Change of Season

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘What you just said.’

  Jenny looked at her in puzzlement.

  ‘Oh, forget it!’ Louise stamped out of the room.

  They took it in turns to go up and check, but Tim slept all through the rest of the afternoon and the evening, too. Feeling emotionally drained, Rosalind had a nap as well, something rare for her, waking with her son’s name on her lips.

  The girls stayed up till ten o’clock, then went off to bed, yawning. Rosalind hesitated in her bedroom doorway, then shook her head and went to work on her embroidery. She couldn’t sleep yet.

  She sat quietly with the door open, listening to the sounds of her daughters getting ready for bed, tossing and turning about, then falling asleep.

  At about one o’clock she went to bed herself, but lay there wakeful, worrying about her son. In the end, she gave way to temptation and tiptoed up the attic stairs in her bare feet.

  Louise had left a lamp on at the side of the bed. Tim was lying sprawled across it in the way he always had done, even as a very small child.

  As she watched, he opened his eyes, jerked upright and stared round him in what looked like sheer terror. Not until he saw her by the door did he sink back on the pillows again. ‘I thought it was all a dream and I was back there again.’

  She went to sit by the side of the bed. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  He reached out for her hand and they sat holding one another for a few minutes. She saw tears on his cheeks, then he sniffed and looked at her.

  ‘Yes. I do want to tell you about it – some of it, anyway. But – do you really want to know, Mum? It isn’t nice. I’m not proud of what I’ve done.’

  ‘You’re still my son.’

  He smiled through his tears. ‘And you’re still the best mother in the world. I wanted you dreadfully when – when things went bad.’ Then he began to tell her.

  She sat very quietly, holding his hand, not interrupting, not even allowing herself to exclaim in shock.

  When he’d finished, she gathered him in her arms and held him for a long time, rocking him slightly. Only after he pulled away did she move again.

  ‘I’ve stopped taking the drugs, Mum.’

  ‘Do you need help with that? I have plenty of money now. I can get you into a clinic—’

  ‘No!’ He took a deep breath and tried to smile, but failed completely. ‘I don’t want to be shut up anywhere. Can you understand that? Even the plane – and the bus – made me feel bad. What I want to do is spend as much time as I can in the fresh air, in quiet places. Like beaches. Or woods.’

  ‘Well, there are plenty of places like that round here.’

  He didn’t seem to have heard her and the confidences were still pouring out of him like pus from a boil. ‘When it gets bad, Mum, when I’m hanging out for the drugs, I go out and walk till I’m exhausted. It helps. If I can live here quietly for a while and get my head together, I think I’ll come through it.’

  ‘Well, no one will stop you going for walks. I did it myself when I was first here because I missed home so much. But I warn you, I shall try to feed you up.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t feel hungry these days.’

  ‘But you’ll eat a little – to please me?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not a Jewish momma?’ he teased with a brief return of his old self.

  ‘In the sense of feeding you up, I’m as Jewish a momma as they come, so beware.’ She watched his smile fade. ‘Look, I’ll go and get you a tray. I won’t bring a lot of food, but you must eat something.’

  When she got back, he was staring blankly into space. She set the tray in front of him and sat down. ‘I’ll feel better if I see you eat something.’

  So he forced down two of the delicate sandwiches, and drank half the glass of milk. Then he looked at her pleadingly. ‘If I eat any more, I’ll chuck up.’

  She took the tray. ‘Do you want to get up or stay here?’

  He sounded surprised. ‘I think I can sleep again. I’ll have a pee, then come back.’

  ‘It’s not the most comfortable bed on earth.’

  ‘It feels pretty wonderful to me.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  Before she went to bed, she wrote a note to Louise and propped it at the foot of the attic stairs, warning her to let Tim sleep, then she went to bed. She thought she’d never get to sleep, but her exhausted body had a different view of that and she didn’t wake until ten o’clock.

