A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  ‘It’s just that I’ve heard your news.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment, Charlie’s brain went into a spin – what news? Which bit of his life had she heard about… Beth…the event…his visit to the bank?

  ‘I thought you were a bit subdued last Saturday. You said it was because of the harvest, but I worried that you might be going off me, and then I heard.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Charlie, still needing enlightenment.

  ‘I just want you to know that I understand what you must be going through. It’s terrible.’

  ‘Yes?’ Whatever it was, she wasn’t planning to go off with somebody else; it clearly wasn’t anything to do with the event, and it didn’t seem very likely she would be this sympathetic if she’d found out about Beth…

  ‘It’s not fair on you. One can’t make these things happen.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I just wanted you to know that you’ve got my support.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarah.’

  ‘And if we get married sooner, rather than later, that’s fine by me.’

  ‘What?!!’ Charlie’s reaction was so loud and explosive, all the other diners stopped talking and stared, and the entire Chinese family who owned the restaurant emerged from the kitchen, or left off serving, to congregate in a tight, watchful group by the kitchen door.

  In a state of shock, Charlie lost no time in telling Sarah he had no intention of getting married to her, or anyone else, whatever his grandmother might order. Their evening out ended even more abruptly than Charlie had planned, with Sarah finally jumping up and marching to the door of the restaurant, where she turned and shouted, ‘And as for your whiskers, Charlie Tucker – they’re a joke! They are stupid and revolting, like you!’

  Charlie arrived at the pub, still in a state of shock and in desperate need of a few sensible words from Linda. The pub was busy and there was no sign of her. Stan and Beth were too busy to engage in anything more than passing back-chat with him, so Charlie decided to bide his time with Beth, and took his pint over to a table where other regulars were playing a noisy game of cribbage.

  ‘Where’s Linda?’ he asked casually of Skip. ‘Not like her not to be in on a Saturday.’

  ‘Stan says she’s off looking after her mother. Not well or something.’ Skip was clearly not interested.

  ‘I thought that was Stan’s Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Last time I saw her – when I helped behind the bar, she said that Stan’s Mum was ill and he’s gone to sort her out. She weren’t here on Tuesday either…’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s Stan’s Mum she’s gone to look after. I don’t know, Charlie, why are you so bothered about which Mum Linda’s with?’

  ‘I’m not…’ He sipped his beer and watched the cards being slammed on the table. He suddenly remembered the curious phone call that had started his evening and he nudged Skip again, ‘Here, Skip, who’s this Tricia Stevens?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tricia Stevens. She gave me a ring this evening, said she’d got my number from you…’

  ‘Oh, her.’ Skip smirked. ‘I was just giving you a helpin’ hand, me ol’ mate. She’s footloose and fancy free at the moment so I thought, what with you in your predicament…’

  ‘Thanks for nothing, Skip. I can do without help of that sort. Anyway, who is she? ‘

  ‘Search me. Met her with a group of mates the other night, when we was plannin’ your little surprise. Said she was at school wiv you, that’s all I know. Ask Linda.’

  ‘That’s what I was going do, but she ain’t here,’ and Charlie, puzzled by Linda’s absence, took his pint back to his perch at the bar and watched Stan and Beth bustling, laughing and flirting with their customers, and with each other.

  As the last orders were called and served, he finally managed to speak to Beth.

  ‘How about tonight, Beth – fancy going on somewhere?’

  She looked at him, coolly. ‘Maybe I would, Charlie, but you’re forgetting one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with those whiskers.’

  * * *

  Once the main course had been served, Vee was able to relax and take stock of her guests. Hugh, at the far end, was in close conversation with Gavin Croucher, a tall, loose-limbed man, with a bulbous nose and a high colour. Their conversation was always on horses, the current lack of talent in show jumping, the inadequacies of the Beaufort course, and of the problems encountered with ‘Johnny Foreigner’ in stud farming.

  Marion, on Hugh’s right, was talking across the table to Harriet Flood about ‘paint authenticity’ and Vee strained to catch their conversation, but she knew she could rely on Marion to give her a faithful account of Ms Flood’s opinions.

