Bobby's Girl (21 page)

‘We'll find something.' Sandy sat on an easy chair and propped his feet on a driftwood table.

‘We'll just have to,' Kate the worrier said. ‘Rent-free is good. But I was hoping to earn enough this summer to supplement my grant next term.'

They started at a knock on the door.

‘Who's there?' Bobby called out tentatively. Penny realised that despite his assurance that his grandmother would remain in Europe for the summer, he was not only wary of her but feared her.

‘It's me – George, Mr Bobby. I realised when I got back to my guest house you have no bed linen or towels.'

Bobby opened the door and took the bundle George handed him.

‘There's six bed sets and a dozen towels there, Mr Bobby. Give them back to me when you want them laundered.'

‘You get them laundered on my grandmother's account?' Bobby asked.

‘My sister manages a laundromat. She does them for free.'

‘Thanks, George. Goodnight.' Bobby closed the door. Kate took the bundle from him and handed Penny two towels. ‘You have first shower, I'll make up the beds.'

‘I'll give you a hand.' Sandy disappeared into the bedroom after her and she and Bobby heard them giggling.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘The sooner you shower, the sooner we can get to bed.' He switched on an
ancient-looking
TV.

‘Ten seconds, I'll be with you.'

‘I'd be happier with two,' he smiled.

That smile sent her heart racing again. She'd never
felt that urgent need and obsession with another person when she'd been with Rich.

It took six minutes to shower and wash her hair, two to clean the bathroom after she'd finished and gather her dirty clothes. Swathed in an enormous bath towel, her hair wrapped in a hand towel, she returned to the living room. She knew something was wrong from the muted tones of the newscaster. She didn't know how wrong until she looked at Bobby and Sandy's faces. They were both numb with shock.

Sandy said what Bobby couldn't bring himself to put into words. ‘Bobby Kennedy's been shot.'

Penny looked up from the album. She rose from the floor and walked over to the window but she didn't see the blossom on the apple and cherry trees, or the bulbs flowering amongst the perennials in the flower beds her father and mother tended. She was back in the Beach House on the Brosna Estate in 1968.

That night Bobby had set a pattern to their lovemaking. Passionate, urgent, all consuming, he had lived as though they were running out of time.

Which, with hindsight, they had been.

Their bodies had been damp from the shower because they hadn't delayed long enough to dry themselves
properly. Her orange-based perfume had vied with the scent of his pine until they mingled, creating a new fragrance that blended the alpine north and tropical south.

His skin tasted of soap, his lips of toothpaste. Their wet hair soaked the pillows and the dampness coupled with the murmur of the waves breaking on the shore outside the window lent the feeling that they'd become part of the ocean.

They moved over the bed in an erotic ballet, roused, exhilarated, revelling in the pleasure they gave and accepted. Passion crested, climaxed and fell in waves as mouths, lips, tongues, hands came into play until finally they lay spent, too exhausted to move.

It was then she made the mistake. The beach wasn't overlooked and Bobby had left the curtains open so they could see the ocean. Moonlight streamed in, silvering a vista of foam-topped dark sea outside and plain white walls and bed-linen inside. She looked across at Bobby and saw that he was staring at her. But she misread his mood. Because his face was dark with sorrow she offered solace.

‘I've never felt this way about anyone before. I love you, Bobby Brosna, and I always will.'

He turned his back on her. Refusing to accept his rejection, she moved with him, snuggling close to his shoulders, wrapping her hand around his waist. He gripped it and caressed her fingers but didn't turn back.

He whispered, ‘
I love you now. Isn't that enough?
'

She recognised the quote. ‘Scott Fitzgerald,
The Great Gatsby
.'

‘He was right.' Bobby's voice was harsh. ‘It's no use making plans or talking of “always”. The “now” is all we have.'

She learnt her lesson. She never told him she'd love him “for ever” again.

Had Bobby made a conscious decision that there would be no tomorrows? Not for them. Or, knowing the power his grandmother could wield, had he simply sensed that he wouldn't be allowed to stay with her?

Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her for hours that first night on the Cape. And, although Bobby was also awake, they lay in silence. Each locked into their own thoughts.

George brought boxes of crockery and cutlery the next morning, along with brown paper bags filled with groceries: bagels, butter, cream cheese, lox, coffee, orange juice, melons, apples and grapes.

Sandy and Kate set out breakfast on a wooden table in the ‘garden' that was a fenced off area of the beach. She sat with them and watched the giant horseshoe crabs crawl along the shoreline as she drank coffee. Bobby joined them after watching the news. He told them the only news about Bobby Kennedy's condition was ‘he was gravely ill'.

She and Kate were hungry but neither of the boys had much appetite. She poured Bobby coffee, he sat next to her and it was obvious that he was spoiling for a fight.

‘If Bobby Kennedy doesn't run for president, that snake Nixon will get in and then you can forget America pulling out of the Vietnam War,' Bobby predicted.
‘Nixon will send more conscripts there to die, or – if they're “lucky”– survive and be maimed, mentally and physically, for life.'

‘If Bobby Kennedy makes a full recovery and carries on campaigning – and that's unlikely if the reports of his condition are accurate – he won't be able to stop the war right away, even if he gets into the White House,' Sandy argued.

‘Of course he will—'

‘The hell he won't,' Sandy cut in fiercely. ‘We're in too deep. Too many Americans have been killed there for any president, Republican or Democrat, to stand up and say, “Sorry people, we made a mistake, we're pulling out. All those dead and crippled boys – well it was for nothing.”'

‘That's bullshit and you know it.' Bobby's anger escalated. ‘If Bobby Kennedy gets in, the first thing he'll do is stop sending conscripts into a war everyone on the ground says we can't win. You know what that means. It means that you won't have to go overseas. You can sit out your National Service in a military camp in the good old U S of A, polishing your boots and buttons and saluting officers.'

‘That's what you and all the other draft dodgers want, isn't it, Bobby?' Sandy taunted. ‘A guarantee that while you're sitting on your butts pretending to study in Europe half of our generation aren't getting killed in 'Nam. Well I have news for you, buddy. Some wars are worth fighting. The Communists have to be stopped just as Hitler had to be stopped …'

‘In Vietnam? In God's name, it's on a different
continent.' Bobby thumped the table and sent the crockery and cutlery rattling. ‘You think Ho Chi Minh is going to march his forces up Main Street in Hyannis, or invade Washington. Your problem is you've swallowed the propaganda—'

‘You looked at a world map lately and seen how many countries are red? Russia's gobbled up all of Eastern Europe. China is following suit with Korea and Vietnam … there's even one on our doorstep. The Cubans—'

‘The Cubans are too busy foraging for enough food to live on to concern themselves with us.'

‘And you, of course, have been there lately, rich boy?' Sandy gibed. ‘It wasn't enough for you to slum it in Harlem …'

The argument tennis-balled back and forth, raging ever uglier. She wanted to stop it but she didn't know how, and from the expression on Kate's face she knew her friend felt equally impotent.

Bobby raised his fist, but before he could thump the table again, or Sandy – and Sandy's face was the direction it was flying in – Penny moved between them.

Bobby only just managed to stop his fist from connecting with her cheek.

‘I don't know much about politics, but I do know that no argument between students ever changed the world,' she said firmly. ‘I also know that political arguments don't put food on the table. We need jobs, remember?'

Bobby stood back and unclenched his fists. ‘Now I suppose you're going to ask the two of us to shake hands.'

‘That seems like a good idea.'

Neither Bobby nor Sandy made a move.

Kate did what she always did in a volatile situation. Turned to the practical. ‘You boys can wash the dishes while Pen and I give the house a quick once-over.'

‘It's clean,' Bobby protested.

‘It's what I call “unsupervised cleaner keep the dust down” clean, but it's been a while since someone washed out the inside of the fridge, kitchen cupboards and the wardrobes. I'm not putting my food or clothes inside any of them until they're Pontypridd clean.'

