Bobby's Girl

by Catrin Collier

  But even as she considered Kate’s words, she realised it was too late. She was head over heels in love. Her only problem would be to keep the depth and strength of her feelings from Bobby.

  The train crawled down the track at slower than walking pace. Kate glanced at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes.

  ‘It’s half past four. We were supposed to reach our stop at three.’

  ‘It’s always late,’ a middle-aged woman sitting within earshot commented. ‘The company that runs this line is losing money. They tried to close it but the government wouldn’t let them.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Kate said caustically. ‘Especially as we’re being met. What happens if they don’t wait for the train to come in?’

  ‘Are you being met by locals?’ the woman asked.

  ‘People from Camp Resonance,’ she answered.

  ‘Don’t worry; they’ll know about this line. Probably will have called ahead to check what time this train’s expected in.’ Their fellow passenger glanced out of the window. ‘Ten minutes and you’ll be there.’

  The train juddered to a halt. Kate left her seat and opened the door expecting a platform. She managed to steady herself and avoid falling four feet. A frail elderly man in uniform, who looked as though he’d topple in a strong wind, tottered towards them and held out his arms.

  ‘I’ll lift you down, miss.’

  ‘There’s no need, I can manage.’ Kate dropped her bag and haggis and jumped, landing awkwardly and twisting her ankle.

  Penny followed. ‘I don’t see anyone.’

  ‘You expecting someone to meet you, girls?’ the old man asked.

  She concealed her disappointment at Bobby’s absence. ‘We’re going to Camp Resonance. They said they’d send someone to pick us up.’

  ‘Payphone on the side of the ticket office. You can call them from there.’

  She hauled her bag over to the office – a ramshackle shack – opened her shoulder bag and fished around in it for the contact details while Kate limped over with her own bag and haggis.

  Although late in the afternoon, the heat and humidity were as unbearable as they had been in the city. While she phoned, Kate looked for somewhere in the shade where they could wait. There were no seats, so she dragged their bags beneath a tree beside the dirt road.

  ‘That was a long phone call,’ Kate commented when she joined her.

  ‘It rang for ages before someone answered and gave me an offhand, “Oh, the train’s in, someone will be along to pick you up. Thanks for calling, have a nice day.”’

  ‘This “have a nice day” is beginning to get me down,’ Kate retorted. ‘Barely one in a hundred people say it as if they mean it.’

  ‘I could murder a cold drink.’

  ‘How about a warm one.’ Kate handed her a bottle of Coca-Cola.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ she complained after taking a sip.

  ‘I didn’t say it was good.’ Exhausted by the heat and still suffering from jet lag, Kate perched on her bag, leant against the tree and pulled her hat down over her eyes. ‘Wake me when the boys get here.’

  They waited in silence for an hour, by which time the sun had begun to sink in the sky and, although still hot, the temperature had cooled to a more bearable level.

  An open-topped truck pulled up alongside them. She and Kate rose to their feet and looked at the boys inside. Both were wearing filthy, sleeveless, khaki vests and khaki Bermuda shorts.

  ‘Camp Resonance?’ Kate asked.

  They laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Kate, ever on the defensive, demanded.

  ‘The thought of you two chicks in Resonance,’ the driver answered.

  ‘Why?’ Kate snapped.

  ‘Dressed like that.’

  ‘You are disgustingly dirty.’ Kate wrinkled her nose at their filthy hands, arms and faces.

  ‘That’s because we work in a summer camp. Camp as in tents, woods, outdoor faucets, muddy water, the great outdoors …’

  ‘Do you intend to stay here for the remainder of the day laughing at us, or are you going to help us with our luggage?’ She picked up her bag.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the guys’ faces when you two turn up. Name’s Ray.’ He pointed at his companion. ‘Gene.’

  ‘Kate Burgess. And I’m not shaking either of your hands. Not until they’ve seen soap and water.’ Kate lifted her bag into the back of the van.

  ‘Want a leg up?’ Ray asked.

  ‘You expect us to get in the back?’ she asked.

  ‘Please yourself, but the cab’s muddy. We didn’t have time to shower after washing down the sailing dinghies.’ Gene pulled a dirty scrap of scrunched paper from his pocket. ‘If you’re Kate, you must be Penny John?’

