A Tale of Two Summers

A Tale of Two Summers

By Tony Smith

With the heavy suitcase bumping against my legs, I manoeuvred my way between the seats to the front carriage and shared the view of the driver. Gleaming rail tracks, following the gentle contours of the Surrey hills, were fast disappearing beneath my feet. Rabbits grazing went tail-up and ran, tumbling into their burrows, as the steel monster invaded.

I’m -going-home. I’m-going-home, beat in my brain to the rhythm of the wheels. Ahead a tunnel of solid blackness - then we leapt into bright summer sun. I picked-up my suitcase for mine was the next station. It was a desolate place. I was the only passenger to alight and my old friend the ticket collector had been replaced by a machine.

I made my way to the bus-stop which waved a familiar flag of welcome; the number fifteen bus . Many summers ago it was the bus I caught to school. I set my case down and bent my head to inspect the time-table when a voice said: “You’re in luck, one’s due any minute”.

“To Greenleaf?”

“Yes, I’m going there myself.”

The friendly voice belonged to a young man - in his early twenties. The bus arrived. I shoved my case in the cuddy under the stairs and clattered after my friend to the top floor and like a couple of kid we sat either side at the front of the bus. He introduced himself as Bernie and asked where I’d come from with such a large case. I told him I’d flown in from Australia that morning and it was the first time I’d been home for many years. He asked where I’d be staying. I told him I planned to stay at the Dog and Fox.

“That pub closed years ago, it’s a dentist’s surgery now. But my mother keeps a guest house: 44, Albert Road. It’s the only place to stay in Greenleaf.

“Well if it’s the only place to stay, I’d better stay there.” I replied with a smile.

“You won’t be disappointed.”

It was one of those tall terraced Victorian houses which opens out like ‘Doctor Who’s’ Tardis. An aspidistra was flying in the hall and there wasn’t that boarding-house smell of boiled cabbage and disinfectant - you met the money- rich, sweet smell of freesias. Bernie showed me to the bedroom as his mother was out. He said there’s nowhere to eat in the village, but his mother is a good cook.”OK. I’ll have some of that,” I said.

It was only three o’clock in the afternoon but my body-clock was messed-up after the long flight. Although I was tired I couldn’t sleep: my mind racing like an engine revving in neutral. Expatriates need to go home at sometime, my mother would say, in her Yorkshire accent: ‘ta ‘get ya bottle filled’. But for me it was for the girl I’d left behind. In my iron-gated mind there was only room for one girl: for my Annie. It was another summer but twenty years later, she was the reason I’d left England all those years ago.

Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep I would take Annie out of the drawer in which I stored her memory and like a pair of old woollen socks pull them on and warm myself. But sometimes it led to nightmares. I would imagine what she might be doing, who she might be doing it with, and wondering why she had rejected me. I had to find a resolution. Reheated food doesn’t taste the same as fresh and love reheated by an old flame doesn’t perhaps taste as sweet. There had been other girls since: some were good sex and some were bad sex but none were the loving sex I had with Annie. I remember the story of a famous composer who couldn’t get out of bed in the mornings. His wife would play a series of chords on the piano - the composer would rush down stairs to play the final resolving chord - and I needed that resolution.

I woke to the reverberating ‘gong’ of a dinner bell. It took me a moment to figure out where I was. Downstairs the lady of the house welcomed me with outstretched arms. ”Bernard told me about you - Jed, isn’t it?”

I stared at her with amazement, delight and eye-stretching disbelief. It was Annie. It was my Annie! I examined her for ageing. She’d lost that ‘just-out-the-box’ freshness. She was never pretty but beautiful she was, with Slavic high cheek-bones, dark black eyes, hair piled lustrously on top and a smile to lift you out your socks.”Sorry for staring,” I said, “but you remind me of someone.”

Clearly Annie hadn’t recognised me. When she last saw me I was nineteen. Since then I had grown two inches, gained five stone and had less hair. As a ‘Bloody Pom’ I found it best to adopt a Strine accent and award myself the butch Australian Christian name of, Jed.

The food’s on the hot-plate behind you. I hope you like spaghetti Bolognaise.”

“Smells good. I hope you’ll eat with me? I don’t like eating alone.”

“I can do. Bernard is eating at a friend’s house.”

I watched Annie under my lashes as we ate together and reflected on the letter which caused me to depart for Australia. She wrote to tell me she was married, and in graphic terms that she didn’t want to see me ever again and that I should go with my parents to Australia. We have no future together. It is over between us. Please go! So I went but it was unfinished business, it prayed on my mind and Annie had become an obsession.

“I like your son,” I said.

“Bernard’s at a bit of a loose end, wondering what to do next. How long do you plan to stay?”

“Not sure. This spaghetti is brilliant - if you can cook like this - maybe two or three years,” I said po-faced. She looked a little embarrassed - with the staring and the compliment - I think I had come on too strong.

“What time is breakfast?”

“Eight o’clock. Full English?”

“Sounds good. If you’ll excuse me, I need to catch-up some sleep.”

Ghosts of the past pursued me into the dark shrouds of sleep into my dreams. I was pushing a trolley in a supermarket. Annie was ahead of me. I was running, trying to catch-up - sending pyramids of biscuits, baked beans and apples cascading down and rolling in the aisle. I awoke. Then fell asleep again. I could hear her cries. She was sinking in soft sand. I was floundering and never could quite reach her.

I woke to the noise of the morning. The old house was creaking, the plumbing wheezing and I could hear domestic activity. Downstairs, Annie was laying the table for breakfast. “Can I help?” I asked. She looked up and laid her hands on her breasts in that manner women do when they’re startled.

“You know I am married don’t you?”

I didn’t know where that came from. “Well I presume Bernard has a father.” I replied not sarcastically and trying not to sound disappointed.

