Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce
Chapter 24
The protest has already begun by the time I arrive at work the next morning, with Irene heading up the demonstration. She hasn’t chained herself to the rail yet but she’s thrusting the biggest banner and shouting the loudest. Gillian’s trying to reason with the group, which is quite small at the moment with only a dozen or so pensioners, but they’re having none of it. They woke up ready for a fight and they’re not swallowing any ‘corporate lies’ and backing down. Especially as the bacon butties haven’t arrived from the café yet.
Gillian rolls her eyes up to the sky as I pass, and she catches up to me as I’m making my way to the events office.
‘I am going to throttle whoever started that bloody rumour.’ Poor Gillian looks stressed. Her shoulders are hunched and her usually neat hair is askew on the right-hand side. ‘I just need to find out who it was and hunt the bugger down. You don’t happen to know who it was, do you?’
I shake my head. Past me had no idea and present me is just as clueless. ‘Did you tell them it isn’t true?’ Silently, I add can you tell me it isn’t true? Because I really need to have not caused a change in my getting-out-of-Little-Heaton timeline with my interfering in the past.
Gillian gives me an exasperated look. ‘I’ve told them every way I can think of. There are no plans to sell and there never have been. Someone must have heard … something … and got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘You could tell them what the right end of the stick is?’
Gillian’s shoulders slump even further. ‘I wish I could. I wish I could go out there and tell them all what’s going on, but I can’t. Not yet.’ Gillian’s eyes widen. ‘Not that there’s anything to tell.’ We’ve reached Gillian’s office and she darts inside before she blabs the whole proposed deal. But even though she hasn’t leaked anything, I’m convinced enough by her mini slip-up that the castle – and therefore my ticket out of the village – is safe.
Mel’s on the phone when I step into the events office, his body hunched over his desk as he speaks in hushed tones. I can’t make out everything he’s saying, but I manage to pick out odd words and phrases as I wait for my computer to load up.
‘What more do you want? Tanks rolling over the old dears?’ Mel, in a heated state of annoyance, has forgotten his need to be discreet. ‘Great. Thanks a lot, Will.’ He slams the phone down and throws himself back in his seat, his head lolling back so he’d be looking up at the ceiling if his hands weren’t covering his eyes.
‘You’re taking a risk getting the papers involved.’ My computer has loaded up so I open my email, which is mostly spam.
‘What else am I meant to do?’ Mel peels his hands away from his eyes, leaving his fingers resting on his cheeks. ‘I can’t go out there and join the protest. Not if I want to keep my job. But I can drum up a bit of support on the quiet.’ He straightens in his seat and spins around to face me. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’
I pull my fingers across my lips. ‘I won’t say a word, though I think you’re getting worked up about nothing. You all are. The castle isn’t being knocked down. It isn’t being sold.’
‘No offence, Elodie, but how would you know if it was or not? Because Gillian told you so? Don’t be naïve.’ He turns his seat to face his desk again and grabs his phone, jabbing a number in aggressively. He doesn’t bother with the hushed tones this time as he attempts to get the protest covered by another reporter.
By lunchtime, the protest has started to gather momentum; there are now at least fifty people gathered outside the gates – and no longer restricted to pensioners – and there’s an amp blaring out Wamdue Projects’ ‘King of My Castle’, which Irene is jutting her placard up and down to the beat of. There are teenagers sunbathing on towels, mums trying to get their toddlers to sit on picnic blankets and prodding sandwiches and carrots sticks at them, and more bacon sandwiches being passed around from the café. Even Gran’s here, a finger stuck in one ear against the music while she chats with Reverend Carter.
I sneak past and head down to the café. I usually grab lunch from the restaurant at the hotel – perk of the job – but I have plans this afternoon. The café is empty due to the non-working population of the village having decamped to the hill, but the owner is happy as their bacon butty runs have filled the till more than a usual weekday morning. With a couple of bacon sandwiches and takeaway coffees, I head across the footbridge and along the lane until I reach the new housing development. I thought I might have to hang around for a while but I’ve timed it just right as I see Tomasz heading for his van as I follow the curve of the rubble that will one day become a pavement.
