A Summer Fling

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Give over, you’ve hardly got a bottom,’ said Ben.

  ‘“Give over?” You’re turning into a Yorkshireman!’

  ‘Aaarrghh!’ screamed Ben, as if that was a fate worse than death. But in truth he didn’t miss his roots in Newcastle. Sometimes it was as if there was no life before he and Raychel moved to Barnsley and rented this small terraced house in the Old Town district. He felt settled here. He had a good job and Ray seemed to enjoy hers. And if she was happy, he was happy.

  ‘That four hundred quid we’ve saved will go towards the first mortgage payment.’

  They both started to grin at each other.

  ‘Our first mortgage. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re actually excited about paying out a big wodge of money every month. How sad are we?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You OK anchoring yourself permanently to a life in Barnsley?’ said Raychel, the smile suddenly sliding from her face.

  ‘Where you go, I go,’ said Ben, resting his great arms on her shoulders.

  ‘I like it here. Isn’t that odd?’

  ‘Why is it odd?’ said Ben, giving her a tiny kiss on her head.

  ‘Because of all places to come, we end up here. Where my parents came from.’

  ‘Well, you never knew the place. It’s not as if you have bad memories here, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Raychel mused.

  ‘There’s loads of work around for me, Raychel. I’ve never felt as settled as I do here.’ Ben squeezed his wife. ‘Maybe we’re growing up at last.’ He nudged her playfully but she wasn’t smiling. He knew where her thoughts were. The past was always waiting for their minds to slip back to like a muddy slope with little grip on the sides.

  He slapped her bottom lightly to break her out of her reverie. ‘You go and have the first bath. I’ll get on with making something to eat.’

  ‘No, let’s get a curry delivered,’ said Raychel, pasting on a smile.

  ‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Ben. ‘Go on, and I’ll have the water after you, so no weeing in it.’

  ‘How will you know?’ teased Ray on her way out. He pretended to chase her and she squealed.

  Ben’s smile dropped when she disappeared up the staircase.

  ‘Please God, make us happy in our new flat,’ he whispered. He didn’t ask to win the lottery or live forever, he just hoped God would come through for them and give them some peace at last.

  ‘What do you think for the reception, Cal? Roast beef or chicken?’

  ‘I don’t know, you pick,’ said Calum. He was watching a nature programme. A pride of lions was ripping up a gazelle. Well, the lion was just sitting on the sidelines letting the lionesses get on with it. The gazelle had long, thin legs like Dawn’s.

  ‘Are any of your lot vegetarian?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Do us a fucking favour,’ said Calum with some amusement.

  ‘Maybe we should have a vegetarian option just in case.’

  ‘Aye, give ’em the option to eat the meat or fuck off.’

  ‘Prawn cocktail or melon, roast beef or chicken, Black Forest or summer pudding?’

  ‘What’s summer pudding?’ said Calum.

  ‘It’s like a bread mould with berries in it.’

  ‘Bread mould? Bread. Mould?’

  ‘Not green mould, shape mould, you numpty,’ laughed Dawn.

  ‘No, you’ve put me off that already.’

  ‘Black Forest then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Calum. ‘You decide.’

  ‘We could have black pudding and poached egg starter, turkey and then sticky toffee pudding.’

  ‘That sounds all right.’

  ‘But it’s four pounds extra a head.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Calum. ‘Ask my mam. She’d know.’

  That night Dawn went to bed and dreamed that a giant sticky toffee pudding ate her savings and ripped holes in her wedding dress.

  Chapter 12

  Mid-week, at eleven o’clock precisely, Christie looked up and saw her ladies all beavering away. She had never worked in a department so banter-free. It unsettled her. Where she had headed other departments in her time that needed pulling into line for their gossip:work ratio, this was unnatural at the other end of the scale and didn’t make for the best working environment, in her opinion. They might have all been sitting surrounded by individual barbed-wire fences. She shook her head. Women working in close proximity to cakes and pastries – they should have been in their element! There was an air of disunity about this department she was determined to tackle.

