A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  ‘It’s a bit shabby, I grant you, but handsome. Built about 1810. Makes it Georgian, doesn’t it?’

  Alison couldn’t hear, distinctly, what was said in reply and then she heard her brother again, ‘Yeah, well, this side of things is my brother’s concern. It’s been a good little dairy in its time and you’ve seen what prime grazing we’ve got.’

  Something was said in response and then Charlie replied, clearly bringing the conversation to a close, ‘Well, fine. As soon as possible. A rough figure is all I need, to begin with. Thanks for coming out, nice doing business with you.’

  Feeling slightly sick, Alison put down the brushes and emerged to investigate. Charlie was just escorting a man back to his car.

  ‘Charlie,’ she called, ‘Charlie – what’s going on?’

  At the sound of his sister’s voice, Charlie almost bundled his companion into his car. Alison reached them just as the man released his hand brake and, with a brief wave to Charlie, pulled away. She just had time to register a large bundle of documents with an estate agent’s logo on the car’s back seat, before the Mondeo lurched and splashed its way back down the track.

  She turned on her brother, hands on her hips, her jaw jutting aggressively. ‘OK, Charlie, what was all that about? What was he doing here?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlie tried to sound as innocent as possible, while praying for inspiration. ‘He just wanted to look round…’

  ‘Look round? What for? He’s an estate agent, isn’t he? I saw his stuff in the back of his car. What’s he here for?’

  ‘He just wanted to look round, I told you…He has a client who’s looking for a farm this size and he…’

  ‘Don’t lie! I heard you, “thanks for coming – a rough figure is all I need” – what the hell do you mean? You’re mad, Charlie! This farm does not belong just to you. We all own part of it, and, just in case you’ve forgotten, the Georgian farmhouse you were so admiring belongs to Mum!’

  Charlie, perspiring slightly, tried reasoning. ‘Listen, Ali, I’ve given this a lot of thought. You don’t know this, but Hugh Lester wants this place something bad. I have it on good authority he’s giving us a lot of grief… So what I thought was, why not see how much the farm is worth, ask him something over the asking price and if he wants it that bad, he’ll cough up and…’

  ‘And what?’ Alison was almost incoherent with rage. ‘And what, you absolute and utter bastard? I can’t believe you’re thinking of selling out to the Lesters.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’ve done?’ Charlie shouted back, incensed at being wrongfooted.

  ‘What do you fuckin’ mean?’ Alison screamed.

  ‘You know what I mean – you’ve bloody slept with his son. If that isn’t selling out to the enemy, I don’t know what is!’

  ‘ You just don’t know how wrong you are…’ Weeping with fury, Alison lunged at her brother but before their argument could descend into fisticuffs, Jenny called from the kitchen door.

  ‘Alison, Alison. Come quick. Quick!’

  Alison pushed her brother away, dashed the tears out of her eyes and hissed, ‘Just you wait, Charlie. Just wait till Stephen and Gran hear about your plans for the farm!’

  Then she hurried over to join her mother.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’

  ‘It’s Paula, dear, on the phone. She wants to speak to you, urgent. Were you having a fight with Charlie, Alison?’

  ‘Yes. With good reason. Why does Paula want to speak to me?’

  ‘I dunno, but she says it’s urgent. Go on, pick up the receiver, she’s waiting.’

  * * *

  As if the atmosphere at Summerstoke House on Sunday had not been bad enough, Wednesday threatened to be worse.

  Paula had been summoned to work that morning and when she walked into the kitchen, a strange scene of desolation greeted her. The sink was full of unwashed pans and glasses, and on opening the dish washer she found that it was full, and not only had the cycle not been started, but from the grungy state of the plates, it had been left like that for days. A loaf of bread, half-eaten, sat on the table, crumbs everywhere; the butter dish had not been put away and the butter was half -melted; a slab of cheese had been cut into and left unwrapped, the edges hardening and cracked; a cloud of fruit flies hovered over a suppurating slice of water melon; egg shells littered the counter next to the Aga, and on the side of the Aga, a pan that had clearly been used for scrambled eggs had been left to harden, and toast crumbs crunched under her feet.