‘Lunchbreak?’ I hold up the paper bags. ‘I thought I’d come and update you on the protest.’
‘Is that a bacon butty?’ Tomasz’s face has lit up as he walks towards me, his cheeks rounding as he grins. The sun has brought out the freckles across them and lightened his strawberry blond hair.
‘With red and brown sauce.’ I pass over one of the paper bags. ‘Which is disgusting, by the way.’
‘Everyone says that until they’ve tried it.’ I have tried it. And it’s as repellent as I thought it would be. ‘So how’s the protest coming along?’
‘Pretty active.’ We’ve started to wander along the rubbly street, me being extra careful in my espadrilles. They look pretty with my belted wrap dress but I’m in danger of breaking an ankle on the loose stones. ‘They’re blasting music and everything now, but nobody’s glued themselves to the wall yet.’
Tomasz gives me a sharp look. ‘Don’t give Gran any ideas like that. She’s already talking about chaining herself to the gate.’
I press my lips together tightly. Irene won’t be simply talking about it for much longer. Still, at least it’ll attract the attention that Mel was after this morning.
‘Gran’s in her element though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this zealous about anything.’
‘The castle means a lot to her. It’s where she met your grandad.’ I’m tempted to ask Tomasz to tell me the tale of how Irene and Franciszek met again, because it really is a lovely story. Maybe they should have added it to the newspaper article, to share it with a wider audience.
‘I guess if it wasn’t for the castle, I wouldn’t be here.’ There’s a frown on Tomasz’s face as we reach the end of the rubble and start to cut across the grass. ‘Maybe I should join them after work. Add my support.’
‘I think your gran would like that.’
Without discussion, we’ve made our way to the canal, and we use the beam of the lock as a makeshift bench. A couple of ducks glide their way towards us and Tomasz pinches off two bits of muffin to chuck down into the water as they approach.
‘How are you doing? After the Otis thing?’
The ducks are bobbing on the water, waiting for more bread, and Tomasz keeps his gaze on them as he asks the question.
‘I’m okay. It was the right thing to do.’ I perhaps should have done it earlier. Maybe not while we were camping, as that would have ruined the whole festival, but sooner than I did. Once a scaredy-cat, always a scaredy-cat it seems. ‘I keep checking up on him, seeing what he’s posted on social media. Is that weird?’
Tomasz lifts one shoulder and releases it. ‘It’s all out in the public domain, and it’s coming from a good place. It isn’t as though you’re camped outside his place with a pair of binoculars.’
‘There’s no point. The bushes are too high to see anything through the window.’ I catch Tomasz’s eye and we both snigger. The freckles across his nose are really evident in the sunshine, and I want to reach out and trace a finger over them. I’ve missed this. Tomasz and me. The bacon sandwich clumps in my throat as I think of all the terrible things I said to him after the accident, and I have to gulp down my coffee to shift it.
‘What?’ Tomasz reaches up to touch his face, touching the tips of his fingers to his nose. ‘Sauce?’
‘No. Sorry.’ I didn’t realise I was staring at him and I look down at my lap. ‘I was miles away. Thinking about …’ The past. Us. Everything I gave up because I was hurt and angry and grieving. ‘… the, um, the protest. And the castle. My job. It’s all in jeopardy, isn’t it?’
‘I thought you were absolutely, one million per cent sure the castle wasn’t being sold.’ Tomasz leans across so he can bump his arm against mine. There’s a lump in my throat again, but this time it has nothing to do with my sandwich.
‘I am.’ My voice comes out croaky and my eyes are starting to burn with the threat of tears.
‘Hey, it’ll be okay.’ Tomasz’s hand is on my back, his palm warm through the fabric of my dress, and that just makes it worse. ‘Gran’s on the case, remember.’
I smile, despite everything, and I nod. ‘Yeah, she is. And everything will be fine.’ I’ll make sure it is. I’ve been given this second chance and I won’t mess it up this time.