The Song of Summer Finch

Prologue – The French Riviera

Summer fiddled with the envelope during take-off. She wasn’t afraid of flying. She was worried about meeting the women who wrote the letters, their revealing a secret, perhaps better left buried. ‘Hot towel Miss?’ The attendant, tong in hand, shared steaming flannels while his colleague filled empty glasses of prosecco. She knew she had to give it a chance.

She bit her nails and thought about her mother as Gatwick’s grey drizzle turned into a white cloud and then blue emptiness. If she were here, Summer’s cuticles would be intact – her mother would have insisted she stop biting them. But without her, she chomped away, ignoring the health of her fingertips, let alone the gnawing guilt in her stomach. She wished her mother knew about the letters, about the visit – was involved – but it was too late.

Three glasses of prosecco later and the plane began its descent into the French Riviera. ‘Fasten seatbelts, please,’ the attendants repeated while the plane windows lost the views of attractive countryside and tree hilltops. Madam Perez and Aunty Finch were out there. Summer folded the letters and stuffed them back into envelopes. No more reading. It was time to face reality.

She disembarked the BA plane by climbing down the staircase. Warm wind from the perfume town of Grasse hit her entire face as her turquoise heels tapped the aluminium frame. Despite the competing spins – the blades swooshing in the plane’s cooling engines – she listened to the reverberations of her steps with a sharp, meditative intent.

‘Merci, Madame,’ the taxi driver said before speeding away from the small boutique hotel near Cannes. Summer wanted to meander the provincial streets, peppered with trellis and vine. Instead, she dropped her bags onto the bed, threw tap water on her cheeks, and brushed her hair. It would have to do. Outside, she orientated herself using the square clock face of Saint Peter’s Church and headed for the café to meet the ladies. Although it was only a short walk, she was glad of the eventual shelter from the sun, each alfresco table resting in the shade. ‘De rien, Madame,’ the waiter said, placing Summer’s glass of Pinot.

Summer finished most of the wine before they arrived. Madam Perez strolled across the plaza in her ivory-coloured silk dress, mitigating the heat; a black wedding hat, which dramatised her character; Louis Vuitton sunglasses boasting her wealth; and a pair of Yves Saint Laurent heels (the logo carved into the stiletto), which elevated her height. Aunty Finch, however, bristled beside, lumbering in a flower print frock, which looked like a chintz obsessed pensioner had sown it from bedsheets; her grey English hair hung heavy; and her flat sandals negated, rather than celebrated, her tall figure. Chalk and cheese.

As they approached the café, both women towered over Summer, who was not short. Summer rose and hovered a stiff hand, which Madam Perez matched, a good handshake bridging some distance. Aunty Finch stood back and stared. She clutched a book at her chest, and though she neither smiled nor frowned, her eyes were busy, her mind examining.

Becoming rather awkward, Summer stepped away from the table. The unrestricted space allowed her to regain a sense of power. She stepped forward, her arm stretching, but Aunty Finch spluttered to life and gushed like a river to wrap her gangly arms around Summer’s slender shoulders, book still in hand. The manic acceleration unnerved her. She stiffened and though she matched the hug; it was a performance. She was being polite. Aunty withdrew, embarrassed at the lack of reciprocal affection.

Madam Perez broke the awkwardness by taking a seat, prompting Summer to follow. She removed her sunglasses and said in the thickest Mancunian accent, ‘Good to meet you, Summer, love. We’re glad you agreed–’

But Aunty Finch gripped the back of the chair and interrupted Madam Perez. ‘– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’

Summer sipped the dregs of her Pinot, hiding her face and delaying the need to respond. Her voice had absconded. She wasn’t ready to grant forgiveness. Touching and speaking was a betrayal to her mother. She held the glass close to her mouth and used it to evade Aunty’s capacity to examine her thoughts and feelings.

Madam Perez pulled the empty chair. ‘Sit down and give Summer some air. Hey, love?’ She hoped to lower the intensity a notch.