‘What's “Pontypridd clean”?' Sandy asked.

‘My mother's idea of clean. Go on, off with you, sort out the dishes.'

The boys went. Kate had succeeded in diffusing the argument – for the moment. But they could feel it simmering beneath the surface. Penny understood Sandy's conviction that the Vietnam War was a just one. He had to believe it because he had no option other than to fight. She could also understand the guilt that lay behind Bobby's anger. His grandmother's money had bought him an escape that would safeguard his life but not Sandy's.

It was a situation that would blight their summer and their lives. At the time, she didn't realise how much.

When the house was clean enough to meet even Kate's exacting standards, they showered and dressed in
job-hunting
clothes.

‘Tarrah!' Kate twirled in front of Sandy who frowned.

‘You girls can't go out like that,' Sandy declared as he eyed their miniskirts and skinny-rib sweaters.

‘What's up, they look great.' Bobby was buttoning a white cotton shirt he'd teamed with black pants. A tie was hanging out of his pocket.

‘Their outfits might tempt the Playboy Club into hiring them, but this is a conservative town. How many miniskirted waitresses or chambermaids have you seen around here?'

‘I've spent most of the last three years in England, remember.'

‘I've spent the last two Easter, fall and summer breaks working here. Every restaurant manager will want to hire the girls, but none will, because they're afraid of what their female customers will say when they catch their husbands and teenage sons ogling their legs.'

‘Sandy's right,' Bobby conceded. ‘Much as I hate to say it, you'd better put on longer skirts.'

‘This is my longest,' Kate protested.

‘Mine too.'

‘In that case, first stop uniform shop, unless you girls hope to find something in a retail store.'

‘Uniform?' Penny asked blankly.

‘Waitresses and chambermaids wear white dresses in the States.'

‘Knee-length dresses?' Kate had exceptionally good legs, long, slim and suntanned, courtesy of a particularly warm May when she'd spent every available minute between lectures sunbathing on Swansea beach.

‘Over the knee, would be better,' Sandy advised. ‘And you'll need white shoes. And stockings.'

‘Stockings in this heat?' Kate pleaded. ‘Please tell me you're joking.'

‘Unfortunately not. But if you turn up dressed for the part, you're more likely to find work.' Sandy, expert job hunter on the Cape, turned to Bobby. ‘Kitchen work suit you?'

‘No, but I have to eat.'

‘We have enough to cover chefs' whites if we have to. Let's go.'

‘What do I look like?'

The changing room in the uniform store was the size of a broom cupboard. She flattened herself against the wall and studied Kate. ‘Like you're auditioning for a role as an extra in a film about novice nuns.'

‘It's not only long and shapeless; it's horrible stiff nylon. The seams are scratchy and these flat white
lace-ups
make my legs and ankles look like tree trunks.' Kate stared miserably into the full-length mirror.

‘How you girls doing?' The sales assistant bustled in carrying a second uniform dress over her arm. ‘That's perfect. You'll soon get a job. The restaurant will probably want you to wear their own hat, but you'd better pick up half a dozen hairnets …'

‘Hairnets!' Kate exclaimed in horror.

‘Can't drop hairs in the customers' food, or if you're chambermaiding, in their beds or bathrooms. I picked out an identical uniform for your friend. I thought with your accents you could sell yourself as a team.'

Kate smiled maliciously at her. ‘It will suit you better than it suits me.'

‘You girls will want to buy stockings as well. Restaurants don't like their staff wearing tights.'

‘They
look
?' Kate was horrified.

‘Every restaurant and fast-food eatery carries out an inspection check of their staff's clothing for tears, stains and general untidiness before the start of a shift. Howard Johnson's chain is the worst. But I'm doing myself no favours. If you get taken on by them, you'll have to wear the full house uniform supplied by management. Long gingham dress, gingham mob caps and apron.'

Penny took the white uniform from the assistant. It suddenly seemed the lesser evil.