Summer Day

Publishing history

First published as an e-book 2012

New print and digital edition 2017

Available via Draft2Digital 2018.

© Frank Parker, 2012, 2017, 2018

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Frank Parker has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents  Act 1988

Some extracts from recent reviews of Summer Day.

sad, funny and uplifting;

An unexpected literary gem and as fine and enjoyable a book as I've read all year.

A lovely, poignant and well written story of love, loss, isolation and misunderstanding.

Such a beautifully sad story and one I heartily recommend. The author manages to put you inside the mind of a terrified boy.

The author's writing style . . . reads much like Henry James or Charles Dickens

An expertly crafted village drama

a writer who . . . takes pride in [his] craft.

Author’s note and disclaimer

The location for this novel is loosely based on the district in which I spent most of my childhood. The events and the characters, however, are creatures of my imagination and any resemblance to real people or events is entirely coincidental. The original idea developed as a short story which was published in November 2012 in Pulse of Life, an anthology of work by members of the Laois Writers' Group which was sold with proceeds donated to The Cuisle Centre, a non-profit centre for the support of cancer patients and their loved ones in Portlaoise.

Summer Day

by

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Frank Parker

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the members of the Laois Writers' Group under the leadershp of Margaret Cotter for their continuing support and encouragement.

Prior to creating this latest edition of Summer Day, fellow authors Sarah Stuart and Katherine Hamilton read the original and made suggestions for improvement which I have incorporated.

Cover background: Near Llanveynoe, John Thorn. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Near_Llanveynoe_-_geograph.org.uk_-_73938.jpg

Image of boy from Group of guys in a row back view by oksix licensed via adobe stock license no. 112562573.

Cover design by Sharon Brownlie at https://ebookcoverdesignandwraparounds.com/

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Henry

He struggles to tie the knot. His hands will not obey him. They hurt. Torn by brambles, blistered from wielding the spade with its rough handle, they are shaking as he manipulates the wet twine.

Maintaining a firm footing on the pile of rubble is hard, too. He dare not place too much weight on his right foot with its swollen ankle, and his left foot keeps wobbling on the edge of a half brick as he reaches up to where the end of the string hangs down from the branch. That at least will make his final act easy.

He hears the sound of an approaching car. Reinforcements! They have come from Hereford to assist in the search and to arrest him. From his position here behind the building he cannot see what is happening but he can hear voices.

Suddenly he sees his Aunt Ann stumbling across the orchard toward the privy. His big sister Margery is there. There are other people too. The men are not wearing uniforms. One looks like the postman, Sid Archer. A tall stranger appears from the side of the building. That must be the Detective Inspector. But isn't that Mrs Lewis, the nice teacher, beside him?

He must hurry. Soon they will turn this way and see him. He tests the knot. It works. He places the loop around his neck and kicks the loose half brick away ...

12 hours earlier

Jack

Already he can feel the heat of the sun on his face. It is going to be another hot day. By the time he has eaten his breakfast the dew will have gone from the grass and he can start cutting. As in previous years he will use his favourite mare to draw the mowing machine. He spent long hours yesterday preparing the machine; sharpening the blades, cleaning and oiling the mechanism. His son Cecil thinks he is foolish not using the tractor and he remembers how he shook his head at his own father's insistence on using a scythe long after neighbours were using mechanical mowers.

The sward is looking thick this year, he thinks, as he watches a bee hovering near a clover blossom before settling, the stem bending slightly under its weight.  Just as well, for if next winter is anything like the last he will need every bit of hay to keep the cattle fed. He follows the line of flight of the bee as it carries its fresh load of nectar back to the hive that his neighbour Lionel has placed in the corner of the meadow near to the farm entrance. As the bee's buzzing fades it is replaced by the trill of a lark soaring upwards into the clear blue of the sky.

A blackbird sounds a warning as he approaches the farm house. There is a clutch of three chicks in a nest in the lilac tree and he recalls Eva telling him that the adult pair kept up a constant traffic all day yesterday bringing food to the ravenous brood.

The two rabbits he has killed on his morning walk around the farm hang from his shoulders. Eva will make a nice stew with those.

There’s something else he needs the gun for. It will be a difficult task. Bess has been a faithful servant for more years than he cares to remember. She was retired years ago since when she has been a companion to his youngest son Henry. But now it is time for her to be put down before sickness and old age make her life intolerable.

He strides across the farmyard and into the long barn. Empty now, after the long winter, soon it will be filled to the roof with new hay. Just inside the entrance a length of rope dangles from a hook embedded in a timber roof support.

Darn! Where be the bitch? He raises his voice to a shout: Henry! Henry, boy, come you here! What have you done with Bess?