‘–I’m sorry, Summer.’ Aunty stepped backward. She wasn’t going anywhere, but she couldn’t sit without first being transparent; couldn’t beat around the bush and not acknowledge her motivation for getting in touch. In her flower print frock, she jerked forward with the book and placed it on the table. ‘Have you read it?’

Scarlet scanned the title. She was a keen reader but didn’t consider herself as having any literary sensibilities. She preferred more modern stuff, novels from the little tables at the front of bookshops, things with colourful snazzy covers she could read and chat about with her mother. ‘I’m not a classics fan,’ she said, glancing at the dark slab, out of place on the alfresco table.

‘It’s called Daniel Deronda… I want you to have it,’ Aunty Finch said.

Summer refrained from inspecting the book. She packed light and didn’t like feeling beholden for an unwanted gift that she could buy herself for ten quid in England.

Madam Perez lit a cigarette and gave her friend a dagger’d stare. This wasn’t part of what they had agreed. ‘What’s the girl want with that? Sit down, love. Let’s order a bottle of wine and not scare anybody away.’ The confident woman addressed the elephant in the room without causing it to flee; whereas Aunty’s intensity was akin to a foghorn, stunning it into submission.

‘Many years ago, I did something terrible.’

‘–Not yet, love,’ Madam Perez said, but Aunty’s voice only strengthened.

‘–I served my sentence… ten years in prison…’

Madam Perez rubbed her temple and sighed, but Aunty’s enthusiasm escalated. Summer glanced at their jewellery and her heartbeat quickened. Was this some sort of swindle? Had two old cronies hoodwinked her into some scam? She almost left there and then, believing they would ask for money next… yet Aunty’s zealous energy held her captive.

‘I cannot pay for what I have done. The past can’t change. I could spend my life in a cell, and it will still have happened; I can’t repair that damage, but I can heal and prevent other suffering; even if they have nothing to do with what happened, I can help them.’

Summer twisted her neck and rubbed it. Aunty Finch was losing her with the mumbling tirade. In flat sandals and while sitting, the woman pushed her chair back, galvanising herself. She sensed a moment or opening; lurching forward, she prodded the book with her non-manicured fingernails. ‘In the story, Daniel says, “feeling what it is to spoil one life may well make us long to save others from being spoiled.” It’s something that stuck. I spoiled a life – I can never undo that – but I can help save yours; stop yours being spoiled.’

Summer’s chair screeched backward. She rose, outraged. How dare these women prey on her? How dare they? She had a good life. A mother who loved her, an excellent education, a fulfilling career. How had she allowed these spinsters to take advantage of her insecurities?

Madam Perez elbowed Aunty Finch – her fifty something companion – and glanced at her with eyes that said I told you so. She flopped her hand, motioning for Aunty to remain sitting as she herself stood to meet Summer eye to eye. ‘Reading a letter is one thing, sharing a bottle of wine, something else. I get it. But please, Summer, I assure you, love, we want nothing.’ Madam Perez caught the waiter with her fingertips. He knew to bring the good bottle of Sauvignon without their asking. They were regulars.

Summer appeared trapped, unable to leave, having come this far, yet unable to stay, having no basis to trust either woman. Madam Perez took advantage of the delay. She clutched her fancy handbag and pulled out a fifty Euro note. She wedged it beneath the ashtray to stop it from blowing away. ‘Look, finish your glass of wine and if you still feel uncomfortable, then we’ll part and pretend this meeting never happened. You’ll never hear from us again.’

Aunty laid her palms flat on the table. She couldn’t look at Summer in case Madam Perez had failed to persuade her to stay. ‘We’ve so much to tell you…’ Her voice was hopeless, not desperate, as if she expected Summer to leave. Madam Perez sat down and Summer, against her better judgement, did so, too.

‘The waiter hasn’t even brought a bottle over yet. Go easy on the girl,’ Madam Perez said, attempting to defuse the seriousness with a playful scorn. She had not lost the heavy, elongated ‘U’ vowels, which energised women from northern England. It elicited the softest fleck of a smile in Summer, the first sincere warmth she’d enjoyed since the ladies arrived.

