Read Just For the Summer Online
Authors: Judy Astley
âYou can get the paints mixed at that place in Truro,' he said. âOr do you want to order it from London?'
âNo, Truro will do,' Clare said, smiling at the view of the creek, âI don't want any of that arty farty precious stuff, just plain old easy-peasy vinyl matt.'
In a much-improved mood, she climbed out of bed
and wandered downstairs to be a good mother, prepare a nourishing breakfast for her children and ban them from the creek wall.
Andrew was lying in his small bed, thinking about Jessica. In fantasy his hand slowly stroked her thigh, pushing her dress up past the magical line where her tan met pale creamy skin. Andrew watched her pleasured smile, her small teeth biting her bottom lip ⦠then he sat up and looked around the room. Where were they going to do all this? It couldn't possibly be here, it was a small boy's room. He still had curtains with aeroplane patterns on them. There was a collection of old teddies and pandas, balsa wood planes hung on dusty string from the ceiling. There was nothing to indicate the personality of a Playboy Man, not even a token poster of Kim Basinger. On the wall instead there was a collection of souvenir youth hostel badges, framed by himself, inexpertly, from a kit, photos of himself fishing with his father, sailing trophies. It was a room full of hobbies. Also it was too light, for Celia believed in putting the highest possible wattage of light bulb into any lamp, in case of eye strain.
Andrew wondered about the chances of buying an orange light bulb in the village store. There was not much hope. And anyway he hadn't even asked her yet. He got out of bed and opened the window, suspecting that the room had the aroma of old sock
and airfix glue. Not exactly seductive. And then there were the sheets, he'd have to change them and then Celia would wonder why. It was so complicated. And the bed was so small, so narrow. How could he and Jessica roll around in ecstasy when they were in danger of crashing to the floor? If only he had a huge sheepskin rug.
What about his parents' bed? Andrew rushed into their room to look. It was so ⦠parental. He might get instant impotence because of the sheer sacrilege. Jessica would know what to do, Andrew decided. Lost in his fantasy he thought he would let her seduce him on the sofa. She must have done it hundreds of times.
But now it was 8.30 in the morning and he hadn't even asked her. He slopped down to the kitchen in his wool checked dressing gown, which was getting too short. He wished he was on a tropical terrace eating muesli, wearing one of those bright towelling robes advertised in special offers in colour supplements. He wondered if Celia would buy him one. Men wearing them looked virile and exercised, photographed with rowing machines and blonde clean wives.
Andrew was munching cornflakes outside the back door when the phone rang. It was Milo.
âCan I come out with you later for a sail on your Laser?' Milo asked.
Andrew said he could, and knowing that the Gods in charge of teenage boys send opportunities like this only very rarely, he asked Milo if Jessica was there, could he speak to her.
He'd done it. He couldn't believe it. She said she'd love to come. Andrew could not finish the cornflakes. He did excited little dances in the kitchen, chewed his fingers, giggled like a small child. He rushed upstairs, and checked he'd got plenty of shampoo, aftershave, deodorant, mouthwash to disinfect away any smell of the human about himself, rushed back downstairs to clear up the kitchen and then raced back upstairs, too aroused to wait thirty-six hours for Jessica. Locking himself in the bathroom, (well you never knew) he very quickly and cheerfully ruined one of his mother's best silk Hermes scarves.
âWhy did he ask to speak to me?' Jessica wondered to Milo. âHe could just as easily have asked you, then I wouldn't have had to trail up from the pool.'
âWhy? What did he want?'
âHe asked me to go round to his cottage tonight. Don't forget his parents are away, he must be planning a party and probably wants me to invite the others. He's a bit shy.'
âGood,' said Milo, âI'll get some drinks from the Mariners. What time does he want us?'
âHe said about eight. He probably thought you'd
forget if he asked you. His sort of family usually do expect women to do the organizing. How many shall we invite?'
âOh everyone we can think of, there's plenty of room and we can overflow into the garden.'
âDo you think Celia and Archie know about it? It doesn't seem very likely somehow,' Jessica said.
