address book, make-up and hairbrush into her handbag, and she was ready. As she got down to the hall she heard her grandmother's voice back in the yard. She was offering Greg a drink and telling him Amy would be back on the five o'clock bus.

  Tara looked round in alarm. It was no good trying the front door, it had too many bolts. But just as she heard her Gran's feet on the metal scraper by the back door, she noticed the sitting-room window was wide open! She was out of it faster than a hare with the hounds behind it, across the front lawn, down the little brick path and on to the road.

  The school play, her mother, everything was forgotten as she tore up the road, her rucksack bumping up and down on her shoulder.

  The High Street was deserted, the shops closed for lunch. Mr Hewish was just going in the Pelican but he didn't notice her as she scooted up the road and round the corner by the sweet shop, towards the Bristol Road. She had gone about two hundred yards when she heard a lorry coming up behind her, and it was pure impulse that made her put her thumb out.

  The squeal of brakes surprised her, she hadn't actually expected it to stop. But she ran up to the lorry and looked up at the man in the cab. He was middle-aged, with a fat, jolly face, and he looked fatherly.

  'Where to, love?' he asked in a Birmingham accent.

  'Bristol?' she asked hopefully.

  'Hop in.' He grinned cheerfully. 'I hope you know the way, because I'm lost.'

  She didn't admit she was running away, pretending that she'd simply missed the bus. He'd just emptied his load of fertiliser out at a farm and the noise of the empty tipper truck drowned any real conversation. She wondered how long it would be before Gran realised she'd run away. Would Greg drive down to the station to try to head her off?