Starting Over Read online

  She curled up with mortification whenever she thought of it. How would she ever look him in the eye again?

  But then. It was comfortable, stretched on the warm grass by Angel’s foxgloves that were busy with bumbling bees, roughing Nigel surfing, snorkelling, sunbathing. Toby played with two friends and a box of cars and Jenna toddled after them. Angel managed a well-earned doze.

  And suddenly Pete and Ratty were wheeling out the barbecue and McLaren, Ratty’s soft dog, was snapping at flies and panting revolting hot slobber. Before Tess could retreat she was surrounded by people flopping down onto the grass, delighted that the day’s work was done, the sun was out and the beer was cold.

  And nobody mentioned it, nobody blamed her that her body was treacherous over its simple functions and she’d, humiliatingly, needed help. Except Ratty, rolling over to inspect the sheet of Nigels, enquired, matter-of-factly, ‘Better now?’

  On a fresh, scalding flush, she mumbled, ‘Yes. Um, thanks … sorry for, y’know …’

  He pulled a strand of her hair. ‘Don’t worry about it. We both survived.’

  And that was all.

  Tess could relax. She realised she kind of … trusted Ratty.

  The children did, too, she thought, leaning back on her elbows to watch Toby and his friends examining the tattoos on Ratty’s arms. He shrugged off his shirt to display a tattoo that was new to her on his left shoulder blade, a car wheel. Angel would probably be able to tell her it had five-spoke alloys and a low profile tyre, or some other apparently desirable attribute. Fine dark hair covered his chest in flat whorls. Ratty never sweetened his voice for the children or crouched to their level but it was always him they selected to unknot string, make repairs or replace batteries.

  McLaren opened a brown eye occasionally to flick a glance at the children capering round and round him and Ratty, who was by now comparing how-not-to-get-along-with-your-parents stories with Angel, or, in Angel’s case, parents-in-law. Bickering over the rules of the game, the children collapsed to loll in Ratty’s shade. Slowly, Tess pulled her pad close.

  Her pencil hovered, and then began. Children. Childish movement, head-heavy proportion, every line a soft curve. Sketches, rough and feathery, began to appear for one of the final illustrations to complete The Dragons of Diggleditch; the childish nymphs of Diggleditch Forest frolicking unaware under the ominous and baleful gaze of Farny, half lizard, half man.

  Each small head she haloed in wispy curls, eyes almond, ears pointed prettily. Small bodies naked but for artful leaf arrangements.

  Farny, Farny, Farny. Lizard below the waist, man above, reptilian features. He had to look as if he was capable of turning nasty in an instant. She said, ‘I need a man’s body.’ And looked at Ratty.

  Breaking from his conversation, his brows up, he spread his arms hospitably. ‘Be gentle with me.’

  They all laughed, of course they laughed, at her blush and his leer. But she was alight. Now she knew exactly how the elusive illustration would go.

  ‘Would you sit? Just a sketch?’ Dancing with impatience she dragged a stubby stepladder from the shed. ‘Can you just ...?’ She patted the top and Ratty climbed, slowly. ‘On the very top, one foot here ... one there.’ Stood back.

  ‘Just wriggle back a bit ... each foot up a rung higher ...’ With quick movements she arranged him, elbows on thighs, hands hanging, back curved. ‘Look down at the children.’ She dropped to the grass, shooed everyone else away, sharpened her pencil with a sharpener from her pocket, started rapid work.

  After a few minutes Ratty sighed. ‘Pete, pass me my beer.’

  Tess glanced. ‘Not just now.’

  ‘My backside’s numb,’ he mentioned, ‘and my back aches.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, just hang on in.’ She kept him half an hour, closed her pad, sighed, ‘Wooh!’ And, ‘Thanks.’

  He landed crouched on the grass beside her like an animal, reopened the pad and flipped through to the page of baby nymphs dancing, skipping, adorable and elfin, seemingly unaware of, looming above them, the predatory presence of Farny. It’d worked really well, viewing her models from the level of the shortest, looking up at her baddie.

  The stepladder became a rock. Lizard legs bent the wrong way at the knee, clawed feet turning in to clutch the crevices, flesh scaled. Torso – Ratty’s own strong and hairy chest, muscled shoulders developing into extended, corded arms, elongated talons replacing mechanic’s hands. To capture the reptilian essence she’d placed the eyes far back, forehead slanting steeply away into snaky curls, expression meditative, brewing trouble, as if selecting a tasty morsel.

