Our Last Summer

Alexander Bexley-4

Milly is proof that age, wisdom, and deviousness are a largely inseparable trio. She is over eighty years of age, and soon to be a great-grandmother, and knows just about everything about everyone in the village, through a cunning mix of gossip, friendship and that dreaded female intuition.

And she knows exactly how to set things in motion.

The moment the congregation rises to leave, she darts from her pew and catches the enormously tall man—John Bexley—under the elbow. She looks ridiculous next to him, dwarfed by the man’s massive size, her hand almost vanishing in the crook of his elbow, but his smile is indulgent and charming, and Ryan sees why Milly approves of at least him.

He can’t hear Milly from here, but when they gather at the tearoom for the usual post-church meeting over coffee and cake, the small new family have been dragged along by the insistent old woman—and judging by the reactions of the people around them, this is not quite normal.

The mother—Alice Bexley—completely ignores the entire room, sitting aside with her bony hands folded around a cup of steaming tea, and staring out of the window. In any other person, it would have been daydreaming, but her posture is still about as flexible as a bolt, and her eyes sharp and focused, almost as though she is examining a problem that nobody else can see. By contrast, her husband mingles easily with the villagers, charming the gaggle of elderly ladies and opening and closing conversations almost at random with that brilliant smile.

Then Milly gestures in Ryan’s direction, and he realises that he is being—quite deliberately—set up.

“So who’s this young man?” Mr. Bexley booms in a shockingly deep voice, suddenly appearing beside Ryan and his Nan about half an hour after arriving.

“My grandson,” Nan says, puffing up proudly. “He visits me every summer.”

Mr. Bexley sticks out a hand, “John Bexley—but just call me John. Can’t stand any of that formal rubbish.”

“Ryan,” Ryan responds, slightly alarmed at how his hand vanishes inside John’s enormous paw when they shake hands. The shake is unbelievably firm, as though the intention is to pump Ryan’s arm clear off his shoulder, and his fingers feel mildly crushed when they are eventually released.

“So how old are you, young Ryan?” he says, apparently incapable of lowering his voice—or uttering a sentence that doesn’t sound remarkably constructed. Charming old ladies may be his forte, but talking to sixteen-year-olds is not.

“Sixteen.”

“Oh yes? My lad’s about your age. Have you met him yet?” John peers about the room, so misses Ryan’s shrug. “Ah. Oi! There you are! Come over here!”

As if he’s appeared out of thin air, the boy from the clearing is suddenly beside his father, clutching a can of lemonade in one hand, and the other rammed firmly into the pocket of his trousers. The suit jacket is already missing, and the tie undone; his arms, long and thin, are as pale as his shirt, and Ryan notes for the first time that he is wearing trainers instead of smart shoes. He reminds Ryan vaguely of how all the men looked at the reception of his cousin Emily’s wedding—except, of course, for the fading black eye still evident on the boy’s face. And the trainers.

“There you go, kiddo. Not the only kid in the village, eh?” John asks, ruffling his son’s hair. The boy’s face remains carefully blank and he ignores the statement entirely, his eyes fixed on Ryan’s face even as he appears to be totally uninterested in meeting anyone at all. “Well? Aren’t you going to say hello? Good Lord, it’s like you’ve forgotten how to talk!”

The boy’s face still doesn’t change. Ryan gets the impression that he’ll have to make his own greetings, so sticks out his hand across the four feet between them. “Ryan Anderson,” he says, and there’s a pause.

Eventually, a bony hand reaches out to shake his, and he finally gets a name. “Alexander Bexley.” The boy’s lips twitch slightly, and he amends: “Alex.”