Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce

Chapter 6

‘Kids In America’ plays on a loop as I make my way to the woods, my feet autopiloting their way to the clearing near the rope swing. It’s peaceful here, with the grass soft underfoot and the trees creating a barrier from the real world, encircling me like a giant, woodland hug. I find a good spot to sit, with a patch of dry grass and a wide tree trunk to lean against. I set the song going again and think about what’s happening to me. Why it’s happening to me. Being flung back in time is impossible, yet here I am. It isn’t a dream or an hallucination. It’s all too real. Too vivid. I could feel dust in my nostrils while up in the loft, could taste it on my tongue, can feel every ridge on the bark of the tree as I run my finger along it. For whatever reason, I’m reliving this day but I need to wake up back on the plane. Or, better still, wake up back in my apartment, back in California. I can’t stay here in Little Heaton, knowing what will happen but being powerless to change it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s been buzzing in there on and off for the past twenty minutes but I’ve ignored it. I take it out now and unlock the screen. Five missed calls and now a text. All from Heather. She wants to know where I am, because I’m not at home, clearing out the loft. But her words are a lot more sweary. I play the song one last time before I set off through the trees, finding my way easily to the lane that will lead me through the village. It seems I don’t need Yvonne to lead the way after all; all those years of hanging out in the woods has embedded a map of it in my brain. I even remember where to duck to avoid low-hanging branches and when to swerve to steer clear of ditches and exposed tree roots.

We used to disappear for hours in the woods when we were kids. We’d light campfires and toast marshmallows, which Ed excelled at due to his years as a Boy Scout, and there were unlimited make-believe adventures to be had. We’d grown out of hanging out in the woods years ago – around the same time Yvonne started seeing Craig Radcliffe, who was older than we were so could get served in the pub while Ed, Yvonne and I would hide away in a corner of the beer garden. The woods, fun as they’d been, simply couldn’t compete with alcopops.

It’s a bit weird then that we’d gone into the woods to mess about on the old rope swing when we were twenty-four, and I’m trying to recall the reasoning behind it when I hear my name being called. I turn to see Mrs Gacey standing in the doorway of the minimarket with a face like thunder.

‘What are you playing at? You’re late.’ She taps her wrist before she disappears into the shop, the door slamming behind her as she grumbles to herself. Christine Gacey was the cranky old cow who owned the minimarket with her husband, who only seemed to emerge from the flat above the shop to go to the pub or to head into town to spend the day – and the shop’s takings – in the bookies. And I had the pleasure of working for them. Looking back, I can understand why Mrs Gacey was always in a mood, but back then I simply saw her as a tyrant in a tabard.

‘Five o’clock.’ Mrs Gacey is standing behind the counter in front of the cigarette display, unfastening her trademark tabard, but she stops and folds her arms across her sagging bosom when I walk into the shop. ‘You are supposed to start at five o’clock on the dot so I can have my break. It’s now …’ She unfolds her arms so she can consult the watch on her wrist. ‘Twelve and a half minutes past.’

‘Sorry. You must be starving. There’ll be a new Band Aid single released for you this year. “Do They Know It’s Christine?”’

I don’t say this, unfortunately, because even now, eight years on, I’m still not brave enough to backchat Mrs Gacey. Instead, I look down at the tiled floor and mumble an apology, promising not to be late again.

‘There’s stock that needs putting out – give Mr Gacey a shout if you can’t manage the spuds.’

I sneak a peek up at Mrs Gacey, to see if there’s a hint of amusement on her face, but she’s deadly serious, as though if I did ask Nigel for a hand lugging the huge sacks of potatoes to the veggie display, he’d be right there, sleeves rolled up and eager to help.

‘And watch out for those Radcliffe boys.’ Mrs Gacey pulls the tabard over her head. ‘They were in here last night, trying to fill their thieving pockets with sweets. The older one nearly got away with it but I caught the little swine red-handed and marched him home. Not that the mother or father gave a damn.’ She tuts as she aggressively folds the tabard into a neat square. ‘They should bring back National Service. Teach the little buggers a bit of respect. My Gary never behaved so appallingly and Dominic is the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet.’ She places her tabard on the shelf underneath the counter. ‘Come on. Don’t stand there gawping. That fruit and veg should have been out hours ago but I’ve been rushed off my feet.’

I glance around the shop, which is void of any customers. Unless someone’s hiding behind the pocket money toys carousel?

‘I’m booked in for a shampoo and set. Shaz is keeping the salon open late, especially.’ She steps out from behind the counter, smoothing down her blouse at the front. ‘And then Mr Gacey’s taking me out for my tea so you’ll need to lock up tonight. You need to find yourself a good husband, Elodie, and then you’ll get taken to posh restaurants too.’ Mrs Gacey sounds so smug and her lips are almost flickering upwards in what could be described as a smile if you’d never seen real happiness before.

‘Mr Gacey win on the horses then?’ Past me wouldn’t have dared to be so flippant, but the question pops out before I can stop it. Mr Gacey was fond of the horses, but it wasn’t very often that he backed the right one. More often than not, he could be found dipping his hand in the till rather than treating his wife to nice meals out.

The flickering at Mrs Gacey’s lips ceases. The corners are now firmly down as she eyes me across the shop. ‘I beg your pardon?’

I swallow hard and focus on the tiled floor. I’m not so brave after all.

‘You need to watch your mouth, young lady. No man wants to marry a sassy girl, especially the grandson of a vicar. Are you still courting Edward? Perhaps I should have a word with Reverend Carter, hmm?’