  ‘Staff meeting, in the canteen please, ladies, two minutes, so switch your phones to voicemail,’ she called out. She’d begin by plying them with coffee and buns. Always a good start for bonding.

  Down in the canteen, a fresh batch of buttered scones had just been put out. Christie piled five onto her tray. Proper elevenses!

  ‘No dieting allowed at the table,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Help yourselves, girls.’

  Anna wasn’t all that hungry. She had hardly eaten anything since the weekend, her appetite had absconded with Tony, but everyone else had taken a scone and she would have felt a bit of a party pooper leaving hers untouched. She could nibble at it, she supposed. She really ought to eat something.

  ‘Right, I want to know three interesting facts about all of you – it can be anything – but things that are important to you,’ announced Christie, after swallowing a big bite of scone. ‘I’ll go first. I’m a widow, no children, and I live with my brother who is a dentist and though we used to fight a lot when we were little, as adults we get on surprisingly well. Two: I love clothes, especially vintage ones, and double especially shoes and have far more than I’ll ever wear. Three: I love strawberries and I can’t damn well eat them because they bring me out in a rash.’

  The ladies laughed gently.

  ‘That’s cruel, isn’t it?’ said Grace. ‘It’s like loving animals but being allergic to their fur.’

  ‘Your turn, Grace.’

  Grace racked her brains. Three interesting things. She couldn’t think of one.

  ‘They don’t have to be extreme,’ coaxed Christie. ‘Just three things about yourself that we don’t know. For instance, you were telling me that you picked up a hobby in your late twenties, weren’t you?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Grace, grateful for the prompt. ‘Well, number one, I’ve been doing yoga for nearly thirty years. I start off every morning with quarter of an hour and finish off every evening with the same. I think I’d get twitchy if I didn’t; it’s become very much my routine.’

  ‘Wish I were that disciplined,’ said Dawn. ‘I haven’t done any exercise for a long time.’

  ‘You’ve a lovely figure anyway though,’ said Grace.

  ‘I’m all legs, which is a pain when I’m buying trousers because they’re never long enough!’

  ‘Lucky you. I always need to have mine taken up. Anyway, go on, fact number two, Grace,’ urged Christie.

  ‘Right, erm . . . well, I have three children: Laura is twenty-nine, Paul is twenty-eight and Sarah is twenty-five, and two grandchildren: Joe – who is Laura’s little boy, he’s five years old and Sarah’s little girl, Sable, who is four and there’s another brother or sister on the way for her.’

  ‘You married, Grace?’ asked Raychel, not hearing any mention of a husband in the family run down.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve been married to Gordon for twenty-three years. He was a plastic injection moulding engineer but he took early retirement.’

  Interesting, thought Christie. Her husband took early retirement yet she was fighting against it. And from the ages of her children, they were all born out of wedlock. She’d had Grace pigeon-holed as someone traditional too!

  ‘And your third fact?’

  Grace thought hard, then she grinned.

  ‘I’ve had a coffee with Phillip Schofield.’

  ‘You haven’t!’ gasped Raychel. ‘I love Phillip Scho
field!’

  ‘Where was that?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Starbucks in Leeds train station about four years ago,’ said Grace quite proudly. ‘All the tables were taken and he asked if he could sit at mine because I was by myself. I thought he looked like Phillip Schofield, but it never crossed my mind he was the real thing. Then someone asked for his autograph and I could have fainted. He’s very dishy.’

  ‘Did you get his autograph as well?’ Christie asked, chewing on the other half of her scone.

  ‘He signed my serviette,’ replied Grace. ‘He was absolutely charming.’

  ‘He gets better with age as well,’ said Dawn. ‘Was he filming up here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘but I can’t remember what he said it was. I was a bit star-struck.’

  ‘Starstruck in Starbucks. Say that after you’ve had a few!’ laughed Dawn.

  ‘And on that note, your turn, Dawn?’ said Christie.

  ‘OK, well, I’m getting married in two months. Last Saturday in June. To Calum.’

  A tinkle of congratulatory noises was the result of that revelation.

  ‘Big white wedding?’ asked Christie.

