A Summer Fling (12 page)

Dawn drew in a shock of breath. It had never crossed her mind that Calum had run to his family and moaned about her and then that the family had discussed her behind her back. What else had they said about her? It was obvious they would believe his side of things, but still, surely they didn’t think he was entirely blameless? She wanted to say that she didn’t nag and that asking him to put some money towards the wedding instead of spending it all across the bar wasn’t nagging, was it? And it wasn’t nagging to tell him off for raiding her savings bank. But, for the first time, she felt that Muriel wouldn’t listen to her counter-claims. A Crooke’s word to a fellow Crooke was gospel, it seemed. Even if one had gone so far as to slap one’s girlfriend in the process.

Dawn’s parents had been so easygoing, kind to each other, loving, respectful. Unlike some kids who went to sleep with a lullaby of their parents arguing, she had never heard them raise their voices to each other. She was sure they must have had their moments of disagreement, but she hadn’t witnessed them. She had had a sweet, gentle upbringing with a family who loved and laughed together and the pain that she felt at being left alone took her years to recover from, if she ever had. Then the Crookes had stormed into her life and like a dry sponge she had sucked them up like a pool of clear water. But their world was so very different from the one she had been used to. Screaming to get her point across had never been her way and sometimes mid-argument she didn’t feel like herself at all. She wondered if she would ever be able to adjust enough. She often hated that she had adjusted so much already.

Unlike Muriel though, she did accept that there were two sides to a story. Maybe she
was
coming across as a nag, even though she didn’t mean to. Maybe she did need to cut Calum some slack. The more she nagged, the more she would drive him away, maybe to his waiting munter of an ex. She didn’t want to fall out with Muriel on the point, so she conceded it for the sake of their continued harmony and said, ‘You’re probably right, Mu, I do nag a bit.’

‘Get yourself back home,’ said Muriel. ‘Go and make it up with him. You’re getting married in a few weeks. He’s a good lad, Calum. He just needs a bit of love and support, not someone on his back all the time and moaning about him going out. If you want a caged animal, love, buy a hamster.’

Calum was Muriel’s little blue-eyed boy. He could do no wrong. Dawn would do well to remember that.

A few determined holiday-makers in cagoules were walking on the beach the next day, their umbrellas blowing inside-out; a full aerobic session’s worth of wrestling with them followed, turning them into the wind to reform them into umbrella shapes. Grace decided to throttle back her rising temper and play Gordon’s game. One, because she was too tired to resist him and two, because then she could at least say she had tried to like blustery, boring Blegthorpe but, surprisingly enough, had failed dismally.

So, while she should have been sharing tea and scones in the lovely Maltstone Garden Centre café with her son and the person he was keen for her to meet, she was taking refuge from a force eighteen gale in a basic, no frills dump, eating a sandwich made from tasteless cheese, cheap white bread, spread with even cheaper margarine and drinking tea from a mug that had a big chip knocked out of the rim. Gordon was tucking into a greasy fish the size of a small whale.

‘Can’t beat good old seaside fare,’ he said, hooking a fishbone out from in between his teeth. The café sign outside was blown into the window with a bang. ‘By, that’s a hell of a seabreeze,’ he chortled.

‘What time do you have to be at that caravan park?’ asked Grace. She took a sip of tea and hoped Paul had got her message and that he didn’t think anything was wrong because she hadn’t turned up to meet him.

‘Half an hour,’ said Gordon, checking his watch. ‘I’ve just time for a pudding. Want anything?’

I want to scream
, thought Grace, but she answered tartly: ‘No thanks. I’ll pass.’

After he had eaten a monster-sized portion of treacle sponge and custard, they braved outside to find the wind had dropped and the sun was playing peek-a-boo behind very grumpy-looking clouds.

‘This will be bonny in the summer,’ said Gordon, zapping the car open. He whistled an annoying loop of ‘Oh I do like to be beside the seaside’ all the way to
Bayview
Caravan Site, three miles down the coast road.

