A Summer of Secrets (6 page)

How right she’d been.

‘Self, self, self, that’s all you think about,’ Phyllis raged. ‘It was selfishness that killed your father. And it’ll be the same selfishness that finishes me off.’

This rant having been regurgitated with depressing regularity over the last thirty years, Jenny’s usual response of biting her tongue and saying nothing seemed particularly cowardly today. And today she was in no mood for cowardice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,’ she batted back. ‘All I’ve done is buy cakes instead of cookies. I thought, rather idiotically it would appear, that you might fancy a change.’

‘A change?’ barked Phyllis. ‘You know fine well I can’t abide change. Lemon limoncello cupcakes, I ask you. What are they supposed to be when they’re at home?’

‘Why don’t you try them and see.’

‘Because I don’t want to, that’s why. There was nothing wrong with those cookies.’

Jenny shook her head in exasperation. ‘If you recall, it took me a year to persuade you to try the cookies, you not wanting anything other than Battenburg at the time.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Battenburg.’

Jenny sighed, her patience waning. ‘There isn’t. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t equally nice things out there. But if you’re not prepared to try anything new, you’ll never know. Now …’ she continued, shoving the vase into the middle of the table. ‘It’s the History Society meeting tonight, so I’m going to get ready.’ And with another waltzing manoeuvre, she made to leave the room.

‘History Society, indeed,’ muttered Phyllis, naturally having the last word. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’

Jenny had to admit – although obviously not to her mother – that she sometimes didn’t know why she bothered with the History Society, either – apart from the fact that it allowed her an evening out once a month. In fact, to call the gathering a “society” was erring towards the ambitious. The group consisted of Derek Carter, the vicar; Judith Minter, the librarian; Mona Hargreaves, a plump mother of six; Edward Fowler, a retired headmaster; and Eleanor Fowler, Edward’s wife and a retired midwife.

The meeting venue was the church hall. All other members walking there, Jenny was surprised to find a car outside – a brand-new, shiny, powder-blue Jaguar she didn’t recognise. She parked behind it then scurried inside, trying not to wince at the particularly strong stench of sweaty plimsolls that flooded her nostrils the moment she stepped over the threshold.

The group was already seated around the two folding tables they always pushed together, Edward presiding in his role as president, everyone else in their usual places. Except that Jenny’s usual place was already occupied – by a handsome man in, she estimated, his mid-fifties, wearing a gleaming white shirt, yellow silk tie, and what looked like a very expensive navy-blue wool suit.

‘Jenny, this is Len Ratner,’ announced Edward. ‘He’s just moved into the neighbouring village and would like to join the Society.’

After all Jenny’s wrong-footing of others that afternoon, the shoe now lodged well and truly on the other foot. ‘Oh,’ she muttered, aware the entire group, including the handsome new marecruit, were gazing at her expectantly. ‘Well, er, welcome, Mr Ratner.’

The man’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, causing a warm flush to steal over Jenny’s cheeks. ‘Len, please,’ he said.

Jenny pulled her cream – slightly bobbly – cardigan a shade tighter around the area her waist had once occupied, wishing she’d worn something smarter than it and the black trousers she’d purchased in the M&S sale two years ago, which she could still just about squeeze into. ‘It’s, um, always nice to have new members,’ she blustered, having no idea how she could possibly know that, given that Judith, their last new member, had joined fifteen years ago when she’d reduced her hours at the library.

‘Jenny works at the village school and is our resident Buttersley expert,’ Edward gushed. ‘Knows everyone in the village. And everything about it.’

Jenny shuffled her feet, clad in sensible grey-suede loafers. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that –’

‘Anything you want to know about Buttersley, just ask Jenny,’ cut in Mona.

The newcomer fixed Jenny with a disconcerting gaze. ‘I might just do that,’ he replied, as Jenny’s face flushed the same colour as the crysanths she’d bought earlier.

Chapter Five

Rich couldn’t wait to escape the house that morning. Alison had worked herself into a lather about Bethany’s costume for yet another of the school’s – far-too-frequent, in Rich’s opinion – dressing-up days. “Something from the garden” this time. Did Rich have any ideas?

