The Last Summer

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Book: The Last Summer Read Online Free PDF
Author: Judith Kinghorn
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him, a hullabaloo of unfamiliar words still echoing in my head.
    I was neither able nor ready to put together a longer sentence. But I was aware that since reading about
his drawn weapon . . . in the cloven spot
I’d barely uttered a word.
    ‘There’s a bench over here,’ I managed at last. ‘One can see for miles.’
    ‘Perfect. All we need is a Singapore Sling,’ he said, as we sat down upon the wooden seat.
    ‘Singapore what?’
    ‘It’s a cocktail, all the rage up at Oxford.’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘Have you ever had a cocktail?’
    ‘I had a champagne cocktail once . . . at New Year.’
    ‘And did you enjoy it?’
    ‘Yes. It made me feel quite . . . in love with life,’ I replied, remembering my dance with Billy Robertson, a handsome under-gardener who’d since vanished from my father’s employ.
    He laughed. ‘Alcohol does that. It loosens folk up, makes them feel freer,’ he said, staring into the distance.
    ‘Are there lots and lots of parties up at Oxford?’ I asked, my equilibrium almost restored by the combination of air and conversation.
    ‘Yes, there are. But I’m neither fashionable enough nor rich enough to be invited to some. And,’ he turned to me, ‘I need to work. I’m not like the other undergraduates who have a private income and are simply there because they have nothing better to do. Or want to have a wild few years before taking over the family estate. I have an opportunity, and I don’t intend to throw it away.’
    ‘It must be difficult,’ I said, not sure what else to say.
    ‘Difficult?’
    ‘Yes, difficult for you – if you feel excluded or perhaps on the outside of something.’
    ‘Clarissa, you are sweet. But I’m not remotely bothered about parties or socialising.’
    ‘I think all Henry does is gallivant about – attending parties . . . and womanise,’ I added, borrowing one of Mama’s words.
    ‘Well, it’s different for him. Look at this,’ he said, gesturing at everything in front of us. ‘All this will be his one day. Whereas I,’ and he turned to me again, ‘I shall inherit a shoebox of mementos, if I’m lucky.’
    ‘But you may be like Papa . . . you might
make
a fortune.’
    ‘Yes, I intend to do that. But what about you, Clarissa? You may be married, and to an earl – or even a duke – by this time next year.’
    I tried to laugh. ‘I hope not. I don’t wish to be married
too soon
. And I’m not sure I want to be married to either a duke
or
an earl.’
    ‘Perhaps not, but your parents may.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one.
    ‘No, thank you. I don’t.’
    I watched him light his cigarette, draw heavily on it, sucking in his cheeks.
    ‘I hope they want me to be happy more than anything else,’ I said. ‘And I intend to be ferociously happy.’
    He made no reply. But I watched him from the corner of my eye as he smoked his cigarette, staring into the distance through half-closed eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking. I longed to know his thoughts. I longed to know him. And, though it was much too warm an evening to be sitting outside in the sun, I didn’t want that moment to end.
    I noticed the tiny beads of perspiration glistening on the temple of his brow, above his mouth; the damp indigo patch under his arm. I watched him as he placed his lips around the cigarette, inhale, and then blow a series of smoke rings into the sultry evening air. I fiddled with the lace on the ruffle of my high-necked blouse, pushed my fingers underneath the fabric on to my own hot skin; and I wished I’d done as Mama had repeatedly told me and worn my hair up.
    ‘We’d better go. Your brothers will probably be back by now and no doubt wondering where you are,’ he said, flicking his cigarette over the ha-ha.
    ‘I don’t think so. They’re not remotely interested in where I am. No one ever is.’
    He turned towards me. ‘If you were mine – I mean, if you were my sister – I’d be
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