Summer of Love Page 2

  Paula, who had probably never read a whole book in her life, was always reading the picture stories in teenage magazines, and I’d always teased her that she believed they were real.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t made him up!’ Paula glared at me. ‘I don’t need to live in a land of make-believe – unlike some people, I do have real boyfriends.’

  I winced. ‘OK – so what’s his name?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  I giggled. ‘Bet he’s called Algernon, then. And where does he live?’

  ‘Er – well, he’s not from round here. Although I think he’s living near here at the moment, which is why he came into the shop.’ She rolled on to her stomach and ran her fingers, with their pearly pink nails, through the grass. ‘He is out of this world.’

  For a fleeting moment I wondered jealously why this mysterious, gorgeous someone, who, if Paula was to be believed, was clearly rich and old and educated and handsome, would be interested in her? Surely, if he was that dishy he’d be able to have his pick of all the girls? Why would he settle for someone like Paula, who wasn’t very bright and looked, well – tarty?

  Mind you, I knew all about Paula’s reputation in the village for being ‘anyone’s’ as my Mum said, so maybe that was the attraction.

  Still, it seemed to me that for all her boasting, Paula didn’t know much about this man at all. Maybe she had made him up. Maybe she’d made it up about going out with Nick Rayner, too. I really, really hoped so.

  ‘When will we get to see him, then?’

  Paula looked up at me, her false eyelashes casting deep, dark crescent shadows on her cheeks. ‘If you get the job in Sheldon Busby’s you’ll definitely see him – he’s in all the time. Can’t keep away from me.’

  I laughed wistfully. I wished I could say that about someone. Especially Nick Rayner. ‘So why were you meeting him this afternoon and not tonight, then?’

  ‘God, you ask so many questions, Clemmie!’ Paula studied her fingernails. ‘He’s – um – well, he says he’s busy in the evenings. He probably works shifts or something.’

  I nodded. That might be true. My dad, as a coach driver, was rarely at home when other people were. But even so … ‘And maybe he’s married.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t married! I do have some principles, you know! Anyway,’ Paula scrambled quickly to her feet, ‘I only came round to say I haven’t forgotten about the Saturday job, oh, and to see how your exam went, of course.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I grinned at her. ‘You came round to brag about Mr Wonderful!’

  Mum appeared from the kitchen at that moment, carrying a tray with glasses of home-made ginger beer. She smiled at Paula. ‘I didn’t know you were still here, dear. . I’ll get another glass.’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Long. I’m not stopping. ’Bye, Clemmie – I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  We both watched her shimmy out of the gate.

  ‘She gets worse,’ Mum said with deep disapproval. ‘All that make-up – and that dress – she might as well not be wearing anything. What did she want, anyway?’

  I decided not to mention Mr Wonderful. Mum would go on about it for hours.

  ‘She’s going to see if she can get me a Saturday job in Sheldon Busby’s – so I can save some money for university,’ I added quickly. ‘Then, once the exams are over, I can work there through the holidays too. I know I’ll get a grant, but it’ll be handy to have some extra money, won’t it? I know how hard you and Dad have been saving and I’d like to add some too.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Mum seemed to be searching for some argument to this suggestion, but couldn’t find one. ‘Well, as long as that’s all it is – I wouldn’t want you to get too friendly with her – that is, I know you’re friends, but I wouldn’t like to think you and she … well, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ I reached for the ginger beer, trying not to laugh.

  Paula’s parents both worked full time in Reading, so she had the house to herself most of the time, and had done since she was a little girl. Her mum would never be there when she and all her brothers and sisters came home from school, and never cooked proper meals, they seemed to live out of the fish and chip shop, and she’d certainly never, ever make ginger beer …

  My mum worked as a cleaner at Ashcote Mixed Infants a few minutes along the lane, so she was always around for me. Sometimes, treacherously, I wished I could be a bit more independent. Oh, it was lovely coming home from school and knowing Mum was there and that there’d be a hot meal on the table and I’d never have to worry about being on my own – but I was seventeen now. I didn’t need looking after.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mum said, ‘if it’s a bit of extra cash you’re after, they’re still needing pickers up at Honeydew for their first crop. I know you won’t be able to do much until the exams are over, but it’ll be a help. I’m thinking of going up there myself.’