  On Vee’s right sat Simon Weatherby. Vee had only met him a week ago and had invited him, on impulse, to make up numbers. He seemed pleasant enough; quite quiet, but that was not surprising since he didn’t know anybody. ‘He’s a good-looking man,’ thought Vee to herself. ‘Quite yummy, in fact. I wonder how old he is…’ He had honey-blond hair and quite the bluest eyes she’d seen, a straight nose and good jaw, with white, even teeth. He was quite tall, lean and tanned. He rarely smiled, but when he did, his face crinkled and illuminated. He was listening to the conversation between Issy Garnett, who was sitting on his right, and Richard Garnett, on Vee’s left.

  Vee liked Richard Garnett. As editor of the local paper, he could be relied upon for an endless supply of good gossip. He had a sharp mind but had grown lazy in the provinces rather than throwing himself in the deeper end of mainstream journalism where his talents could have taken him. Now nearly fifty, he’d left it too late to make the move, he confided to Vee, so he was making the most of being a large fish in a small pond. His salt and pepper hair was cropped really short and he always wore black, whether casually dressed or not. He was tall, with a stomach that was starting to swell from good living, and a strong-featured face that habitually wore a mocking expression.

  Isabelle, or Issy as she was called, was Richard’s second wife, nearly twenty years younger than he was, and the youngest around the table, apart from Simon Weatherby. She had been an artist of some note before she had married and had two babies in quick succession. She was not Vee’s type, and although their husbands were good friends, Vee, apart from acknowledging her slightly distrait prettiness, thought little of her. She was a thin, nervous woman, in a floating, diaphanous dress. She wore lots of silvery bracelets on her arms, which chinked and clinked as she talked and waved her hands. When Vee sat down, having served the duck, she became aware of a tension in the conversation between the Garnetts.

  ‘Well I think the sort of ‘naming and shaming’ campaign run by your newspaper is horrid.’

  ‘We have a lot of support for it. Don’t you think people who drink and drive ought to be identified, Issy, darling? After all, they could easily kill someone…’

  ‘The fact that they could kill someone is taken into account by the punishment they receive from the courts. Why should you take it upon yourself to punish them further? What you’re doing is little better than shoving them in the stocks, and the only reason you’re doing it is to sell newspapers.’

  ‘And if we sell newspapers because of our campaign, doesn’t that mean we have the public’s support?’ There was little warmth in Richard’s expression as he fenced with his wife.

  She grew more heated. ‘You’re playing to the lowest common denominator, to the prurient spectator who gloats in the discomfort of others while probably offending in the same way himself. I bet,’ she said, looking round at the rest of the table, who had fallen quiet, ‘there’s nobody here who could say, hand on heart, they haven’t driven under the influence of alcohol.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Harriet sipped her wine. It was unusually good: an appellation, Pecha
rmant, possibly. That’s why she put up with the extraordinary tedium of these occasions – she loved good food and wine with a passion, and if people were prepared to lavish their hospitality on her in return for the exposure of their pretentious houses and boring lifestyles, she had the stomach for it. The fawning and flattery left her unmoved; she did and said what she liked, but did not go out of her way either to be liked, or disliked. She felt under no obligation to her hosts and it was not uncommon for the promised feature not to materialise. The desire of people to show off their houses meant that there were always more invitations than she could accept, so she was selective. Nevertheless, there was an incredible sameness about them all; and this house, these hosts and this dinner party were no exception.

  There was an extraordinary inevitability about the guests, as well. The hostess would pull in a friend who was an interior designer; a journalist who either wrote for the national press, or who was at least the editor of the local rag; a local minor celebrity, although Harriet had to admit, she hadn’t met many ex Olympic show jumpers; and usually an artist or musician to add a ‘refreshingly bohemian’ touch.

