A Summer's Tale

By Nancy Clark

1929. In a summer cottage on Pebble Lake, somewhere in Ontario, A Summer’s Tale is a coming-of-age story of dysfunction, love, friendship, redemption and disturbing brutality.

Almost eleven-year-old Danny Buckingham escapes the sad nightmare of his family life in the old wardrobe at the top of the attic stairs or in the boathouse. In love with language – his friends call him “Professor” – and immersed in his rich imagination, he daydreams and reads voraciously.

One day, trying to avoid the nastiness of his older brother, David, and Danny’s equally nasty twin, James, he visits his favourite hideaway: a meadow close to the cottage. There, he encounters an abused little girl, Leah. The ensuing horror makes his lonely life pale in comparison.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Clark
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005451431

Nancy Clark

Nancy Clark is a retired senior English and Creative Writing teacher who has long been writing poetry, children’s stories, plays and songs all of which she used with her students. Several years ago, she turned to novel writing. A Summer’s Tale is her third. A former resident of Burlington, Ontario, she now lives in North Vancouver with her two beloved cats: Bailey Elizabeth and Erick.

Book preview

He loved the old wardrobe at the top of the attic stairs in the cottage on Pebble Lake. He loved the cedar smell and mustiness which enfolded him, comfort without touch. But most of all, he loved the silence. Outside his lair, motor boats were only just beginning to assault the placid lake waters with fetid smell and intrusive whirring. As the gentle lake lapped and licked the old wharf pilings, old maples, firs and pines soughed in the breeze, or quiet, made way for birdsong. So many birds! Danny loved birds, especially cardinals. On Mother Nature’s giant stage, crickets, cicadas and bees competed as well.

But in the wardrobe, Danny could hear nothing but his own heartbeat. So far, no one, neither his mother, father, eldest brother, David, or his twin, James, had bothered him in his hiding spot. Danny was safe for a while longer. At least he hoped he was.

Danny was small for his age. Years later, women would praise his handsomeness, but at ten, he had no idea at all he had movie star good looks. Barely acknowledging himself in the mirror, he ignored his large, long-lashed hazel eyes, high cheekbones, shapely nose and rather sultry mouth. Curly blond hair completed his portrait.

Truth be told, Danny’s parents had no time for him. Deep down, he’d always known. His father, John, was a family doctor who had an office in their stately home on Elm Street, in town, just ten miles from the cottage. By wedding a doctor, Emily, his mother, had married up, and constantly reveled in her status. An unrepentant social climber and shopper, she spent her days playing bridge and having tea with her equally vacuous friends, all of whom had nannies for their children. The only passion she ever evinced was in her diatribes against the Suffragettes who according to her, had ruined the lives of every woman in the world. Emily didn’t want to vote. She and her ilk wanted to be coddled and pampered by the men in their lives. Of course, a young Danny didn’t know his mother’s history; he didn’t wonder if she’d ever had hopes and dreams beyond her self-restricted world of ‘Marry for money!’. He knew only that she didn’t particularly like him, preferring to entrust his upbringing and that of his brothers to a revolving door of usually British nannies.

His current nanny, Bridget, from Ireland, had lasted longer than most: six years. Danny loved Bridget, a large, jolly woman whose laughter filled the room. Bridget also loved him back, sensing the vast chasm of sadness which was Danny.

When he asked her why no one liked him, she would remind him, You deserve to be loved, just like everyone in this world! And never forget it!

Danny was sure there was something terribly wrong with him. The few times he’d stared into the bathroom mirror, try as he might, he could find no black pall hovering around him, no eyes glowing, no serpents emerging from his mouth, no horns on his head.

At least once a day, Bridget would hug him close to her ample bosom and tell him, I love you, my special boy! Still, he sensed that maybe he was unlovable.

The old nursery on the top floor was Danny’s favourite room in the house on Elm Street. A fresh coat of paint on the chair rail and new floral wallpaper couldn’t disguise the musty scent of the elderly space with its threadbare burgundy Persian carpet. An avid reader, his father had stocked the bookshelves with a wide variety of literature from the classics to more modern fare like Burroughs’ The Land that Time Forgot and so many other delicacies.

