Bobby's Girl (3 page)

Should he sign it? He couldn't bear to – not to Penny. He initialled it
RB
then reread what he had written before flicking through the file again. There were so many photographs; images that recorded Andrew John's journey from babyhood, through childhood, to young adult. Money really could buy anything. Given enough dollars he had acquired photographs he had no right to claim.

He left the room, went into the living room and opened the drawer that held the scrapbook. He removed the photograph of the two couples standing on the yacht, placed it between pieces of card and folded it into the letter he'd written. Taking an envelope from a cubbyhole in the desk he pushed the letter inside and sealed it. He didn't need to look up the address.

When he finished, he lifted the telephone and dialled an internal number.

‘Tim. I have a letter that needs to be posted right away. Send it tracked, signature required. It will be on the desk. If you or Harriet need me, I'll be on the beach.'

Robert whistled for Czar, lifted the dog's lead from its hook, left the house and locked the door. Tim had a duplicate key. He headed for the beach and the fence that separated the Brosna section from its neighbours. When he reached it, he leant against it and looked along the coast.

Few people arrived this early to summer on the Cape, so most of the fences that prevented people wandering from the public beaches on to the private hadn't been replaced after the winter storms.

In the distance he could see the masts of the boats in the dry dock. Somewhere among them was the
Day
Dream
. The Robert Brosna who'd ordered the schooner to be custom-built in the Thirties had more money than imagination, christening it after Percy Blakeney's yacht in
The Scarlet Pimpernel
.

He had to admit the name suited the vessel. Looking back that's how he remembered that summer of 1968. An idyllic daydream. Life as it should be lived, until death had intruded and shattered the illusion.

If only the four of them had known that it couldn't last … they could have … what? Prepared for the tragedy?

If they had, would they have lived out those months any differently? And, would the outcome have hurt any the less? 

Penny John heard a footstep on the gravel path outside her window and turned away from the canvas she'd been studying. Brian knocked on the door and walked straight in. It was the Pontypridd way. He sniffed the air and dropped his postman's bag.

‘You're a lifesaver, Pen. I'd never finish my round without a dose of your coffee to send me on my way.'

‘So, it's my coffee you love, not me.' She filled a mug and added sugar and milk to his taste. ‘You're early today.'

‘Mondays generally bring a lighter load.' He sat on a cane chair that faced the french doors that opened into the garden. ‘You've one to sign for today. From America. You selling to New York publishers and galleries now?' he fished.

She stirred his coffee and handed it to him. ‘I wish.'

‘Could be someone who's seen your work and wants to offer you a commission?'

Penny glanced out of the window. ‘There's a red dragon flying towards Beddau.'

‘Very funny.'

‘Want a biscuit?' She offered him a tin.

‘Don't I always after I've walked up Penycoedcae Hill? I swear it's getting longer and steeper. Either that or my legs are getting shorter.'

‘It's your legs getting shorter. Old age does that to you,' she teased.

Penny and Brian had begun their education in the same babies' class in Maesycoed Primary School and had been good, if not close friends ever since the teacher made Penny say ‘sorry' to him for painting his face blue. ‘Miss' had refused to take into account the fact that Brian had been willing and sat still while Penny wielded the brush.

‘If you're talking about old age you can speak for yourself,' he countered.

‘You can't escape it, Brian. The big four-O is looming for both of us.'

‘Not for another year.' He opened the biscuit tin and made a face. ‘Ginger nuts. Haven't you any chocolate?'

‘Andy ate the last of them yesterday.'

‘Tell Andy from me, he's a greedy boy.'

‘Growing boy more like.' Penny glanced through the window across the lawn and into her parents' conservatory. Her eighteen-year-old son was breakfasting with her father as he did most mornings. The newspaper
was spread on the table around them and they were laughing.

Penny refilled her own coffee mug and sat next to Brian. He usually turned up between seven and half past and she rarely began any serious work until after he left. Determined not to become a financial burden on her parents and make a success of single motherhood and self-employment, she'd vowed to be in her studio every morning by six-thirty. Nine days out of ten she was, but the first hour was rarely productive. She'd tried to fool herself and anyone who asked by pretending she used the time to look over her previous day's output and plan her work. The truth was she usually wasted the hour drinking coffee, nibbling biscuits, and listening to the radio.

Brian pulled her mail from his bag. ‘Sign this now, before I forget.' He handed her a form and pen along with her letters.

She scribbled a signature and flicked through the envelopes. There was an electricity bill, a gas bill, a new cheque book from her bank, a royalty statement from her artists' agency; and the recorded delivery from the States. She turned it over and read the return address.