  I sipped my ginger beer. Honeydew Farm, on the outskirts of the village, was known across the county for its fruit. The orchards stretched for miles, and in summer the strawberry fields were filled with casual pickers from Ashcote and the surrounding area.

  ‘I could do that as well,’ I said eagerly. ‘I could cycle up there in the morning and do a few hours. Strawberry picking pays really well and I haven’t got another exam for a week. I won’t need to revise all the time.’

  ‘Are you sure? RE isn’t your strongest subject, is it? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until afterwards?’

  I shook my head, dreaming of having clothes like Paula’s, and being able to get my long, schoolgirly hair cut in a proper style, and buy a pair or three of false eyelashes, and then Nick Rayner might really notice me.

  ‘I think it’d do me good to do something that’s not involved with studying and school. And I could take my books and mug up while I’m picking. And I’d be out in the fresh air. And it won’t be all day every day. Oh, go on, Mum – it’s a great idea. And after all, you suggested it.’

  ‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ Mum smiled, knowing I’d get my own way. ‘All right, but if it starts to interfere with your studying you’re to give it up. Promise me?’

  ‘I promise.’

  The next morning, as the sun was spiralling gauzily through the rows of truncated apple, plum, and cherry trees with their froth of blossoms, and a heat haze hovered over the miles of strawberry fields, I leaned my bicycle against one of Honeydew’s lichen-covered red brick barns, and joined the queue at the door.

  I’d been strawberry picking with Mum – and sometimes Dad when his shifts allowed – at Honeydew since I was a little girl. I knew everyone in the queue, and Mr Leach, the estate manager who was doing the weighing and paying, knew me.

  ‘Hello, young Clemmie.’ He wrote my name in the ledger and gave me a teasing look. ‘I didn’t think we’d get you along here this year. Thought you’d be too grand for us – what with you going up to the varsity and all – or at least, that’s what your dad tells everyone in the pub. Have you had enough of all that book-learning and decided to become a farm labourer?’

  ‘I’m saving up for when I go away.’ I took my towering pile of punnets and patted my beaded shoulder bag. ‘And I’ve got my books in here for studying at lunch time, so if Mum and Dad ask you –’

  ‘I’ll tell ’em you’ve been working like a Trojan on all accounts,’ he winked at me. ‘Don’t you eat too many strawberries and make yourself ill, mind, or your dad’ll have my guts for garters. Right, who’s next?’

  Balancing my pile of punnets under my chin, I set off to the far side of the field. It meant a longer walk back once the punnets were filled, but also meant that the biggest, juiciest strawberries were still untouched. And the biggest, juiciest strawberries weighed the most and therefore filled the punnets more quickly and earned more money.

  I squatted down between the rows, the tiny mounds of straw snaking away as far as the eye could see, the green leaves and glistening red first crop strawberr
ies sitting proudly atop them. It was already hot, and the drowsy air was still and almost silent. I couldn’t hear anything except the distant voices on the other side of the field, and the birdsong and the occasional faraway vroom of a car on the Reading road.

  With the sun on my back, warming me through my jeans and skimpy T-shirt, I picked steadily for a while, careful to snap the hulls just below the rosette of leaves with my thumbnails, not bruising the fruit. I knew only too well that Mr Leach’s eagle eyes never missed bruised fruit and he’d chuck it into the jam bucket and I wouldn’t get paid.

  The punnets filled quickly, and I sat back on the baked ground, easing my knees and shoulders. Popping yet another strawberry into my mouth, I wondered if I should have a quick skim through my RE notes. I took my revision folder reluctantly from my bag. It wasn’t an appealing prospect. I wished we’d been studying the New Testament, which was far more familiar, not to mention relevant and interesting, rather than the Old Testament Prophets. They were such a miserable bunch.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  I squinted up against the vivid blueness of the sky and the dazzle of the sun.

