Sweet Home Summer Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Around about now…

  The town was dying, Bridget Collins thought as she rubbed the condensation from her front room window with a tea towel and peered outside to the stretch of road that was Bibury’s High Street. The heavens had opened last night and despite it being February she’d had to get the fire going, hence this morning’s unseasonal condensation. People said it was global warming, but she knew better, most Coasters did. It wasn’t a new thing, this unpredictable weather; she’d known it to snow in February more than once. Still, at least the sun was trying to make a reappearance today.

  Bridget had lived here her entire life and had seen the town through its boom times when the mines’ money had flowed, and the town was prosperous. She smiled recalling how she used to mince off to her first job in the offices of the Farmer’s building each morning, full of the joy of being young and pretty. What a pity one didn’t understand then that youth was fleeting and try to bottle some of that wonderful joie de vivre to bring out and sniff now and again in one’s golden years. That wasn’t the way life worked though, and this only became clear when time had faded every year, stretching them long and thin until they become worn and tired. A bit like knicker elastic, she thought.

  The store where she’d once worked had long since departed, just like the money from the mines. These days the Four Square Supermarket operated out of the old Farmer’s building, and if you wanted a decent pair of pantyhose, a person had to go all the way into Greymouth. Today, the High Street was deserted apart from the campervan parked outside the Kea Tearooms. Mind you, Noeline had told her just the other day that most of the tourists only bought a pot of tea between them so they could use the loo.

  ‘Bloody cheek,’ she’d muttered in strident tones, her ample bosom puffing out in indignation.

  Bridget had been assailed with a waft of Noeline’s perfume. She was heavy-handed with it, whatever it was. It was a shame she wasn’t so heavy-handed when it came to the amount of filling she put in her mince pies.

  ‘None of them want an egg and ham sarnie on white bread anymore. Oh no, it’s all bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese or goat’s cheese tarts. And don’t get me started on the Gluten Free Brigade. I don’t mind telling you Bridget; I’m about ready to hang up my apron.’

  Bridget had been tempted to say that with Noeline’s niece, or whatever a second cousin’s daughter was called, installed in the café these days it had been awhile since she’d seen her don an apron and do any work. Annie was the girl’s name, and she’d arrived on the scene with the foreign fellow who’d taken the teaching post at the High School for the start of the new school year. She was determined to introduce some new ‘modern’ ideas to the tearoom. Thus far, Noeline was holding firm.

  Bridget sympathized; she couldn’t be doing with all that fandangled food the cafés served in Christchurch and Greymouth for that matter either. As far as she was concerned those pumpkin seed thing-a-me-bobs that were sprinkled on the top of everything these days were for the birds and cream cheese gave her indigestion. She was with Noeline when it came to a good old ham and egg sarnie, although she was partial to cheese and onion herself. Cheese made from cow’s milk, thank you very much. And as for all these new so-called food intolerances, well … she shook her head. In her day if you had a square meal put in front of you once a day then you were grateful.

  Bridget looked out at the lifeless street and sighed; the town had been like a tyre with a slow puncture in the years since the Barker’s Ridge mine had closed down. On one side of the tearoom across the street was Bibury Arts & Crafts, where local people could display and sell their wares. In competition with Noeline on the other side of her business, but with enough breathing space between the two thanks to a grassy Council owned strip of land, was everybody’s favourite Friday night takeaway, the fish & chippy. The Cutting Room hair salon was next to that.

  The corner block was taken up by the Four Square’s brick building and gave the town’s kids the opportunity of an after school job. It was where Isla had worked as a teenager. Bridget could still see her in her blue zip-up smock sitting behind the till when she closed her eyes. Oh, how she’d moaned about wearing that uniform. It was ugly, she’d cried. Her granddaughter was nothing if not determined though and Bridget had nearly dropped her eggs in the aisle spying her one Saturday afternoon in a blue zip up mini. Isla had taken it upon herself to fold the hem up several inches before loosely stitching it. The memory made her smile as her gaze travelled on towards the butcher’s. It was owned by the Stewart brothers and competed with the supermarket for business. A narrow side street separated it from Mitchell’s Pharmacy.