  ‘I am.’ She dropped her tartan bag over the side of the van next to Kate’s.

  ‘You’re going to the Pioneer camp.’ The boy opened the cab, walked round to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. ‘Kate Burgess is going to the Woodsmen. Sorry the back of the truck’s not too clean either. Hold on to your hats. It’ll get windy when we start driving.’

  Any doubts she had that the boys were exaggerating faded when they drove off a narrow tarmac road on to a dirt lane. After four or five jolting miles that played havoc with her back they halted in a churned-up muddy area adjoining a jetty that jutted into a lake. The sound of children singing came from the woods to their right and smoke rose lazily in the distance, hanging above the treetops.

  ‘This is where we drop you off, Penny John,’ Gene announced.

  ‘And me?’ Kate asked.

  ‘The Woodsmen’s camp is a five-minute drive away.’

  They both peered through the trees.

  ‘All I can see is woods.’ Kate complained.

  ‘The huts are hidden but the kids are noisy enough.’ Ray left the truck and walked on to the jetty. He lifted a tin whistle to his lips. The shrill sound was answered by another whistle across the water. ‘They’ll be along to pick you up, Penny, as soon as they can paddle across.’

  ‘Paddle?’ she asked faintly, conscious of her heels, Quant suit and the hat.

  ‘We dressed for a Buck House garden party to join Robin Hood’s merry men,’ Kate quipped.

  The boys laughed again. ‘This is not Sherwood Forest, and whatever else the Woodsmen are, they’re not merry.’

  ‘Miserable most of the time.’ Ray offloaded her tartan bag. ‘Someone’s set out to fetch you.’ He pointed across the lake where she could just about make out a canoe.

  ‘See you around, Penny John.’

  She turned to Kate and realised that, for all her bravado, Kate had as many misgivings about their situation as she did.

  ‘You did understand you were going to a summer camp, not Ascot?’ Bobby steered the canoe alongside the jetty.

  ‘I thought it would be like a British holiday camp with wooden buildings and proper paths,’ she explained.

  ‘If you look across the lake you’ll see tents among the trees.’

  ‘Bathrooms … kitchens …’

  ‘We have campfires to cook on and plenty of wood to feed them. There are half a dozen cold-water faucets serviced by pipes that come through the lake from this side. And a twenty-gallon water tank fitted with hoses and sprinklers that make a reasonable shower. It’s screened off and large enough to accommodate two. With eight counsellors and thirty-two kids you shouldn’t have to wait too long to use it provided you pick an unpopular time. And we have hurricane gas lamps for the night.’

  ‘You really did dig latrines?’

  ‘There are toilet seats on the stands above the holes, and huts for privacy.’ He tied the canoe to the jetty and joined her. ‘You really weren’t expecting a camp, were you?’

  ‘Not as primitive as this one, no.’

  ‘I thought everyone liked getting close to nature.’ He tied up the canoe, stepped out on to the jetty and picked up her bag.

  ‘I hate camping.’

  ‘You’re joki
ng.’

  ‘My idea of getting close to nature is sitting at the table in my parents’ garden and watching the birds, squirrels and sheep in the surrounding fields. I wouldn’t even go to Brownie camp when I was small, and that was in a church hall with hot and cold running water and plumbed-in toilets.’

  ‘I wasn’t around to help you settle in then. Meet the other counsellors and give the place a chance. You’ll have a tent to yourself, and tomorrow we have a treat. A trip to Stratford, Connecticut to see Shakespeare’s Androcles and the Lion.’

  ‘Shakespeare didn’t write Androcles and the Lion. George Bernard Shaw did.’

  ‘I know and you know but the Bishop doesn’t. He’s most insistent it was Shakespeare. It’ll give you a chance to return to civilisation for the afternoon. You can wear that very fetching suit again.’

  ‘This very fetching suit is filthy after travelling here in a dirty train and truck.’ She wasn’t in a mood to be mollified.

  ‘It’s clean enough to travel to Stratford tomorrow.’ He dumped her bag in the canoe and climbed back in before turning to her and holding out his hand. ‘Careful stepping in. It might be an idea to take off those high heels.’

