A Summer Fling

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Anna, it’s only a pair of tights. Get a grip!’ she replied, mock-harshly. ‘I’ll go and get you a cup of water. Sit down before you fall.’

  She left Anna in the capable hands of Christie. Anna looked down to avoid eye contact and wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Oh no, Christie, you’ve got sick on your skirt.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. It’s only a splash anyway. I’m driving you home, young lady. You’re not well. When was the last time you ate something? There was nothing but bile in your stomach to throw up. You’ve been running on empty, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Anna dropped down onto the toilet seat again. Her legs were as shaky as a new-born foal’s. She realized that she must look a total sight.

  Dawn came back in with a cup of water and a packet of wet wipes which she handed over to Christie.

  ‘Grace sent these in,’ she said. ‘Here, get this down you. I got it from the water cooler, so it’s nice and cold.’

  Anna gulped at the water while Christie pulled out a couple of the wet tissues and gently began to wipe Anna’s face as if she were a little girl.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anna said again.

  ‘Shush,’ whispered Christie. ‘Are you OK to stand? We’re going to get your coat and your bag and I’m taking you home now.’

  Anna opened her mouth to protest that she’d get a taxi and not put anyone to any more trouble, but she was too weak. ‘Thank you,’ she relented.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Christie, helping Anna to her feet.

  Anna felt as frail as a kitten as she walked back into the office where Grace was waiting, holding Anna’s coat open and ready for her to slip her arms into. At her side, Dawn was holding her bag. Anna looked at them both, so much kindness shining in their eyes that she wanted to sink to the floor and sob with shame and gratitude in equal measure.

  ‘I’ll see you later, ladies,’ said Christie, leading Anna down the office. ‘Come on, pet, let’s get you home and tucked up.’

  It was a nice, quiet road end where Anna lived, very close to Dartley train stop. Courtyard Lane was well-named as it was a square of narrow, terraced houses around a neat courtyard garden at its centre.

  The house gave out so many mixed signals. It was a lovely mix of heavy old furniture and matching reproductions. Quite dark and gothic in its taste: a strong red on the walls, a brave blue showing through from the hallway. But the surfaces were dusty and the carpet could have done with a good vacuum. It looked tired. A place someone was once proud of, had put together with great style, and now lost the ability to care for. It looked a perfect reflection of Anna at that moment in time.

  The small kitchen was clean, if a little untidy. Cat bowls hand-painted with the wording ‘Butterfly’s Food’ and ‘Butterfly’s Water’ lay full on the floor. Christie hunted in the cupboards for some cups after announcing that she was putting the kettle on. There was a shelf full of bone china mugs with pictures of Siamese cats on them. She made two coffees and returned to the lounge where Anna was sitting on the sofa looking drowsy now.

  ‘I used the de-caff,’ said Christie. ‘Looks like you need a good sleep.’ She opened her handbag and brought out some tablets. ‘Here, these’ll take the headache away with any luck.’

  ‘I feel a bit better after being sick,’ said Anna, but she took the tablets anyway. She felt as if she had been turned inside-out.

  Christie noticed the many photographs displayed around the room: Anna snuggling up to a good-looking guy, Tony presumably, and lots of pictures of a sharp-faced Siamese cat in various stages of growth.

  ‘That your cat?’ Christie asked. ‘He’s very beautiful.’

  ‘He moved in with the widow across the Courtyard. Edna. I can’t even keep the bloody cat from straying. Thank you, Christie, for bringing me home. I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble.’

  ‘If you say that once more I’ll thump you,’ said Christie. ‘You’re not well and shouldn’t have been at work. Didn’t you take any time off when you had your miscarriages?’

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ replied Anna. ‘I lost them so early. Except for the last one. But even then I was in hospital Friday night and out Saturday morning. I didn’t want a fuss.’

  ‘And he left you that Friday night?’ Christie affirmed calmly which belied the disgust she felt.

  ‘It’s been hard for him too, to cope with losing so many,’ said Anna. She knew she was making excuses for him but she wanted to believe that he was hurting and weak rather than a total bastard with a pipe cleaner for a backbone.