They called in at the caravan reception office and a lady with a too-small suit straining over a very generous apple-shaped figure welcomed them warmly and led them over to caravan number one after a chirpy bit of sales banter. It had flower pots outside containing plastic plants and a staged barbecue next to the steps. Inside, Grace had to admit it was impressive. Twice as big as the one she had spent two uncomfortable nights in. Four rooms, three with double beds and built-in wardrobes, and a bathroom that a cat could have looked forward to a fair swinging in. It was very nice, just not her sort of thing at all. She was sick of camping and caravanning holidays, the only sort of ‘breaks’ Gordon acknowledged. She wanted a change, she wanted holidays where someone else was making her meals for her and there was guaranteed sunshine. She wanted to spend a week or two in a place where she could truly unwind instead of merely transferring domestic chores from one destination to another. Gordon might have had the chance to relax on the holidays, because he never lifted a finger while Grace cooked, cleaned, washed up and made the beds.
Women’s work.

‘This is our new model, the “Monte Carlo”,’ said Small-Suit. ‘Twenty thousand pounds, but if you buy it this weekend we have a special offer of eighteen.’

I’ll get my cheque book immediately
, thought Grace sarcastically. How many weeks in Sorrento wandering along the paradise of streets would eighteen thousand pounds buy? She watched Gordon’s shoulders flinch at the price. He knew how much the caravans were because he’d done his homework. Said aloud though, it sounded scary to a man who had never flashed his cash about freely.

‘I don’t think we’d need as much space as this,’ said Gordon. ‘Can you show us something else?’

‘Certainly,’ said Small-Suit. She had gauged now that this couple weren’t going to be the biggest spenders and showed them the ‘Cannes’. It had had one lady owner for the last five years.
A colour-blind one at that
, thought Grace, judging by the ghastly mix of orange soft furnishings. It was like being inside a giant rotting mango.

‘Twelve thousand, three hundred pounds for a quick sale, this one,’ said Small-Suit. ‘It’s a six berth, one of those being a double. But it does boast a separate dining area.’

The shower room was generously proportioned and Gordon obviously hoped Grace would be impressed by the galley kitchen – her future domain. She could see his brain working behind his glittering eyes, imagining them there in tropical sunshine British summers, Grace happily baking apple pies while entertaining the children and feeding the new baby and loading the washing machine and sweeping the floor with a broom stuck up her bottom, while he read yet more seed catalogues and waved amicably over to the neighbours.

‘I think we’ll be saying yes to this one,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s got a lovely feel to it.’

‘Gordon!’ said Grace crossly. ‘Excuse me, could I just have a word?’

She pulled Gordon’s sleeve, leading him into the corner, and Small-Suit melted into the background to allow them to discuss.

‘It’s a lot of money, Gordon,’ said Grace.

‘You’ll be getting a lump sum soon, I’m sure of it,’ said Gordon.

‘You can’t rely on that,’ said Grace.

‘Well, OK then, we can still afford it from the savings. No pockets in shrouds, Grace. It’s a good price and we’re having it.’

What a time for him to suddenly become extravagant
, thought Grace. She wanted to scream at him that there was no way she would spend whole summers in Blegthorpe. No way would she be dragged from a set of pots and pans that needed cleaning in Barnsley out to the coast to do more of the same, but she knew the fight was lost before it started. Gordon didn’t lose arguments, instead he wore his opponent down with persistence and she was too tired to fight back after a second night of rubbish sleep. She felt trapped, imprisoned by Gordon’s will more than ever since Paul had fallen out with his father.

When Gordon barred Paul from the house, there had been a change in how she saw her life, as if, for the first time, a big light had been shone onto it. She had realized then that there was no parity in her marriage. Gordon mowed the lawn, mended things and took care of the money; she cooked and cleaned and saw to the children but, where he expected total respect for his male role, hers was taken for granted as ‘what women did’. Her opinion did not matter.
She
did not matter. Gordon was a dictator, not a democrat.

Grace watched helplessly as he opened his cheque book and wrote out the 10 per cent deposit. He was smiling while his pen moved. ‘Chirpy’ wasn’t a word Grace would ever have associated with her husband. It was weird to see him so elated, as if someone else was inhabiting his body but the fit wasn’t quite right.

