[Polwenna Bay 01.0] Runaway Summer

by Ruth Saberton

  This was a hairdresser’s? There wasn’t a customer in sight. Summer was contemplating bolting back to the cottage and taking her chances with being spotted, when a figure stepped out of the wallpaper. She was wearing a flowery housecoat and big pink slippers, camouflaging her perfectly with the dahlias and roses in the pattern. Even her hair was tango orange; it was as though one of the plants was walking towards Summer, Triffid-like. Summer couldn’t help it. She shrieked.

  “Sorry, my love – didn’t mean to make you jump,” said the Triffid.

  “I think I’ve made a mistake,” Summer said quickly, reversing towards the door. “I thought this was a hairdresser’s.”

  “Not a mistake at all, my love! Welcome to Kursa’s Kozi Kutz! I’m Kursa. Why don’t you take a seat and tell me what you’d like me to do?”

  A plump hand rested on her shoulder and guided Summer across the shagpile. Before she could open her mouth to protest, Summer was plopped down into a marshmallow of an armchair that faced a mirror balanced precariously on the mantelpiece. She considered making a dash for freedom, but then she caught sight of her reflection. The baseball cap had slipped and her long hair was falling down loose from underneath it; those trademark dark curls would give her away in an instant. Summer only prayed that Kursa didn’t recognise her. That would be a disaster. Checking out the tottering piles of magazines and clocking that Woman’s Weekly and The People’s Friend featured heavily, she figured she was pretty safe. Heat or Closer would have been a bit more of a worry.

  Summer took a deep breath and whipped off the hat. “Would you be able to cut my hair? A dry cut would do.”

  Kursa nodded, already reaching for her scissors. “A couple of inches?”

  “No. Not exactly.” Summer swallowed. Her hand moved to her stomach. Why on earth was she hesitating? There were far more important things to think about than hair. “I was thinking a bit more.”

  “No problems. To the shoulder?”

  “No. All of it.”

  The scissors hovered and Kursa’s eyes widened.

  “All of it? Are you serious, my love? It’s beautiful hair. It must have taken ages to grow.”

  “All of it,” Summer said firmly.

  “Well if you’re sure,” said Kursa, sounding doubtful. Her gaze flickered to Summer’s cheek and she frowned. “Man trouble?”

  “You could say that.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. “I came here five years ago from Penzance,” Kursa told Summer softly. “My Ted was a bit handy with his fists. Best day of my life when he dropped dead. Better than winning the lottery. I always loved Polwenna, so I sold up and bought this place. Then I went to college and trained as a hairdresser. At my age, would you believe! It was always my dream.”

  Summer had enjoyed the grieving widow fantasy a few times herself and then felt dreadful afterwards. Lately, though, her dream would be to have a good night’s rest without trying not to breathe too loudly, fidget, talk in her sleep or do whatever else might annoy Justin.

  “Nothing helps get you over a man like a change of hair,” Kursa said when Summer didn’t reply. “Like therapy, it is. New hair, new start, new man.”

  “New man? No thanks.” Summer shook her head. “I’m through with men. Believe me, if there was a convent nearby I’d be seriously considering joining up.”

  “There are still some good ones out there. My son Richard, he’s one of the good guys. A doctor too. He’s just started to practise here; I can hardly believe it!”

  “Mmm,” said Summer politely. She was starting to feel twitchy and was hoping that Kursa got a move on in the next decade. What if one of her Polwenna Bay regulars came in? Imagine if it was Sheila Keverne or “Key Hole” Kathy Polmartin? The redtops had nothing on the way those two pillars of the community could spread gossip. She may as well just phone The Sun’s news desk herself and be done with it.

  “Listen to me going on!” Sensing that her customer wasn’t in a chatty frame of mind, Kursa leaned forward and turned the mirror around so that Summer couldn’t see her handiwork. “Just leave it with me. If it’s a change you want then it’s a change you shall have. You’re going to be in for a big surprise!”