  ‘Yes, of course, poor him,’ said Christie tightly.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Anna, bursting into a hard, primal sob. Her dignity was long gone. She was just a mess of tangled up feelings. ‘I’m forty on Friday. That isn’t helping!’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Christie. ‘You should be flinging open the door to that fortieth year and dragging it over the threshold.’

  ‘I’ll be old,’ said Anna.

  ‘Will you hell as like,’ snapped Christie. ‘Women at forty should be formidable creatures. What on earth makes women think forty is old? Half of them get reborn at that age because they’ve not lived until forty comes and kicks them up the backside.’

  Anna found herself smiling at Christie’s force of argument.

  ‘And another thing, I don’t want you coming into work until you’re well,’ warned Christie.

  ‘I can’t rattle around this house any longer than I have to, Christie. It depresses me so much. I need to get you a cloth for your skirt.’ Anna made to stand but she was gently pushed back down onto the sofa again.

  ‘Look, I can brush it off. Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t face it.’ Anna shuddered at the thought. ‘I just want to sleep.’

  ‘Then you sleep, love,’ said Christie. She pulled a couple of throws from the other side of the sofa and tucked them around Anna. Anna’s eyes started to shutter down. She heard the front door close and the key being pushed through the letter box. Then she slept.

  Chapter 25

  Anna walked into work the next day. She felt a wee bit shaky, even though she’d been sensible and eaten some toast. But as she told Christie, she didn’t want to spend any longer in a house full of memories than she had to. Plus she wanted to give Dawn some new tights.

  ‘You silly beggar,’ said Dawn when Anna handed them over.

  Christie gave Anna a wide, kind, welcoming smile.

  ‘You’ve got a bit of colour in your cheeks this morning. I hope you had a good sleep.’

  ‘I can’t remember getting up and putting myself to bed, but I must have because that’s where I woke up,’ Anna replied. ‘I feel much better today. Thank you for taking me home, Christie. And for listening.’

  ‘Don’t mention it at all.’ Christie waved it away. ‘I’m just glad I could help.’

  ‘Look, it’s not much. It’s just a gesture to say thank you, everyone, for being so kind yesterday . . .’ Anna took out of her handbag four boxes of chocolates that she’d bought at the train station newspaper shop.

  ‘You’re getting paid too much,’ Dawn grinned, her hands full of Anna’s presents.

  ‘You really didn’t have to do that at all,’ said Grace. ‘I only picked up your coat.’

  ‘I only picked up your bag!’ said Raychel.

  ‘You did more than that,’ said Anna. She couldn’t put it into words without sounding over the top. She remembered the warmth in their eyes – not pity, but support. There was a difference.

  Dawn had already eaten three chocolates. ‘You’ll have to get ill in the office more often,’ she said through a coffee cream. Then she corrected herself. ‘I don’t mean really ill, just ill enough to feel bad enough to bring choc—’

  ‘Yes, we know what you mean, Dawn,’ put in Christie. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in the girl but she had a very clumsy line of expression. ‘Anna, I shall take your chocolates and enjoy them with my coffee,
seeing as you’ve been kind enough to buy them,’ she went on. ‘And we’ve been talking. Seeing as it’s your birthday on Friday, how about we use our horse race winning kitty and celebrate with you?’

  ‘That Thai place up the road. It’d be smashing!’ said Dawn.

  ‘Oh!’ was all Anna managed, because that invitation came from left field. But the accompanying smile gave Christie the answer she wanted.

  ‘Marvellous,’ she said.

  Chapter 26

  ‘I can’t believe Dad did that to you!’ said Paul angrily down the phone as he talked to Grace from his office. ‘What right does he think he has to force you to go somewhere you don’t want to go like that? I tell you, Mum, he’s getting worse as he gets older. He’s a control freak. ’

  ‘I’m just glad you got my message,’ said Grace, mobile to her ear as she sat on the park bench having her sandwich lunch. ‘My phone died on me when I was texting you. I was so looking forward to seeing you and Charles too.’

  Grace was terrible at lying and she knew Paul wouldn’t really have been convinced by her text message that she and Gordon had taken an impulsive trip to the seaside, especially to a place they had often joked about as being a coastal hell-hole. Despite her best efforts, Paul had winkled the truth out of her within a minute of talking to her and he was furious.