  For all her faults, Veronica was a meticulous housekeeper, with exacting standards of tidiness and hygiene, so not only was Paula was put out by the mess, she was puzzled by it. She opened the door to the hall, intending to announce her presence, when the sound of voices in argument, floating from the direction of the sitting room, made her think better of it. She had nearly finished cleaning the kitchen when her employer stalked in.

  ‘Are, there you are, Paula. Perhaps you’d make Mr Lester and myself some fresh coffee. We’ll take it in the sitting room.’

  Clearly there were going to be no apologies for the state of the kitchen or for the fact they had said nothing to her about being away on Monday and Tuesday. Paula was incensed. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Lester, but would you mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on? You didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ away and I do have my children to think of…And the mess in here this mornin’…’

  ‘Paula, I have no desire, or energy, to bandy words with you, this morning. I don’t pay you for that,’ snapped Veronica. ‘When you’ve finished in here, you can hull the strawberries I’ve put in the pantry, and then, perhaps, you be good enough to do the beds.’ And she swept out of the kitchen.

  Not only was Veronica more irritable than usual, but Paula thought she looked older; her body seeming to sag, and an aggrieved expression had settled like a permanent cloud over her features, making her nose sharper, and her teeth more rodent-like than usual. Paula then caught a glimpse of Hugh when she carried the coffee through to the sitting room. He looked pale and haggard and his eye was a wonderful combination of purple and gold; his temper was no better than his wife’s and the atmosphere between them was three-star deep freeze.

  As she stripped the beds, Paula wondered, not for the first time, whether she could hack it any longer. There must be other people who wanted cleaners – perhaps she could persuade Lenny to fix her up with a little van and then she could have her own cleaning service…perhaps join forces with a mate…do people’s houses when they weren’t there…have a bit of a laugh. She’d rather be at home living on bread and water than be here, that much was certain.

  The telephone rang and Paula went out onto the landing, wondering whether she was expected to answer it. Veronica like to play posh sometimes and have her ‘housekeeper’ take calls. Veronica got there first and answered it, peremptorily. Her tone changed when she recognised the caller. ‘Mrs Merfield, how very…yes, Hugh is here. Just one moment I’ll… No, of course, he’s not too busy… Oh, did you? I’m so sorry… No, it was my housekeeper, she didn’t tell me that… I’m so sorry… I really am very sorry… Look, here is Hugh now…’

  Paula, fuming, headed back into the bedroom she was cleaning. So she was going to take the blame for them not phoning the Merfields. The cheek of it! A few moments later, she heard Hugh bellowing for Veronica. She moved quietly to the bedroom door and opened it wide so she could enjoy the fireworks.

  ‘Bloody old bag! What does she mean… When did she phone? “Actions speak louder than words” – that’s what she kept on parroting, like some bloody mantra… We’ve lost the meadows, Vee… She’s signed them over to the Tuckers for the next eight years, and she has the cheek to suggest it was our fault…!’

  On and on he raged, and Paula could hear Veronica’s voice getting shrill with fatigue, trying to calm him down. The phone rang again. Paula, again, went to the landing, but Veronica sh
outed up, a bit on the vicious side, Paula thought: ‘I’ll get it Paula, since you don’t seem to be able to pass on important messages.’ Then Paula heard her cooing down the phone, ‘Harriet! How are you? It was so nice… Oh? I…I don’t understand… But I thought… Your editor changed his mind… Just like that… But… I see. Well thank you for letting me know… No, not at all… Yes, very nice to have met you, too.’ She slammed the receiver down. ‘Cow!’ Then she pounded her fists on the little oak escritoire next to the phone, screaming at the top of her voice, ‘I don’t believe it! The cow! The bitch! She was spinning us along all the time…’

  Paula was starting to find this all too much. She went into the next bedroom and shut the door. It was Anthony’s room and now that he’d gone, she planned to give it a good clean out. To her surprise, Cordelia was in there, sitting on his bed, shoulders drooping, head hanging.

