Bobby's Girl (10 page)

‘What do you know about Rich's skill between the sheets?'

‘I can tell by looking at him he's lacking in that department.'

‘No he isn't.'

‘How can you say that when you've only slept with him? You've no one to compare him with,' Kate argued logically. ‘I've been worried about you for years.'

‘Me? Why?'

‘Since the age of thirteen you've acted the part of handmaiden to Rich. Gone to the parties he wanted you to go to. Seen the films he wanted you to see—'

‘As if there's an enormous choice of things to do in Ponty,' she interrupted.

‘Face it; you came here because it was the only college to offer him a place with his low-grade A levels. You could have gone to any college in the country.'

‘Apart from the fact that my parents wanted me to have qualifications to fall back on, I am my own person, Kate,' she insisted defensively.

‘You could be now you've dropped Rich.' Kate looked into her eyes. ‘Happy now you're single?'

‘Definitely.'

‘Scared?'

‘No.'

‘The truth?'

‘Just a little.'

‘We're about to have the time of our lives,' Kate declared. ‘America, here we come. We're footloose, fancy-free and out to have a good time. And, who knows, maybe you'll find another Bobby there.'

She didn't believe she'd find another boy like Bobby. But what chance did she have of tracking him down when all she knew was his first name and he was going to study for a masters in medieval history at one of the Oxford colleges next academic year? 

‘Hello? Pen? Anyone in?'

Jerked from the past, and resenting the interruption more than she would have believed possible, Penny closed the photograph album, rose from the floor and dusted herself down. She walked out on the landing and called down. ‘I'm upstairs. Be down in a minute. Make us coffee.'

‘Will do.'

Penny went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her face was smudged with dust. Her hair a mess. A quick wash and brush through later, she walked into the kitchen.

‘Hello, sweetheart.' Jack was sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. ‘I thought you'd need cheering up with Andy away. I'm packed, the car has a
full tank of petrol and I'm ready to carry you off to the West Country for a couple of days. There're vacancies in our favourite pub and I've bought a bag of mint creams for the journey. This is yours, by the way.'

She took the mug he handed her and leant against the worktop. ‘What about the farm?'

‘I've left it in the hands of capable minions.'

She looked at him dispassionately, as though she were seeing him for the first time. The wrong side of forty, his face was rugged, weather-beaten with the healthy glow and colour of a man who spends most of his days out of doors. His thick brown hair was greying at the temples, his face creased with laughter lines and his dark eyes shone with intelligence. Rich's elder brother had been her understanding and undemanding lover for over fifteen years.

He sensed her mood. ‘If you don't want to go, we can stay here.' When she failed to answer him, he said, ‘What's the matter?'

‘Why should something be the matter?'

‘Pen, I know you. I love you. I was hoping to marry you when Andy leaves for college.'

‘Jack—'

‘I sense an argument brewing. It can wait. Whatever's bothering you, can't. Something's wrong. Do you want to talk about it?'

She pulled the envelope she'd received that morning from her back pocket and handed it to him. He read it carefully. ‘Brosna Estate. Andy's father is Robert Brosna?
The
Robert Brosna? The recluse?' He stared at her in amazement.

‘I thought everyone would have guessed that he was Andy's father after the car crash. There was enough press coverage at the time.'

‘Everyone knew Robert Brosna was in the car, badly injured and not expected to live. No one could avoid knowing, given the headlines and TV bulletins. But you were a student. You'd all been to a party. There was nothing about any of you being romantically involved. And Robert Brosna's worth billions …'

The last thing she wanted to talk about was Brosna money, especially as it had all been left to Andy. ‘I spent the whole of the summer of '68 with Bobby Brosna. Did you think Andy was the result of a casual pickup? A
one-night
stand with a stranger?'

‘Knowing you, not for one minute.' He abandoned his coffee and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Then what?' she demanded.

‘I assumed Andy's father was a plausible bastard – given Andy's looks, a handsome plausible bastard – who'd spun you a story, got what he wanted and abandoned you both. But this,' he held the letter in the air, ‘wasn't written by a man who didn't want you.'

‘That's what my father said when I showed him the letter this morning.'

‘You have to take Andy to America, Pen. He has a right to know his father.'

