Chapter 11

He had broken the locked doors of time all suspended
He had smashed through all barriers of hard disbelief
He stood, cap in hand, before the Fairy Queen, pleading
And she laughed, took wing, flew away
Dancing with the Fairy Queen! (B. Lake) 2019

ZERO HOUR +10156

Boots started yapping at the door, announcing the arrival of the postman for their daily tussle over bills, flyers and the occasional letter.

I shook my head, smiling. Boots was one year old – a present from my sister as an apology after confessing she just might have let slip to Phoebe about me making good money from song-writing. It seemed that there had been a little party, a modicum of wine had been imbibed, a few secrets were spilled, a couple of boyfriends got pissed off, a few punches were thrown and in the aftermath of all the excitement, Phoebe had somehow become part of their group and was told about my song-writing. Apart from that – a good time was had by all.

Janie hadn’t been able to resist bragging about my skills. She loved me, she was proud of me, and her girlfriends needed to stop putting me down. I got it. At least it finally put to bed the reason why Phoebe had got together with me in the first place. It also explained why the silly cow had come up with the fake pregnancy and miscarriage.

My only sibling had felt guilty ever since Phoebe and I had got together, worried that her sister-in-law would turn out to be some gold-digging bitch, and was horrified when her fears turned out to be well-founded.

Janie, by then married and looking to offer me a niece or nephew when it finally happened, had turned up on my doorstep two months after I’d returned from that disastrous trip to the USA, annoyed that I wasn’t returning calls from any of the family. She didn’t bother knocking, just walked in, looked around and immediately called my mother.

There was no discussion of what was going to happen. Nobody asked my opinion or involved me in any decision making. Between the two of them they threw out my precious collection of empty liquor bottles, confiscated all of the even more precious full ones, emptied my fridge and pantry of mysterious things covered in green mould, cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed and rewashed every stitch of clothing I owned, refilled the fridge with healthy stuff, made me shower several times, and then sat me down for a long, long, really long ‘casual chat, just to catch up on things.’

Sometime during that week, Phoebe made the almost fatal error of ‘popping around’ to see if I’d remembered where I’d stored those songs she’d sung on but hadn’t sold – ‘just out of casual interest, mind you.’ It was something she did regularly – usually dressed in something very tempting. She’d been paid for singing on them, and had no claim, but the fuckweasel was convinced they would be worth a fortune if they could just get their hands on them, and hadn’t yet given up hope. I think he was even hoping I’d fuck her if it helped him get those songs.

It was honestly fascinating to hear my own mother – a sweet, plump little woman in her late forties with the kindest and happiest nature I could ever hope to enjoy – utter the words, “Phoebe, if I ever see your face around here again, I will fuck you up so bad your ancestors will feel the pain!”

Everyone has roots, and Mum’s were buried deep in the rough tough mining towns of the north.

It was equally fascinating to see my ex-wife reverse out of my driveway so quickly that the car did a backward 360 in the middle of the road before she got it under control once again.

During those ‘casual chats’, which would probably have impressed the Spanish Inquisition, of course, the whole story of Summer was finally aired.

Despite my words to Adelaide, when I got back to England, I hadn’t wanted to talk about it with anyone. It was too new, too raw; a wound not even starting to scab. I’d barricaded myself in my house with the excuse that my arm was painful; ordered fast food and alcohol from a supermarket nearby that did home-delivery, and then proceeded to try and kill as many brain cells as possible, usually sitting in my underpants and vest on the settee while staring uncomprehendingly at some or other Netflix serial. I didn’t bathe often enough to have to worry about getting my cast wet. Which was good – and oh so bad.

I got some sympathy from my mum and sister, but it was time-limited, and they went into ‘get back on the horse’ mode after two days of my self-pity, with the subject of Summer finally dropped. Phoebe’s visit actually helped, although purely on an entertainment level, with a lot of the fun coming from teasing my mum about her threat. Janie and I were both secretly impressed, and I know mum enjoyed the give-and-take of our teasing.

At the end of the week Janie presented me with a large box and an ultimatum. When I opened the box, I found a tiny black and white Border Collie pup looking up at me with wary interest. When Janie presented the ultimatum, she made no bones about it.

“She’s seven weeks old. If you don’t feed her, she will die. If you don’t give her water she will die. She needs exercise – if she doesn’t get it, she will grow fat while destroying your furniture. She needs training, if she doesn’t get it, she will grow fat while destroying your every mood. If you don’t get up first thing in the morning, she will shit on your carpets and piss in your shoes. If you stay out late drinking, she will chew on your laptop and play fetch with your guitar. I feel guilty about letting slip to Phoebe about your earning power, and this is a gift of love and apology. But it’s also a curse – because now you have to love something that will love you back – forever.”