‘Someone you know?' Brian asked.

She struggled to remain impassive. If Brian had a fault, it was his addiction to gossip. He also told his wife, Betty, everything he heard and she was even fonder of tittle-tattle.

‘Mmm,' she mumbled, not trusting herself to speak.

‘Someone you met when you were in America?'

‘A casual acquaintance,' she lied. She had only been
to the States once, nineteen years ago, but she was aware people in Pontypridd still speculated about her trip, principally because she'd returned with the ultimate Sixties souvenir – a pregnancy. ‘So tell me.' She feigned interest. ‘What's happening in town?'

‘Peter Raschenko's talking about retiring again.'

‘And … you believe him?'

‘Everyone knows he'll be running that garage when he's eighty, never mind sixty. How are your mother and father?'

‘My father's well, my mother isn't so good.' It was Penny's automatic reply to any enquiry about her parents' health. Her mother suffered from osteoarthritis, a condition that had worsened over the past couple of years.

‘Sorry to hear it. But it's this damp weather. Old Mrs Harris down the hill was complaining about her rheumatism …'

Penny didn't want to hear about Mrs Harris's rheumatism. She wanted Brian to leave her in peace so she could open and read her letter.

‘You all right, Pen?'

‘Pardon?' She realised she'd stopped listening to Brian.

‘Nothing wrong, is there? Andy's A levels—'

‘Andy has only just finished sitting his mock examinations.' She knew she'd snapped when Brian looked at her even more oddly.

‘He's expected to do well, though, isn't he? I mean he has a place lined up in university.'

‘Medical college,' she corrected, still terse. ‘But he
won't be going unless he gets the A-level results they want.' She crossed her fingers behind her back. Andy was bright, but the college place was by no means certain. Although he was the grandson and nephew of doctors he wasn't getting any special consideration. Nor did he expect any. He had to achieve two As and a B grade. His teachers had assured Penny he was on course to get them but that hadn't stopped her from worrying he wouldn't. He could have a cold on the day – or a headache …

‘He'll follow in his great-grandfather's, grandfather's and uncle's footsteps. The fourth generation Doctor John in Ponty surgery,' Brian observed.

‘If he returns to Pontypridd and goes into general practice after he qualifies.' Penny was irritated by the general assumption that her son would join the medical practice her father had inherited and her brother ran, with occasional help from their father who insisted he had only ‘semi-retired'.

‘Well, must be on my way. Can't keep the farmers waiting for their circulars from the feed companies.' Brian carried his mug to the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it.

Penny had to stop herself from shouting, ‘Leave it. Just go.' When he turned and she saw the expression on his face, she was ashamed. She gestured towards the canvas on her easel.

‘Sorry,' she apologised. ‘It's not going well.'

Brian squinted at the half-finished painting, a jacket for a romance novel. ‘Looks good to me. Mam and Betty always say your book covers stand out a mile in Smith's. They're streets ahead of the others. The only complaint
Betty makes is about what's inside. According to her, the best bit of the books she reads these days is what you've put on the outside.'

Penny knew Brian was trying to make her feel better but she still wanted him gone. She went to the door and opened it. ‘Give my love to Betty and your mother.'

‘I will.' He left the mug on the draining board and picked up his bag.

Feeling guilty she called after him. ‘See you tomorrow. If I finish the painting, you can give me your verdict. And I'll remember to buy chocolate biscuits.'

He waved back at her on his way to her parents' letter box. She closed the door, took a clean paintbrush and slid the wooden stem into the corner of the envelope. Mouth dry, heart beating erratically, she unfolded the letter, removed the cards and studied the photograph.

She hadn't seen it before, of that much she was certain. She couldn't even remember it being taken. But there was no mistaking the four people pictured. Two young couples smiled directly into the camera lens from the deck of a yacht. Their arms were so tightly entwined it was difficult to work out which limb belonged to which body. Given the boys' long hair and the cut of her and Kate's bikinis it could have been a vintage advertisement aimed at luring holidaymakers to Cape Cod. Scrawled across the corner in a familiar hand was
Bobby
,
Sandy and their girls
.

Penny couldn't bear to look at it.

She opened the drawer she kept her stationery in, pushed the photograph beneath a pile of envelopes and slammed it shut. Then she checked the name and address
on the back of the envelope. Not that she needed to. She knew exactly who'd sent it, although there were only initials on the handwritten sheet. It had been optimistic of her to think he'd allow Andy's eighteenth birthday to pass without attempting to get in touch with her …

She read the letter and reread it, until it was imprinted on her mind.