Of the three Buckingham boys, only Danny loved to read. Sums he found difficult; words, however, were magical keys which opened new worlds to explore. Before he was six, he had read all of Beatrix Potter, and Winnie the Pooh. His favourite character was gloomy Eeyore. Bridget did a wonderful Eeyore voice which made him laugh, and she had once made him his own stuffed Eeyore now atop his chest of drawers in his bedroom. Danny had even made Eeyore a house from sticks and paper which stood beside the rickety, yellow rocking horse under the window facing Elm Street. Although Buttercup’s yellow paint was peeling, her glass eye hanging by a thread from her left socket, black mane grabbed by too many young hands, thinning or missing big chunks, sometimes Danny still rode her proudly, wooden sword hoisted high in the air, as he rescued boys and girls from peril, disappearing into the labyrinth of his imagination which was so much better than his real life.

Panicked knocking sounded on the mirrored wardrobe door.

Crikey, Danny, let me in! Hurry! David’s after me! James sounded terrified, fear or nastiness his usual state.

As James scuttled into the wardrobe quickly closing the door after him, Danny scooched into the shadows.

What’d you do now? Danny whispered to his twin, wishing James would just leave him alone.

Caught me spyin’ on him and Ella Mae smoochin’ in the orchard up the road. Says he’s goin’ ta kill me. Can I stay here awhile? Want some apple? James handed Danny a half chewed, mangled mess.

No, thanks. James’ third state was stickiness.

After stuffing the apple back into his overalls’ pocket, James wiped his juicy, saliva-wet hands on his shirt sleeves.

If Danny was puny, James was punier. Straight brown hair framed a face which one soon forgot: squinty, brown eyes, long, pointy nose and ungenerous mouth. His mother’s favourite, James was constantly whining, especially when he didn’t get his own way. Danny supposed that he loved his brother. People had to love family, didn’t they? But James was so annoying!

Overheard Mother talking to Father. Says we’re too old to keep Bridget. Says we have to cut expenses. Are we getting poorer, Danny? James moved closer to his brother.

Don’t think so. Father just bought Mother a new fur coat; he laughed softly, adding, Mother knows how much we all love Bridget. Danny’s eyes filled with tears. Glad for the darkness, he didn’t want to cry in front of James who would just call him a sissy. Then David, their older brother, would join in, deafening Danny with his cacophonous taunts which seemed to go on forever. Afterwards, James and David would report to Mother who would chastise Danny for acting like a baby. Tears were frowned on in this household where little boys needed to be men.

Even as a baby, Danny had known not to cry, and nannies who’d tolerated crying were soon dismissed. So he had learned to take his tears to the nursery or behind the big stand of maples in the giant backyard on Elm. Sometimes he wished that he’d been born a girl.

I think it’s safe now, whispered James, intruding into Danny’s thoughts.

Why you whisperin’ then? Danny sighed. Sometime his brother could be very trying.

All at once, James opened the wardrobe door, peeked out and gasped.

A smirking David was sitting on the top stair smoking a cigarette. Everything about David was big: big head, big, almost exophthalmic eyes, big nose, big nostrils, big ears, big mouth, big teeth. However, in spite of his ugliness, he exuded a powerful masculinity which made him very popular with the girls. Pulling James out of the wardrobe by the leg, he started bumping him down the uncarpeted attic stairs one by one.

Ow! You’re hurting me! scream-whined James. I’ll tell Father you’re smoking, Big Ears! Owwww! James was crying now.

Slowly, Danny crawled out of the wardrobe. Leave him alone! You’re really hurting him! He grabbed at his brother’s arm, but David easily shook him off.

Shut up, sodomite, or you’ll be next! David was livid. Danny didn’t know what a sodomite was, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

Whatever is going on here? Up to your usual no good, David? Suddenly Bridget appeared at the bottom of the stairs, lugging two bags of food. Your mother is coming in any minute! she warned.

Danny could smell Mother in the cottage now, her perfume so strong, they could always smell her before they saw or heard her. The cloying scent made him sneeze.

Bridget, help me here! Mother yelled peremptorily.

Coming, Mrs. Buckingham. Bridget lowered her voice. Now you boys behave. Flush the cigarette down the toilet, David. Oh, here. Give it me! Putting down a bag, she grabbed the cigarette from David. A few minutes later, they heard the toilet flush. Coming! she replied.