  Ratty recoiled. ‘Shit! Is this how you see me?’

  She stared. ‘’Course not, I just used bits and pieces of you. It’s a kids’ book, fantasy. Obviously there’s no life model for a non-existent being, so I improvise. You’re just a form ...’

  Peering, Angel breathed, ‘It’s so sexy!’ She touched the pencilled male torso as if feeling the power.

  Tess’s attention remained on Ratty. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  His eyes were riveted. ‘It’s so good. But I feel ...’ He hesitated. ‘I feel exposed. As if you’ve seen every bad thing I’ve ever done, everything about me that’s nasty or unkind. Somehow, you’ve drawn ... my dark side.’

  Her lips curved into a smile. ‘Oh, thank you!’

  Dreams. Dreams again. Grope overhead, yank the light cord. Let the light banish the dreams. Get up.

  Her workroom was as still as the rest of Honeybun Cottage in the summer night humidity, but she went there, opened the casement window and perched sideways on the deep sill. Looking diagonally out onto the moonlit lane and garden, she let her heart settle and the sweat cool.

  Early hours. Village inert, the latest stop-out was home and the dawn risers still sleeping. There was scarcely sufficient breeze to whisper through the leafy trees between Honeybun and Pennybun, but she felt better breathing the still air than twisted in clinging sheets and dreams.

  Would she never stop dreaming of Olly?

  Tonight, back in bed with Olly; he’d been there. She shuddered. Olly’s smooth hands, Olly’s wide shoulders and whippy body above her, dreams returning her to a world where she still had Olly, in awe of his God-given looks, entrapped by his overwhelming sense of self. Self-belief, self-importance. Still in the thrall of Olly’s self-image.

  Still glad to be his.

  She closed her eyes. Olly’s hands controlling the movement of her hips. It had been an age since Olly and she ...

  And in this night’s vivid illusion Olly had left again.

  Withdrawn just when she thought he’d stay. Taken her to the brink and abandoned her, unsatisfied. As he had so often, using some little callousness, calculated roughness, to stop her getting there because he wasn’t ready.

  But just when she groped for consciousness, escaped from the familiar frustration, a hand had reached from her sleep and pulled her back.

  Powerful, tender hand, winding itself in her hair, his body rough as it brushed her breasts. He pulled her to his scalding lips, this new lover, into a kiss of depth and intensity – some shady memory refused to form – then to trail, hot and arousing, to her breasts, whilst he rocked her to a building rhythm on his lap. Stroking, kissing, loving her to a point where her pleasure was the only important thing.

  She settled herself more comfortably on the hardness of the sill, rolling a pencil that had somehow jumped between her fingers, trying to make sense of the two-part dream.

  First, Olly. Obviously, Olly had made love to her countless times. Automatically her mind might supply Olly to any erotic dream. And, true to form, phantom Olly had vanished when his presence was most vital.

  But from what memory had she dredged up the other lover who’d taken her on from frustration? Rough velvet where Olly was glassy silk, boisterous passion against Olly’s control. Generous where Olly was mean.

  The old plasterwork was cool to lean against, to rest her head on, whilst she stared out
into moonlight that silvered where it touched, blackened what it missed. She was becoming happy, here at Honeybun, in a little old cottage among old things. Happy on her own, without a man to account for, or to, or compromise over. It felt secure.

  In the darkness was Lucasta in Pennybun. In the village centre, in Rotten Row, was Angel and Pete’s little brick and stone house.

  In Great End, Jos’s geese would be motionless among the shrubs around his pond.

  At the Cross, Ratty’s garage doors would be closed in the silence. Left up Port Road, left again to Ladies’ Lane, Ratty’s long house stood in his garden full of delphiniums and hollyhocks. ‘I’m a spiky person,’ he’d explained when she remarked that all his plants seemed to grow in spears.

  Yes, he was.

  Would he be sleeping alone or was it Chloë tonight? Lisa? Gina?

  These pretty ladies who were hardly ever included when he hung out with Jos, Pete, Angel and the kids – and now herself, of course. For the pretty ladies, he’d routinely detach himself from the domestic comfort of the group. ‘Right, I’m off.’

  Someone would joke, ‘Leaving us for better things?’