  ‘Small to medium. I don’t have any family. I’m having the big frock and the church and the cake, but not hundreds of guests. Can’t really afford to.’

  ‘What will your married name be?’ said Raychel, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  ‘Crooke. Not the most romantic name. Not like yours – Love!’ said Dawn with a smile. Not that she minded. Being Mrs Crooke was good enough in her book and made her insides warm at the thought of it. ‘Second: I’ve played the guitar since I was a kid and my most prized possession is the guitar that my parents gave me on my seventeeth birthday. They were both killed in a car accident a few weeks later.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s terrible,’ said Grace with heartfelt sympathy.

  ‘I know,’ nodded Dawn. ‘I miss them so much, especially with the wedding coming up.’

  ‘You must,’ agreed Christie. ‘And do you still play the guitar?’

  ‘Not as often these days,’ said Dawn.

  ‘You must be good though if you’ve been playing it all this time. Didn’t you ever join a band or anything?’ asked Grace.

  ‘No, I’m no way near good enough to join a band,’ said Dawn with a smile. A rather sad little smile, thought Christie.

  ‘And thirdly, oh crikey, can’t think of anything. Oh yes I can: up until two years ago I was a hairdresser.’

  That seemed to surprise them all, judging by the sharp raise in eyebrows.

  ‘What made you change career then?’ asked Christie.

  ‘I always wanted to work in an office. I never thought I’d be any good though. I was getting bored with hairdressing and went on a computer course and I really, really enjoyed it. So when I found a vacancy for this place in the newspaper, I applied and got it. Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t think I had a chance.’

  The girl doesn’t have a lot of self-confidence, deduced Christie. Funny how it was always the pretty, capable ones who didn’t.

  All eyes turned to Raychel, who had very pink cheeks as a result. Her co-workers smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Three things quickly, Raychel, then you can escape the spotlight,’ said Christie, patting her hand.

  ‘I must be the most boring person on the planet,’ said Raychel, taking a deep breath. ‘OK, here goes. I’m married to Ben who is a builder.’

  ‘Is he a Barnsley lad?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘No, he’s a Geordie.’

  ‘Oh, I wondered if you’d moved here to be with him? You’re from Newcastle as well, presumably, with that accent, aren’t you?’ Dawn popped the last bit of scone in her mouth and chewed.

  ‘He moved here for work. We used to live in London and he met a bloke down there that was looking for workers up here,’ Raychel explained.

  ‘Funny. Most people are moving down south for work and there’s you moving the other way!’ Dawn commented. ‘Been married long?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Anna, her first contribution of the morning.

  ‘How many children do you have then?’ asked Dawn, who drew the conclusion that anyone who got married so young had to be pregnant. But Raychel surprised her.

  ‘No children and no plans for them. Right, number two.’ She tapped with her fingertips on the table as she thought. ‘I like to paint pictures. I’ve always been into art. I’d have liked to have been an artist.’

  ‘Are you any good?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Raychel. ‘I just enjoy doing it. It relaxes me. Bit like your yoga does for you, Grace. And thirdly, I’m moving into a new flat next month and I can’t wait. We’ve been renting but we’ve got one of the new apartments in Milk Street, where the old dairy used to be. Right at the top.’

  ‘A penthouse then,’ winked Christie.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Raychel with a contented sigh. ‘I’m going to measure up for curtains at the weekend and I can’t wait, how sad is that?’

  ‘I think it’s lovely,’ said Dawn, who wished she and Calum could move into a new place. She shuddered when she thought of the state of his windows. A team of Laurence Llewellyn-Bowens couldn’t have made those tatty monstrosities pretty.

  ‘Anna?’ Christie tilted her head at the quiet woman with the sad eyes.

  ‘Happily engaged to and living with Tony who’s a barber, owner of the moodiest cat in the world and aficionado of Hammer Horror films. That’s me in a nutshell!’ said Anna, nodding her head as if that constituted a full stop.

  Christie wasn’t going to let her get away with that brief résumé though.

  ‘What sort of cat?’

  ‘Chocolate point Siamese. Male, obviously. You’d think he was Prince Edward the way he looks down his nose at everyone.’

