The Last Summer by Judith Kinghorn

in a fine silken shawl meant only for summer months. Was it enough? Would it be enough? I wondered. I would test God, I decided: I would keepfaith in Him – if He kept faith in me; kept Tom safe, and returned him to me, unharmed.
    I cleared my throat. ‘Mr Broughton, I don’t wish to compromise you, but I’d prefer it if you kept my visit to the station this morning quiet.’
    ‘Of course, I understand,’ he replied.
    I glanced at him. ‘Thank you.’
    He turned to me and smiled. And I remember thinking how handsome he was, despite his age. He had the look of Romany about him, with his dark butterscotch skin and chocolate eyes; his hands – scorched by sun, stained by earth – so different to my father’s pale unblemished hands. He’d been with us for so long I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been in my life. He was as much a part of Deyning as the old sycamore tree, as rooted and as timeless. And yet I knew so little about him.
    I think Broughton kept his promise, but of course I’d forgotten about Mabel, and word of my hasty early-morning departure had been passed on to my mother’s loyal maid, Wilson. As soon as I entered the house Mama appeared in the hallway.
    ‘I wish to speak with you, Clarissa. Please go up to your room, I shall be along presently.’
    Minutes later, she appeared in my room and asked me to sit down. She picked my nightdress up from the floor, folded it and placed it under my pillow. Then she sat down on the chair by the fire.
    ‘I understand that you cycled to the station this morning, Clarissa,’ she said, looking out through the window.
    There was no point lying. ‘Yes, that’s right. I did.’
    ‘And this was all to say goodbye to Tom Cuthbert?’ she asked, looking directly at me.
    ‘Yes, Mama.’
    ‘You do realise – you’ve made rather a fool of yourself, and very possibly tarnished your reputation?’
    ‘I don’t think so. I wanted to see him off and I’d overslept. I don’t think cycling to the station and bidding a friend adieu is a scandal. He’s going off to war, Mama.’
    ‘Yes, I know that, and I wish him, your brothers, and all the other young men Godspeed and a safe return home. But . . . it doesn’t alter the fact that you were seen by the servants, dashing off and in quite a state, as I understand. It’s not right, Clarissa, surely you can see that.’
    I made no comment. I no longer cared what the servants thought: what did it matter? But I needed to hear all she had to say. And I knew there was more to come, I could tell by the tone of her voice. I watched her as she lifted her hand to a stray curl, twisting and tucking it back in place; each movement slow and measured.
    ‘You need to tell me what has taken place between you and Tom Cuthbert. You need to tell me the truth, Clarissa.’
    I hated the way she said his name: over-enunciating the vowels in that manner.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean. Nothing has taken place. We’re simply friends, Mama, that’s all. And I like him . . . enjoy his company. He’s been one of us this summer.’
    She smiled, closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Clarissa . . . Clarissa, you’re not a child, you’re a young lady now. You know he’s not one of us, nor can he ever be. I was happy for him to enjoy some tennis and croquet with you and the boys, but that’s as far as it should have gone. I had no idea that you and he had . . . had forged a
friendship
,’ and she looked at me, narrowing her eyes, and added, ‘or become close.’
    ‘We have not become close, Mama. I told you, we’re friends, nothing more.’
    ‘Well, I do hope you’re being truthful with me. You see, it would be very sad for you if it were otherwise, because nothing could ever come of it. Do you understand?’
    ‘Of course,’ I replied, looking away from her, my eyes stinging.
    ‘It would be a truly
pointless
and impossible liaison, and only lead to heartache – for you, and for him.’
    ‘I know this, Mama.’
    ‘Good.