  Summer didn’t much like surprises. Justin was full of them, and few of them were pleasant. For instance, there was the surprise she’d got when Justin had… Well, never mind him now. The point was that usually she liked to know exactly what was going on, especially when it came to her appearance. It was how she made her living, after all. But something strange was happening as Kursa cut her hair: with every snip of the scissors it was though the tension was falling away with her curls. Very soon the floor was covered in a mound of the dark locks. Summer couldn’t recall ever having short hair, but she was willing to give it a try. After all, hair grew back.

  And bruises faded.

  Summer was still musing on this when Kursa rubbed some wax on her hands, ran it through what was left of Summer’s hair and stepped back to regard her critically through narrowed eyes.

  “Proper job,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”

  Turning the mirror around slowly, in the style of Gok Wan about to do a grand reveal, she waited for Summer’s reaction. She wasn’t disappointed.

  Summer gasped.

  The reflection in the glass looked nothing like her. Yes, of course the big green eyes and blooming bruises were hers, as was the small freckled nose and too-large pouty mouth, but where on earth had those cheekbones come from? Her hair curled around her face in ringlets like those of an Austen heroine and although she didn’t think it had ever been this short she absolutely loved it. She looked so much younger! And just think of the hours she was going to save washing and styling it. No more diffusers or straighteners or curling wands. It was a whole new world of freedom for her follicles – and hopefully nobody would recognise her like this. It felt like a huge leap forward. Could it be possible that things really were going to be OK?

  Summer was still smiling five minutes later when she let herself out of the salon. Armed with a tub of gel and a stack of ancient Woman’s Weekly magazines, she was looking forward to settling into a bath and then devouring a pile of toast before snuggling down for the night. Maybe tomorrow she’d go and see her mum and tell her what had happened. She’d call her agent too and see if she could sort out some financial arrangements; she was getting low on cash, having paid for the haircut with Aunty Patsy’s money. She could have a bank card delivered to her parents’ place. She’d also need to see a doctor, and sooner rather than later. Maybe Kursa’s son would have an appointment.

  As she headed back through the village and towards the harbour, Summer marvelled at the change a haircut could make. It was as though the new style had moved her into a different space. Walking back along the street to the waterfront she found that she was looking at the views rather than fixing her eyes on the floor and scuttling along, hoping that nobody noticed her. She didn’t see Musto Man again, thank goodness, and nobody gave her a second glance. Maybe things were going to be all right. Perhaps Summer without Justin was invisible.

  She could only hope.

  Chapter 6

  Morwenna Tremaine was not having a good day. It had got off to a bad start when her top event horse, Mr Dandy, had lamed himself carting around the paddock – meaning she’d had to pull out of a major competition and forfeit several hundred pounds worth of entrance fees, which she could ill afford to lose. Then one of her full liveries had handed in their notice, which meant even less money in the pot, and then just to add insult to injury her ancient Discovery had decided it was time to give up the ghost. So when she’d finally got around to opening her mail and discovered that Ashley sodding Carstairs had pulled yet another stunt, it had been the last straw. Mo had screwed up the letter from the Polwenna Action Group and hurled it across the kitchen, wishing with all her heart that it were made of voodoo paper and that somewhere bloody Ashley was clutching his guts and howling.
No such luck. Cashley was made of Teflon; nothing ever seemed to stick to him.

  Uttering several choice words that she knew Granny Alice certainly wouldn’t approve of, Mo tugged on her wellies, pulled her wild red hair onto the top of her head and lassoed it with a scrunchie, then grabbed the last tenner out of the biscuit barrel. The biscuit barrel was supposed to be the place where she kept her emergency funds but, sod it, thought Mo as she stomped out of her static caravan and slammed the door so hard that the flimsy structure wobbled, this was an emergency and she needed a drink. If Cashley managed to grease the right palms on the council and sneak under the planning radar just when most members of PAG were collapsing under the burden of the holiday trade and simply too exhausted to fight, then their cause was lost.

  “Over my dead body,” Mo said to the beady-eyed seagull sitting on the caravan’s roof. “And his too, if needs be.”