She wept loudly when I lifted her up and span her around in the air like I’d done when she was small. She knew then that I forgave her.

That done, I picked up a very small, rather bewildered dog, and started my life-long love affair with a lady I call Mrs. Boots, after a character from one of Janie’s books back when she was three or four. I had no idea why I chose that name, but it stuck, shortened to Boots.

Boots was smart – probably smarter than me. Between her, Mum and Janie, they dragged me out of the doldrums and back into real life.

I took Janie’s advice to heart. A year on, Boots was fit and healthy with a shining coat and a wet nose that she liked to shove under the blankets and touch to some random part on my body to wake me up screaming in the mornings. She was well-trained and incredibly bright, and she’d even coaxed me into running with her twice a day, which was not only fun, it gave me actual muscles in my legs. She was always loving and had the kindest heart for everyone – except the postman, who was actually a woman. Jana was Eastern European, loved to chat, always wore the uniform shorts and had very nice legs, but Boots never took to her messing with the letter box. That little bitch would take great delight in grabbing a mouthful of the mail as it appeared through the slot in the front door, and yanking it out of Jana’s hands with a loud growl, startling her. I swear Boots laughed for the rest of the day, whenever she could get Jana to squeal with alarm.

The weird thing was, if Boots was in the garden when Jana came around with the mail, the two played together and had a fun time. Females – how are we to understand them? There just aren’t enough hours in a lifetime.

Boots was still yapping when the doorbell rang, and I realised that Jana must have a parcel for me, otherwise she would just shovel the rubbish through the letter box.

I put down the breadknife, tapping it on the crust of the loaf just to enjoy hearing the slight crackle of its freshness, and went to the door.

Opening it, I saw a small figure standing there with their back to me, wrapped in a raincoat and hood. I hadn’t even realised it was raining. The figure turned and my peaceful world exploded.

Summer.

As always when she was near, my thoughts somehow became as tangled and confused as they had before. Was it really Summer? How could she be here? How did she find me? What did she want with me? How could she be so beautiful?

Her face wore the same neutral expression it had when I’d last seen her, turning away from me at that hospital.

“Hello Bryn.”

“I thought you were the postman,” I said after a moment. “But she’s taller.”

That nonsense reflected my thought patterns perfectly. It seemed to be infectious, as her mouth worked for a moment before she managed an answer. “I can’t be the postman then.”

“No,” I said, and my brain finally kicked into gear. “Would you like to come in out of the rain?”

She nodded and I stepped aside. Boots stalked over and sniffed at Summer’s legs, and she reached down and scratched behind the pricked-up ears. Boots seemed to smile, her tongue hanging out to one side. Traitorous bitch!

Summer entered, wiping her feet on the doormat. She looked around curiously and then askance at me, as I waited with my hands up.

“Your coat?” I murmured.

“Oh. Oh right. Yeah, thanks.”

She removed the coat and, as I hung it up on a peg, I got my first look at her in over a year.

I found myself surprised that she looked the same as the Summer of those two days when we were together. Somehow, I had supposed that she would have changed because of what happened. It didn’t make any sense, I guess, but seeing that long, red hair flowing down to her waist, her eyes still that same dark violet, her figure just as trim and neat as ever in a short blue dress and warm black leggings, it all seemed ... wrong. How could she not have been as affected as I was?

I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. The face that stared back was thinner, even a little gaunt. The hair was shorter, while the chest had bulked out a little, and the legs had bulked up a lot. The eyes were more wary. To me, I looked older, and hopefully wiser.

“Tea?” I asked. It was the universal social lubricant, and was the first question normally posed when a visitor came to my house, as it probably was in every other home in Britain.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Breakfast tea, Earl Grey, or cherry and cinnamon?”

“Er ... whatever you’re having.”

“Okay, breakfast tea it is. Milk and sugar?”

“Er...”

“I’ll make it and you can decide then. Come through.”

She kicked off her shoes and trailed after me into the kitchen. One of the reasons I’d fought Phoebe to a standstill on buying this house was because of the wide half-height wall that demarcated it from the lounge. My parents had one, so I’d grown up with it, and I’d always appreciated that being in the kitchen didn’t mean you were excluded from events or conversations going on in the lounge.

Summer looked around, nodding slightly. “You have a lovely home.”

I smiled, assuming she was being polite.

“I like it.”

There was a silence as I got the kettle going and popped tea bags into a couple of mugs. Boots whined for a treat, looking as cute as possible until I got a few from the bag in the overhead cupboard; then she just looked ready, and when I tossed one into the air, she was on it in a flash, jumping straight up to snatch it in midair.

“Lovely dog,” Summer commented. “What breed is she?”

I was thankful for that conversational lubricant as well, as my mind kept going blank while I tried to work out why Summer was there, right in front of me. I launched into introducing her to Boots who, seeing no more treats forthcoming, lay down and rolled onto her back so that Summer could scratch her chest.