  The Valentine’s Day window display in the pharmacy urged the romantics of Bibury to pop on in and treat their sweetheart to something special. It was where Bridget’s daughter Mary worked as a Revlon Consultant, and the pharmacy’s only floor staff. Next to Mitchell’s was the two-pump Shell garage. The Robson family had owned it under one conglomerate’s umbrella or another for as long as Bridget could remember. From her front room vantage point, she could see Ben Robson’s broad, overall-clad back bent over the engine of a Ute. She’d been at school with his grandfather. Poor old Raymond had gone a bit dotty in the last few years and was now in permanent residence at a care facility over in Greymouth. The garage’s tow truck that Ben took out now and again was parked off to the side of the forecourt with a beaten up looking farm truck still hooked to its boom.

  Ben had recently taken over the family business and his parents, Bridget knew, had swanned off last Friday on a month-long cruise to celebrate their newfound freedom. ‘Not everybody’s on struggle street in Bibury then,’ she’d said, pursing her lips when her friend Margaret had relayed the news.

  Ben had been at school with her grandson Ryan. They were great mates, the two of them, and still kept in touch. He was a lovely lad, and she’d been pleased when Isla had begun to step out with him. She’d glowed with her first love and in her, Bridget had seen herself as a young girl once more. She’d never understood why Isla had given him the heave-ho the way she had. He’d moped around the town for months after she moved to Christchurch. He’d kept asking her and Mary when Isla was coming home for a weekend, but the times she had, she’d kept him dangling by keeping her distance. The pair of them had been so smitten with each other too, or that was the way it had seemed from the outside looking in. Then out of the blue Isla had broken things off with Ben by saying their long-distance relationship wasn’t working.

  There was more to it, Bridget was sure, and she’d been hurt when Isla hadn’t confided in her. She’d always had a special relationship with her granddaughter. Right from when she was a little girl who’d pop in on her way home from school for one of her gran’s freshly baked scones or, if it was a special occasion, Isla’s favourite, a custard square. Bridget could still see the pigtailed girl she’d been, perched up at the kitchen table earnestly telling her about her day.

  Bridget understood her granddaughter’s need to broaden her mind, and she knew it was all the fashion to put your career first and stay single well into your thirties these days. Women should have a career if that was what they wanted. Of course they should, and nobody could say Isla hadn’t done that. The thing that seemed to have been forgotten along the way though was that being a wife and mother was a worthwhile career too.

  When had staying home to raise your children become a foreign concept? You didn’t need a flat screen television and a new car for heaven’s sake! But your children needed you, and they grew up so very fast. Bridget had to listen to Margaret prattle on about how the grandchildren were coming to stay for the holidays. ‘Melanie works you know,’ she’d state self-righteously. ‘She has to with the cost of living these days.’ Bridget would bite back the retort, ‘and did she have to have a ridiculously big house in a posh suburb too?’

  Times had changed and not for the better in her opinion. People didn’t want to save for anything anymore or make do unt
il they could afford to buy it. She remembered how she and Tom had eaten mince for a month back in the day, to buy their lounge suite. They’d bought it in Greymouth and had kept the plastic wrapping on the cushions for weeks after they got it home for fear of Mary or Jack putting their dirty feet on it.

  She watched now as Ben straightened, missing smacking his head on the Ute’s bonnet with the practised manoeuvring of a seasoned mechanic. He disappeared from her line of sight into the garage’s workshop. She’d heard that he was seeing the pretty blonde girl who had taken over from Violet McDougall as the school’s new secretary. From what her hairdresser, Marie, had been saying as she snipped at Bridget’s hair last week at The Cutting Room, things were getting serious between them too.