  ‘They’re not that high and I’d rather not wade into that dirty water sploshing about in the bottom with my white tights.’

  ‘One of the perks of this job is you can send your clothes to the laundry free of charge.’

  ‘And they wash them, how?’ She took his hand, and crouching low, slid on to one of the bench seats in the canoe.

  ‘Not very well,’ he admitted. ‘Everything Sandy and I sent came back grey. The whites were dirty and the black had been bleached. Want a paddle?’ He held out a spare one.

  ‘I’ve never paddled a canoe.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. I’ve sailed a dinghy and rowed a rowing boat and ridden a horse. But a canoe is out of my experience.’

  ‘Then sit back, watch my technique and learn. You could be teaching this to the Pioneers tomorrow.’

  ‘That had better be a joke.’

  ‘Let’s say Sandy and I might have exaggerated your and Kate’s talents a little to get you the jobs.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘I said that both you and Kate could teach sailing, canoeing, swimming, sculpture, painting, drama, singing, dancing – ballet and tap – judo, karate, and would take callisthenics every morning at six sharp, six days a week,’ Bobby replied in reply to her question as to what exactly he’d told the Reverend Howard and his wife about her.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Not about the callisthenics, judo and karate, no.’

  ‘Why are you paddling so slowly?’

  ‘Because this is about as private as we’re going to get until our day off which might not be for a week.’

  ‘So what did you really tell the Reverend and Mrs Howard about me?’

  ‘That you’re an art major entering your senior year in September and can teach art and water sports. You can swim?’ he checked.

  ‘I can swim and I have the standard – British Standard – life-saving certificates,’ she confirmed. ‘I’ve sailed dinghies, but nothing as small as those.’ She looked across at the boats clustered on the bank of the lake.

  ‘They’re Sunfish, small and unsinkable. Ideal to teach sailing to beginners. There’s nothing to canoeing. Sure you wouldn’t like a paddle?’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s hard enough avoiding the dribbles from your paddle, without using one.’

  Sandy waved to them from the jetty and Bobby quickened his pace. ‘A welcoming party’s gathered to greet you.’

  ‘One more person on there and the jetty will sink. I suppose they’re all laughing at the English girl “dressed for Ascot”, as you put it.’

  His mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. ‘You’ll be the first Brit most of them have met and your nation is known for its eccentricities.’

  ‘What are the kids like?’

  ‘Like kids everywhere. Good, bad, intelligent, stupid. The one thing all of them manage to be is annoying.’ He stowed the paddle inside the canoe, reached out, grabbed a rope tied to a ring hanging from the jetty and hauled them alongside it.

  Sandy held out his hand ready to help her out of the canoe. She took it and found herself in the centre of a noisy group of teenagers who fired questions at her from all directions.

  ‘Give the lady a break, folks,’ Sandy shouted.

  ‘This way.’ Bobby carried her bag past them.

  ‘We’ll escort you to the luxury of your very own tent.’ Sandy grabbed her arm as she tripped on the uneven ground.

  ‘The only other counsellor who enjoys the privilege of solitude is Joan. Molly and Doreen share.’ Bobby lifted her bag on to a platform that was set a couple of feet above the ground.

  ‘Molly and Doreen are female counsellors from the Midwest, and they’re waving to you,’ Sandy informed her.

  She waved back at the two girls in the neighbouring tent.

  ‘The Midwest’s different from the rest of America?’ she asked Sandy.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Bobby warned. ‘You’re not wearing the best shoes for the woods. I hope you packed sneakers.’

  ‘I have flat shoes.’ She climbed up beside Bobby. ‘Why the platform?’

  ‘Bugs, raccoons, skunks, snakes,’ Sandy grinned, ‘wolves, bears werewolves …’

  ‘Vampires, ghouls and ghosts …’ she added.

  ‘Speaking of which, don’t forget you’re above ground level if you wake in the night.’ Bobby ducked into the tent behind her.

  ‘We’ve had one broken ankle already. Fortunately she was a very ugly counsellor,’ Sandy chipped in through the tent flap.

  A sonorous masculine voice shouted, ‘Bobby? Are you in the new counsellor’s quarters?’