  The only conundrum in this evening’s gathering was the rather good-looking young man sitting at the far end, who, as far as she could tell, had come alone and knew nobody else around the table. She had been about to break off a very tedious discussion with the interior designer and interrogate him when the girl’s challenge hijacked the conversation. To Harriet’s experienced eye, the bohemian element was in her cups rather early on in the proceedings and the hostess, Veronica-call-me-Vee, was doing her best not to show that she was annoyed.

  She, Harriet had absolutely no intention of responding to the challenge. She was only fifty, but she had given up driving years ago, having been banned for three years after one particularly heavy session. She had not reapplied for her licence, having enjoyed three years of other people chauffeuring her about and being able to drink as much as she liked.

  Yes, the wine was good; definitely a Pecharmant. She finished her glass and looked to her host to replenish it. Hugh was too involved joining in the general humiliation of the young woman to notice, so she helped herself, preening a little when she read the label: Chateau Corbiac. The food was good, too; a bit fussy (it always was); it amazed her how many times she had been presented with Puy lentils that summer. She sighed inwardly. She didn’t like her hosts and only the fact that, for once, this was a feature she might need, stopped her making her excuses and taking a train back at the earliest opportunity.

  It was a Victorian house, decorated and furnished with discreet and expensive good taste. ‘Anywhere would look good with that sort of money thrown at it,’ she thought, her eyes drifting over the deep red Persian rugs on the highly polished oak floor; heavy silver-grey drapes in the tall window recesses which cascaded from ceiling to floor, and the glistening chandelier suspended over the long mahogany table at which they were sitting. If it had just been the house…but her editor was clear. They wanted to break the mould, hook the reader – a makeover series with a difference – and what could be better than to follow the creation of a stud, with lots of photogenic horses and lovable long-legged little foals?

  ‘How are your plans for the stud coming on?’ she asked, breaking across the conversation.

  Hugh answered her guardedly. ‘Oh fine, one or two problems to sort out; land, that sort of thing. Our business plan…’

  ‘Land? What’s the problem with land? You seem to have plenty…’

  ‘Yes,’ interjected Vee smoothly. ‘ We have, but expansion inevitably means more land. It’s all in hand, however, and we don’t envisage any problems.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going to buy more land.’ Gavin raised bushy brows and leaned forward, interested, ‘There isn’t any for sale around here as far as I know. Whose are you going to buy?’

  Vee was caught. She didn’t want to reveal their plans for Marsh Farm too soon, but equally, she wanted Harriet Flood to commit to that series. She made a quick assessment and gambled on her guests’ partisanship. ‘I know you’ll all be discreet until it’s happened, but we’re planning to buy Marsh Farm.’

  Simon looked up.

  ‘Marsh Farm?’ persisted Gavin. ‘The Tucker’s place? I didn’t know they intended to sell?’

  Hugh frowned across the table at Vee. She avoided his eye and laughed lightly. ‘We have it on good authority that they are about to go bankrupt; Hugh has already given them a good offer…but please, everybody, not a word, I’ve said too much already and now Hugh is cross with me!’ And she laughed again.

  ‘Wasn’t the Tucker fellah the one we photographed straddled across that polar bear, drunk out of his brain and howling for his Mum ’cos he was afraid of heights and couldn’t get down?’ Richard Garnett brayed with laughter and re-told the story to the rest of the table.

  Simon was shocked. He had dismissed Alison’s portrait of the Lesters as adolescent prejudice, but the whole evening had served to confirm what she had told him. At first he had been inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt. He hadn’t immediately warmed to them or to the other guests, but he had been to dinners like this in the past, when he was still married to Helen, and they had made them more tolerable by the humorous post-mortems they would carry out afterwards.

  The thought of Helen still gave him pain and he pushed her out of his thoughts; he was getting good at that. Alison, he decided, would enjoy his description of the dinner and, until the mention of Marsh Farm, he had settled back to absorb as much as he could, to amuse her.