Danny wondered if Bridget had been let go yet. He’d ask her after lunch.

In sickness or in health, dinner was 12:00 on the dot with Mother presiding at the head of the table. Father was usually in town at his surgery at the house on Elm Street. As the years crawled by, he seemed to spend more and more of his summertime there, much to Danny’s mother’s dismay. Not raising three children at the cottage was more than she could handle.

On more than one occasion, Danny had heard his mother complaining to his father; after all, her life was in town. Yes, she had friends here at the lake, all of whom had cottages more expensive than hers. And why if she must stay here for two months of the year, couldn’t they spend more money, fix the place up a bit. He knew how bad her nerves were!

Yes, my dear, sighed Father who was surely the most patient man in the world.

Sometimes Danny wished that Father would stand up to his mother. But his mother seemed to suck the life out of him, the way Dracula had sucked the life out of his victims. Danny had borrowed the Stoker novel from his school chum, William, whose mother, unlike Danny’s, doted on his every desire. Danny really liked playing with William and his brother, Ned, at their house on Willow Street just a few blocks over from Elm Street. There was so much love and fun in the house which was certainly not up to his mother’s standards, a fact of which she constantly reminded Danny. Not our type; I mean his father is a carpenter! Disdain was his mother’s raison d’etre.

But Danny loved the Johnson home with its colourful carpets and brightly painted walls, books and wooden toys left haphazardly around for people to trip over, freshly baked cookies, and cakes and pies left on the window sill of the kitchen to cool. A mother who, laughing and singing, frequently hugged her children and Danny too. Moreover, there was always a vinyl playing on the gramophone; often, Mrs. Johnson would grab Danny and swirl him around the large kitchen floor. He loved being invited there for dinner. Mr. Johnson was a tall, rugged man with a twinkle in his eye and a jolly laugh, who told funny jokes and equally funny anecdotes about his days on the job. After a night at the Johnsons, Danny hadn’t wanted to go home, often incurring his mother’s wrath for being late on a school night. Needless to say, Mother had made it clear that the Johnson boys weren’t really welcome at the house on Elm Street. Oh, she had never been anything but civil, but soon enough, William and Ned had drifted out of Danny’s life.

One wintry night, with snow dust on the trees, houses and roads, Father had asked Danny what had happened to those two nice boys who used to come over for a play and dinner. Tongue-tied, Danny had just sat there. After all, he could scarcely tell his father the truth.

Never one to keep his thoughts to himself, David, mouth full of roast, had responded, You know Mother, Father. Their father is just a carpenter. They live on Main Street. Not our class. He turned to Danny. You goin’ to cry, Sissy Boy?

Oh, for Heaven’s sake, John. Danny has two brothers here to play with! His mother hadn’t even had the grace to meet her husband’s eye. Poor all her life until she had married Father, she probably sensed somewhere deep inside where her heart should have been, that she was a disappointment both as a wife and a mother.

For one of the few times ever in Danny’s life, his father had spoken kindly to his son, even throwing in a head tousle for good measure. Don’t worry, Danny, he had reassured. You’re a kindly lad who will make many more friends in your lifetime.

Cruel David had mimed playing a violin. Suddenly, Father’s voice had risen a notch, making us jump in our seats. Go to your room, David, and stay there until I call you! Another first for Father who seemingly exhausted, had returned to his meal, then shortly disappearing into his den, had not reappeared until bedtime. Never again had Danny ever heard his father raise his voice.

The only activity the whole family ‘enjoyed’ together was card-playing: hearts, war and rummy. Every Friday night, David would drag out the old card table from the hall closet, and set it up in the parlor, a room normally off limits to the boys. This was Mother’s room, the place where she entertained her vapid friends. Once Danny had made the grave mistake of trying to hide from an irate David behind the loveseat near the fireplace.

Mother, Danny’s in the parlor. I told him not to go in there, but you know Danny. Always does what he wants anyway! Shall I go get him for you? David had yelled, his voice feigning outrage on his mother’s behalf.

Having dragged Danny out of the sanctuary by his left ear, he then belted him across his right ear, hard enough to draw blood. Adding insult to injury, his mother, armed with a wooden spoon, had appeared, and had proceeded to hit Danny a hard six times across his buttocks. Don’t you ever, ever go into that room without my permission, you rotten, little hooligan! Mother had screamed, her pretty face a gargoyle’s. Danny’s father had once shown him a picture book of Paris, France. Danny had been both fascinated and terrified by the monsters guarding Notre Dame Cathedral.