By the time I’d explained about her being a gift from Janie, and where her name had come from, the kettle was boiling. I poured it, enjoying the first scent of the tea as the water shocked it into releasing its oils, then added a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar to one of the cups, gave them both a stir and drew out the teabags.

“Try them both and decide which one you want.”

She sipped at them carefully, looked surprised and then drew the lighter-coloured one towards her. I made the other one the same and we stood for a moment, sipping and watching each other.

I almost broke first, but she spotted something on the mantelpiece over the hearth.

“Is that...” she muttered, crossing the room to look at it closely. “It is. This is the Brit Award you won.”

“Yes.”

“I saw you there.”

“What?”

“I saw you at the award ceremony. You looked beautiful in that suit.”

“But that category wasn’t televised. How did you...”

“I was in the audience.”

I closed my eyes tight for a moment.

“You were here in England and dropped in to watch the awards?”

“I flew in specifically to watch the awards.”

“You could have said hi, perhaps. Or just given me a wave,” I said, my voice tight. “I mean, even if you were someone’s guest, you could have waved. Even a nod would have been appreciated.”

“I had a bodyguard with me, but I was on my own. I went to see you. I wanted to know if I still had the same problem that I had when I last saw you, in Missouri.”

“What kind of problem prevents you from saying hello or goodbye to a friend?” I asked.

She wandered into the lounge and sat on the sofa, patting it to get me to sit near, but not next to her.

“If you were a friend, it wouldn’t be a problem,” she said.

“I get it. I do. It was just two days. I thought it meant more. I’m sorry. I’m not good at understanding things like that. I don’t have enough practice.”

She reached and took my hand. “You thought it meant more?”

“Of course. I thought we were friends, but...” I gestured helplessly with my free hand. The break had healed cleanly and the plates and pins didn’t bother me at all.

“We were more than friends. You told me you loved me. You said it.”

I squirmed. “I know I did. I thought you said it, too, but things were going crazy and I misread it. I mean, we only ever kissed that one time and we were trying to hide at the time, so it probably doesn’t count. Like I said, I’m a mutt when it comes to things like that.”

“I said it, too,” she said. “And I meant it. That’s my problem, don’t you see? Murdoch was doing that crazy shit to me, and I didn’t know what I was doing, and then I fell in love with you. But was it real, or was it because of his ... actions? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.

“When I came out of that hospital at the end, and you were standing there – so pale, so hurt, with that huge cast on your arm – all I wanted to do was fall on my knees at your feet and beg for your forgiveness. At the same time, I wanted to chain myself to you, or put a saddle on your back and let you carry me around with you. You were my knight, my hero, and I knew I loved you no matter what – but at the same time, I had no idea if it was real.”

“Why...” I started. I stopped and tried again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. If you loved me, then why didn’t we work on it together? I don’t know why you wanted my forgiveness – although I’d have given it to you anyway, no matter what. Why didn’t you say something then? Why did you just drive away?”

I tried to slow my breathing – this had been thrown into my lap so unexpectedly, like a hand-grenade out of the darkness. It had taken so long to get to a place where I was at least okay with the fact that I would never see her again. Now this comes up and all that work might as well never have happened.

She was crying softly, searching for a tissue in her handbag. I gave her a handkerchief. It wasn’t the same one, but it was the same colour. She looked at it and began to weep really hard, just holding it in both hands against her eyes.

“You were so nice to me, despite everything I did,” she sobbed. “You picked me up and looked after me. You fed and clothed me. You guarded and protected me, and in the end you had to kill a man to shield me. You did all that despite my being a constant bitch – a selfish, spiteful bitch. I never thanked you or appreciated you, and in return for everything you did for me, I got you hurt so badly – tortured and maimed – and yet I still felt it more important to sort out my feelings than to talk to you. How could you ever forgive all that? I’m an awful person. Even my psychiatrist thinks so, I’m sure.

“He says you might have a good knight syndrome or something, to do all that and still tell me you love me.”

“It’s White Knight – and I don’t do that anymore. I’m a lot more careful now.”

“You see – I’ve destroyed even that,” she was crying really loudly now. Boots was sitting at our feet, looking very disturbed. “After my parents ... and then you – you could have all died thinking I didn’t care.”

I decided to give her a hug. It wasn’t a White Knight thing, not anymore. It was just one human feeling empathy for another. I drew her in, and all five of my senses lit up with pleasure. Shit!

“Summer...” I started.

“Oh, I really miss you calling me that,” she sniffled against my shoulder.

I smiled. “Summer, if we don’t both have PTSD, I’d be astonished. I think that earns us a little leeway, although I really don’t think you need any. Bad things happen, even to good people. People we love will die, and when it’s too early we have to learn how to cope with it. If you couldn’t cope with being with me, or while being with me, I understand. I didn’t before, but now I do. So I appreciate you coming here to tell me that. There’s nothing to forgive, believe me.”