  Alison and her family had arrived so unexpectedly in his life. Their topsy-turvy world, their whole background, cultural, social, economic, was so different from his own that, ordinarily, he would never have met them. When Alison had taken her tumble in the river he had been gloomily deliberating if moving to the country had been such a good idea after all: he was bored and lonely; wondering whether he would ever recover from losing Helen; ever stop trying to imagine what she was doing at that particular moment; stop remembering what she looked, sounded, and smelled like; stop hoping that she might have some regret; that next time his phone went off, it would be her…

  Alison somehow dispelled those wraiths – she was quirky, fierce and funny, and he enjoyed her company immensely. When Helen left, he had found himself surrounded by predatory women, all professing to want to help, all with sexual agendas. Alison had made it clear he was far too old for her to worry about and though he experienced a certain amount of pique at this realisation, it had enabled him to relax with her.

  It was an instant rapport and in the short space of time they had been friends, he had grown very protective of her. This was a new feeling for him; Helen had never wanted protecting. He had been curious to meet the Tucker family, and in spite of Alison’s clear objections, had wangled that invitation to tea. He had succumbed to their kind, unquestioning acceptance of him. With the exception of Stephen’s girl, who was a type he recognised of old, he liked them all. It was clear they were struggling and he wanted to help them, but he wasn’t at all sure how he could. And even though he’d never met Charlie, or the extraordinary grandmother for that matter, they were part of his new-found treasure trove and he couldn’t bear these people laughing and sneering at them. It was clear to him that they were prepared to take advantage of the Tuckers’ difficulties, and were unscrupulous enough to nudge them towards disaster.

  He resisted the urge to wipe the smirks off the faces of his hosts and guests and embarrass them by declaring his allegiance. He decided, for the moment, the best he could do was to cultivate the Lesters. He would keep his ears and eyes open, he thought to himself; he would be a sleeper. He smiled ironically to himself: how appropriate – he was too much a man of the world to be unaware of the interest of his hostess in him.

  He glanced across at Harriet Flood. Not an attractive woman, he thought: tall, unnaturally black hair, heavy body wit
h white pudgy skin and malicious dark eyes. She was Veronica Lester’s Achilles heel, he surmised, and probably worth cultivating. He leaned across the table with a smile…

  * * *

  Panting, they reached the top of the Tor and flung themselves down on the grass. Traces of the sunset could still be seen in the western sky but the stars were out in force, mirroring the twinkling lights from the homesteads and hamlets that dotted the Levels below them. In the distance, they could see the faint dark profile of a line of hills.

  ‘Is that Exmoor?’ Alison pointed.

  ‘Probably the Quantocks. Have you ever been there? We should take a day out and go there on the bike.’ Al unzipped his leather jacket and produced a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps, ‘I hope these aren’t too squashed.’

  Alison laughed happily. This had been worth the week’s anguished waiting. The night air was warm and still, carrying the murmurings of other people on the Tor; somewhere, a guitar struck up; somewhere, the sound of low drumming; somewhere someone started singing. There was a gentle pop as Al eased the cork out of the bottle. ‘Here, have the first swig. You don’t mind sharing the bottle, do you? The crystal glasses wouldn’t fit in my jacket pocket.’

  Alison had a mouthful of warm, rather fusty wine and lay back on the grass, cupping the back of her head in her hand. She watched Al’s profile, silhouetted against the stars as he tilted his head back to take a swig. She had never felt so churned up by any previous boyfriend. He was such a mixture – remote, aloof, silent, like now, then warm and funny and talking non-stop, like last weekend. She found his physical presence disturbing, too. A slight breeze flattened his T-shirt against his chest, showing the contours of his muscles, and his arms, draped over his knees, were brown and strong. The moonlight threw strong, angular shadows across his face and he looked, she thought, like some romantic hero from some archaic work of fiction.

  He hadn’t said much when they had met, had made no attempt to kiss her – either then or when they arrived at the foot of the Tor – but he had held her hand as they scrambled up, and she could sense that the anger, or whatever it was that had been driving him, had dissipated. They had asked so few questions of each other since they met Alison hesitated to start now, but, she reasoned to herself, if they were to get anywhere with each other, if there was to be any sort of future in this relationship, they would have to know more than each other’s names…