  The seagull didn’t reply. Then again, it didn’t need to because unlike Cashley it was born and raised in Polwenna Bay and was therefore Cornish through and through. It was bound to be in agreement with Morwenna Tremaine. Most people tended to be.

  It was second nature for Mo to check the yard as she crossed it and, as always, she felt a thrill of pride that all this was hers – even if she was hanging onto it by a wing and a prayer. It might be the case that she lived in a caravan that was such a nineteen-eighties time warp that she half expected to bump into Boy George whenever she went to the kitchenette. It might also be true that when she wasn’t in jodhpurs her clothes were an eclectic collection of charity-shop finds and her gran’s cast-offs. Nevertheless, her horses lived the lives of pampered A-listers in the American barn and pranced around the paddocks in their fly sheets like supermodels sampling bridal attire. Even if Mo’s fingernails were broken from yard chores and her hair hadn’t seen a proper cut since Take That were first in the charts, the horses all had perfect hooves – thanks to Tommy Lovell, the sexiest farrier in England (albeit a gay one, sadly for Mo, so there was no chance of paying him in kind) – and their manes were pulled and glossy. Of course, this was as it should be. Mo would have gone without every creature comfort in order to make sure that the horses had exactly what they needed.

  Crossing the yard, Morwenna reflected that if things carried on like this then she’d probably have to rethink her career as a three-day eventer. She might have talent, and there was no doubt that she was brave, but eventing was an expensive sport and without a sponsor she was struggling to make her way. No wonder most people on the circuit were either royals or loaded. The entrance fees alone were crippling, never mind the fuel to reach the events and all the costly care that went into bringing on a string of top-level competition horses. Mr Dandy was as highly strung as any Premier League footballer and shared that profession’s propensity for exaggerating the slightest injury for maximum dramatic impact. Mo sighed. She dreaded to think how much she owed Lucas Madding, the local equine vet. Probably enough to buy him another Range Rover. Lucas had been kind enough to let her put today’s callout fee on the slate, but she’d have to find the money to pay him eventually. Her mortgage was also due next week and she knew that the bank wouldn’t be half as understanding. In fact, the last time she’d coaxed the Discovery over the Tamar to Plymouth to grovel to her bank manager, he’d been very unsympathetic.

  “There are more important things in life than horses,” he’d said disapprovingly to Mo, peering over his bifocals in the manner of Dumbledore giving Harry Potter a dressing down.

  There were? Mo couldn’t think what. She’d spent most of her life living and breathing horses. Eventually, the bank manager had agreed to extend her overdraft and review the situation in six months, a reprieve that still made Mo feel giddy with relief but which also terrified her. Unless something miraculous happened in the next few months, like Princess Anne popping by and deciding to adopt her, Mo couldn’t see a way that she could keep her eventing dream afloat. She couldn’t ask her father for a cash injection; Jake was always making it very clear on their father’s behalf that the church mice in St Wenn’s had more in the pot than the Tremaines these days. Besides, Mo had her pride. Polwenna Equestrian was her baby. She’d find a way to make it pay and keep her horses, even if it meant putting aside her Olympic ambitions and turning to pony trekking for the holidaymakers. Or, even worse, selling her top horse on for good money and starting all over again.

  There was a lump the size of a Jolly Ball in her throat at this thought. Morwenna adored Mr Dandy far more than she’d ever loved any man. Of course I do, Mo thought with a grimace as the ghosts of boyfriends past danced through her memory in a mental most rubbish ID parade. Not that Mo had much time for dating anyway – it was pretty hard to fit a love life in between all the mucking out, exercising and competing – but the few men who had come and gone from her life had all been pretty useless. Some had been jealous of the horses, one had been terrified (the sight of him quaking when she’d handed him a lead rope had pretty much killed any romance stone dead), and others had just been too much of a pushover. Mo supposed that she was quite bossy; it was the legacy of having to keep all those siblings in line for her formative years. She just couldn’t help ordering her boyfriends around. Maybe it was a test and she wanted to see who actually had the balls to stand up to her. This was what her brother Danny thought – and since Danny had spent hours in psychotherapy recently, Mo guessed he knew what he was talking about.