  A tall figure loomed over me. I knew it was young and male, but couldn’t make out his features. For a wonderful moment I thought it might be Nick Rayner – but then, Nick would never have said excuse me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I found this on the path back there. Is it yours? Did you drop it?’

  He came closer and handed me my RE textbook. Like Nick Rayner, he was tall and slim and dark. Like Nick Rayner, he wore tight faded jeans and a black T-shirt. But that’s where the similarity ended. Not even Nick looked remotely like a cross between David Bowie and Scott Walker. Not even Nick could compare to this: simply the most beautiful boy in the world.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I mumbled, totally flustered. ‘Yes, it must have dropped out of my bag. That’s really kind of you … um … I mean, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he straightened up, pushing his silky hair from his eyes, and smiled at me.

  And that was it. Honestly. I fell in love. Head over heels. At first sight.

  ‘Er – are you strawberry picking, too?’ I immediately knew it was a stupid question. He didn’t have any punnets and he simply didn’t look like a picker. I also knew I was blushing redder than any of the strawberries. ‘That is –’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m staying with my godparents at Honeydew for a few weeks. I was just on my way out along the track there when I found your book. I’m Lewis Coleman-Beck – and I know you’re Clemmie Long.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘Blimey! I mean –’

  ‘I’m not a mind-reader.’ His voice was smooth and husky all at the same time, and hinted at laughter. ‘It’s written on the front of your book.’

  I blushed even more. My name was on the book and so was ‘Clemmie loves Nick Rayner for ever and ever’ and millions of little hearts with arrows through them.

  ‘Clemmie’s an unusual name. Is it short for Clemency?’

  ‘Clementine,’ I muttered, wishing I was wearing glamorous clothes and that my blonde hair was in some sort of trendy style instead of tumbling wildly down my back, and that I had at least four pairs of false eyelashes on and didn’t look like a gauche schoolgirl. ‘After Winston Churchill’s wife. My parents were huge admirers.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Lewis Coleman-Beck nodded. ‘And as I said, unusual. As is your reading matter. Jeremiah? Isaiah? The gloom and doom prophets?’

  ‘RE A-levels. Next week.’ My mouth was growing dryer by the minute. I prayed I didn’t have strawberry juice on my chin.

  He pulled a face. ‘A-levels – oh, dear. I remember them well. I flunked all mine the first time round. Not that it mattered too much. I passed the re-sits after months of awful cramming.’

  ‘Mine matter a lot,’ I said. ‘I’m going to university.’

  ‘I did that, too,’ Lewis Coleman-Beck said ruefully. ‘And dropped out after the first year. I was a massive disappointment to my parents. I’m sure you’ll be far more successful. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you from your studying or your strawberry picking. It was nice meeting you.’

  ‘And you,’ I said faintly, knowing that he was going to walk away from me. Knowing that he’d walk out of my life forever. Knowing it would break my heart if he did.

  He started heading towards Honeydew’s car park, then he stopped, turned, and smiled again. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come out for a drink or something, sometime? I mean, I realise you’re busy with exams, but I don’t know many people round here and –’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I heard myself saying. There was no way on earth that I’d tell him I’d never been inside a public house in my life. That apart from sweet sherry at Christmas I’d never touched alcohol. That I wasn’t even old enough to drink. ‘That’d be really nice.’

  ‘Shall I ring you?’

  ‘We’re not on the phone at home.’ None of my friends were on the phone. Only the really well-off people in Ashcote were on the phone. No doubt Lewis Coleman-Beck would think this was very quaint.

  ‘Oh, well, in that case we’d better make a date right now. How about tomorrow evening? Shall I come and collect you?’

  I shook my head quickly. ‘Collect’ sounded as if he had a car. Mum and Dad would never in a million years let me go off with a strange man in a car. They’d never let me go off with a strange man full stop. My mind was whirling. ‘Er – we could meet here – at about seven? Outside the main gates?’

  ‘Outside the gates at seven it is,’ he smiled. ‘See you tomorrow night, Clemmie.’

  I nodded, watching him walk away. I knew then that if I met Lewis Coleman-Beck tomorrow my life would never be the same again. Was it a risk I was prepared to take?