Even David had had the grace to look abashed. Sadly, since the parlor incident, the hearing in Danny’s right ear had never been quite normal. He also wondered why he and his brothers were allowed in the inner sanctum just to play cards, when the kitchen table would have been much more suitable. One Friday, it had come to him: the parlor was his mother’s castle, his father and brothers and he her minions. As she had racked up one win after another, Danny watched her joy. Gleefully, she had gloried in her triumphs. She always seemed to win. One rare time, when James had won a hand, Mother’s face had grown ugly with rage. You cheated! she had screamed at James who crying, had left the room.

Father who had been sitting in the armchair reading, having previously excused himself from the game, had said to his wife in a soft but firm voice, Now, dear, try to calm yourself. To his sons he had later explained, You know, we must always let your mother win.

That was the night when Danny had lost a great deal of respect for his father. Somewhere in his heart, he had always hoped that Father would stand up to this woman whom the gods had declared Danny’s mother. Years later, he would realize his mother had simply worn his father out.

Summer of 1929

Chapter 1

Since the year before, the cottage seemed to have aged, its gray hair now white, its limbs arthritic. It even smelled older. However, the old wardrobe upstairs was the same, an oasis of comfort and neverchangingness. But this summer, Danny spent little time there, preferring the serenity of the old boathouse at the bottom of the property. Its quiet and mustiness made him feel safer; these days, with Father preferring to spend his time in town, the motor boat which resided inside, sadly rocked, as if yearning for David, the only one old enough to take it out for a spin.

Sitting in the bow of the boat, Danny would read his latest book, too rapt to go in to eat. No one cared. Bridget was long gone, At the other end of the Park, David was spending more time with new friends, James with his best friend, Harry, just down the road. His mother too seemed to have abandoned her meager role of parent, choosing instead to dine out with both her cottage and town friends. There was always food for the boys, but they soon grew sick of sandwiches.

On one of his few visits to the cottage, Father who had had to make his own dinner, had decided to hire a housekeeper named Gertrude, a German widow of few means who wore her still blond hair in a rather unflattering bun which was pulled so tight, her blue eyes, her best feature, seemed to have a perpetual expression of surprise. When not cleaning and cooking, she would sit on the sun porch or in the old rocker in the living room, playing solitaire, and crocheting baby clothes for her grandchildren who, she had told Danny in a rare chatty moment, lived on a sheep farm in Australia. Now, dinner and supper were even more stringently etched into the family schedule, the boys required to be at the table promptly at 12:00 and 5:00, no excuses. As Mrs. Buckingham had pretty much abdicated her role of mother, Gertrude was reporting directly to Father.

One sultry afternoon after lunch, Danny who had just finished his latest book, decided to go exploring. Many times, his father had told him that he couldn’t go anywhere too far without one of his brothers. Not knowing exactly what too far meant and feeling adventurous, Danny slipped out the gate, backpack filled with new book, paper, pencil, apple and raisin cookies, then began his trek down the dirt road running to the east of the cottage.

The day was balmy, the napping lake, mirror-still. Fighting for supremacy over the bees, crickets or cicadas chattered or hummed (Danny never ever caring which was which). He just liked the sound; the insects were hypnotizing the world into a state of carefree where there was no worry, no sadness; nothing but possibility, hope and love.

At Parker’s Road, Danny turned south; there were almost no cottages here, just endless fields and meadows. On his right, he passed old man Parker’s ramshackle home. Mr. Parker, a widower and only child, had long ago died, and having no progeny, had bequeathed his farm to the land. The house though sagging and crippled by the elements still retained a sad dignity as if to say, I am finally going home.

About a quarter of a mile later, Danny climbed a dilapidated fence, and trekked another quarter of a mile or so to a place which he had happened on quite by chance two years ago, when he had set off on his first adventure to escape David and his friends who had been threatening to throw him into the lake.

