One Summer's Night Read online

  One Summer’s Night

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A Letter From Kiley

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  One Summer’s Night

  Kiley Dunbar

  For Nic, the love of my life

  and

  For Charlie, and all the lassies who loved him

  Chapter One

  ‘Love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit’

  (The Merchant of Venice)

  Arriving by train, the Andersons had been thrilled as they surged through the English countryside towards Warwickshire. Only a baby, Calum was too young to retain any memories of that last perfect holiday before the accident happened. Kelsey however, was fourteen and already hopelessly sold on Shakespeare’s tragic love stories and gossamer light poetry and would remember forever her first glimpse of the wide River Avon and the towers and flags of the theatres on its banks.

  Having explored the maze of medieval streets all day, their feet ached as they rounded yet another bend. Too cool now to hold her dad’s hand, but right by his side as always, Kelsey gasped at the sudden sight of the house where Shakespeare was born. Dismayed that it was long since closed to visitors for the afternoon, the holiday party stopped to gaze at the house, more of a big cottage really, with its leaded windows and liquorice strip beams set in caramel wattle and daub.

  ‘Dad, can I have a go of your camera?’ Kelsey asked, her eyes fixed dead ahead in wonder at the place where her hero had spent his youth and found his earliest inspiration.

  ‘Of course. Need some help there? It’s pretty complicated,’ her dad responded in his soft Edinburgh burr as he lowered the strap over her neck.

  Kelsey was taken aback by the heaviness of the thing, a gleaming relic of the 1970s, but soon, with her dad’s calm direction, she grew used to the feel of cold metal against her cheek and on the tip of her nose as she held the camera to her eye, peering through its little viewfinder, turning the thick manual lens, focussing, breathing out, steadying herself for the shot.

  ‘Slowly, slowly, inch it into focus. Hold as still as you can as you release the shutter. That’s my girl, Kelse. You’ve got it.’

  On tiptoe, she zoomed in on the cottage gardens, revelling in the hum of the flash recharging between pictures and the creak of the spool as she wound it on with her thumb, its clunky mechanical sounds combining with the sharp chatter of sparrows in the box hedges and the drone of the beehives somewhere deep within the grounds.

  A late summer breeze swept across the garden bringing with it the scent of sweet carnations, powdery stocks, and musk roses in full bloom, filling the warm air with intoxicating perfume. It was a heady mix combined with the overwhelming emotions filling Kelsey’s heart at that moment. Her lovely young dad, who she would soon come to miss so much, talked on in his kind, steady way, entrusting her with his precious camera, teaching her how to capture the images before her.

  Kelsey would treasure forever those photographs taken on the day when, though she didn’t know it at the time, she had found her way home to Stratford-upon-Avon.

  * * *

  The May morning sun was creeping up over Edinburgh, lighting the castle walls above the craggy rocks, turning them from grey to shining silver. It was going to be a beautiful Monday morning. Kelsey Anderson reached into her skirt pocket for the keys to The Bridges Vintage Camera Emporium. She always arrived before her boss, unlocked the heavy metal grille that covered the door and staggered inside with it. She had probably managed it once or twice without swearing. But today was different. The door was opened wide and a hunched, dejected figure was sitting behind the antique cash register, crumpled papers in his hands.

  ‘Mr McLennan?’ She never called her employer Dave; he was somehow too old-fashioned for that.

  ‘Morning, Kelsey.’ Pushing his reading glasses to the top of his bald head, he smiled weakly, nodding towards the tall stool next to him. ‘Come and sit down for a minute… we need to have a wee chat.’ He took a deep breath and sighed as the words formed. ‘I’m sorry, Kelsey. I’ve had the accounts back and they’re much worse than I thought. I’m sure you’ve noticed how quiet we’ve been recently. We’re just not shifting cameras like we used to and we’ve only had a few repair jobs come in since Christmas. I’m afraid it means I’m going to have to let you go.’

  Kelsey nodded slowly, trying to look pragmatic, her mind reeling. She was fond of soft old Mr McLennan. He was no business man, that’s for sure, but he was a good photographer. On wedding Saturdays and school portrait days he would dress in his ancient tweed jacket and matching bow tie and stumble off with his camera case leaving Kelsey to serve the customers – what few customers there were. Whole days could pass and only one or two art students from the college up the road would pop in for monochrome or sepia film, or one of Mr McLennan’s Camera Club cronies would drop by on the off-chance of a cuppa.

  ‘Let me go?’ she echoed, aware that her pale Celtic skin was beginning to flush pink.

  ‘Och, I’m sorry, Kelsey. You’ve been a great help to me here. A great help.’

  ‘I’ve loved being here.’ Don’t cry. Don’t cry at work.

  Her brain raced as she glanced around the shabby old shop with its display of Hasselblads, Minoltas, and Leicas, most of them over forty years old, all reconditioned and waiting to be snapped up by the vintage photography enthusiasts who never came.