  Paula had known Cordelia since she was six and had watched her grow from a dainty, pretty, child, with blond curly hair and big blue eyes, into a teenage blob, with braces on her teeth, long straight hair that now verged on mousy blond, and a chubby spotty face, with small round eyes and a snub nose. In Paula’s opinion, Cordelia was a horrible, spoiled brat who took after her parents, and who treated Paula even more like a servant than they did, so she had as little to do with the girl as possible. But Paula had a warm heart, and the sight of Cordelia sitting there like a deflated balloon, hair hanging like a curtain around her face, looking so desolate, affected her. She went and sat on the bed next to Cordelia, putting an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘What’s up, Cordelia? What’s wrong?’

  To Paula’s surprise, Cordelia flung her arms round her neck and sobbed bitterly. ‘Anthony’s not coming back. He’s left, for good. And now he’s in hospital, he could be dying… They said he’s badly hurt…but he won’t see us… He sent them away…he said he never wanted to see them again… I’ll never see him again…and supposing he dies!’ She wailed even louder, tears streaming down her podgy face, mascara and foundation smearing her cheeks.

  Paula continued to hug her and utter soothing words of comfort till the loud sobs gave way to huge, disconsolate sniffs. Then she found her a tissue to blow Cordelia’s nose and when the girl had calmed down sufficiently, extracted the story from her.

  Anthony had been in a bad crash at some service station on the motorway near Swindon. He had been taken, unconscious, to Swindon Hospital and the police had had to track his parents down. Cordelia had been sent to stay with friends while Hugh and Veronica had gone to the hospital. There they had waited the whole of Monday for him to regain consciousness. He finally came round on Tuesday and when he saw his parents at his bedside, he’d freaked and they had had to leave. They booked into a local hotel, but he still refused to see them. Finally, they had admitted defeat and come home that morning, picking Cordelia up on the way.

  ‘Just because he says he doesn’t want to see his parents, doesn’t mean he don’t want to see you, Cordelia.’ Paula was dying to get away, but she was too kind to leave the girl in the state she was in. ‘You could always go an’ see him in Durham… Think of that – you could go with a mate; that’s what I’d do…’

  Cordelia, dabbing her eyes, started to cheer up. ‘Hey, that would be really cool, Paula. I could go with my friend, Tania. Mum doesn’t like her, but she’s keen and she’s not afraid of anything…’

  Meanwhile, downstairs, the screaming had subsided.

  Paula decided the time had come to leave. Patting Cordelia farewell, she scooped up the sheets, walked out of the door, down the stairs, through the kitchen, ignoring Veronica’s shouted ‘Paula, come here a moment, would you?’ She dropped the sheets in the middle of the kitchen floor, picked up her bag and jacket, kicked off the mules Veronica made her wear around the house, put on her high heels and was just about to leave when her eyes fell on the huge, crystal bowl of glistening red strawberries, which had tortured her nails when she had hulled them earlier. She almost skipped to a cupboard, took out a tub of fine sea salt and sprinkled it, liberally, over the fruit. Then she walked out of the kitchen door, away from Summerstoke House, forever, as far as she was concerned.

  She felt really good.

  Then she remembered Alison. Whatever had gone on, Alison needed to know about Anthony.

  * * *

  Simon poked his head round the door and coughed, politely. The secretary to the Country Club, who had been deep in a crossword, jumped slightly and looked up. ‘Good morning, Mr Weatherby. Can I help you?’

  Simon came into the room, a large light office, that looked out across the tennis courts to a line of hills beyond. A large oil painting of the founder of the Country Club hung on one wall; on another, a picture of the Queen; and behind the secretary’s desk hung an aerial photograph of the club buildings and grounds. Vying for position on the rest of the wall space were photographs of tennis players, golfers, and athletes of all shapes and sizes. A large display cabinet exhibiting numerous important-looking silver cups and badges stood in one corner, and in the other, an elegant, bowed drinks cabinet.

  Simon was politely apologetic. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Mackenzie, but I need to get in touch with a member. I have to ask him a favour, and as I’m new here, I’m not one hundred per cent certain of his surname.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. Can you give me any clues?’ Mr Mackenzie swivelled round in his green leather chair and activated his computer. He was a small, neat man, in his early sixties, who had taken up the appointment to keep himself busy after retiring from the armed forces, and ran the Country Club with exemplary efficiency. He kept a strategic distance between himself and the members, but there was very little he didn’t know about them.