  ‘You’ll see Charles soon, I promise you that,’ Paul growled. ‘Mum, I hate to say this but Dad’s losing it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, love—’

  ‘I mean it. Laura told me what happened with young Joe and the football.’

  ‘Don’t, Paul, he isn’t that bad,’ said Grace, feeling more disloyal by the minute because she wasn’t feeling what she was saying.

  ‘The trouble with Dad is that he was always nice Dr Jekyll when things were going his way, but as soon as they weren’t, out comes Mr Hyde with a vengeance. And Mr Hyde has been coming out more and more these days, Mum, because we’ve all grown up and he can’t tell us what to do any more. Why was there always so much anger in him? It’s as if he was perpetually just waiting for any excuse to kick out. I’ve never understood it.’

  Grace sighed. She knew why, of course. The anger was born out of frustration. Years and years of sexual frustration, of being impotent and being too stupidly proud to seek help. Not something she could tell her son, of course.

  ‘Paul, love—’

  ‘I’m telling you, Mum. I don’t know how you’ve stood him all these years. You can’t have been happy.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Grace. ‘You have made me the happiest woman alive.’

  ‘Just tell me something, then: if he hadn’t had three young kids when you met him, would you have ever married him?’

  Grace opened her mouth to answer that of course she would, but she knew it wasn’t the truth and so would Paul. Her marriage was as dry as dust, held together only by her children’s love. His children’s love.

  ‘I’m fine, we rub along in our own way,’ said Grace, changing the subject swiftly and attempting cheeriness. ‘Now, when am I seeing you? I still have your Easter egg to give you.’

  ‘Mum, I’m a grown man!’ he said in the same way he had last year while laughingly accepting the big chocolate egg she knew he would enjoy.

  ‘You’re never too old for an Easter egg,’ she said. Although Gordon had always been too old for silly things like that.

  ‘I’ve only got one empty box left after this,’ said Raychel, packing up the canvases she had painted. Ben had often told her she should sell them, but Raychel didn’t want to do anything to draw attention to herself. She was happy enough painting them purely for the enjoyment of it. She had always been so clever at arts and crafts. She had sewn all their bedding and made the fancy curtains that they were leaving behind for the next tenant because everything in their flat was going to be fresh and new and clean.

  ‘There’s loads at work,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll ask the boss if I can take some; he’ll let me, I know he will.’ Ben liked his boss. He was a huge bear of a man who didn’t cut corners in his work and paid good wages and on time. They were lucky in having plenty of work on when a lot of building firms were going down the pan. But John Silkstone had a good reputation locally as a craftsman who charged fair prices and didn’t muck anyone about breaking promises.

  ‘Smashing,’ replied Raychel, and bent to empty the sideboard next. She opened the top drawer and took out the treasure box which she kept there. She slid off the lid and at the top of the pile of letters and cards from Ben sat the little yellow cardigan with the duck buttons in a crinkly plastic bag. It had never been worn. She had knitted it herself in preparation for their baby sister’s arrival when Raychel was just a girl herself. She could hardly bear to look at it, but neither could she ever throw it away.

  Ben watched her trembling fingers reach out to tenderly stroke it through the plastic and he stepped in quickly.

  ‘Come on, let’s stop packing for today, pet. Enough for today.’

  When Anna got to the train station after work, there was no man in black facing her. Nor was he behind her, about to breathe on her neck. She felt an unreasonable stab of annoyance that he wasn’t haunting her that night. How bizarre was that?

  There was a bing bong, preceding a train announcement that hers was delayed by fifteen minutes. She sat on a bench on the platform and pulled out her mobile phone to check on the time. The black-edged card bearing Vladimir Darq’s name was next to it in her handbag. Go on, ring it, an imaginary voice whispered seductively in her head. She thought of his promises to locate her ‘Darq’ side. She thought of Tony and winning him back with her revitalized inner goddess. It was worth a try; anything was worth a try. She pressed down the first two numbers on her phone and then cancelled it. Then she thought of standing in front of Tony in a velvet basque, feeling his hands on her once again . . .