No, he bloody didn’t. At least not, apparently, any decent ones. His suggestions of a worm, cabbage or shed had been instantly rejected by the household’s female contingent.

‘I suppose I’ll have to think of something, as usual,’ Alison huffed.

Rich didn’t know why she huffed. Alison’s abundant creative streak never ceased to amaze him. When all the other kids turned up as Robin Hood or Harry Potter for World Book Day, Alison dressed Bethany as an encyclopaedia – complete with pull-out reference section. And when they failed to find any decent modern art to brighten the walls of their new Buttersley home, Alison, despite never having previously brandished a paintbrush, effortlessly produced an impressive set of abstracts.

In fact, Rich couldn’t think of anything Alison didn’t excel at. Despite his pride in his wife, though, her unfailing competence sometimes made him feel more than a little inadequate. Perhaps that was why, he pondered, as he drove his BMW along the country lanes to work, he hadn’t yet mentioned Candi to her. To do so would be admitting he’d cocked up. Literally! Got a transient teenage girlfriend he hadn’t even liked that much up the duff. And his wavering confidence was not helped by Bernice’s evidently low opinion of him. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him about the pregnancy; hadn’t wanted him to play any part in their child’s life, preferring to bring up Candi alone than accept any support he might have offered.

Of course, Rich knew that any passive observer would immediately categorise him as the archetypal wide boy: a ducker-and-diver; a stereotypical salesman. Precisely the image he set out to portray many years ago. And it had worked. Whatever product he’d been tasked with, he’d never once failed to exceed his targets; never once witnessed his name anything other than top of the leader board; never settled for anything other than first prize in incentive competitions. But Rich’s true personality lay a million miles from the cocky salesman. Contrary to the confident persona that greeted the world every day, Rich never felt good enough, always imagining he should be doing something better with his life, something with more credibility, more class. Something that would make his parents proud …

With only thirteen months between Rich and his older sister, Hilary, the two of them had been close as children. Apart from the rare, inescapable sibling spat over something ridiculously trivial, on the whole they played well together, shared without demur, and formed an impenetrable wall of solidarity when faced with unsavoury issues like eating vegetables or having their hair washed. One day, during the school summer holidays, their mother whisked them along to a ‘Musical Taster Day’ at the local theatre. Five-year-old Rich put up a fierce fight, making his preference for a morning at the swimming pool crystal-clear. But once at the theatre, he’d loved it. It seemed like every instrument ever invented had been available for the children to trial. And Rich trialled them all – bonging the bongos, blasting the bassoon and hammering the harp. Hilary, meanwhile, made an immediate beeline for the piano. And there she remained for the entire three hours, various members of staff hovering about her, their mother’s face growing increasingly pink.

‘Oh, Harry, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ their by now scarlet parent had gushed to their father the moment they arrived home. ‘Hilary apparently has “a very strong aptitude” for the piano. That’s what they said, Harry, “a
very
strong aptitude”.’

Their bemused father stroked his beard. ‘Hmm. So what does that mean, exactly?’

Their mother tutted. ‘It means, Harry, that we have to buy a piano. Forthwith.’

“Forthwith”, in this instance, meant the following week. The toys in the tiny room that had constituted the children’s playroom were boxed up and shipped off to the charity shop, a second-hand, upright piano wedged into the freed-up space.

Next came the piano teacher – the formidable Miss Rundfahrt– or Bumfart, as Rich called her. A scary German lady with a helmet of slick black hair that looked as if it had been painted onto her bulbous head.

Shortly after these new arrivals, all invitations to parties, or other fun and “normal” children’s activities, began to be rejected. Rich ceased to ask why, the standard response being: ‘Hilary has to practise.’

Indeed, it seemed to Rich that all Hilary did was practice – for hour upon hour – preparing for yet another exam, or yet another recital. He scarcely saw his sister any more and, not surprisingly, their once-strong bond began to weaken.

When Hilary sailed through her final exam with a double distinction aged just thirteen, the ante upped still further, the entire dining room being cleared to make room for a grand piano. Mealtimes, the only time they’d sat down together, were reduced to trays on laps in the lounge.