Penny slipped the letter into the back pocket of her jeans, opened the french doors, and breathed in the aromas of spring. Damp acidic earth, rosemary and bluebells, the light perfume of apple and cherry blossom; and, overlaying everything, the lingering fragrance of woodsmoke from the cold embers of the bonfire her father and Andy had fed yesterday evening with winter's dead wood.

It was peculiar how a scent could conjure the past even more effectively than a photograph. It demolished the floodgates she'd built to hold memories she couldn't bear to dwell on. And, as her defences crumbled, the intervening years washed away. She was back in that summer of 1968.

So many memories. Not all of them painful. Late evening after darkness had fallen, thick and fast. Without light pollution from street lamps, the moon and stars had shone brighter than the neon glares of Broadway. A circle of young people sitting around a campfire
in a yard, roasting potatoes and melting cheese, and marshmallows that dripped from the sticks into the flames. Eating – talking – arguing – laughing – demolishing the hidebound institutions of the world and rebuilding them in fairer, more honest modes while watching smoke drift upwards in the still, humid air. Lulls in the conversation, when Bobby or Sandy, or both, played their guitars, and they sang – sang what?

The anthem of the Sixties, immortalised by Joan Baez, ‘We Shall Overcome'? Because everyone under
twenty-one
fervently and sincerely believed that they could create a better world to replace the corrupt one they'd inherited. Or had they sung the signature tune that had become hers for a season – ‘Bobby's Girl'?

In 1968 she
was
Bobby's girl. All her dreams and aspirations had been centred on Bobby. She'd loved him with her whole heart. Simply being close to him had made her happier than she'd ever been before – or since.

When that magical once-in-a-lifetime summer was drawing to an end on Cape Cod, she'd thought nothing could change between them. That she would go on loving him until the end of her days.

She found herself smiling, despite what had happened afterwards. Nineteen years later, some memories still had the power to warm.

‘You all right, Pen?'

Her father had left the conservatory and walked to the door of her studio and she hadn't noticed.

She felt her lips stiffen. ‘Fine.'

Her father shook his head. ‘You never could tell a
lie, not even a white one, as well as your brothers and sisters.'

Realising she was trembling, she sat down abruptly. Her father went to the table, refilled her coffee mug, and poured another for himself.

‘Thank you.' She took the coffee mug from him. Her father had always been a constant in her life. There for her, ready and willing to try to solve her problems, large and small. For the first time she noticed his broad back was bowed and his auburn hair had turned iron grey. It couldn't have lost its colour overnight. The father she adored had become an old man. And she hadn't noticed.

He sat next to her and reached for her hand. ‘Anything I can help with, sweetheart?'

‘Where's Andy?'

‘Picking up his rugby kit and bags. He told me he's already said goodbye to you.'

‘He has.' Andy, like Penny, hated drawn-out goodbyes. Penny had brought up her son to be self-reliant and independent. But, close as they were, she hadn't been able to prevent him from adopting some of her foibles. A dislike of salad cream, bottled tomato sauce, eggs with runny yolks and slugs and snails. He'd also inherited her abhorrence of cruelty to all living things and an aversion to prolonged goodbyes.

Using the excuse of taking his clean washing to his room, Penny had said goodbye to Andy first thing. And, mindful of the antics the school's senior rugby team had indulged in on past tours and the town had talked about for months, she'd delivered a lecture of dos and don'ts.
Andy had mocked her gently by reminding her he was no longer six years old.

She watched Andy reverse the car his grandfather had bought him for his eighteenth birthday out of the garage. He hit the horn, wound down his window and shouted, ‘See you next week, Mam.'

‘Wait.' Penny ran out and kissed his cheek through the open car window.

‘I'm only going for a week,' he reminded her irritably.

‘Sorry, impulse,' she apologised.

He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I love you too, Mam. Bye, Granddad.'

Penny watched him drive through the gates and on to the lane that led down the hill into the town.

‘Will his car be safe left at the school?' She returned to her chair.

‘Safer than here I should think,' her father reassured. ‘They lock up at night.'

Penny thought about the letter.

Hasn't he inherited a single characteristic of his father's?

The answer was too many for her to forget for an instant the man who had fathered him. Thick, black, curly hair, deep-blue eyes that usually sparkled with mischief; a six-foot-six well-built frame, taller than any of her brothers' or sisters' children. Her son – and Bobby's.