She was holding on really tightly, and I couldn’t resist lifting her onto my lap so that we could hug properly, without having to lean and twist. She snuggled into my neck, and I felt Mr. Happy respond.

“I can’t believe how jealous I got over poor Annie-May,” she said quietly. “One moment I was fine, and then it was like you flicked a switch and I was so jealous I felt physically ill.”

She seemed to have claimed my lap as a seat, showing no desire to settle back on the couch again.

“I heard the song you wrote for her, and it was so lovely. She deserved everything you put into that. Did you warn her it was going to be released?”

I snorted softly. “No. I figured if she was a fan of Chris Lane and her name was in the title, she would probably hear it, and be pleasantly surprised.”

“Pleasantly surprised.” She sniggered and dropped into that Southern accent again. “She probably creamed her pretty pink panties.”

I swallowed heavily at that image. I wasn’t sure how it was happening, but the last twelve months seemed to be slipping away quickly, each of them feeling lighter and less consequential, the longer Summer sat on my lap. The heat from her thighs and bum were causing Mr. Happy to feel a little frisky, as he cared not a jot about broken or mending hearts, and gave not a toss about trying to understand everything that was being left unsaid between Summer and me.

“I wrote a song for you, too,” I whispered.

Her head shot back and those violet eyes stared into my soul.

“You did?” she whispered back.

I nodded.

“Why isn’t it playing right now, this very minute, this very second?” she demanded. “And how come I heard Annie-May’s song on the radio, but haven’t heard one word about mine?”

“What is this thing you have about Annie-May?” I asked.

She looked gloomy. “Are you kidding? She’s tall and statuesque, with legs that go on forever, and tits that even I want to play with. She’s beautiful, sweet as sugar mice, and has that whole Southern Belle thing going for her. She doesn’t have one thing that I’m not jealous about.”

“And yet I’m here with you.”

She considered that for a long moment, and finally gave a fist pump. “A win for Kennedy. The crowd goes wild! Now – we were talking about my song.”

“Your song only came out this week.”

“Huh, I want to hear it.”

I smiled to myself and gave myself a little mental hug of pleasure. She’d been through so much, and yet she was still the same person.

“In a moment. I don’t want to cast a pall of gloom over this, but I do need to tell you. I understood what you did back at the shack – when you told him I was in the car industry. You were telling me that you were still in control of your thoughts, no matter what he was doing to you.”

Her eyes were wide. “You understood that? Because I thought I understood that that’s what you were doing by subtly prompting him to call me goblin. You were saying that I was still yours.”

Tears suddenly appeared in her eyes again. “But then I realised I was wrong when you turned away and didn’t want to kiss me. You were disgusted at me for doing...”

I shook her. She looked startled. “No! He forced you. I wasn’t disgusted by you! I just didn’t want to kiss you. Not right then. He’d ... you’d ... He’d made you give him a blowjob just before that. It would have been too much at that moment.”

“Oh, God! I hadn’t even considered that. Now I understand. I wasn’t thinking, and then you turned away and I thought you were ... I felt so disgusted at myself.”

“It was never your fault!” I reiterated.

She nodded. “I know. I know now. My shrink has worked with me a lot on that. It’s just, now and again, those feelings creep through the cracks.”

We both sat very quietly for a while, the ebullient mood gone for the moment.

“Wait here,” I said, lifting her again and putting her alongside me on the couch. She really was very easy to cart around.

I went to the entertainment centre at one end of the lounge and drew out a cd, the box still sealed in its plastic wrapper. I slipped the disc into the player and dialled in the right track.

A harp began to play a simple riff. A cello joined in, an oboe and flute following it.

Loreena McKennitt’s strong, pure voice drifted in, intertwining with the melody and then leaving it to soar above in perfect harmony. After I’d written the song for Summer, I knew hers would be the perfect voice, the only voice for it. I was so happy she’d agreed.

Summer was entranced as the song wound through the tale of a bard who had drifted off to sleep as he wandered in a forest, only to find himself faced with the Fairy Queen when he awoke. Facing death, he wooed her with his songs, danced with her in the moonlight, and they fell in love. When she found herself having to choose between him and her kingdom, she turned her back on him and broke his heart. But stories are told that sometimes late at night, wonderful music can be heard in the forest, and people know that two lovers have snatched a precious interlude from their lives to be together once again, to celebrate the birth of a new royal heir in the realm of the Fairy Queen.

Summer was snuffling into the handkerchief once again when the last notes of the harp finally died away.

“Am I your Fairy Queen?” she asked, as I pulled her onto my lap once more.

“You are.”

“And you are my bard, my lover?”