‘Andy has all the family he needs, including enough father figures. Between my father, you, my brothers—'

‘That's not the same as knowing his biological father,' he broke in. ‘Heaven only knows, given my relationship with my own father, I've no personal experience to build
on but I've always thought that the bond between father and son should be something special.'

She couldn't bring herself to look at Jack. She'd lost count of the number of times he'd asked her to marry him over the last twelve years. She knew how much he longed for a family life and children of his own. So much so, she'd sent him away from her more than once. But somehow, he'd always returned and they invariably picked up where they'd left off. Living a life that wasn't anywhere near the family life he craved.

‘Jack, you've been Andy's father in all but name for the last thirteen years,' she argued.

‘No, I haven't, because you wouldn't let me,' he countered. ‘We've never lived under the same roof, never woken in the morning to share breakfast.'

‘You've called in here for breakfast dozens of times.'

‘That's not the same as living together twenty-four hours a day, Pen, and I'm not complaining. You made it clear from the outset of our relationship that Andy would always come first with you. I accepted that. Frankly, as you well know, I've accepted whatever you offered, and gladly. If you'd said you could only spare me one day a year I would have taken it, grateful for the crumbs of your time. But this isn't about us. It's about Andy. As the letter says, you've no right to keep him from his father and half his family.'

She went to the window. Clouds obscured the sun. The blue sky of early morning had turned grey.

‘And there's the money …'

‘The money's the problem, Jack. If you knew what
Brosna money had done to Andy's father, you wouldn't want Andy to have a cent of it.'

‘You have to tell Andy about it.'

‘I will,' she promised. ‘Just as soon as he's sat all his exams. And not a minute before.'

He finished his coffee. ‘If you need me, you know where to find me.'

‘I'm sorry, Jack. A trip would have been lovely, but …'

‘Not when you have thinking to do.'

She blocked his path and rested her head against his chest. ‘Thank you for being so considerate.'

‘I'm finding it harder and harder to play the nice guy, Pen.'

‘I know.' When she looked up at him her eyelashes glistened with teardrops. ‘I'm sorry.'

He kissed her. ‘If you need me, I'll be at home.' He opened the door and walked away without a backward glance.

After Jack left, Penny returned upstairs intending to pack away the things she'd brought down from the attic. But the photograph album was too seductive. She picked it up and, minutes later, returned to the floor. As she turned the pages the images came alive. Once recalled they were familiar again – most heart-rendingly so, bringing with them the sights, sounds and scents of the late Sixties. Was it her imagination or could she actually smell Aqua Manda – that long-discontinued perfume she and Kate had loved and used?

A group photograph taken outside Swansea College. Twenty-two students squashed in three rows in front of a
coach. Most, smug and smiling – presumably in response to the photographer's ‘cheese'.

Joe Hunt was in the centre of the back row, arms extended as if he was the patriarch of the clan assembled around him. Rich was there too, away from and to the side of the group, standing with Judy and the other students who'd gathered to say goodbye to those about to set off. Rich's arm was around Judy but he was looking in her direction.

She was next to Kate who was clutching her haggis to her chest. Penny recalled that Kate had spent the night with Joe in the flat he shared with three other boys. Living out and self-catering were privileges reserved for third-year male students, much to the female students' disgust. Kate had an on-off relationship with Joe. It had begun during Freshers' Week, which was possibly why Joe had given Kate advance notice of the trip.

Penny had never been sure who was using who. Joe made no secret of the fact that he was engaged to a girl in Cardiff College and he and Kate both occasionally went out with other people, yet they managed to remain friends and wouldn't tolerate anyone saying a bad word about the other.

The coach had been the first and easiest part of the journey to New York. The excitement had lasted as long as it took them to pick up the students from the other Swansea colleges. One of the girls from the art college was so overwhelmed by the prospect of trying to earn enough to live independently far from home that she succumbed to hysteria the moment she stepped on to the
bus. They drove to Stansted to the accompaniment of her sobs and the boys' rugby songs.

There were a few snaps of the airport. In 1968 Stansted could have doubled as a film set of a Battle of Britain airfield. The terminal was an aircraft hangar, the sole concession to ‘modern conveniences' the introduction of benches in the draughty metal-walled area set aside as a ‘waiting room'. After the two-hour check-in for international flights, there had been a three-hour delay which had stretched to four hours then five … and six …

When they finally saw their plane eight hours after arriving at the airport they discovered why their flight tickets had been so cheap. Joe referred to the plane as ‘a jet prop engine' which meant nothing to her or Kate. Other than they never wanted to see, hear or enter another plane as rickety, noisy or ancient again.