Needless to say, their mother’s pride, ebullient from that fateful Musical Taster Day, had surged with every exam certificate and every glowing review. And their father, whose sole purpose in life had been to appease his wife, meekly followed suit.

As in-depth discussions of music colleges and conservatoires began to dominate every conversation, Rich found himself increasingly estranged from his family.

‘Do you mind if I stay at Si’s tonight?’ he asked one day.

His mother didn’t bother to lift her head from the pile of music she’d been sifting. ‘Whatever you like, darling,’ came the reply, leaving Rich in little doubt that, had he asked if he could have a one-way ticket to Bangkok to join the Ladyboys, the response would have been much the same.

Hilary had subsequently accepted a music scholarship at Oxford – an auspicious start to her glittering career as one of the country’s most prestigious pianists.

Rich, meanwhile, demonstrated none of his sister’s musical prowess. Indeed, demonstrated no prowess of any kind. Until his first Saturday job helping a mate’s uncle with his hardware market stall. The art of persuasion, he soon discovered, was his forte. But no matter how many sales leagues he topped, no matter how many bonuses he received, no matter how many weekends to Barcelona he won, his achievements always seemed tacky compared to those of his sister.

Still, he had – or at least he’d thought he had – moved on; deftly buried these feelings of underachievement under a ton of earth. Until something ignited a fuse that blasted them back to the surface.

Something like Candi’s appearance.

Hitting him with all the impact of an army tank, it had detonated his fragile confidence. Not only because of Bernice’s insulting lack of faith in him, but because he didn’t have a bloody clue how to handle it.

A cornucopia of questions whizzing about his head, he’d concluded – as he lay awake at 3.37 am that morning – that the only way to obtain any answers was to talk to Candi. Precisely why he’d decided to call her. Today. In fact, he should do it right now. Before a bazillion reasons not to trounced his resolution.

Veering the jeep onto the grass verge, he activated the handbrake and fished out his mobile. Normally, when calling from the car, he instigated the snazzy, hands-free system. For this call, though, it didn’t seem appropriate. The notion of Candi’s voice ricocheting around his personal space made him quake. It seemed far too … invasive – as if the sound might somehow seep into the cream-leather seats or velour mats, leaving an indelible stain. In fact, come to think of it, he’d rather not speak to her in the car at all. Opening the door, he slid out and took a few steps along the verge, his finger hovering over “Chlorine Supplier”. All at once, though, a surfeit of nerves whacked into him. He had no idea what to say. Maybe he should firm up his strategy first. Give it more thought. Not blurt out something he might –

At a chorus of mooing from the neighbouring field, Rich dropped the phone. Blimey. He was a wreck. And the group of cows staring accusingly at him did nothing to help his nerves. Maybe he’d be better off in the car, after all.

Resuming his place inside, Rich turned his back to his bovine audience and his attention to the phone. If he didn’t make this call in the next thirty seconds, he probably never would. He sucked in a deep breath. And on the exhale, pressed the call button.

Rich arranged to meet Candi that afternoon.

The conversation to set up the meeting had been, understandably, somewhat stilted. The moment she answered the phone, his mind had flashed blank. As if that one solitary word, ‘Hello’, confirmed her existence; made him realise that, in some ludicrously head-in-sand way, he’d been hoping her appearance had been nothing more than an apparition; that she didn’t really exist at all.

She was already at the venue she’d suggested – a quaint café in Harrogate – when Rich arrived. Sitting at a small table tucked away at the back, she had what looked like a strawberry milkshake in front of her. The café was busy, seemingly overtaken by a busload of pensioners. Due to the bustle of activity, she didn’t see him at first, allowing him another few seconds to appraise her. Her lank, mousy hair was scraped back in a high ponytail, and her yellow hoodie sapped her face of all colour.

Did she bear any resemblance at all to him? He didn’t think so. Or maybe her –

All at once, she turned and caught his eye. Her mouth stretched into a nervous smile.

Rich’s stomach flipped. He attempted a smile of his own, but by the strange look a passing waitress shot him, suspected he looked like he might be in dire need of the loo.

Candi’s smile widened as he approached the table. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ Rich slipped into the chair opposite. ‘How, er, are you?’