  “You want an alpha male,” Danny had concluded only yesterday evening as they’d sat in The Ship. He’d smirked at her over the rim of his whisky glass. “Admit it, Mo: you just want a Christian Grey to take control.”

  “I do not!” Mo had scoffed. “I’m not into perverts, thanks!”

  Her brother had raised a quizzical eyebrow, which Mo could see because she was sitting on his good side. “So you say. One woman’s pervert is another woman’s sex god. I think you protest too much, sis. Mr Grey would have a field day with all that bondage gear of yours.”

  Mo had laughed. “That’s my tack, you moron! And those whips are for schooling horses, not S and M!”

  “That’s your story,” had teased Danny, who’d been at that lovely stage between being just drunk enough to forget his misery and not quite drunk enough to be obnoxious. “But you don’t fool me, Morwenna Tremaine. Like all women you want a hero to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset in his manly arms.” He’d then glanced down at his own body and Mo’s heart had plummeted into her wellies, because she’d known exactly what her brother was thinking. Oh great. Now he’d reached the tipping point at least several drinks earlier than usual. Sure enough, the storm clouds had swiftly come rolling in and the side of his mouth that she could see had shrunk into a tight line.

  “Christ. If that’s what women want then that’s me screwed. No wonder Tara left.”

  “Tara left because she’s a shallow bitch with less depth than a rock pool,” Mo had said quickly, but it had already been too late. Her brother was plummeting over the cliff edge of his despair and was signalling with his good arm to the barmaid for another shot. Mo hadn’t stuck around to witness the rest of the evening; she hadn’t needed to because she’d seen Danny drunk and belligerent far too many times since he’d been discharged from the army. It wasn’t pretty; it invariably ended in him getting thrown out of the pub, and she was very afraid that things were only going to get worse. If it hadn’t been for his hero status in the village and the fact that everyone loved Granny Alice far too much to rock the boat (for now, at least), Mo was pretty sure that her volatile brother would have been banned from everywhere that sold alcohol.

  She leaned against the gate and sighed. Mo had no idea what the answer was for Danny, but she could have cheerfully murdered her ex-sister-in-law for making things a million times worse for him. Sure, Tara had married a strong vital man with a glowing army career, and she certainly hadn’t bargained for what had happened to Dan. But he was still her husband. To walk away when he needed her most w
as unforgivable in Mo’s mind, even if Dan was bloody hard to live with at the minute. Anyway, wasn’t the whole point of marriage about things being for better or for worse? In sickness or in health?

  All this thinking was making Mo’s head ache. Watching the horses chomping contentedly at the grass, their tails whisking the flies away, she decided that she was never, ever going to put herself in the dangerous position of being so in love with someone that he became her world. God, no way. Look where that got you. Dan was a wreck, her father missed her mother every day and even Jake had never quite returned to his old carefree self since that bitch, Summer, had ditched him without a second thought. And that was years ago.

  No, Mo decided as Mr Dandy ambled up and nudged her hopefully for a treat, if this was what love did for you then she’d stick to the horses, thanks all the same. Besides, how could she respect anyone who wasn’t her equal or her sparring partner? She gave her horse a scratch and offered him the last Polo from her gilet pocket. In her eyes there was simply no comparison to Mr Dandy, who was always pleased to see her, kept all her secrets and gave her a great ride every single day!

  Satisfied that all her horses were secure for the evening, and sending up a swift prayer of thanks to the gods of good weather and all-night turnout, Mo secured the yard gate and set off for the village. It was a glorious evening but as she stomped down the lane even the sight of the sun slipping behind the hill to bathe the village in honeyed light and gilt-edge the waves didn’t improve her state of mind. What she needed was a night off from all the thoughts that were zooming around her head like wasps on speed. An hour listening to Zak’s band play, a plate of Symon’s hog roast and then a pint of scrumpy in the pub would cheer her up. And if she bumped into Cashley en route and was able to give him a piece of her mind, then so much the better.