She, Kate and most of the students on board started vomiting five minutes after take-off and their heads were still immersed in sick bags when they landed in New York, a juddering, shuddering, mind-and-body-numbing twelve hours later.

Every time the boys sitting behind them lowered the trays in front of their seats, the backs of the seats she and Kate were sitting on were pushed forward at a forty-five degree angle. They hadn't been in the air ten minutes when the white-faced girl who was playing ‘air hostess' announced that the pilot thought there might be a problem and they would possibly have to land in Dublin.

They didn't – and there were no further threats of
landing until after they'd crossed the Atlantic. But if there'd been floating airfields in the ocean, she was certain the pilot would have been tempted because the threats resumed as soon as they were within striking distance of land. Newfoundland and Boston were mentioned, before the plane roughly and finally bumped down in New York.

She wasn't able to compare the airline view of skyscrapers with the one in
West Side Story
because she didn't dare look up from her sick bag. The only consolation was that after twelve hours of retching there was nothing left in her stomach to come up.

Trembling, knees buckling, she'd followed Kate off the plane. None of the students had been happy at being forced to pay in advance for two nights' accommodation as part of their ‘orientation and welcome to America', but all she wanted when she walked down the steps from the plane was a bed. If someone had wheeled one towards her she would have curled up on it there and then.

‘We've been in this queue for two years.'

Kate glanced at her watch. ‘Half an hour.'

‘It feels like two years. What's this?' She frowned at the sheet of paper Joe Hunt handed her.

‘I missed a form,' Joe passed her and walked down the line.

Penny read it. ‘I've given all this information ten times over.'

‘Make it eleven, or you won't be allowed out of the airport,' Joe advised.

She sat on the floor, straightened her duffel bag and used it to press on. She filled in the form and handed her biro and bag to Kate. Before Kate had finished writing they found themselves at the head of the queue. Their cards were stamped, their visas entered in their passport and the grim-faced clerk told them to ‘have a good day'.

‘Ladies,' she mouthed to Kate, pointing to the sign as she exited immigration. After washing her hands and face, repairing her lipstick and mascara and disentangling her hair as best she could, she was joined by Kate.

‘Joe said hurry up. The coaches are waiting.'

‘They can damn well wait. I'll never forgive Joe for that plane.'

‘We're here, aren't we? In America!' Kate smiled as the realisation dawned on her. ‘Come on, let's get our bags.'

Joe Hunt was waiting for them outside the coach.

‘You look healthier than anyone has a right to, considering we drove away from college over
twenty-four
hours go,' Penny upbraided him in disgust.

He grinned at her. ‘And you look as though you flew here from Swansea without a plane.'

‘I wish I had. Fresh air might have kept me from throwing up.'

‘I was going to suggest a shower before going out to paint New York as red as we can on our budget. But instead of a taxi, I think I should call an undertaker. You're crawling as if you're at death's door.'

‘If there's a door, I've walked through it. If I had the energy I'd slap you for looking so good. All I want is bed,' she yawned.

‘Where's your sense of adventure?' Joe teased.

‘I left it in a sick bag on the plane.' Penny climbed on to the bus.

‘It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Sleep now and it'll take you days to adjust to the time difference,' Joe warned.

‘That would be good advice if we were in a fit state to take it.' Kate slumped beside her.

Joe stood next to the driver, looked down the bus and began counting heads.

‘Can you get this bus to drop me off at the docks?' a third-year student from the art college asked.

‘Why?' Joe demanded.

‘To hell with orientation, getting to know America and mind-broadening experiences. In four months you're going to expect me to get back on that plane, if it hasn't crashed or rusted away.'

‘That plane was sound,' Joe insisted. ‘The airline wouldn't have allowed it to take off if it hadn't been.'

The student remained unconvinced. ‘I want to spend the next twenty or thirty years producing art, not swirling around as disconnected molecules in the Atlantic.'

Joe ignored him, checked the list pinned to his clipboard and nodded to the driver who started the engine.