  She found all three of her children gathered in the living room looking sad. She decided to think and act positively. ‘When I’ve had something to eat, would anyone like a ride to the nearest beach?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Tim. ‘I’d like to sit quietly and look at the water.’

  ‘All right,’ said Louise. ‘I can do my running there, I suppose. I’m getting quite fit, Tim. You could join me when you’ve picked up a bit.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘I think I’ll stay here,’ Jenny said. ‘I’m not much into beaches.’ And she was finding being with Tim a strain. He looked so miserable it hurt her to see him, because every time he came into a room, she was instinctively expecting the old Tim, the one who bounced round the house, talked rebelliously and couldn’t even sit quietly to drink a cup of coffee.

  ‘If your father rings,’ Rosalind said quietly to Jenny as they left, ‘don’t tell him about Tim yet.’

  ‘No.’ She could understand that.

  But Paul didn’t ring.

  And they were all glad of that.

  In fact, Rosalind was so dreading Paul’s return that she was even thinking of taking Tim up to Southport before he came back and staying there with him. Tim seemed to need to be with her. He didn’t say much, but often sat nearby watching her. He particularly liked watching her embroider and he was the only one to whom she showed the family picture she was working on.

  He stared at it for a long time. ‘You’re really good, Mum. I didn’t realise how good. You’ve got that sod down to a T.’

  ‘And myself,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘All pale and wishy-washy.’

  He studied her for a minute then shook his head. ‘That was the old you. You’ve changed. You’re still quiet – but you’re more – more colourful.’

  She treasured that compliment.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A few days later Jenny went quietly upstairs, listened to see whether Tim was awake and heard the sound of low voices. Her younger brother and sister sounded as if they were having another heart-to-heart, so she went outside and wandered round the back garden, restless, worried about her mother, not knowing what to do with herself.

  As usual she felt to be the odd one out, though Tim was a lot kinder to her than he had been in the past. It was just that he and she had never been close and now she wanted to bridge the huge gap yawning between them, only couldn’t think how to start.

  She also wanted to talk to someone about her feelings for Ned, only Louise and Tim seemed to have monopolised her mother’s attention.

  Was she ready for another relationship? She didn’t know, only felt she didn’t want to lose him.

  On an impulse, she picked up the phone. ‘Ned?’

  ‘Jenny? Hi there, gorgeous one!’

  She didn’t waste time on chit-chat. ‘Ned, are you doing anything for lunch?’

  ‘Not if there’s any chance of seeing you.’

  ‘I thought I’d catch a bus into Dorchester, have a look round the shops – and whatever else there is to see. But I don’t want to – to—’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea. Come and meet me for lunch, then go off and do your own thing for the rest of the afternoon. If you can hang around till five-thirty, I’ll drive you home after work and take you out for tea in Burraford. Might as well make a day of it.’

  ‘You’re too kind to me, Ned.’

  ‘I enjoy your company, Jenny. You know that.’

  When he put the phone down, Ned was beaming. />
  ‘Good news?’ his father asked.

  ‘Yes. Jenny’s coming over to Dorchester to have lunch with me. You don’t mind, do you? It’s not likely to be a busy day.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  He wanted to talk about her, mention her name. ‘She’s great company, Jenny is.’

  His father looked at him over the top of his half-glasses. Not like Ned to chat about his girlfriends. What he saw on his son’s face made him sound a warning. ‘She’s very like her mother. Too soft for her own good.’

  Ned stared in surprise. ‘Don’t you like her?’

  It wasn’t a question of liking or not liking. He wanted a stronger sort of woman for his son, because Ned was soft, too – the sort of gentle person who kept getting hurt. There had been one or two young women in the past whom George could have cheerfully strangled.

  He saw that his son was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. ‘I’m not sure whether I like Jenny or not. I’ve hardly exchanged two words with her. But you seem taken by her.’

  ‘I am. Very.’

  ‘Well, that’s what matters then, isn’t it? But don’t rush into things, eh? And don’t forget the appointment in Weymouth this afternoon.’