  ‘And free haircuts for you presumably?’

  Anna thought of Tony’s fingers in her hair and gulped. ‘Oh yes,’ she said over-brightly.

  ‘I used to love the old Hammer Horrors,’ said Grace. ‘I had a bit of a thing for Christopher Lee.’

  ‘Once, the nuns at school asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up,’ said Anna, sliding back into a memory. ‘They said I should let my imagination run riot, so I told them I wanted to be a vampire. I got a right thrashing for it as well!’ She remembered Sister Martin and her smiley face that she would whip off like a detachable mask at the first sign of any insolence. The old bitch had thrashed Anna till she wet herself. Hard-line, frustrated old nuns like her were one of the main reasons why Anna would never send her children to a Catholic school, not that she’d ever have any. Not unless a miracle was somehow bestowed upon her. She’d keep her eye out for a star appearing over her house and a bunch of shepherds knocking on the front door wanting admittance, just in case though.

  ‘You have the look of a gothic maid.’ Christie weighed Anna up. Full-bosomed, small-waisted and pouty-lipped, the woman would have been transformed with the right neckline and a bit of red lipstick. She had the look of a woman sadly neglected. By herself more than anyone.

  ‘Werewolf or vampire though. Which would you go for most?’ asked Raychel, who had just finished reading Twilight and rather fancied the former. The werewolf protagonist reminded her of Ben, all massive and warm.

  ‘No question,’ sniffed Anna. ‘Vampire every time. Couldn’t do with all that werewolf-moulting. It’d block up my Dyson.’

  Everyone laughed. Anna had a dry sense of humour, that seemed evident. Christie drained her cup and then noticed that everyone with anything left in their cups followed suit.

  ‘Right, best get back to work then. Thank you for that, ladies. I feel I know you all a little better now.’

  Christie led the way out. She was aware that behind her, Grace was twittering to Dawn and Raychel was asking Anna something. She smiled to herself. The thaw had commenced.

  Chapter 13

  Paul rang Grace on her mobile at work that afternoon.


  ‘Mum, you are aware it’s the Grand National on Saturday?’ he asked.

  ‘My goodness, it’s never been a year since the last one!’

  ‘Time sure does fly when you’re having fun,’ said her beloved boy. Grace could have wept for him. Life hadn’t exactly been a bundle of laughs for him since his father banished him from the family home. She knew he wasn’t over the hurt, however much he pretended to be.

  ‘I’ll get a newspaper at lunchtime. All the horse names will be in,’ volunteered Grace.

  ‘I’ve looked already. There’s one running called The Sun Rose. I’ll have to go for it, for my Nana.’

  ‘Oh well, let’s do that then. It’s as good an omen as any.’

  ‘Same arrangement as usual?’

  ‘Same arrangement. On the nose.’

  ‘You can pick up your winnings when I see you next week. We’ll have lots of cake, the full shebang cream tea. I’ll pay.’

  Grace laughed. He was the most generous soul she knew.

  ‘Oh Paul, I wish you could meet someone who’d love you for the wonderful person you are!’ she said.

  I wish you could as well, Mum, said Paul to himself.

  Gordon hated gambling and so every year, for as long as she could remember, Grace and Paul had had a secret bet. They didn’t study form and distance or anything complicated like that, they just picked a horse with a name that meant something to both of them, whatever the odds. They had won for two years running now, firstly with Amazing Grace, then last year on the rank outsider, Laura’s Boy. Grace put the winnings in the secret bank account she had opened two years ago and which Gordon knew nothing about. Grace had started squirreling away some of her money to leave to Paul if anything happened to her. Gordon had cut his son out of his will. It annoyed him no end that she hadn’t done the same.

  ‘The Sun Rose?’ said Christie, looking over Grace’s shoulder at the name she had just written down on her pad. ‘Are you betting on horses, Mrs Beamish?’

  ‘Just once a year,’ said Grace. ‘My boy and I always have a bet on the Grand National.’

  ‘Of course! It’s the Grand National on Saturday, isn’t it?’ said Christie. ‘Shall we all have a go?’