  ‘Showing her the tent, and how the lamps work, sir.’ Bobby made a face at Penny. He picked up a hurricane lamp from the floor next to a sleeping bag.

  She followed Bobby out. Reverend Howard was a large man in every sense of the word. As tall as Bobby, he was as wide as he was long. Fat hung in folds over the waistband of his trousers and the flesh on his arms wobbled when he moved. In contrast, the woman next to him was tiny. Barely five feet, she had a stick insect figure.

  ‘Reverend Howard, Mrs Howard, this is Penelope John, the Pioneer camp’s new counsellor.’ Bobby made the introduction.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Reverend Howard, Mrs Howard.’ Penny climbed down from the platform and extended her hand. Mrs Howard’s handshake was limp and dry. The reverend’s strong and damp.

  ‘You’re not dressed for camp.’ Mrs Howard wrinkled her nose and mouth disapprovingly and Penny understood why she’d acquired the nickname ‘Pill Face’. ‘I trust you have suitable clothes with you.’

  ‘I have shorts, jeans and T-shirts in my bag, Mrs Howard.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Sandy, introduce Penelope to the female counsellors. Tell them to orientate her to the Camp Resonance and Pioneer way of thinking. And both of you boys – remember the rules. No male counsellor to enter a female counsellor’s quarters or that of any female Pioneer under any circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Bobby and Sandy chorused.

  ‘And no female counsellor to enter a male counsellor’s or male Pioneer’s quarters.’ The reverend stared at her for so long she felt uncomfortable.

  ‘I suggest you change and wash your face, Penelope. We do not allow our female counsellors to wear make-up,’ Mrs Howard informed her tartly. ‘The Pioneers are here to learn self-sufficiency and enjoy nature in all its bounty, not mimic artifice.’

  ‘It’s time you gathered your cook groups together for supper, boys,’ Reverend Howard boomed. ‘Penelope, you can join Joan’s cook group. They meet under the oak tree to the right of your tent.’

  Bobby winked at her behind the reverend’s back. She went into the tent. It was cramped and too low for her to stand upright. She opened he
r bag and rummaged around for jeans, T-shirt, canvas shoes, soap and flannel. As soon as she’d changed she went in search of one of the standpipes Bobby had mentioned. It, like the nearest latrine, was a five-minute walk from her tent. After soaking the flannel in the lukewarm water she scrubbed her face and hands.

  A pretty girl with short brown hair and brown eyes, carrying an enormous iron cooking pot, joined her while she was rinsing out the flannel.

  ‘I heard Pill Face ordering you to remove your make-up. The woman would make a good prison guard. I’m Joan.’ She set the pot on the ground and held out her hand. ‘It’s my cook group you’ll be joining. Not that the food’s up to much. I can’t cook and neither can any of the kids.’

  ‘Penny John.’ She was relieved to see a friendly face besides Sandy and Bobby.

  ‘I’ve heard your name. Everyone in the camp has. Bobby’s talked about you incessantly since we got here. You made quite an impression on him in England.’

  She recalled their meeting in Grosvenor Square. ‘We made an impression on one another.’

  ‘He said you were protesting against the Vietnam War.’

  ‘Bobby was. I was at the embassy to get a visa to come here.’

  ‘I hate the war,’ Joan said vehemently. ‘My father sent my two brothers to his cousin in Sweden to avoid the draft. We’re a close family and miss them. But my father felt he had no option after what happened to my cousin, Mark. He was drafted last autumn and sent to ’Nam after six weeks’ training. One month later he was posted missing. I think the not knowing is even worse than if he’d been killed. My aunt’s had a breakdown and my uncle’s given up. He can’t work, can’t eat, can’t do anything. He’s allowed the business he spent a lifetime building to go bankrupt.’

  ‘I don’t know how any family can live with having a son or brother in constant danger, especially so far from home.’ She thought of her older brother Ned and younger brother Evan. They’d teased her unmercifully since cradle days, but she loved them and couldn’t imagine life without them.

  ‘It’s obscene. Forcing fit, healthy, young men to fight in a war hardly anyone in America believes in. And then to see the coffins on television. Being unloaded and sent back to the boys’ families … I’m sorry, I’m on a burn. I get angry every time I think about it.’