Make Hay

By Graham Pryor

Make Hay is a story about love. It is not a romance, its principal character does not walk in beauty like a night of starry skies. It is the tale of Ryan, a youth of seventeen going on eighteen, and his edifying adventures with his two fascinating neighbors. In this book, in the words of James Baldwin, ‘love is a growing up’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781008962927

Graham Pryor

Graham Pryor studied American Studies and English at the University of Hull. Subsequently, he pursued a career in information management, leaving his childhood home in Hythe, Kent, for the north-east of Scotland, where he has lived and worked for the past forty years. Cerberus is his fifteenth novel and, he says, his favourite.

Book preview

Make Hay

Graham Pryor

Copyright © 2021 by Graham Pryor

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First printing: March 2021.

Rev. ed. April 2021

ISBN 978-1-008-96292-7

01 – Alpha

From a little after two o’clock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office…

Somewhat resignedly, Ryan lay the book down on top of the jumble of CDs, flash drives and the tiny notebook in which he had listed all his passwords. Whilst Faulkner was his current favourite amongst a growing library of recently discovered authors, a tale set in the close oppressive heat of a Mississippi Autumn served at this time only to inflame his desire to be out amongst the sea-freshened air on the hill outside his window.

Torn between the commitment he’d made to finish his project before the start of term, which the calendar on his wall shrieked was fast approaching, and the call of the gulls sporting the glorious sunshine outside, which he also acknowledged would all too soon be supplanted by the incoming mists of the early Autumn, he decided that Miss Coldfield was welcome to sit alone in her coffin-smelling gloom for yet another afternoon. This was no time to breathe the rank smell of female old flesh long embattled in virginity.

Still, Faulkner’s hastily glimpsed words with their profound capture of the sense of that time in the Deep South almost drew him back and he ran his knuckles gently over the cover of the book as he would the peach-fuzz cheeks of a precious loved one. No, this was his own time, of blood pulsing tight in his veins and a body that longed to stretch and run, free until the shackles of a final year at school snapped shut once again around his ankles. At seventeen he was a boy-man, and there was no disgrace yet in his desire to run free, to snatch apples as he ran past a neighbour’s tree, to frisk the dog sleeping with the afternoon shadows in the whin bushes along the road, even to jump and whoop at the thunder of waves smashing along the coast just a half mile away.

He stood by the window and looked out there, to the sea still heaving from last night’s passing storm, his gaze reduced to a blank before it had found the horizon, concealed under the frills of a heat haze. The long garden below his window raged with colour, his mother’s deftness with plants having raised great thickets of gladioli, leaving only narrow trails of bald grey clay where stood small monuments to dead pets and the less fortunate amphibians from his vivarium.

For a moment he watched sea spray flare over the sea wall and considered going for a swim but he was in no mood to wage war with the crash of high tide. Yet he felt restless, so perhaps a ramble on the moor with his dog, one never knew what might be found on these wanderings and his restlessness was as much a mental as a physical longing. But first, some refreshment. There was a jug of cool home-made lemonade in the pantry.

It was then, as he turned from the window, that he saw her in the garden next door. Fleur, his neighbour. She was stretched out on a recliner on her front lawn, her blue bikini in reflection a small fragment of the sky above, her golden hair… He tried to think of a metaphor to describe it that wasn’t a cliché: the ripe wheat in the field, a drop of gold from the sun – no, forget it. Leave the clever words to Faulkner.

Walking downstairs he remembered a speech of Miss Coldfield’s. He’d committed it to memory to be reproduced in class: Perhaps you will even remember kindly then the old woman who made you spend a whole afternoon sitting indoors and listening while she talked about people and events you were fortunate enough to escape yourself when you wanted to be out among young friends of your own age. It was used by Faulkner to build an entirely different context than his own, yet he had internalised it and made it his own.

He poured himself a glass of lemonade, then for no other reason than it had occurred to him to do so, he poured another. The sun’s warmth was blown against him by the breeze off the sea as he stepped outside.