Danny loved this place: a rolling meadow bursting with a riot of yellow, pink and blue wildflowers. A tiny brook meandered its way north to south passing through a small grove of pines and to a spit of land where a large weeping willow resided. Danny had once read a book about a plate with a blue weeping willow on it, and a little girl who had lost the plate. She had been desperately trying to find both it and her missing mother who had given the plate to her. One of his many nannies had given him the book. He couldn’t remember which one. Nor could he remember the title. Ever since, he had loved weeping willows.

Sitting down under the willow on the bank beside the brook, Danny retrieved his apple from his backpack and took a bite. Suddenly to his right, a red-winged blackbird flew out of a clump of yellow flowers. Danny loved red-winged blackbirds and gazed at the flowers from which the bird had emerged. Behind the flowers, a pair of very human eyes was staring back at him, and the little person to whom the eyes were attached started to wriggle away on his/her tummy.

Isn’t it just beautiful here? Don’t you just love it? Please come back! he pleaded.

Suddenly, a dirt-splotched face with huge eyes like those of a deer Danny had seen on the cottage lawn last summer appeared above the wildflowers. Auburn hair looked as if it had been cut by a small child, uneven, with huge chunks missing. The face was attached to the body of a small child; girl or boy, Danny couldn’t tell. The girl’s/boy’s clothes, a muddy, red plaid shirt and threadbare overalls were too big for her/his tiny frame. Her/his feet were bare.

Would you like some of my apple? I have raisin cookies too. I’m not really hungry anyway. Danny patted a spot beside him.

The child hesitated for a moment. Danny thought she/he would probably run, but surprisingly, the girl/boy inched towards him.

I won’t hurt you, I promise, Danny whispered. You look famished. Once again, he patted a spot beside him, laying some cookies and half of his apple on the ground.

Finally, the child came closer, eyes not leaving Danny for a moment, then plopped down. Hunger stronger than fear, she/he grabbed a cookie and wolfed it down. The apple and rest of the cookies soon followed.

Thank you. I haven’t eaten since last night. The voice was sweet and soft, so different from the voices at home. Enchanted by birdsong and the gentle rippling of the brook, they sat in silence, not needing to speak.

When all the food was gone, Danny softly asked, What’s your name?

Leah McAllister. Girl then. My father named me after someone in the Bible. I don’t like the Bible. It’s mean. But Father says we have to obey every word of it. What’s yours?

Danny. I don’t know who named me. My mother is mean.

I don’t have a mother. Father says she ran away. I didn’t hear her leave though. I know where you live: just down the road from me.

How come I’ve never met you, never even seen you before?

When my father goes out, I have to stay at home. I’m not allowed out. Father gets really angry when I don’t obey. Leah rubbed her arm which much to his horror, Danny saw was covered with angry bruises.

He hits you?

I’m eleven, almost twelve. How old are you? Leah asked, quickly changing the subject.

Almost eleven, end of the month. People always say I am small for my age. How long has your father been hitting you?

Oh, but I deserve it. Father says I’m a Jezebel just like Mother. I don’t exactly know what a Jezebel is, but I know it’s bad. Father always reads from the Bible. I think the Bible makes you mean. We go to the Baptist Church, you know, the one on the corner near the general store. We used to go twice a week, and Father gets meaner those days. What church do you go to?

We don’t ever go to church in the summer. But the rest of the year, we go to the Presbyterian Church in town. It’s old and grand and has beautiful stained glass windows. I can’t look at Jesus on the cross though.

Danny gazed at Leah’s face. She was a pretty girl with big green eyes, a pert nose covered with freckles, and a mouth like Clara Bow’s, the actress in the movie, It, which Danny had seen with his family a few years ago at the cinema down the road from their house in town.

Suddenly, Leah went down to the brook; ducking her head in the deepest part, she swished it around in the clear, cool water. Don’t have any soap, do you? she asked, somewhat ashamed.

Sorry, I’ll try to remember to bring some next time. Don’t worry, you look fine, he reassured Leah who was now back beside him on the bank, shivering in spite of the heat.

I’m sorry I don’t have a towel either. He laughed. Next time.

You must think I’m an awful person. I try to keep myself clean, but Father makes me stay in my room so much, and I can’t get outside to the pump. Embarrassed, Leah hung her head.

Danny patted her hand. I like you just the way you are! he exclaimed impulsively then blushed.

Laying their heads on the grassy bank behind them, they closed their eyes. Nearby in a patch of blue flowers, some