  ‘No. Of course not. But that isn’t till three.’

  He turned away, smiling to himself. Don’t rush into things! He’d been gone from the moment he first set eyes on Jenny Stevenson at the fête – and he rather thought she’d fallen for him quite quickly, too. You just knew, somehow.

  Jenny turned up at the gallery around twelve and found Ned hovering near the door. She was surprised when he kissed her hard on the mouth by way of a greeting, but instinctively wound her arms round his neck and reciprocated with interest.

  When the kiss was over, they both suddenly realised how public their situation was and pulled apart, each a little pink.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ she teased softly.

  ‘Yes, it is like that. Very much like that.’ He offered her his arm. ‘I thought I’d show you round the gallery, then we’d go to the pub round the corner. It’s my favourite watering hole.’

  ‘Do you always eat out in pubs?’

  ‘Most of the time. I don’t booze at lunchtime, of course, but I still like the feel of a pub – and when you go to the same place regularly you get to know people. Besides, Karen at the Nag’s Head does the best sandwiches in town. Huge. Full of goodies. Just wait till you see them. Now, come and have a look round.’

  The gallery was larger than she’d expected, crammed with interesting and beautiful things. Half of them were antiques, half were works of art. Some embroideries were displayed in one corner. They were pretty, but not as telling as her mother’s, somehow.

  At the rear, two larger rooms were each devoted to a show by one artist. Jenny wrinkled her nose at the dark landscapes in the first room, at least, she thought they were landscapes.

  ‘Don’t you like them?’

  ‘Not really. They make me feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘They’re supposed to. Landscapes of nightmare, the artist calls them. I’m always surprised at how well his stuff sells.’

  ‘People read a lot of horror novels nowadays. These follow the same trend, don’t they?’

  He looked at her with surprise as well as respect. ‘Good girl. Absolutely right.’

  She flushed. ‘I used to like art at school.’

  ‘Then why did you take business studies at university?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Ah.’

  By the time lunch was over Ned had come to the conclusion that something was wrong. He took Jenny’s hand. ‘Want to talk about it, whatever it is?’

  She smiled, then the smile faded and she looked at him wistfully. ‘I do, rather. Do you have to go back to work now?’

  ‘I have to drive over to Weymouth to see some stuff we’ve been offered. You could come with me, if you don’t mind sitting in the car while I’m wheeling and dealing.’ He grinned. ‘It’s an old lady actually, with a cupboard full of rather nice ornaments. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour to value them.’

  ‘I’d really like to come with you.’ He made her feel hopeful, loved. She blushed at the last thought and was glad he didn’t ask her to explain the blush.

  It was a quiet drive. Ned didn’t make conversation just for the sake of it and Jenny was lost in her own thoughts. But both were glad to be together.

  He dropped her reluctantly on the seafront at Weymouth while he went off to see old Mrs Trouter. Jenny watched him drive away, then turned to study the town. She fell instantly in love with the huge stretch of windswept promenade and after a cursory inspection of the famous statue of George III, which Ned had dutifully pointed out to her, she set off for a brisk walk.

  A few people were sitting huddled in shelters, for it was a cool day, showery and with more rain to come, judging by the clouds piling up. The place was almost deserted and even the sand looked as if the rain had washed it down. She welcomed the wind, cold as it was, feeling cleansed by it, liberated briefly from her worries. Throwing back her head, she sucked in the salty air. If there hadn’t been people around, she’d have run along the sand, skipping and dancing like a child.

  When she looked at her watch she realised she was late so ran all the way back, arriving at the statue breathless and pink.

  ‘You look gorgeous.’ Ned pulled her towards him for another kiss, his eyes full of promises.

  She smiled and nestled against him for a moment. It was right between them, it really was – only she needed to tell him about Michael now.

  On the drive back to Burraford, he turned the car down a small side road and stopped on the verge. ‘Look!’ In the distance, on a mound of land nestled at the bottom of the rolling folds of the Purbeck Hills, was Corfe Castle.

