Summertime Blues: The Story

By Phil Jones

It's the 'Swinging Sixties' and 15-year-old Billy's school holidays improve when he befriends a glamorous young woman. Suzie has a chequered history - mixing with pop stars and enjoying a wild lifestyle. But now her days are spent relaxing in the garden of her cottage until Billy turns up and secrets from her past return to haunt them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Jones
• Release date: Sep 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311921086

Phil Jones

Phil Jones is a Welshman currently on the run in the Scottish Highlands. His hill-walking guide to Snowdonia - '80 Hills - was published in 2010 and he also has a book of short stories - 'Summertime Blues : The Collection' - available in paperback(standard size and large print) and on Kindle. Writing as Cyan Brodie his first YA novel - 'Toad in the Hole and Toley Bags' - is also available as paperback and on Kindle. His second YA novel - 'DreamGirl' - won the Red Telephone Young Adult Novel of the year and is due for publication shortly. He has just completed his third YA novel - 'Dark Sky' - a touch of tartan noir set closer to home in a tiny fishing village on the North-West coast of Scotland. And a sequel is on the way.

Book preview

SUMMERTIME BLUES

A Ghost Story

by

Phil Jones

Summertime Blues

Phil Jones

Copyright 2012 by Phil Jones

Smashwords Edition

SUMMERTIME BLUES

SUZIE felt herself slipping from Lenny's arms. Holding on tighter - a few seconds more - but it was no good. The boat was drifting away with him aboard while she slid deeper into the sea. She lurched for dry land but in reality this patch of dry land was also rapidly turning wet. Her deckchair abandoned, she grabbed a magazine to cover her head and dashed barefooted into the cottage.

Damn, damn, damn, she wiped dripping hair out of her eyes as she bounded up the staircase. The downpour battering against the cottage roof was relentless.

After slamming shut both bedroom windows she stared through the blurred glass in utter frustration at the storm which had already overwhelmed her garden and the fields beyond. A few minutes earlier the dream had been perfect. Her and Lenny castaways on their own desert island. Now the only discernible features were the two trees at the side of the gate, aged and weather-beaten like the withered, black masts of a shipwreck. There was someone crouching beneath their branches. Another half-drowned castaway perhaps, or one of the lads from the village more than likely.

Suzie padded back downstairs, pulled open the back door and called out to the boy from the shelter of the porch.

Hey, kid! Can you hear me? You, kid! Come inside! You’re going to get drenched out there.

He made no sign of having heard her or of seeking cover elsewhere.

Kid?

Perhaps she had imagined him, but if the boy was really there she couldn’t very well leave him out in all this weather.

BILLY Farrell was real enough. But he remained crouched beneath the trees, lost in his own daydream. He was already beyond bored: wishing he was back home playing football with his mates or mooching about at the swings. He'd been tempted to call and see Speedy but if his gran found out there'd be ructions. Instead he'd spent most days alone, roaming the village like some lost soul. He'd ventured as far as 'Fisher's Cottage' days before and taken a quick look around the garden. But apart from the logs stacked outside the porch the property appeared abandoned, or at least locked up for the summer. So the last thing he expected was someone to open the garden gate and break the spell in such a dramatic fashion. It was the blue bathing suit and the pink brolly that did it.

You gonna stay there all day like a drowning rat?

She was blonde – early twenties perhaps. He couldn’t really tell her age, but her trim figure suggested that she was a lot younger than his mam.

Come inside 'til it stops. You can dry yourself off if you want.

He ducked under her brolly and followed her through the gate. Then he hop-scotched along the pot-holed path, trying to keep pace with the bathing suit.

Leave your pumps outside in the porch. I don’t want any more mud carrying in if I can help it.

Once inside the kitchen she pulled a clean bath-towel from a pile of laundry that was presumably waiting to be ironed.

Here, dry yourself with this.

His head emerged from the towel: long hair straggly as sea weed, eyes blinking away the drips as he watched his saviour dab her bare feet dry on a flowery tea-towel then shrug herself into an over-sized man’s shirt salvaged from the same pile.

Your hair’s still soaking, man.

Billy rubbed his scalp as hard as he could then wiped his eyes dry. She had already dragged a stool from one of the kitchen’s dark recesses and parked it in front of him.

Stick your bum on that.

The boy sat down and let his eyes take a cursory tour of the kitchen. A clutter of dirty dishes lay stacked in the sink. A milk bottle stood on the table, half full. An empty tumbler alongside it and another on the draining board next to the bread-bin. A shiny new refrigerator took pride of place opposite the small kitchen window, and a modern-looking electric cooker and washing machine filled the rest of the space between the doorway and the stairs. Not what he’d expected when he first saw the ramshackle cottage from the lane end.

Tiny scraps of women’s underwear hung from the wooden maiden. The pile of plundered laundry was assembled on a dining chair next to it. No smells of wash day though. Nor of cooking, unlike his nan’s house which advertised dinner as soon as you opened the front door. Here there was just a sweet, smoky, musky scent. Perhaps her perfume. He could easily get used to this smell.

The woman stared at the boy, taking in his frank curiosity with a wry smile.

"Haven’t seen you round here before. Don’t get that many kids this end of the lane anyway but I know most of the lads from the village. I’m Suzie by the way, Suzie with