  Accustomed to looking for silver linings, Kelsey felt a glimmer of optimism. ‘Couldn’t we turn the business around if we went digital? The shop’s always needed a proper website and social media presence. I could try to sort that out. Then we could reach customers all over the world. We could get a digital photo printer, they’re quite small these days, and…’

  Mr McLennan was shaking his head sadly and looking down at his hands clasped on his tweedy lap. ‘I’m sorry, Kelsey, it’s a bit too late for that.’ He scratched his head, looking utterly lost. ‘The shop’s closing with immediate effect. The stock will be repossessed, and all the fittings too. I’ll get to keep my own camera equipment.’ His voice grew weak.

  Oh Lord, now don’t you cry! Kelsey sprang from the stool, putting an arm around her boss, well, her ex-boss now.

  Mr McLennan shuffled home to break the news to his wife, ready to release the weight of the business worries he’d shouldered alone for months. Kelsey noted the look of relief cross his face
as he turned the key in the lock. No more secrets. With unsteady hands he passed Kelsey her pay, along with two extra weeks’ money that he didn’t expect her to work for. It was the least he could do, he told her. Afraid he was about to break into a fresh fit of tears, she stopped protesting and slipped the envelope into her satchel. And that was it. Kelsey Anderson was unemployed. Again.

  Wandering, eyes downcast, along the Royal Mile, Kelsey felt it creeping back in: that mixture of anxiety and panic that had burdened her after her graduation when she’d been jobless and moving back to her mum’s. The heaviness in her chest told her there was no way she could face the hour-long bus ride home and since everyone she knew would be at work, she nipped into a quiet café for an Earl Grey and a scone.

  Above the counter, the twenty-four-hour news channel’s scrolling red ticker tape paraded the same alarming stories across the screen over and over again. Kelsey turned her back to it. Sorely in need of distraction she rummaged inside her satchel for the little book that accompanied her everywhere.

  Her copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets was a familiar old friend bound in scuffed brown leather. Just as she opened it at ‘Sonnet 116’ (her favourite) and began reading, ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,’ her phone rang.

  ‘Fran? Shouldn’t you be in assembly?’ The surprise in Kelsey’s voice momentarily masked her dejection. Fran hardly ever rang from work.

  ‘Morning, you. I’ve got a couple of minutes. You all right?’ He sounded cheery.

  ‘Not exactly. I just lost my job! The Emporium’s closing. I had no idea things were so bad. Poor Mr McLennan.’

  ‘Aww, Kelse, that’s too bad. I’ve always said camera shops have had their day, haven’t I? It takes more than a few beardy hipsters faffing about with retro Polaroids to keep a dilapidated place like that afloat. Everybody uses camera phones these days; well everybody except you. You are literally the only person I know who puts actual photos in proper albums anymore. You’re a dying breed.’

  ‘I’d prefer to be called “one in a million”, but I’ll try to take that as a compliment,’ Kelsey bristled. She’d been hoping for a little more sympathy to go with her tea.

  Oblivious, Fran pressed on. ‘So what will you do now then?’

  ‘I don’t know really. Maybe it was time for a change anyway? I’ve done nothing but work in random shops and study my arse off since I was an undergrad.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Making that old bloke’s coffee and pricing up photo frames was all right as a stopgap after the MA, but it’s getting on for a year now, isn’t it? Hey, it’s a shame you didn’t get the boot a bit earlier actually, we were looking for a new dinner lady last month. You’d look great in a tabard.’ Fran was about to laugh but tailed off, sensing a scowl.

  ‘Fran, I’m twenty-eight. Studying part time meant I was at uni forever. I want to do something I might actually enjoy, something I trained for.’ Sighing sharply, she thought of all the work she’d put in that had gotten her precisely nowhere. ‘I guess I thought the Master’s degree would secure me some kind of future. I can’t even keep a shop job.’

  Last summer, as she crossed the stage in her graduation robes and wobbling mortar board, she’d been so full of hope and excitement. It sounded so promising: Kelsey Anderson, Master of Arts in English Literature and Theatre History. The qualifications had been hard earned, and she’d taken shop jobs to fund her studies. The second degree was supposed to set her apart from all the other job hunters, but she’d ended up falling back on her hobby.

  ‘I might have to look a bit further afield. There could be a photographers’ in Glasgow that’ll have me.’

  ‘Kelse, a photographer’s assistant just isn’t a thing any more, and the arts are very precarious, you know. Now teaching is a job for life, especially at a prestigious school like Greywalls. Let me know if you want me to have a word with the head, OK? Maybe there’s something in admin you could do here. The secretary’s retiring next year, come to think of it.’

  She’d heard all this before and it never sounded any less demoralising. It was all right for Fran. Somehow – Kelsey couldn’t fathom how – he’d known instinctively which career path to follow and he’d swotted and strived until he got his teaching degree, landing straight back at the school where he’d studied as a boy, except now he was Head of Maths.

  Swallowing hard, Kelsey changed the subject. ‘Are you remembering it’s Calum’s birthday tea tonight?’

  ‘Yup. That’s why I’m ringing, actually. I might be a bit late. Another meeting.’

  ‘Well, when you do come, can you bring his present? It’s wrapped up under your bed.’