I raise my head and look Mrs Gacey dead in the eye. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that in a few years, Reverend Carter would give anything to have his grandson courting a girl like me, sass and all. But I don’t say it.

‘Ed and I aren’t together. We’re just friends.’

Mrs Gacey puffs air out of her nostrils. ‘You don’t fool me, lady. I’ve seen you cavorting through the village together. Always giggling and holding hands. You’re all over each other. Just friends, my eye.’

I could tell her that men and women can be just friends, that not everything comes down to sex. But I don’t. Mrs Gacey isn’t the first person to mistake me and Ed for a couple, and even I thought we’d end up together for a long time too, because I’d never loved anyone as much as I loved Ed. Until Tomasz.

Hauling the huge sack of potatoes from the storeroom to the front of the shop makes my arms and lower back burn, but I somehow manage to drag it across the shop floor. It’s baffling that I never developed a hernia while working at the minimarket.

‘Here. Let me.’

A pair of hands clutch the sack of potatoes and I recognise them. How could I not? I could map out every freckle on their wrists so when I look up, puffing a strand of hair off my sweaty forehead, I’m not surprised to see Tomasz Nowak. Despite the warning, my stomach flips when I see him and my heart starts to gallop. Where Sacha is tall and brooding with dark blond curls and long lashes framing brown eyes, his little brother is fairer, with his strawberry blond hair flopping over his ears and into his eyes. His face is largely hidden by the hair, but you can see it is more open than Sacha’s. Tomasz was mellow to Sacha’s brashness, kind to his disinterest, calming to his unruliness. Unlike his brother, Tomasz isn’t the kind of guy who would break your heart. Which makes it even more distressing that I broke his.

I snatch my hands away from the sack and take a step backwards. Apart from the glance earlier outside the pub, this is the first time I’ve seen Tomasz since the day I told him I was leaving for California, alone, and that I never wanted to hear from him again. I’m unnerved by the reunion but if Tomasz senses my discomfort, he doesn’t show it and simply gets on with the job of dragging the heavy sack in front of the veg display.

‘Thanks.’ My palms are sweaty after the exertion of moving the spuds from the stockroom so I swipe them across the back of my jeans.

‘No problem.’ Tomasz shrugs before he delves into the sack. I watch him for a moment as he transfers potatoes from the sack to the box lined with plasticky-looking fake grass. ‘Are you just going to stand there and watch or what? You’re like my brother. He thinks he can stand there looking pretty while I do all the hard work as well.’ He grins at me, to show he’s kidding, but I hold on to his words. Looking pretty. Did he really think I was pretty back then, at the beginning? Even when I was make-up-free and grubby from an afternoon in the loft? I want to ask him but I can’t seem to form the words and instead distract myself by jumping into action and grabbing handfuls of potatoes to stack in the display box.

‘I think I saw you earlier. Outside the pub. We’ve just moved in.’

He noticed us. He noticed me.

I nod, my eyes focused on the task of filling up the box with potatoes. I can’t look at him and not blurt out all the words I’ve been holding in for four years.

‘You think this is bad.’ I see Tomasz, waggling a potato, out of the corner of my eye. ‘Try working for your parents.’

I give a puff of contempt. I still can’t look directly at him. ‘You think working in a pub is bad? Trying making beds and cleaning toilets. You can tell a lot about people by how they leave their beds and bathrooms.’

‘They have you making their bed and cleaning the bog?’ I realise I’ve put my foot in it. I didn’t start working at the hotel for another few months. I sneak a glance at Tomasz and see him pull a face before I snatch my eyes away again. This is what happens when you let your guard down. You forget to be careful and make mistakes.

‘No, but I wouldn’t put it past Mrs Gacey.’ I wipe my sweaty forehead. I should be used to the heat after living in California, but it’s a stuffier kind of heat here and there’s no air con. ‘I was just saying there are worse jobs than pulling pints.’

‘I guess, but I really need to find a job out here, as soon as.’ Tomasz’s face cracks as a grin spreads across his face. ‘What have you done to yourself? You’ve got a big dirty streak across your forehead.’ He points at my hands, which are filthy from handling the unwashed potatoes. ‘Come here.’ Pulling the sleeve of his T-shirt over his hand, he wipes at my forehead with a gentle touch.

‘Thanks.’ My gaze drops to the potatoes as I take a step away. I knew looking at Tomasz was a mistake, because being near him is unnerving and it feels as though the past is rushing at me, bulldozing me with every thought and emotion from back then. All those feelings of love and loss and grief that I so carefully packed away as I jetted off for California are unfurling before me and I’m afraid to acknowledge them in case I break.

There are reminders of Ed all over Little Heaton: the woods where our adventures were set, the church where his grandfather preached and the adjoining hall where Ed and I met as babies as our mums bonded over tea and biscuits and a shared lack of sleep. There’s the pub where we had our first legal drink and the war memorial opposite, which Ed fell off after too many legal drinks and had to have stitches across his temple, and every single pavement we ever walked along. And although I didn’t know Tomasz nearly as long, Little Heaton is packed with memories of him too: the beer garden where we spent lazy summers, the flat above the charity shop that was small but ours, the canal that we would stroll along as we made plans for the future.

Recollections of my life with Tomasz and Ed are as much a part of the village as the hodgepodge buildings, but it’s bittersweet being here because as much as I cherish each and every memory, they only remind me of how much I miss them. There are no more memories to be made, and it’s crushing to face up to that.