They spent that night in the ‘Robin Hood Club’, listening to a mediocre singing duet, ‘Paradise’, accompanied by resident organist, ‘Trevor Starr’, who was wearing a suit so glittery that it could have come from one of Liberace’s car boot sales. Then Blegthorpe’s own Celine Dion, ‘Lynn Laverne’, took the stage and warbled out some power ballads. Then there was a break for bingo. Then Lynn Laverne came back on with a costume change and Gordon ordered scampi with chips and side salad for two while LL shattered some more glasses. Gordon picked up a couple of die-hard caravanners at the bar who came over to join them. They enthused over sea-air and camping life and invited Gordon and Grace over for morning coffee and to look over their brand new de-luxe Rolls Royce of Caravans, the ‘Monaco’. Grace tried to smile but inside she was screaming. Gordon Beamish, however, had come home.

Ben had left a huge chocolate egg for Ray in the fireplace late Saturday night so she would find it on Easter Sunday morning. He’d had it iced at Thornton’s with her name on it and three kisses. He had made pink potato prints of bunny’s feet across the tiles the previous night whilst Ray was sleeping.

‘Hey Ben, look, the Easter Bunny left me an egg!’ said Ray, waking him up by jumping on him.

‘Well, I hope you’re going to share it with your husband,’ he smiled.

‘You might have your own,’ said Ray. ‘He might have left yours in the kitchen, for instance.’

‘Oh, might he?’ said Ben. He leaped out of bed and ran like a child to the kitchen where he found a big nest made out of brown cardboard. It was full of mini eggs and cream eggs and a big chocolate mama chicken sitting on them all.

‘You daft lass,’ he said affectionately, giving Ray a big kiss on her head. He loved her for these sweet, considerate things she did and was careful to make sure he afforded her the same courtesies. After all, they were in control now. Big and grown-up. They could make all the lovely things happen that never happened when they were kids.

Dawn and Calum had made up, after she had apologized for nagging and watched him go out with his mates on both Friday and Saturday night without questioning him, and she buttoned her lip when she heard him come in at after two on Easter Sunday morning. He rewarded her with an early morning perfunctory bonk and an eventual ‘sorry that he had eaten the surprise egg’.

Then they went over to Muriel and Ronnie’s for lunch. All the family were there, squeezed around a big table like the Waltons. Like the sort of family she had always dreamed of belonging to, and now she was about to – legally. She was squashed in between his younger sister, Demi, and his older sister, Denise. Denise, Demi and Dawn – even the alliteration of their names made her feel like one of theirs.

‘Got some good news for you two,’ announced Muriel. ‘Bette across the road is going to make the bridesmaids’ frocks. That’ll save you an arm and a leg.’

‘Oh!’ said Dawn, trying to muster up a diplomatic refusal. ‘Well, actually I’ve seen some lovely ones in Laura Ashley—’

‘Laura Ashley!’ scoffed Demi. ‘They’ll be poncey.’

‘No, not at all, they’re lovely and—’

‘Bette will make anything at a fraction of shop prices. You just tell her what you want and she’ll sort it. She’s a brilliant sewer.’

‘Oh well, thank you,’ gulped Dawn. Mu had already decided that Bette was doing the dresses and she felt ungrateful turning her down. And if Bette was so brilliant, she could make the same ones that she had seen in Laura Ashley.

‘Oh, and another bit of good news. Your Auntie Charlotte in the home is giving you a cheque for a thousand quid. You’ll have to go and see her to get it though.’

There was a round of wolf-whistles from everyone except Calum who said, ‘Fucking hell.’

Muriel gave him a crack with the spatula that she was using to apportion her meat and potato pie.

‘Who’s Auntie Charlotte?’ asked Dawn.

‘Well, it’s my auntie really,’ said Muriel. ‘Our Calum’s middle name is William; I named him that after her husband. He was very high up in the pit, Uncle William.’ She rubbed her finger and thumb together to indicate that Uncle William and Auntie Charlotte certainly weren’t without a bob or two. ‘Anyway, he’s dead and she’s got no kids. I tell you, it was a very good move calling him Calum William. I thought it might come in handy one day and seems I was right. Ever such a nice man he was, my Uncle William.’

‘You’re just like him then, aren’t you, Cal? Ever such a nice man?’ said Demi across the table to her brother. ‘I heard you thumped Dawn.’

‘Chuffing hell, you lot know more about my life than I do!’

‘You didn’t thump her, did you? What for, you rotten git?’ said Denise, screwing up her face with disgust.

‘Bloody nagging me, that’s what for,’ said Calum, taking a big slurp from his can of lager. ‘Anyway, it weren’t a thump. She were hysterical. I hit her for medical reasons!’ He smirked at his own wit.