âHe must be breaking the parental bonds at last. We must make sure he has a good time.'
Milo strolled idly into the village towards the boatyard to invite everyone he could find to the party that Andrew didn't know he was having. He ambled along slowly, calculating in his head how much beer he would need to order from the Mariners and wondering how many bar staff there were as Jessica had told him to invite them all. She had said, âThere's nothing worse than a party with not enough people, it's even more embarrassing than not enough drink.'
Milo found Steve sitting on the harbour steps waiting for hire-boat customers and sketching the gulls as they dive-bombed the beach, scavenging after crisps and bits of mouldy sandwich. The summer boatyard workers had lost their city pallor and Milo noticed a tanned boy with white-blond hair pulling a dinghy into its place on the pontoon, reminding him of Oliver at school. Milo was staring absent-mindedly, reminiscing fondly, and the boy noticed, smiling at him and coming towards him up the steps.
Milo started gabbling nervously to Steve about boats, anxious that the boy had read his thoughts, but instead as he approached he just said, 'Hello, I met your sister on the beach just now and she invited me to a party.' The boy was grinning cheerfully. 'Couldn't believe my luck, sort of thing you dream about! Is she with anyone?'
âWell she's with us, with the family,' Milo said, not understanding.
âNo, I mean is she going out with anyone around here, you know?'
âEr, no, I don't think so,' Milo said, rather disappointed that a potential object of his own affection should be interested only in his little sister.
âWell maybe I'll get lucky then,' the boy said, with a conspiratorial smile.
âYes, who knows?' Milo said, making an effort, joining in but thinking, God, is this Men's Talk? About his sister? He thought briefly of all those things he didn't want to do to girls, the things that other boys did want to do. Girls were sticky, with damp, hidden unknown places. He didn't want to be in them. He didn't want to think of anyone being in Jessica's either.
Andrew searched through the dusty cupboard under the stairs, peering into the dark for his father's special occasion wine rack, full of investment bottles, collectors' items. He groped past the sailing equipment, the boots
and life jackets and started pulling out bottles, looking for one with an impressive label. He thought he'd better take two, just to be certain to get Jessica and himself nicely relaxed. One bottle might seem rather mean, and he didn't want the embarrassment of having to rootle around in this cupboard with Jessica watching from the sofa. He put a couple of the priceless bottles into the fridge to chill and wondered how he would ever be able to afford to replace them. He knew how much they were worth because his father was always reading Hugh Johnson's wine guide out loud over dinner, and Andrew, from his fourteenth birthday had to sample the wines with due respect and reverence. Steallng wine, Andrew thought, was probably the greatest sin he could commit in this family, probably worse than fornicating in the parental bed.
Clare, walking in through the open kitchen door, caught sight of the bottles before Andrew got the fridge door shut and grinned at him:
âHaving a party?' she said in a matey sort of way, pointing to the fridge.
Andrew leaned on the fridge door, protectively and felt a blush seeping through his body. He shifted his feet about nervously.
âEr, just someone might be sort of coming round later.'
âOh good,' Clare said breezily. âI was going to invite you round to supper again, but if you've got other plans â¦'
She waited, smiled and leaned comfortably against one of Celia's polished oak dining chairs, ready to be told what Andrew was up to. But Andrew didn't know this game, because he hadn't played it before. What was supposed to happen was that he should make Clare a cup of coffee, and while occupied with cups and milk and sugar and spoons, he should be saying things like, âWell the thing is, all I can make is mackerel pate and I think it might be a bit iffy for the breath, so what else can I do? And do you think she'll mind frozen pizza?' That had been the sort of thing Miranda and her friends, gathered cheerily round the kitchen table in London used to ask her. She felt a sudden nostalgia for Miranda's pre-recluse days. All that advice and reassurance she had been needed for, the confidence she had always tried to inspire that she would give fair comment without damning judgement. She'd always tried hard to be on their side. How carefully she'd dealt with Miranda and her friends and their anxious questions, like âMy mum thinks thigh boots are really tarty, but don't you think they look OK if you've got the legs?'