“My first husband died and I married again.”

“Married again . . . ” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes, to a policeman. He’s away on training.”

I was devastated. It was naive of me to think that I could walk back into someone’s life after all those years away. Fortunately she didn’t know who I was and I could walk out without her ever knowing.

The breakfast arrived with enough cholesterol to destroy a regiment. She watched me eat. “Are you married?” She asked.

“Me? No.” I stared down at my plate. “I never met the right woman,” I muttered. “Well I did once.”

“You did? What happened?”

“She left me. That was a nice breakfast. Thank you.” I walked away for the second time. It was not the resolution I’d hoped for and I slept miserably and fitfully. I was woken by tapping on my door.

“It’s me Bernie. Fancy a jar?”

“Come in, “I said.

He mimed drinking. “Fancy a noggin at the Green Man?”

“OK. Give me a minute.” At least Bernie could give me all the news of his mother, although clearly now she was married there was no hope for me.

Bernie insisted on buying the first round. Returned from the bar, he placed two pints of beer on the table with some deliberation as if it was some kind of punctuation mark and said: “I want to show you something, Jed.” He passed me a photo. “Who d’you think that is?”

“I glanced at it quickly: “It’s you of course.”

“It can’t be. I found it five years ago in one of mother’s drawers. I would have been only twelve then and you see how yellow and faded it is? It can’t be me.”He looked at me with some intensity. He turned the photo over. “There’s a name on the back.” He saw the startled look on my face. “You see how alike we are?”

Pieces exploded, shattered, rose in my head and dropped into place, to reveal part of the jigsaw puzzle. You think that. . .?

“It has to be. I always understood Jack to be my father. But I never really knew him. He died when I was three. He was paralysed and mum pushed him everywhere in a wheel chair. They called her the Angel of Albert Road. It couldn’t be otherwise, could it? You and I are identical. I look nothing like Jack,” and then he added wistfully, “I would rather like to have a father.”

“I never knew about . . . .I have a son, it will take a bit of getting used to. But your mother married again. You have a stepfather.”

“Is that what she told you?” he grinned broadly. “There is no second husband. Mother tells that story about marrying a policeman to keep amorous lodgers at bay. She’s afraid you see. Mum likes you. She told me that this morning after breakfast.”

I suddenly understood why Annie had given me the order of the boot: because she was married and pregnant - by me! I had met my son at a bus stop! “Here’s to us.” We clinked glasses of beer.

I don’t think Annie would have agreed to come if it hadn’t been for Bernie. “You know you love the park, mum. You haven’t been for a long time. I’ll clear away the breakfast things. Go on, ma”.

It was a bright, brilliantined summer's day when we walked through the gates of the park. Annie seemed pensive but could not but be joyful pushed on a swing sending skirts and spirits flying. I led her through the rose garden on the same route we’d taken those many years ago. She was still a little reserved, and stiltedly asking if I missed England.

I recited a verse: “I travelled among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea. Nor, England did I know til then, what love I bore for thee. You wouldn’t expect a: wacko-the-diddle-o, amma-chisit Aussie to know poetry, would you, Annie?”

I was rewarded with an, out-of-your-socks smile. “Oh look! The cafe’s open.” We sat at one of the small tables and a young, pinafored waitress brought a menu. “Fancy a pot of tea . . . toasted tea-cakes?”

Annie nodded. “It’s strange,” she said, “A long time ago I used to come here with a friend . . . he was quite like you . . . he’d push me on the swings, recite me a poem, then we’d have tea at this same cafe.”

“You were lovers?”

“How d’you know?” She bridled.

“Parks are for dogs, children and lovers.”

Absently she doodled a drop of spilt milk into a pattern on the table. “It was a long time ago.”

I sat back and waited. Beyond silence comes revelation.

“I was married you see. But Jack my husband had an accident - on his motorbike. He broke his back and was paralysed from the waist down. He couldn’t . . .”

“I see . . . and you wanted a child?”

“Yes . . . “

“What about your husband?”

“Jack wanted a child too. He approved.”

“I see. So once you got pregnant and got the child you wanted, you told your lover to piss-off.”

“That’s horrible. It was nothing like that.”

“When he knew you were pregnant your lover conveniently just ran away.”

“No . . . Yes. I don’t know why he left me.” She hunted in her bag and brought out a packet of tissues.

“Do you ever think about him?”

“How can I forget? He’s the father of my child and doesn’t even know he has a son.” She blotted moisture from her eyes.

“They say you cannot go back to the past. Horses don’t graze backwards for obvious reasons.”

“I’m not a bloody horse,” she said, and that made her smile through her tears.

Why had she lied about the letter and to someone she thought to be a complete stranger? But I had pressed the inquisition far enough. It was time to reveal myself. “What did your lover look like? Like me?”

“He was smaller . . . about the same size as Bernard.”

“Your lover was only eighteen then, perhaps he grew? He played football and had an L shaped scar on his knee. Didn’t he?” I pulled up my trouser leg and displayed the scar. She traced around it with her finger.”Is it really you?” she whispered.

“Why did you lie? And send me a bugger-off letter.”

“I did not!”

“I have it still.” I pulled the letter from my wallet where I’d kept it all those years.

She flattened it out, studying it carefully; then she took a pen from her handbag and wrote alongside the first sentence. “Compare the two? Do you see? It’s not my writing.”

It was true, the writing was quite different. “Who wrote it then?”

“It’s Jack’s writing. My dead husband wrote it.”

“To get rid of me?”

“I suppose you can’t blame him. Stuck in a wheel chair . . . he loved me and it was the only way to defend his marriage.” Her hands slid shyly across the table towards me. My hands closed over hers and all the summers between fell away as if they had never been.

THE END