‘I have a good life,’ Summer said, as if owing her mother due recognition. ‘I’m not here because I’m worried about my life being spoiled.’ The word had left a nasty taste in her mouth. Madam Perez placed her hand on Aunty Finch’s, less out of solidarity and more out of control. She didn’t want her pumping up again. It worked. Madam Perez’s willingness to deflect Aunty’s sentimentality without being domineering or cruel made Summer disarm some of her resistance; it put her at sufficient ease to hear the ladies out. Summer wasn’t the type to go weak at the knees without serious cause, and she didn’t feign feelings. What did she have to lose? She was smart enough to leave if things turned shady. ‘If you have something to tell me, I’ll listen, but I’m not a fool–’

‘–Of course you’re not!’ Aunty said, looking hurt. Madam Perez squeezed her hand, and the love reminded them of why they were there. It stilled the emotions and freed Aunty Finch to listen to Summer without judgement. She regained composure.

‘I want to know what happened to her - to me,’ Summer said. And the lady in the flower print frock listened without affectation. It enabled Aunty, for the first time, to hear the honest willingness in Summer’s voice and engendered hope. The waiter returned with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc and poured.

Madam Perez raised her glass. ‘To family. For better and worse.’ Their three glasses clinked, and then Aunty Finch and Madam Perez began the story - Summer’s story, which they had waited twenty years to share.

Chapter 1 – Gadsby Street (1980s)

Francis Finch rested her bike against the depot wall, and then nipped into the warehouse to pick items: sachets of tea, sugar, and cereal. Toilet-rolls, toothpaste, and bubble-bath. Everything the old biddies needed. The items went into her bike basket and then she set off.

‘Thanks for covering Gina’s shift,’ the gaffer said, staring at her legs as she cycled away, her feet circling the pedals fast. The town drifted by and despite the brisk chill, Fran’s body warmed – she even had a few drops of sweat on her forehead as she reached the first stop. She pushed her bike through the lane, cutting between two terraced houses – Mrs Elliot had unlocked the garden gate.

Fran mounted the bike against the brick wall, jamming the handle into the drainpipe. She knocked but let herself into the property without waiting for an invitation. ‘Hello… Mrs Elliot? It’s Francis Finch… Gina’s still off sick, so you’ve got me again – I’ve got your items… Mrs Elliot?’ Fran placed the things on the work surface and meandered into the house.

‘Mrs Elliot…?’ She left the kitchen and walked to the living room.

‘Oh, hello dear – sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Look at this precious baby.’ Mrs Elliot rocked a tiny newborn from the comfort of her armchair – it couldn’t be more than a month old. Fran smelt its warm flesh before she saw its scrunched-up face. As its features came into view, she radiated the largest smile, inducing colour in her pale cheeks.

‘These are my neighbours – Joe and Sally,’ Mrs Elliot said.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Fran replied while perching beside the armchair to coo at the newborn. Mrs Elliot lifted her arms, gesturing for Fran to have a hold.

‘If you’re sure.’ Fran sought permission out of politeness, the invitation already given. They smiled and insisted she have a cuddle, passing the baby over. ‘Oh, you are a little sweetheart, aren’t you?’ Fran said as the infant gripped her finger with its entire hand and as its intoxicating odour drifted into the pathway of Fran’s inhalations. ‘You must be so proud; she’s gorgeous.’

‘We’re very proud, but she’s not ours,’ said Mrs McGuinness, from the armchair opposite Mrs Elliot while reaching for a cashew nut from the little bowl resting on the coffee table.

‘Joe and Sally are foster carers – they look after unwanted little babies until the council can find them a proper home.’ Mrs Elliot went to stand. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Francis, dear?’

‘That’s my job.’ Fran’s trance with the baby broke as she remembered she was at work. ‘I’ve left your items on the counter. Let me make you a cup of tea while I pop them away?’