Arriving unexpectedly when he and Eva were already middle-aged, Henry is a constant source of worry for his parents. Henry’s failure to distinguish himself at the village school was of no great concern. The older man believed that knowledge of the three Rs was of limited value to a farmer. He had barely mastered them himself. But he knows a farmer needs other attributes many of which his son seems to lack.

Henry reminds him more than a little of his nephew Dilwyn. What might have become of Dilwyn if his uncle had not allowed him to graze a few cows on his land was anyone’s guess.

And then there is his older sister Ann. A lonely spinster living in a cottage belonging to her brother, Ann spends her days poring over a bible. Last summer she was arrested after accosting people in the centre of the town telling them she was pregnant with the new messiah. The upshot had been a long period under the care of the local mental hospital from where she had only recently been released. And there have been intimations that Henry may be destined to follow suit.

He and Eva discussed the matter yesterday after he had found Henry sitting in the dirt between two rows of peas in the vegetable garden. He was supposed to be weeding but had gone into one of those strange reveries to which he seems to be increasingly prone. No conclusion was reached. Eva was of the opinion that the time Henry wasted reading the books that woman teacher gave him was doing him good. Jack is not so sure.

Henry

He hears his father’s shout as he walks along the gravel driveway that crosses the hay meadow and leads from the public road to the farm house. He is on his way back from his own walk. He would have been back before now if only Bess would move faster. He had found her tied up in the long barn and decided to take her with him. They had ambled down the hill past the letter box set on a post in the hedge at the corner of the lane leading to the two cottages where his aunts Viv and Ann live, its red paint vivid in the morning sunshine. 

Reaching the field that his cousin Dilwyn uses to graze the bullocks he fattens each spring for pocket money he had climbed on to the top rung of the five bar gate. He liked the feel of the old timber, already warmed by the sun, against his bare thighs. Bess sat contentedly beneath the gate as Henry watched engrossed by the bees and butterflies buzzing and flitting among the flowers on the brambles and dog roses that scramble over the hedge. A family of rabbits skittered out of a burrow at the side of the meadow and a peewit climbed skywards.

Now he is heading back towards home. I wonder what Dadda wants? he asks himself. Why did his father sound so angry about him having taken Bess on his morning walk? He remembers mornings when his father had taken Bess with him on his own walks. But that has not happened for a while now.

There you are, boy. And Bess. Give her to me. Henry is relieved that his father does not sound angry as he continues: Now you go on inside. I’m sure there are things you could be doing for Mother.

Henry hesitates before giving his father the free end of the length of binder twine he’d used to lead Bess.

Here, take these rabbits to your mother, his father adds. We’ll have a tasty stew tonight.

Henry takes the animals which feel surprisingly heavy as they dangle in his right hand, the boniness of the animals' hind legs hard against his thumb and fingers. Crossing the farmyard from the long barn towards the house he turns to look back at his father.

"No.o.o.o!" Breaking into a run he drops the rabbits and races back to the long barn. His father is cocking the gun. Something he overheard his father say yesterday suddenly flames in Henry's memory.

No Dadda, No! he cries as he runs towards his father. His father turns, holding the gun, as Henry runs up to him. Raw emotion lending him surprising strength, Henry tries to wrestle the gun from his father. No, you can’t. You can’t.

The explosion is loud. So loud and so close to Henry’s right ear that for long seconds all he can hear is a buzzing. His father is on his knees, his hands to his face. Blood oozes between his fingers and he sags further, collapsing as an awful noise is torn from him.

Henry runs.

Ignoring the moist warmth that is spreading across the front of his grey flannel trousers, Henry runs.

The noise of the explosion still rings in his ears; but not loudly enough to drown out the memory of the dreadful sound of his father’s agony. His breath comes in great sobbing gasps. Through the gate and back down the gravel drive he runs.

Watch out, boy! It is his older brother Cecil, almost falling off his bike as he swerves to avoid Henry before standing on the pedals to accelerate towards the farm house and breakfast.

Henry stops.

Bess!  He cries. Where is his friend?

With relief he sees Bess hobbling after him. Come on, girl, he says, kneeling and burying his head in the animal’s fur.

Eva

The women are in the dairy, churning milk. They have been discussing Margery's forthcoming marriage. Eva is unable to disguise her pleasure at the prospect of the Taylor family merging with the Prossers. Margery's fiancé, Alan Prosser, is an up and coming champion ploughman and her father, who won many ploughing matches in his younger days, has made known his delight at his daughter's choice.

You know he would never say it to your face but I can tell by the way he talks about it that he is highly delighted, she tells Margery in response to the latter's scepticism.