  Isla had made a mistake in breaking things off with Ben in Bridget’s opinion. Yes, she knew it was all over years ago, but her granddaughter had not met anyone else worthwhile in the ensuing years. Certainly not the unmanly Tim she’d been shacked up with over in London – Mary had told her he used moisturiser for heaven’s sake and that he had gotten very excited when he’d thought she might be able to ship him Revlon products over at cost. She’d seen the light, thank goodness, and called that relationship a day. But while Ben’s life was moving forward, it seemed to Bridget that Isla’s was floundering once more. It was all well and good having a high-powered job, but it would not keep a woman warm at night.

  Bridget became aware that the postman was at the letterbox waving at her. He must think her a right old Nosy Nelly, she thought, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. She let the net curtain fall back into place but not before she saw him slotting an envelope into the box.

  Her heart began to thud alarmingly as she left the front room and moved to the hallway with its long reaching shadows. She stood there twiddling her thumbs and telling herself to calm down. If she hadn’t known that this sudden agitation was down to the possible contents of her letterbox, she might have taken herself off to the Medical Centre. A visit there was enough to induce a cardiac arrest in itself. It was another anomaly about getting older that a person was expected to discuss one’s intimate body ailments with a chap who looked as if he had only just waved goodbye to puberty. She waited for a few beats longer to ensure the postman would have cycled further on up the street before stepping outside her front door. She wasn’t in the mood to exchange banal pleasantries.

  ‘No, I’m not interested in selling.’ she muttered upon opening her letterbox and being greeted with a real estate flyer. ‘And if I were I wouldn’t employ you.’ She pushed the flyer aside – the agent looked like Donald Trump for goodness’ sake – and retrieved the plain white envelope with its Australian postmark tucked beneath it. She was about to disappear back inside the house when she heard a familiar voice. It made her jump, and she hoped she didn’t look as furtive as she felt.

  ‘Morning Mum. I was going to get some morning tea and then pop in on you. It’s nice to see the sun again after last night, isn’t it?’

  Bridget waved across the road to Mary. Good grief, that orange face of hers was like a beacon sitting atop her white pharmacy smock. If she were to stand still by the roadside vehicles would slow and come to a stop thinking they’d reached a pedestrian crossing. When Bridget had asked her why it was she was getting about looking like an Oompa-Loompa lately, her daughter had shot her a withering look and told her it was down to the latest innovation in facial bronzing. ‘It gives my face a healthy, sun–kissed glow Mum, without inflicting the damaging rays of the sun on my skin. Sun damage causes premature ageing as well as skin cancer you know.’ Mary had her sales pitch down pat.

  Bridget had snorted but bit back the retort hovering on the tip of her tongue. She’d given up arguing with her daughter years ago. Mary was a grown woman in her fifties and if she wanted to look like Mr Wonka’s helper so be it. Still, it was annoying how the tune kept getting stuck in her head – Oompa-Loompa doom-p-dee-do – whenever she saw her.

  She was one of a kind, Mary, definitely not a chip off the old block. There’s a saying; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well, it certainly had with Mary, Bridget often thought. Her daughter had never been much of a cook, despite her best efforts to teach her. She’d given up in the end and resorted to buying her a copy of the trusty Edmonds Cookery Book when she got married. Mary, she knew, wielded it with almost biblical fervour. It had become Ryan’s and Isla’s inside joke growing up, to try and guess the page number for the evening’s meal, some of which they knew by heart so often had their mother made them. Still, Mary was a good mum and a good daughter, and Joe by all accounts was pleased with his choice of bride given his penchant for grabbing her bottom whenever the opportunity presented itself. Even if she was orange.

  ‘Yes, it’s going to be a lovely day, and you can see I’m fine Mary, you don’t need to pop in. Besides I’m off to bowls shortly. Any word from Isla?’ Bridget called back across the street.

  ‘No, but I’m not expecting to hear from her while she’s in California, she said the cell phone coverage isn’t very good.’

  ‘Ah right.’ Bridget mentally shooed her daughter on her way, feeling as though the envelope she was holding was a hot potato.