  ‘Clubbing with Shelli from the motor factors tonight.’ Or cinema with Marie from advertising at the local paper. Drinks with Melanie something or Belinda something else.

  They’d chorus, ‘Be good!’

  He’d quip, ‘Good? I’ll be marvellous!’ One thing he wasn’t, was short of company. All the Melanies, Maries and Belindas for his separate life.

  But for the stuff that mattered, summer days out, the British Motor Cycle Grand Prix at Donington, the stock cars at Brafield, it was Pete and Angel, and Jos.

  Now she was one of the group, too. Every day she saw Angel and the kids; little Jenna always made straight for Tess’s lap, Toby brought his comics to be shared. Pete, Jos and Ratty treated her with the same familiarity as they did Angel. Though she was ever conscious of being the newcomer, cautious of her welcome.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to invite you everywhere twice!’ Ratty complained recently. ‘‘‘Would you like to come to the folk festival, Tess?” “If you’re sure ...” “Yes, we’re sure!” If we didn’t want to invite you, believe me we wouldn’t.’ She must remember to accept with a certain, ‘That’d be lovely,’ instead of, ‘If you’re sure.’

  Angel had advised her just to go with the flow.

  Yesterday evening, Pete and Angel’s anniversary, she’d done exactly that. Arriving to babysit, she’d been intercepted by Angel in the kitchen. ‘Look at this!’ Angel whispered, beckoning her to the door to the sitting room.

  There was Ratty stretched out in the huge rocking chair that had been Angel’s grandmother’s, young Jenna flat out across his chest, face buried in the crook of his neck. Both of them were sound asleep. ‘Ain’t that sweet?’ cooed Angel. Then followed the normal rush of instructions. ‘Toby’s already gone off so he shouldn’t be any trouble. Jenna’s bottle is in the fridge if she wakes up but I shouldn’t think she will. Ratty’ll put her in the cot when he surfaces, just watch she doesn’t roll off him in the meantime. We’ll be back by midnight ... just a minute, Pete. We’re going to the Bettsbrough Odeon first ... yes, I’m coming ... and here’s the phone number for the restaurant and you’ve my mobile.’

  ‘Yes, but –’ But they were gone, Angel laughing at Pete’s impatience, kisses in the car, the engine firing, Pete driving and Angel checking her hair in her handbag mirror.

  Hmm. Tess peered again into the sitting room. Apart from crooking one leg, Ratty hadn’t moved. He looked peaceful, lips lightly touching, dark lashes resting thickly together. She remained, presumably, appointed babysitter. Ratty would doubtless have plans for later. Damn him, he was in the way.

  Lightly upstairs to check on Toby, then she grabbed her book and made for the sofa. Tough if she disturbed him. If she had to go with the flow then so did he.

  Her book was fascinating, a love story of a German officer and a local nurse on the island of Jersey during the German occupation. Riveting, the trials of warfare, the deaths, the deprivations.

  But she was aware the instant Ratty’s eyes opened. After several moments, he smiled, gently. ‘I’m in your way.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied. As he made no move, she lifted Jenna and carried her up to the cot waiting with turned-down sheet to receive the baby, sleep-flushed and adorable. She watched the little girl squirm on contact with the cool cotton, resting her hand on Jenna’s back whilst she settled, as Angel had taught her, waiting for the tiny body to relax.

  While she was upstairs, Ratty had made coffee. He dropped back in the rocker and groaned comfortably. ‘I’ve been to Liverpool today to get some bits. I’m shattered.’

  She was now educated enough to know that ‘some bits’ covered every and any part of any vehicle, common or rare, small or large, easy to transport or a nightmare. MAR Motors’ speciality of older cars made the procuring of ‘bits’ a constant preoccupation. ‘Bits’ for cars long out of production meant small ads, specialists and autojumbles all over the country or little engineering works that could reproduce the old. Ratty was also prepared to take on the awkward US classic market, talk the American jargon of ‘trunk’, ‘hood’ and ‘muffler’ which made Tess think of an elephant dressed in a duffel coat and scarf.

  Coffee cup empty, still he sat on, talking desultorily about kit cars, performance marques, classic cars. Makes and models she’d never heard of, TVR, Caterham and Pagani. A fast car was ‘quick’, had ‘poke’, the engine was ‘the lump’.

  Sliding her cup onto the table, she asked, ‘Why old cars?’