That’s very kind of you, said Fleur, struggling to sit up on the rickety lounger. She brushed the drops from her shoulder that he’d rudely spilled, an act of mischief if it be known, and took the chilled glass. Thank you, Ryan.

He blushed at her use of his name. They had not spoken often. Fleur lived alone, at least that’s what he’d thought initially when she’d moved in a couple of years past. Later, he’d become aware of another figure tripping up the drive on wicked stilettos. She’s called Marta, informed his mother. Foreign. Looks a right piece to me. A piece of what she never explained. Anyway, Marta was rarely seen and was said to work away from home a lot. What her business was no-one had ever volunteered. Both women, guessed Ryan, were in their late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He was hopeless at guessing ages; anyway, they were both out of his league, a mere teenager, he was regrettably confident of that. For they were both remarkably attractive and mature young women in his estimation.

So, what have you been doing? enquired Fleur, rubbing sunscreen into her legs.

Studying, answered Ryan curtly. He didn’t need reminding of the gulf between them, him still a schoolboy with books and examinations to vanquish whilst she was a grown woman with a career and a life of her own.

Studying what exactly? she asked. She seemed genuinely interested.

I’m doing a project on early twentieth century American authors. William Faulkner at the moment. It was set for the summer holiday.

Ah, Mississippi. The anguish of the defeated South.

Mmm. He didn’t want to bring all that business into this conversation. It was school and this wasn’t.

I find it strange to think you’re still at school, she remarked casually. I mean, look at you. You’ve grown up so. When I first moved here you were a moody teenager with spots, never gave me the time of day, but now, you’ve exited the caterpillar stage.

He blushed again and hated himself to be showing his embarrassment.

I bet all the girls are after you, she asserted. You have a girlfriend I take it?

It was true, he did. What in those days was known as a nice girl. It was one particular attribute that had attracted him, for he avoided all those he knew had been passed around like a used pair of shoes. But the ache in his groin when they had been kissing argued otherwise and hearing all the lurid adventures related by his peers he felt cheated; it was as much as he could do to get two fingers under her bra.

Yes, he said, and offered no further explanation.

Thanks for this, said Fleur, taking a sip from her glass. Much needed on a day like this. She finished rubbing sunscreen into her flat white abdomen.

Yes, he said, be thankful you’re not in Mississippi.

Oh, the humidity, you mean.

Yes. Have you been there?

She thought for a moment, yawning. Yes, I was in Memphis a few years back. Scary place: no-one walks – it’s all drive-in libraries, drive-in churches. You name it. Weird.

That’s Tennessee, he answered. But a lot like Mississippi, I gather.

Never mind, she laughed, this is warm enough. Say, would you mind putting some of this stuff on my back? I burn so easily.

She handed him the bottle of Factor 50 and he froze. Could he really do this, really touch her? She was such a gorgeous looking female, despite being that much older than the girls he usually noticed.

She unclipped her bikini top and caught his look of horror. Don’t worry, she said, no-one can see me up here, not unless there’s some dirty bugger out there in a boat with a telescope. She saw the uncomfortable look on his face. I’m sure you’ve seen a nice pair of tits before now, she laughed again, playfully slapping his leg. They’re all much the same, big or small like mine.

They didn’t look small to Ryan and to take his eyes off them he acquiesced and moved around to rub the lotion into her back. There was a silence that made him feel awkward but she was obviously relaxed and hummed a little to herself as he rubbed.

Just to break the silence he asked: What do you do? For work, I mean.

You don’t know? She seemed surprised. Why, I’m a beautician. Freelance. I work from home. She nodded back at the house and he turned his head in that direction so as not to see her nipples bobbing. I’ve my own salon in there, she said. I’ll show you if you like. Still, I’m surprised you didn’t know, what with an almost constant stream of women traipsing to my door.

I’m at school weekdays, he explained. Wouldn’t see anyone.

Of course, she agreed. My big strapping schoolboy neighbour.

He shrank but had no time to feel diminished.

Heck, she complained, shivering, just look at that. A small cloud had blown across the