Free Losing Nicola by Susan Moody Page B

invite them along too. It’s time I had Lisa Tavistock round, and Louisa Stone.’
    â€˜Good God,’ Yelland said later, told of the impending supper-party. ‘She’s not seriously contemplating having people to dinner, is she?’
    â€˜That’s quite enough, Mr Yelland,’ said Ava.
    â€˜More than enough,’ Orlanda said.
    â€˜What did you say, you rude little sod?’ demanded Yelland.
    â€˜Now, now.’ Ava reached into her mending basket for more grey wool to darn Orlando’s school socks, ready for the end of the holidays. ‘When she puts her mind to it, Mrs Beecham can be a very good cook. Very inventive.’
    â€˜Inventive says it all.’
    â€˜She’s going to invite Nicola Stone and her mother.’ Orlando twitched an eyebrow. ‘That’ll be a real treat. Don’t you agree, Mr Yelland?’
    â€˜Why the hell should I find some minx of a schoolgirl a treat?’
    â€˜I just thought you might.’
    He was obviously being significant in some way, but I didn’t know how, and had no desire to ask him.
    Mr Elias came the next Friday. I contrived to sit next to him at the big mahogany table. With the PGs, the mothers, Nicola, Julian and Charles, Jeremy Gardiner, we were crowded, so that I couldn’t avoid touching Sasha Elias’s arm or thigh every time one or other of us moved. I’d changed out of my usual Aertex shirt and shorts, and put on a summer dress; my newly-short hair was freshly washed, and I was wearing the turquoise-and-silver necklace my father had given me for my last birthday.
    Orlando noticed – he noticed everything – but made no comment. Which was much worse than if he had. I felt soft, as though I were moulded out of marshmallow, yet at the same time, I burned with a heat I couldn’t define, so much so that my mother wondered aloud whether I’d spent too much time in the sun that afternoon. I shook my head.
    Did he think I looked pretty? Was he aware of the curl of hair over my left eye, achieved by sleeping with my hair secured in criss-crossed kirby grips? Had he noticed my necklace? Did he feel the flame coursing through my body when our arms accidentally brushed? Jealousy seared me as he talked with Fiona and Orlando about music. I was the one who knew him best; he wasn’t theirs, he was mine, wasn’t he?

FIVE
    E ach holiday had its own ceremonies but the summer offered another ritual which was exclusive to Orlando and me. We were the blackberry pickers, and we took our duties very seriously. We saw our role as that of hunters and gatherers, bringing home provisions that would see the family through the coming winter. The blackberries would be made into jam, or added to the big greasy-skinned cooking apples Fiona managed to obtain from a nearby farmer. She and Ava would spend a day turning them into the blackberry-and-apple which constituted our staple pudding until the following summer, either in pies or as tarts, or eaten with custard or evaporated milk. Without our annual contribution, we feared that the rest of the household might go hungry.
    At the start of each summer holidays, we would pump up the tyres of our bikes and cycle down the coast road to inspect our blackberry sites. We knew from experience that the denser the thickets of brambles, the juicier and sweeter were the fruit. We chose only the most inaccessible places, where the heavily-thorned fronds would deter everyone but the most dogged picker; if we saw broken branches or plastic bags, evidence of picnickers, we would pass by.
    Through the summer weeks, we kept a close eye on our chosen locations, going out every few days to inspect them and make sure that the ripening process was proceeding to schedule. We loved the salt winds in our hair as we free-wheeled along the road which ran below the cliffs, the smell of crushed fennel, the occasional wizened crab-apple trees which had somehow flourished in among the