  ‘For goodness sake, hurry up,’ Paula snapped at me. ‘Mr Smithson hasn’t got all day! He’s agreed to see you in the lunch hour as a special favour to me.’

  After a sleepless night in which I’d tossed and turned, one minute grinning into the darkness at the thought of going out with the gorgeous Lewis Coleman-Beck and the next, shivering in misery because I knew he wouldn’t turn up, and all the while knowing, for the first time in my life, that I was going to lie to my parents, I really wasn’t ready for a job interview.

  Paula had phoned Ashcote Mixed Infants that morning, spoken to my mum, and I’d been told to catch the next bus into Reading for the interview with Sheldon Busby’s manager. Paula said she’d meet me at the bus station and give me a few tips before we reached the shop.

  It was the last thing I’d wanted to do. I’d thought of nothing but Lewis from the moment we’d met twenty-seven hours earlier. I wanted to spend all day preening and primping and trying to find something in my wardrobe that might just make Lewis think, when we met for the second time, that I was a grown up. As it was also the first time that I’d had a proper date – being walked home by the youth club boys who I’d known all my life didn’t count – I was gibbering with nerves.

  ‘OK,’ I snapped back at Paula as we hurtled towards The Butts through crowds of sweating shoppers. ‘Stop nagging. I can’t walk in these sandals.’

  ‘You look like Dick Emery,’ Paula laughed over her shoulder. ‘Don’t know why you bothered dressing up.’

  As money was always short at home, my clothes, by necessity, were bought to last. I lived in jeans that were almost falling apart and things that came from jumble sales. Not that it mattered that much. With my long, wild hair, the rag-bag look gave me a very up-to-the-minute hippy-ish air. For the interview I’d selected a skirt that was too long and a top that was too big and borrowed Mum’s best high-heeled sandals. I’d also tried to put my hair up, which was a huge mistake, as tendrils were now escaping everywhere at a rate of knots.

  We came to a halt outside Sheldon Busby’s and Paula looked sternly at me. ‘Now, just be yourself. Don’t try to be smart. Mr Smithson hates wafflers. If he asks, tell him you’re honest, quick to learn, can handle money an
d add up. Tell him you’re a good time-keeper and that you know all about music.’

  I nodded like an automaton. The sun scorched down between the tall grey buildings, and the tram lines glistened like molten silver, criss-crossing the junction. I was trembling – but it had nothing to do with the impending interview. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I should ask Paula for advice on my date with Lewis Coleman-Beck. What should I wear? What should I talk about? Where should I ask him to take me seeing as the village pub was completely out of the question?

  I thought better of it. Paula was a real gossip, and if I wanted to keep my date with Lewis a secret, which I did, telling her would be like putting an announcement in the Ashcote Advertiser. No, if she could have her clandestine meetings with her older man with his Ford Capri and his mysterious evening occupation which was probably a wife and family, then I could keep my own counsel about Lewis. I’d find something to wear, and there wasn’t much I could do about my hair anyway, and eyeliner, a few coats of mascara, and some lip gloss would probably be enough make-up as my face was reasonably tanned.

  Paula gave me a little shove. ‘Stop daydreaming! Mr Smithson’s not that scary – he’s quite sweet, really. Come on!’

  Outwardly, Sheldon Busby’s hadn’t changed much for a hundred years, having four huge display windows: one for musical instruments, one for records, one for sheet music, and the other filled with all the intricate bits and pieces vital to the professional musician. Taking a deep breath, I followed Paula through the set-back door of the records section.

  The Beatles were belting out ‘Get Back’ from an unseen amplifier, the lights were dimmed, it was stiflingly hot, and the walls were covered in signed posters and photographs of really famous rock stars. All down the middle of the shop there were rows of tiered stands filled with records: LPs, EPs, 45s, even some 78s, and a wide counter along two walls with several constantly-ringing cash registers and even more records stacked behind, beside, and above it. People were three-deep round the displays, the two girls behind the counter were working flat-out, and it was unbelievably noisy.