  ‘His first name is Gordon. He was playing tennis with Veronica Lester last Thursday, on court number nine.’

  Mr Mackenzie was surprised. ‘Are you sure? Mrs Lester normally plays on one of the central courts…’ He tapped on his keyboard as he spoke, ‘and the only two members called Gordon, are Gordon Spence, one of our senior members, who rarely plays anything these days, and Gordon White, who joined shortly before you. He’s not in Mrs Lester’s league at all, so I can’t imagine… Good gracious…’ He peered at his computer screen. ‘Well, well, I must admit I am surprised. It’s as you say: Gordon White is the chap you want.’

  ‘Is there any way I can get hold of him? I’ve got to go off on a business trip within the next hour and I’d like to get him before I go…’

  Mr Mackenzie tapped the keyboard again, and, in a matter of seconds, Simon held in his hand a copy of Gordon White’s details, including his daytime telephone number and the address of his workplace. ‘Gotcha!’ he thought, jubilantly, but his face was impassive as he politely thanked Mr Mackenzie, and left.

  A short while later, sitting in his car in the club car park, he was on the phone. ‘Gordon, it’s Simon Weatherby here. We met last week, at the Country Club. You’d just thrashed Vee Lester… Well, thing is…I’m due to play her tomorrow evening…at six-thirty…on court number one… Yes, it was a lucky booking. Sadly, I’m going to have to cry off; I’ve got to go up north within the next hour and I won’t be back, probably, till Friday. I know how much she enjoyed the challenge of playing against you last time, and rather than disappoint her, I wondered… You will? Thanks a lot, Gordon. Have a good game.’

  As he rang off, a faint smile flitted across Simon’s countenance. Faced with playing Gordon White on the court that always attracted spectators, would Veronica swallow her pride and continue her charade, or would she thrash the nasty creep? He turned the key in the ignition of his BMW convertible and drove out of the car park and away from the Country Club for good.

  * * *

  Alison was devastated by Paula’s call. Charlie’s perfidy forgotten, she sat clutching the phone, white and shocked.

  Jenny was worried. ‘What is it, love? Bad news? You look dreadful…
’

  ‘Um, yes…it’s bad news… A friend of mine, Mum. He’s been really badly hurt, in a crash…’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that, Ali. A car crash?’

  ‘Yes, no. He came off his bike… I don’t know the details…’

  ‘Motorbikes are such lethal things. I’m glad Charlie doesn’t ride one on the road any more.’

  Alison stood up, desperate. ‘Mum, I need to get to Swindon.’

  ‘Swindon?’ Jenny stared at her daughter.

  ‘Yes, that’s where he is. I need to get there.’ Alison, distracted with grief, started to pace up and down the hall. ‘I could get a bus into Bath and catch the train from there…’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Can you lend me the money? I know you’re skint, but I’ve only got about five quid…’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Ali, I spent the last of my housekeeping at the weekend. I’ve got nothing left till next weekend. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to ask Charlie, or Stephen…’

  Suddenly Alison remembered all the money Charlie had earned from the rave. Not only had he still not coughed up her allowance, as agreed, but he hadn’t even found the time to give Mum a bit extra. She hated him; she couldn’t bear the thought of having to ask him for anything; yet she needed money, urgently. ‘Where’s Stephen?’

  ‘At the market, Ali, he had some calves to sell. If you wait for him to come back, I’m sure he’ll lend you some, seein’ as it’s an emergency.’

  But Alison couldn’t wait for his return. Swallowing her bile, she jumped up and rushed out through the kitchen into the yard, to find Charlie.

  But Charlie had made good his escape. He wasn’t going to return until Alison had calmed down, and he’d thought of a better way of convincing the family that he had their interest at heart. If he’d looked in his rear-view mirror, he would have seen Alison running after him, shouting and waving her arms, trying to attract his attention. But he didn’t, and turned onto the road heading towards The Grapes without a backward glance.