  ‘I know how they work. And it’s surprising how many so-called enthusiasts tire of the constant maintenance their classic vehicles demand and pay me to do some of it. Mechanics and bodywork mainly, I send the wiring and spraying to other places.

  ‘It’s all mechanical with the old stuff. You need a degree in computer programming, with the modern cars.’

  The mention of computers always made her think of Olly, of his group of like-minded, goateed, suited, IT types. She tried to change the direction of her thoughts. ‘Aren’t you expected to be somewhere this evening?’

  He lifted his wrist, glanced at his watch. ‘Too late, now. Don’t you want me here?’

  Could hardly say, ‘No, you unsettle me, I’m not sure if you just put up with me because of Angel. You’re different, hazardous, sharp, not the kind of man I’m used to.’ So she just shrugged and asked, ‘Won’t your date mind?’

  ‘She probably will but I don’t.’ See, if he was supposed to be kind how was he also so ruthless?

  So, instead of a quiet evening curled up with a book, safeguarding Toby and Jenna’s sleep, she spent the evening with Ratty.

  Ratty and a hundred questions. Was she over Olly yet, had her health improved, where did her family live? Had Guy ever paid back the two hundred?

  ‘Guy!’ She selected the easiest to answer. ‘Must owe me a fortune over the years. I wouldn’t mind but when his wife, Lynette, finds out, she gives me hell.’ Because it saved her talking about Olly Gray she rambled on about Guy and her growing out of adolescence and into early adulthood together. ‘Racing from one pub or dance or party to another in our first cars. Getting into scrapes, covering for each other. I suppose it’s an old habit.’

  ‘Did you sleep together?’

  She laughed. Ratty had helped himself to a bottle of Pete’s wine, a Merlot, and they were almost at the bottom of it. He’d pulled up the rocker and swung his feet onto the low table while Tess lounged on the sofa. ‘Sleep with Guy? God no, even if he wasn’t so hopeless with money and women it would’ve felt incestuous. He’s like a brother.

  ‘The nearest we got was bonking at opposite ends of the same barn, one night when the cider flowed. Talk about cringing with embarrassment in the morning!’ She grinned suddenly over the memory, undoing the clasp which had begun digging into the back of her head and shaking down her hair.

  ‘Fun,’ he
said lightly, watching. ‘Happy days. Angel tells me your hair is strawberry blonde.’

  Wrong-footed, she mumbled, ‘She’s the expert.’ She reached for the wine bottle. Empty.

  ‘Long hair’s wonderful.’ He shuffled down in his chair, eyes closed now to slits, head tilted as if ready to drift back to sleep. ‘Lord give me a woman with long, long hair. Mmm.’

  Casting about for a subject that was less personal, she told him about her parents, their substantial detached Oxfordshire house in Middleton Stoney with the ceanothus tree and conifers in the front garden.

  ‘Convenient for Silverstone. And Brafield,’ he said, relating the geography to racing circuits. ‘And not bad for the circuit at Rockingham.’

  ‘My mother was delighted when I turned up at home.’ And horrified but capable when the unsuspected embryo gave up on the world. ‘Now I’ve left again she’s worrying like mad. She came today for lunch and to check up on me. Keeps telling me how nice it’d be if I lived near her and Dad. She’s lonely when Dad’s away from home, checking out repo properties or overseeing whatever conversion he’s tied money up in.

  ‘She said that I didn’t know what being a parent means. Then bit her tongue when she realised what she’d said – me having lost a baby.’ Tess hunkered deeper into the sofa.

  Still following the conversation, although his lids were now completely shut, Ratty asked, ‘How did you get pregnant?’

  She snorted. ‘Don’t you know what causes it?’

  ‘Most people of our age know how to prevent it.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, you know, usual stuff. After a party ... Olly thought it’d be nice to leave off the condom. A little treat to himself. Just once.’

  His eyes opened for a moment.

  To avoid whatever he was going to ask next, she jumped back to the safer subject of her parents. ‘Dad wants me to move closer, too.’

  Ratty chuckled, his foot sagging outward and resting on her knee where it jutted from the sofa. ‘We all disappoint our parents. We grow from dependent babies to needy children. Then suddenly, bang, we’re people. Minds, ideas, tastes that they haven’t created. No more biddable kid, here comes strong-minded adult to differ and disagree, value different things and different people. Our time’s ours to spend, mistakes are ours to make.