  Allaying her annoyance that Fran would miss the start of the party with thoughts of how excited her brother would be right at that moment as he met up with his gang of nerdy mates in the common room, she let herself smile.

  Calum had been lucky, falling in with a crowd who shared his love of all things super-geek, sci-fi, and dressing up (though Calum frequently reminded Kelsey, ‘it is not dressing up, it’s cosplay’). He was remarkably well adjusted, if a little unconventional, for a kid who’d lost his father before he was old enough to even say ‘Daddy’.

  ‘Sure, I’ll try to remember his present. Hey, what do you think he’ll be wearing tonight? Maybe he’ll be that wizard again?’ Fran said with a laugh.

  Hearing the warmth in his voice, Kelsey thawed a little. ‘I caught him the other day posing like a Jedi with a plastic lightsaber. He was wearing what looked suspiciously like Grandad’s dressing gown. You’ve got to love him. How can he be fourteen though? My baby brother, nearly all grown up. He’ll be at film school before we know it.’ Kelsey shook her head in wonder, the phone pressed to her cheek, the blue feeling returning.

  Even Calum, dead set on a career in film production, knew what he wanted to do, and here she was with nothing to do for the foreseeable future but drown her sorrows in Earl Grey and try to pinpoint the exact moment when life overtook her and she got left behind.

  ‘Don’t get all maudlin on me, Kelse. Things are bound to get better.’

  Kelsey wondered if Fran was talking about more than just her job situation. ‘I hope so. Hey, maybe we could go away this summer, now that I’m not tied to the shop? Somewhere sunny. We haven’t been anywhere nice in ages.’

  Kelsey recognised the telltale hesitation.

  ‘Remember I’ve got that teaching conference this summer, Kelse, and I’ve got the boarders to babysit on Saturdays until school breaks up in July. And then there’s the expense. And you know I don’t like flying anyway… or fancy food.’

  There was little chance of winning this one. Fran thought prawn cocktail crisps were overly exotic so he’d never entertain Kelsey’s vision of a lazy week of pool-side margaritas and tapas, but she persisted, lowering her sights a little.

  ‘It needn’t be anywhere expensive or involve taking your shoes off so some bloke can glare at you while he X-rays them. Somewhere closer to home? England maybe?’ But she knew Fran wasn’t listening.

  ‘I’ll be right with you, headmaster. Sorry, Kelse, assembly time. See you around eightish, OK? And chin up, yeah?’

  ‘Don’t forget Calum’s pres…’ she was saying, as he hung up.

  Turning her attention back to her Sonnets, she tried to ignore as best she could the familiar feelings of not quite having made herself heard and of being somehow stung.

  She was used to Fran’s disappointed looks and little jibes about her earning potential, but did he really think she’d be satisfied working as his dinner lady? Maybe she didn’t have a five-year career plan like some people, but her aspirations amounted to more than serving up mashed potatoes and lumpy gravy at her boyfriend’s posho school.

  Staring blankly at the words on the page, she resolved to come up with something sharpish that would make Fran proud of her, something that would take the pressure of him and make him smile again.

 
; Things had been different in the beginning. Kelsey didn’t like to think of the early days, but sitting in the empty café and really, truly needing to feel something, anything, other than this new low, she let her mind stray to the Student Union nightclub where she and Fran met for the first time.

  She’d seen him around campus and fancied him for ages. Mirren, her best mate since primary school, had already stalked him on Facebook for her, finding out that his name was Francis Archer and that his family only lived a few miles along the coast from Kelsey’s village.

  Mirren had been there that night too. She had competed hard to get a place on the journalism degree at Edinburgh University where Kelsey was studying English, but Mirren always bemoaned Kelsey’s decision to stay at home with her mum rather than live it up in Halls with her.

  As often happened, Mirren was momentarily unable to recall Preston, her long-suffering boyfriend back home. Kelsey had watched Mirren slink off the dance floor and into a dark corner with one of the sporty lads – this time it was one of the cricket team. She could see Mirren flashing a mischievous smile at the wide-eyed bloke.

  Oh boy, he’s a goner! Too tipsy to feel abandoned by her friend and bolstered by the easy confidence of her youth, Kelsey had danced on by herself, eyes closed, arms raised, the music and her body euphoric.

  There was a gentle touch at her shoulder. Opening her eyes she found herself face to face with Fran, tall, slim, and pale, his boy-band black hair flopping over his forehead.

  ‘Dance with me?’ he beamed. The darkest eyes she had ever seen were focused intently on her face. Without saying anything, she moved in closer towards his body. Maybe she’d had one too many lager and blackcurrants but in the white light of the dry ice he was ethereally beautiful, other-worldly even.

  ‘I’m Kelsey,’ she shouted over the music, feeling his lips graze her cheek as he leaned in to tell her the name she already knew.

  Everything seemed to be slowing down. Lasers lit up the swirling smoke surrounding them as he pressed his lips against hers for the first time, holding her face in his hands, making the nightclub fade away. His low moan at the taste of her blackcurrant lips made her shiver. They spent the rest of that night dancing and kissing.