How tactfully she'd been able to point out that thigh boots severely and boringly limited the range of clothes you could wear with them, instead of telling the whole truth which was that anyone of 5â² 2â³ with legs like a sparrow would look horribly as if they were trying on their dad's fishing waders.
âOh well, I'll leave you to it,' Clare said to the uncommunicative Andrew. âBut if you need any help with food or anything, just pop round.'
Jack had been very lucky, getting tickets for the Minack theatre that night without having to go and queue for them.
He'd been in the post office that morning collecting his
Independent
when he'd heard one of the elderly bungalow-dwellers from up the hill whispering loudly to Jeannie that he couldn't face the thought of sitting through three hours of Shakespeare on cold stone, because of his Little Problem. Not as fascinated as Clare would have been to find out whether the Problem was piles or prostate, Jack had nevertheless butted in shamelessly and offered to buy the tickets.
The play was
The Tempest
. Clare, padding around her bedroom and looking for something suitable to wear, was still, that evening, touched at how hesitant Jack had been about telling her which play it was. It was almost as if, she thought, he imagined she wouldn't want to be reminded of that time, studying the play for A-level, when she had first been pregnant with Miranda.
âIf I hadn't loved the play so much, I wouldn't have called her Miranda!' she said to him, laughing. âOf course I don't mind seeing it. You rarely saw the plays back in those days, you just read them, it'll be lovely.'
It would soon be time. Andrew stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking for new spots and wondering whether to risk aftershave. His father had left some in the bathroom cupboard, but when Andrew sniffed at it he was reminded of golf clubs and Sunday lunch, rather than the necessary macho sport and passion.
That afternoon he had had a ritual disposing of the stolen pair of knickers. They no longer held any tantalizing aroma of what he imagined was musky woman, but smelt of musty dried semen and grubby-handed boy. Appalled almost to impotence at the idea of them being in the house at the same time as Jessica and therefore with the potential for being found, he had kissed them goodbye, wrapped them reverentially in a freezer bag and hidden them deep in the dustbin under the Sunday papers.
He went downstairs and got some candles out of the kitchen drawer. This, he had decided was the way to solve the lighting problem, and he had taken four empty wine bottles from the bins behind the Parrot restaurant that afternoon, praying that no-one would see him. The candles were not impressive, just the dumpy household type of white ones that everyone in the village kept for power cuts. There should have been slender pink ones in silver holders, scented if possible. Another problem was when to light them. Before Jessica arrived? It would still be light. Perhaps later as it grew dark he could lean
casually across her and light them in mid-sentence as if he did it every night. A Dunhill lighter would be more suitably colour-supplement, but he'd have to make do with a box of Swan Vestas from the barbecue kit under the sink. Andrew was just forcing the last candle into its bottle when Milo arrived.
'I thought I'd come early,' he said, âand deliver this lot for you.'
Milo was piling six-packs of beer and wine-boxes on to the kitchen table. âDo you think there's enough?' he said. âI asked everyone to bring a bottle too.'
âEnough?' said Andrew, perplexed for a moment, but then the tangled rope of confusion inside his brain began to straighten into a realization that, well, surely he couldn't have expected to be that lucky after all. He never was.
âFor the party,' Milo was saying. âOh and I wouldn't light candles if I were you, they're bound to get knocked over. I don't suppose Celia would thank you for burning the house down.'
Taking over, Milo collected the candles and wine bottles and disposed of them in the kitchen. Andrew was still standing in the doorway slowly absorbing the fact that he was about to have a party that his parents would never forgive him for, that the house was to be taken over and probably destroyed by a large number of people that he didn't really know, and that he was, saddest of all, not to have Jessica to himself for even
an hour, not even to talk to. Also he must move all evidence of his experimental activities before a curious and drunken guest opened the box in his wardrobe and said âHey everybody, look what I've found!'
Milo was rearranging furniture with the confidence of one who had done it many times before, saying, âI didn't know how many people you'd invited, so we asked the boatyard lot and the people from the Mariners and Jessica saw most of the sailing club crowd this morning, so I suppose we've asked about sixty. What about you?'