  They got out and she stared, entranced. ‘Oh, wow! This has got to be one of the most picturesque places in all England. It’s like something out of a movie. Is it real?’

  He was pleased with her reaction. ‘So real I’ll take you round it one day.’ There were many things he’d like to share with her. He hoped she liked Dorset, for he could never think of living anywhere else.

  A shower had just passed and the sun had come out, together with a rainbow, but there were more clouds looming. Silence settled between them and he saw the anxious look reappear on her face. ‘Tell me what’s worrying you,’ he said quietly. He put his arms round her, so that she was leaning back against him, not facing him.

  She looked at the rainbow and its colours began to blur and run together. Only then did she realise she was weeping – silently, helplessly, the pent-up anguish of the past few weeks overflowing at the sight of all that beauty.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said again, holding her close, hurting for her. ‘What did that bastard do to you?’

  ‘He – he …’ And suddenly the words poured out of her in harsh spurts of shame and pain and guilt.

  ‘Why did he pick on me? What did I do wrong? I’ve never understood what I did wrong,’ she wailed when the story was told. By this time, her face was muffled in his chest.

  He held her against him, dropping kisses on her hair. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. The policeman was right. That bastard was sick. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘It doesn’t – put you off me?’

  ‘Never.’ When there were no more confidences and she hadn’t mopped her eyes for a few minutes, he suggested they go for a stroll to stretch their legs. After a short time, they came back and leant against the car, watching another rainbow. ‘That one’s ours,’ he said softly.

  As she turned a glowing look on him, he admitted to himself that he loved her. Deeply. The sort of love which led to a lifetime together. But he wasn’t sure she was ready for that so he didn’t speak of his feelings.

  Rain hissed down suddenly and they laughed as they both dived into the car for shelter, then sat there for a while longer, hand in hand, looking out through the miniature
rivers on the windscreen at the rainswept landscape and the romantic ruined castle below them.

  She leant across to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you for listening and understanding. You’re a lovely man.’

  He eyed her speculatively. ‘Then you like me enough to keep going out with me, me and no one else?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘That’s smashing!’

  He gaped, for she was quite convulsed with laughter. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That word. “Smashing”. It sounds so corny. I didn’t think you Poms still used it.’

  ‘Well, we do. And it is smashing that you’re going to continue seeing me. In fact, it calls for a celebration,’ he allowed a pregnant pause, ‘and I have just the thing.’

  ‘Champagne?’ she joked. ‘Caviar? Red roses?’

  ‘No, this.’ He produced a bar of chocolate from his pocket, wrapper torn and crumpled, with pieces missing from one end. ‘Want some?’

  She chuckled, feeling light and happy again. ‘Definitely. I didn’t know you were a chocoholic.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He patted his waist – not fat, but not thin either.

  ‘Well, I’ll let you into a secret.’ She leant closer. ‘I adore – chocolate.’

  She linked her arm in his and leant her head against his shoulder, letting him feed her piece by piece, letting the damp wind blow through the open car window now the shower had passed, so that her hair fluttered around her face.

  She had the strangest conviction that her troubles with Michael were blowing away, too, in that soft, damp wind.

  Then the heavens opened again and they had to close the car windows quickly.

  She was flushed and pretty, so he kissed her again. He was, he decided, going to marry her one day if she would have him. Definitely. But he’d better not say anything about that yet. He suspected she needed a little more time to recover.

  It took only two days for Tim and Louise to start bickering. She wanted to be with him – he wanted to be alone. Or he wanted to be with his mother.

  When Louise started to complain to him about being cut off from the world in a dead-end dump like Burraford, he turned on her, terrified the rot had set in with her, too – for he felt himself to be rotten now, terminally sick like a fungus-ridden tree. He would lie there in his narrow bed, half-awake, imagining he could feel pieces crumbling away: a fingernail here, a toe there, hair, ears − there were lots of bits you could lose and still keep stumbling along in a semblance of life.