‘Sit down.’ Mrs Elliot patted Fran on the back as she shuttled past in her old lady slippers. I’ll sort it… I’m not dead yet! And besides, you’ve got your hands full. Sit down, duck.’ Mrs Elliot flopped her hand at the sofa. ‘Take a break while you can; you look rushed off your feet.’

Fran would usually protest, insisting she make the tea, and Mrs Elliot would argue back. The charade would continue for a few rounds, and then Mrs Elliot would surrender. She provided company as well as delivering bits and pieces. But with the tiny baby in arm, her professionalism melted. She sank into the sofa beside Joe and abandoned her sense of duty. ‘I’ve never thought of babies being fostered. I suppose I’d imagined it was only teenagers or small children… do you have many?’

Sally had filled her mouth with cashew nuts. Her hand covered her mouth, and she animated chomping to excuse the lack of immediate response to the question. Joe stepped in. ‘Not too many babies. It’s mostly young children and teenagers, but we’ve had three or four over the years.’

‘Four.’ The cashews were gone, freeing Mrs McGuinness to speak. ‘I remember each. I know I’m not their mum, but each baby is unique in its own way. Unforgettable. Well, to a mother-figure, anyway. Joe’s brilliant, but they’re all the same to him.’ She leant forward to squeeze his knee and kiss his cheek, an advantage to there not being much room between the floral sofa and armchair.

‘It’s true. Nappies. Lots of nappies… and lots of milk,’ Joe said as he reached his hand to let the baby resting in Fran’s arms squeeze his finger. She thought him a kind man.

‘Do you find it hard to let them go?’

‘It’s never pleasant, but there’s a lot of compensatory joy… with babies, you know there will be a happy ending.’ Sally McGuinness grinned at the infant. ‘She’s taken to you…’ she said, pausing for a moment to admire the natural way Fran handled the baby. ‘She’s been a crier, more so than usual.’ Sally cupped her hand in the bowl of cashews and scooped another bundle.

‘ “Happy ending?”’ Fran repeated Sally’s phrase while flooding the baby with smiles.

‘There are plenty eager to adopt an innocent baby. It’s almost certain that she’ll end up with a loving couple that will spoil her rotten… it’s the older kids that break your heart: people think they’re too troubled. They go from home to home – town to town… I think her mum—’ Sally switched from generalisations and spoke about the infant in Fran’s arm. ‘—She must have known at some intuitive level it was better to act quickly.’ Sally placed another cashew into her mouth, sucking out a little of its sweetness before she crunched.

‘Did you know her mum?’ Fran asked.

‘Not personally.’ Sally spoke with the single cashew in her mouth. ‘Teenager.’ She pushed another toward her lip. ‘Nurses said she already had a baby, and they hadn’t bonded; apparently, she thought it’d be better to give this one over before it got too late. Tragic really. Poor girl.’

Fran’s arms steeled around the bundle of warmth on her lap. ‘Do you know where the girl’s from?’

‘Here. They avoid transferring babies too far away for their first few weeks in case circumstances change. The policy is to allow the mothers to take them back if they reconsider. But from experience, it rarely happens.’ Sally continued chatting away as Fran entered a frozen trance.

‘Your tea, love.’ Mrs Elliot re-entered and placed two cups of tea in lilac mugs on the coffee table. She stood in front of the small gas fire boxed to the wall. Fran barely noticed her presence. Her mind blocked the immediate sense of the room: its flowery furniture, shaggy carpet and chintzy ornaments. Sally’s chatter blurred into background noise, seeming to emanate from somewhere much further away, and Mrs Elliot’s colourful cardigan dulled into low resolution charcoal. Her heart repeated a strapline: She is your niece.

‘Are you ok, love?’ The room quietened as Sally, Joe, and Mrs Elliot picked up something was wrong. They each stared at Fran, whose mind had vacated the room. Sally nudged Joe’s knee with her own. He drew forward and reached out to withdraw the baby, which triggered Fran to lock her arms.