  ‘The warm weather will do her good, Mum,’ Mary said giving her a final wave before opening the door of the Kea. Bridget watched her go inside the café before turning and making her way back up to the house. A needle-like pain in her hip made her wince as she ascended the steps to the front porch. ‘Sodding arthritis,’ she said to no one in particular before closing the door behind her.

  It was last night’s rain and the ensuing damp air it had left in its wake that had set it off again. The tumble she’d taken a few weeks back hadn’t helped matters either. Mary had begun making noises about Bridget selling up and coming to live with her and Joe ever since. She’d offered to turn Joe’s workshop into a granny flat for her. Tripping over the lip on the backdoor step wouldn’t have been a big deal had she not found herself unable to get up. At the time she thought she might have broken her hip but had found out later it was just badly bruised along with her pride. She’d felt, lying in a heap on the kitchen floor, old. Properly old for the first time and she didn’t like it. Nor did she much like the idea of moving in with Mary and Joe. She was fairly certain Joe didn’t think it was a bright idea either. She wouldn’t want to put him in the position of choosing between his beloved Harley Davidson motorcycle and his mother-in-law.

  Her son, Jack who was high up in mining and had a flashy house over in Greymouth had made noises too, about her coming to live with him and that wife of his, Ruth. He was just paying lip service to the idea though. Bridget knew she wouldn’t last five minutes under the same roof as Ruth, who was far too bossy for her boots and insufferable when it came to singing the praises of their children, Thomas and Theresa. No, while there was breath in her body she was staying put thank you very much. She hadn’t spent the last fifty-five years creating memories in her home only to leave it when the going got a little tough.

  Oh, they weren’t all happy memories, but then that was the stuff of life. She’d learned to compartmentalize and shut herself off from what she didn’t want to know, mainly thanks to Tom’s philandering a long time ago. She wasn’t called Bridget for nothing she thought, heading towards the sound of the radio emanating from her kitchen. Her mother used to tell her not to cry when she’d run in howling with a grazed knee or some such grievous injury. ‘Don’t you know Bridget means power and strength in Irish?’ she’d say.

  Bridget would’ve liked to have gone to Ireland. She’d always thought she and Tom might visit one day, but then he’d gotten sick, and the thought of going on her own after he passed away had been a daunting one. Her mind had been in turmoil for such a long time after his death. All she’d thought she’d known had been proven a lie in the hours before he’d passed and she’d clung white-knuckled, to the familiar. Sometimes she was secretly glad she’d never made the long trip to the other side of the world. That
way she couldn’t be disappointed if the colourful picture her mother had painted of the country in which her grandmother had grown up didn’t quite live up to her expectations.

  Besides, as she thought of the weatherboard sitting on its quarter acre section that she and Tom had purchased when they were married, she couldn’t imagine leaving the old girl for any great chunk of time. It would be like leaving a sinking ship. It would be like leaving Bibury for that matter, and that was incomprehensible because it was all she’d ever known. Bridget flicked the switch on the kettle and set about making herself a brew. Only when it was strong enough to stand a spoon up in did she feel ready to sit down and open the envelope.

  Chapter 3

  Bridget’s hands trembled as she stared at the Valentine’s Day card in her hand. A white love heart on a red background inside which the words, For Someone Special, were inscribed. It was two days early, and she didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. Nevertheless, she did.

  Her fingers traced his handwriting, and she closed her eyes to see if she could conjure up a picture of what Charlie must look like now. It was the sixth Valentine’s Day card she’d received from him. He’d heard through the miners’ long reaching grapevine that Tom had passed away and had waited a full year after his death before sending her the first card. What a shock that had been! Sixty years had fallen away as she’d opened the card and read his condolences. The verse he’d chosen brought tears to her eyes but it was his request to come and visit her that had made her legs turn to jelly and her stomach begin to churn. She hadn’t replied to that card or the ones that had followed annually since. How could she? Not when there was so much water under the bridge. She couldn’t revisit the past with him; it was simply too painful.