  She steeled herself and dialled once more, the whole number this time. She lifted the phone to her ear and heard it burr three times, then a man’s voice – his – answered with a clipped, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Erm, it’s me, from the train station.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Anna Bri—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are.’

  ‘I’m ringing to say—’

  ‘My address is Darq House in Higher Hoppleton,’ he cut her off. ‘What is your address?’

  ‘Erm, two, Courtyard Lane – that’s Dartley.’

  ‘Be ready Saturday night at seven p.m., please,’ he interrupted with a no-negotiating East European accent. ‘A car will be sent for you. You will come here and I will prepare you for filming. Wear your most comfortable, not your best underwear. I repeat, your most comfortable.’

  And with that, the line went dead.

  Chapter 27

  Dawn ironed Calum’s best shirt. He’d compromised and said he would wear it, but only with jeans. He’d looked at her as if she was daft when she’d held out a tie.

  ‘She’s fucking barking anyway; it won’t make any difference to her giving me any money if I turned up in a tie or a full clown suit,’ he moaned.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Not fucking long enough ago.’

  ‘Do you have to swear so much?’

  ‘Yes, I fucking do,’ said Calum. ‘You’re nagging again.’

  Dawn shut up. Now he’d discovered the ‘N’ word, he was using it as an excuse for everything. It was the verbal equivalent of a ‘one size fits all’ T-shirt. He’d accused her of nagging earlier when she’d told him to turn the volume down on the TV. He didn’t accuse the neighbours of nagging though when they started thumping on the wall five minutes later.

  Dawn twisted her hair up into a crocodile clip and pulled out some stray locks at the sides to soften the effect. ‘I just want us to look nice to see her. It’s the least we can do if she’s giving us that sort of money towards the wedding.’

  Calum grunted and put on the tie, tying it in a low, sloppy knot, reb
elliously pulling it to one side. He was so handsome in a shirt and tie. He was going to look gorgeous in his penguin gear at their wedding. He had a boyish face with big, grey-blue eyes and that sexy smile that had roped her in from the first.

  Dawn drove to the old people’s home: Greenfields in Penistone. It was an old Victorian double-fronted house with a very wide girth and a big, glassy conservatory extension to the left. Neat, frilly curtains hung at the windows and a closely clipped garden at the front impressed to visitors that this was a well-cared-for residence. Calum was bored and moaning before they’d even got to the reception desk. Dawn felt like his mother, pulling him in and doing all the talking to the receptionist. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt like that. Her fiancé wasn’t exactly Mr Get-up-and-Go.

  The receptionist led them to a lovely sunny lounge at the back of the house which looked out onto a long, flowery-bordered lawn. A couple of old men in sun hats were playing croquet in the middle of it. It was all very old-fashioned and English and gave Dawn the impression that someone had turned the clock back to the 1930s.

  Aunt Charlotte wasn’t the tiny little withered thing Dawn had visualized. She was very nicely dressed, healthily slender and sitting straight-backed in her armchair, and when she said her hellos, it was obvious she’d had a fair few elocution lessons in her time. She spoke like a lady as well as looking like one. Her hair was frost-white, pinned up into an immaculately neat pleat and her eyes were bright and sparkly and grey-blue. She smiled at them and proffered her cheek to Calum and then to Dawn. The old lady smelled of a sweet and delicate perfume that Dawn had never come across before.

  ‘I thought we’d have scones,’ said Charlotte, leaning forward as if divulging a big secret. ‘Do you both like scones? The food is very good in here.’

  ‘I love scones,’ said Dawn.

  ‘Likewise,’ said Calum like a bored teenager. Dawn wanted to kick him.

  Right on cue, a lady wheeled in a rattling trolley with a big pot of tea and cups and polished silver cutlery and a china plate of tiny, round buttered scones and pot ramekins full of jam and cream. The old people’s home experience wasn’t at all like Dawn imagined, dull and scruffy and smelling of wee. But then, this was a very upmarket one. Muriel had made some comment about it eating away at Charlotte’s savings like a swarm of locusts devouring a picnic.