Eva has heard her husband’s shout which she ignored. The shot also came as no surprise. She knew of her husband’s intention to end the pain of the old bitch's arthritic joints.

I’d better put the kettle on, she says. Dadda will be in for breakfast directly.

Aye and Cecil won't be far behind, Margery says. He'll come off that old bike of his one of these days the way he do race down the hill past the Kings Arms.

Soon the kettle is singing merrily and Eva pours a measure into the big brown teapot to warm it, swirling the hot liquid around and throwing it into the stone sink. She places 4 heaped teaspoons of Ty-Phoo in the pot and adds the boiling water. The full pot is placed in the centre of the table that dominates the farmhouse kitchen and covered with a knitted tea cosy.

She watches as her daughter steps towards the kitchen door, the top half of which is open and calls out Dadda!

There is no response.

I’ll just go and see if I can see him, the words spoken over her shoulder as Margery descends the 3 stone steps into the yard. There is a moment's silence except for the quiet singing of the kettle before the homely sound is interrupted by a scream.

Eva has followed her daughter to the open door. Now, hearing her scream, she descends the steps. She moves slowly, sideways, placing both feet on each step for the pain in her left hip will not allow her to negotiate steps in any other way. What is it? She asks as she hobbles towards Margery who is bending over her father. Jack, Oh Jack, what happened?

Now Jack is on one knee, as he pushes himself upright and, assisted by Margery’s hand under his elbow, stands. There is blood on his shirt front and trickling down the wrist of the hand which he still holds covering his right eye. Before answering his wife’s question he says Get Cecil to fetch the doctor.

As he continues to speak Eva eyes the shotgun that lies on the cobbles at her husband’s feet. Bloody gun went off, her husband says. Got me in the face; my eye ...

Cecil

He feels the air rushing past as he rides fast down the lane past the ruin that used to be The Kings Arms pub. It whistles in the curly ginger hair above his ears. Riding this fast he can imagine himself as Reg Harris. He has heard on the wireless about how Reg is one of Britain’s favourites to win medals in the World Championships in Paris at the end of the month. He has turned the sit-up-and-beg handle bars on the old Triumph upside down so that they resemble the dropped handlebars he saw a few weeks ago on a tandem that had sped by, panniers bulging either side of the back wheel and the young man and woman both sweating as they pedalled up the hill that he is now descending.

He has been up for two hours already, left the farmhouse before Dadda. Cycled up to the Top Field where the cows were waiting in patient anticipation by the gate. He had laid his bike against the hedge and opened the gate watching as they sauntered through and clattered off down the lane. Full udders swayed between white thighs and tails swished against brown backs as he followed them. The clop-clop of hooves on the metal of the road, slap-slap of udders on thighs and swishing of tails created a relaxing rhythm which the sound of his own hob nailed boots echoed. He pulled a long head of grass from the many growing along the verge and savoured the sweet sap that he sucked from its stem.

Back at the farmhouse his sister Margery joined him in the milking shed to assist with milking. Margery is getting married soon. He wonders how they will manage without her. He doubts that his mother will be able to do as much of the dairy work as she had done when he and Margery were small.  With the milking completed he had walked the cows back up the hill. Less eager now, they had been inclined to dawdle, mouths slathering as they tore at the grass on the verges, impatient to satisfy their hunger and not willing to wait to do so until they arrived back at Top Field. He had used a hazel stick to urge the back-sliders forward, they then jostling the leading animals.

As he left the milking shed he had heard two shots ring out. Rabbit stew for supper tonight, he thought. The sound brought another thought hard on the heels of the first. His father had talked yesterday of putting down Bess the old sheep dog. Cecil was eight when the bitch first arrived on the farm as a ball of black and white fluff. It was a couple of years before his mother had given birth to young Henry. Henry had grown up with Bess and when she was not working, bringing the sheep down from the hill or taking them back, or herding them down to the market in the village, she had been a faithful companion to the boy. He wonders how Henry will react to the discovery that she is no longer around. He’ll be pretty darned sore about it I should think, he answers himself.

When he hears the third shot as he turns the last corner before entering the long drive up to the farm he knows the deed has been done. Henry must have heard it too, by the look of it, but why is he running away from the farm? Cecil has to swerve onto the grass, almost losing his balance as his brother comes running down the drive. Hey, Henry boy, what’s up? He hardly has time to get the words out. The boy is gone, running as if pursued by some demon. But the only pursuer is Bess, hobbling after him, her right hind leg dragging. If Bess is still alive, what was the shot he had heard?

Moments later his question is answered as he sees his father struggling to his feet, assisted by Margery, with his mother limping across the yard. His mother’s back is towards him obscuring his view as the