Just For the Summer (29 page)

‘What a wicked waste,' said Celia, tight-lipped.

But no-one was watching the fireworks any more, the flames of the bonfire lit up something much more
interesting. Against the dead elm by the car park, just where the serious dark began and the clubhouse lights ended, a pair of humping buttocks, bright white where the sun hadn't tanned, could be seen. It crossed Clare's mind that Andrew, for it was he, looked rather like a woodpecker drilling into a duvet. Oblivious to the audience, to the gathering hilarity and applause, Beryl from the pub was leaning back ecstatically against the tree, a pint of Cornish ale slopping dangerously in one hand and her purple knickers in the other. Celia and Archie watched in a shock of slow recognition as their only son, trousers round his ankles and head smothered in the folds of Beryl's ample and comforting breasts, finished what he had set out to do six weeks ago. He wasn't about to stop now. He couldn't.

IN THE MORNING
the air smelled of left-over bonfire, of smoke and dewy leaf mould. Clare, up early, could see chill clouds of breath when she went out for a last look out along the creek and out into the misted harbour.

The hippy on the raft had gone, off to the Azores to pickup a crewing job on a yacht to the Caribbean for the winter, heading south like a migrating swallow. Clare wondered where he had parked the raft, or if he dismantled it and built a new one each summer, like a new nest. You had to be alone to live life as such an insecure adventure, she thought.

‘I can smell autumn,' Miranda said, coming to stand next to Clare by the creek wall, and sniffing at the air like a cat.

Clare put an arm round her thin shoulders. Miranda, at last did not flinch, or flounce off into the house. I've got her back again, however temporarily, thought Clare,
glad now that Liz had saved her from a close intrusion into Miranda's diary, glad about the torn-out pages, and knowing that she would never be tempted to pry like that again.

‘You'll catch your death in that thin kimono, let's go in,' she said.

The sounds of furious cleaning could be heard very early in Celia and Archie's cottage. The sink was scoured, the fridge emptied and scrubbed, the terrace hosed down. There were soda crystals down the drains, bleach down the loo. Archie kept well out of Celia's way, doing things with the dinghy, the trailer and the car. He had already made one mistake, the night before, of admitting with a smirk that he had found the whole episode rather amusing. He couldn't help grinning to himself, even now, alone in the garage at the thought of Beryl and Andrew. Fancy the boy having that much nerve.

Celia, in a state of profound and unrelenting shock, had said nothing more than ‘humiliation'. If she could have scrubbed Andrew's soul that morning, disinfected it along with the kitchen floor, she would surely have done so.

In the car she sat silent throughout the long drive, longing and longing for the safety of Surrey.

Andrew had less luggage to take home than he had brought with him. He wished he could be around to see the dustmen's faces when they emptied the bins at
the Parrot. Before the rest of the village was awake he had taken his collection of pornography, gloves, magazines, notebooks and all and dumped them, unwrapped and exposed in one of the restaurant bins. Probably, he thought, the one from which he had taken the empty wine bottles all those weeks ago, before the non-seduction of Jessica. He didn't need any of that stuff any more.

In the back of the Rover he watched contentedly as Devon went by, smiled quietly to himself and slotted a tape of Mozart opera into the Walkman.

Eliot unplugged the word processor, packed the disks ready for use in London and wished his deadline was a couple of months later. It might be an idea to take Liz somewhere hot, so she could keep herself occupied doing nothing in comfort while he finished the book. He thought Jamaica might appeal to her, he'd mention it in the sleeper on the way home. It would put her in an excellent mood, and he liked sex in trains, so very James Bond.

Liz did not need to empty her fridge and clean her house, that was what Jeannie did. There wasn't much to pack either, the secretary had taken most of it. So with Milo, Jessica and the dog despatched by taxi to the airport, and the twins more than ready for a good night's sleep, Liz boarded the sleeper at Penzance in her best knickers and an accommodating frame of mind. If she was nice
to Eliot, he might be persuaded to take her somewhere hot, then she could recover from the summer.

Clare drove up the A38 past Plymouth, thinking about the family's future.

‘What we really need is somewhere with a few outbuildings,' she said to Jack.

‘A studio each, you mean, so we can work properly?' ‘Partly that, though what I really had in mind was something like stables that we could convert into holiday cottages, rent them out,' she smiled broadly. ‘There'll always be people like us, wanting a brief taste of country life.'

‘Poacher turned gamekeeper!' Jack laughed. ‘We could do painting holidays too, where people pay and I teach them and accommodation is included. What do you think Miranda? How much do you mind about where you finish your schooling?'

But Miranda wasn't listening. She was playing a noisy fortune-telling card game with Harriet on the back seat, giggling like a tickled child.

A little later when the game finished she looked up and gazed out of the window. A spiritual county, Devon, full of mysteries, it would do very well. She settled back into her seat, making a start on her A-level reading list, with James Joyce. The syllabus would probably be much the same wherever they decided to live.

As Miranda read she thanked whatever gods there
might be out on the Devon hills that when she started to feel sick it would be entirely due to the fact that she was reading in the car.

As the car filled up with sweet papers and crisp packets, Dartmoor was looming temptingly ahead and Clare took a turning off the main road.

‘Can you find Totnes on the map for me please Jack,' Clare said, smiling. ‘I think that's about halfway.'

‘Are we going to find somewhere for lunch?' Amy, ever-hungry, asked.

‘No, love,' said Jack, grinning at her happily, ‘We're going to find somewhere to live.'

Jeannie took a large cardboard box up to Eliot's house. You needed one that big, for the contents of their fridge and larder. It was lunchtime. She rooted round the cupboards and made herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. Then she wandered into the sitting room and went and sat with her feet up on Liz's cream sofa. She didn't bother to take off her shoes. Who was to know? Jeannie picked up the remote control, switched on the vast television and settled back on the silk cushions to watch
Neighbours
.

They've all gone home, she thought. No question, this is always the very best day of the year.

THE END

Catch up with these characters in Judy Astley's latest novel,

IN THE SUMMERTIME

now out in paperback

In the Summertime

Judy Astley

I
T'S TWENTY YEARS
since Miranda, then sixteen, holidayed in Cornwall and her life changed forever. Now she's back again – with her mother Clare and the ashes of her stepfather Jack, whose wish was to be scattered on the sea overlooked by their one-time holiday home.

The picturesque cove seems just the same as ever, but the people are different – more smart incomers, fewer locals, more luxury yachts in the harbour. But Miranda and Clare both find some strangely familiar faces, and revisit the emotions they both thought had disappeared.

‘Ideal summer reading'

C
HOICE

Judy Astley
became the author of witty, contemporary novels after several years as a dressmaker, illustrator, painter and parent.
Just for the Summer
is her first novel. She has two daughters and lives in London and Cornwall.

For more information on Judy Astley and her books, visit her website at
www.judyastley.com

PLEASANT VICES

SEVEN FOR A SECRET

MUDDY WATERS

EVERY GOOD GIRL

THE RIGHT THING

EXCESS BAGGAGE

NO PLACE FOR A MAN

UNCHAINED MELANIE

AWAY FROM IT ALL

SIZE MATTERS

ALL INCLUSIVE

BLOWING IT

LAYING THE GHOST

OTHER PEOPLE'S HUSBANDS

THE LOOK OF LOVE

I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY

IN THE SUMMERTIME

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

www.transworldbooks.co.uk

Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
global.penguinrandomhouse.com

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Black Swan
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Black Swan edition reissued 2015
Copyright © Judy Astley 1994

Judy Astley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446487471
ISBN 9780552995641

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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