Out of Towners (13 page)

There's nothing else for us to see. Whitbourne is beckoning. The night starts here.

We're about to go into the foyer when the kids appear again. They've been in the Wonderland Supermarket, buying sweets. I smile and give them a wave. They look at us. They look at the girls. They look at each other. Then they run off whooping and screaming. In a funny way I feel proud. We've shown them. They won't doubt us again.

Steph gives me a puzzled frown.

“It's a long story,” I say.

It's a beautiful evening on Whitbourne seafront. As we pass the pine trees, a flock of starlings is coming in to roost. It's an amazing sight, like something you'd see on a nature programme. There's thousands of them. They're sweeping and curling in the sky like a swarm of bees. Little clusters are breaking off into separate black pulsing blobs, then rejoining the main swarm, until eventually the whole flock dives down and disappears into the branches, twittering and screeching.

A few people are still on the beach. The bloke with the big earphones and the metal detector who we saw yesterday, and a group of twenty or so Spanish kids sitting in a circle singing
Wonderwall
while one of them strums a guitar and another one plays the bongos. It's low tide. Two thirds of the pier is out of the water and the groynes are standing high and dry, covered in seaweed and barnacles.

As we get to the bandstand, the Whitbourne Concert Ensemble is in full swing. There's quite a good turn-out in the deckchairs and the musicians look smart in their dinner jackets. The conductor is working himself into a frenzy, waving his baton like he's dancing on hot coals. We stand and listen for a while.

“What are we going to do then?” I ask.

“We've got to go on the pier,” Gemma says. “I always go with my granddad. You can't come to Whitbourne and not go on the pier.”

“I'm definitely up for that,” Nikita says.

We're all nodding.

It doesn't take us long to get to the pier. We hang a right off the seafront and walk under the archway. Music is playing from speakers overhead. Spandau Ballet.
True
. One of my mum's favourites.

I look left and right. At our gang. At Steph.

I've got a strange feeling. At this precise point in time, absolutely anything is possible. We've got the whole of our lives in front of us, and we just can't fail. Everything seems beautiful and perfect. I think it's because there's a kind of magic about piers. I've been on a few in my time, and I love them all. Blackpool, Brighton, Great Yarmouth. Whitbourne pier is half the size of those ones, and it's pretty scruffy. But it's still got that certain something.

We pass between a newsagent and a doughnut shop and keep going towards the amusement arcade, lured by the big red flashing neon letters spelling out
FUNTASTICA
above the entrance. Slatted benches run along both sides of us, and behind the benches there are white-painted iron railings, chipped and peeling, inset with a motif of two intertwined blue dolphins. Piles of red and white striped deckchairs are chained up, waiting for tomorrow. Up at the end of the pier, past Funtastica and the Waterfront Bar, a group of ten or eleven year old lads are chucking themselves off into the water and swimming like rats around the rusty stanchions holding the whole thing up.

We head into Funtastica. Flashing lights, beeping machines and toy grabbers are everywhere. The carpet is like a psychedelic nightmare. There's a casino area to the left, pool tables and air hockey to the right. Up in the arched roof there's a life-size model of a clown going round and round in circles with a propeller on his head and another one doing tricks on a trapeze.

“Whoa!” George says, obviously impressed.

He's not the only one. We're like a bunch of kids let loose in a toyshop. Even Robbie and Gemma, who've seen it all before. We set off across the arcade, looking for things to waste our money on, weaving through the punters, dodging the ferrety under-tens scuttling about checking the coin return slots.

There are two enormous girls on the dancing machine, so we stand and watch them, trying not to get caught laughing. One of them has got what looks like an arse hanging under the front of her pink puffa jacket, jiggling like a plate of white jelly. Presumably it's her stomach, but it's got a crack down the middle.

We've finished looking around now. Gemma and George have gone for the fruit machines, Robbie is settling down at a driving game and Dylan and Nikita are on
Whack-A-Mole
. That leaves me and Steph.

“What do you fancy then?” I ask.

Steph points to the far corner.

“Penny Falls.”

“Nice one,” I say. I like old-fashioned games.

I sift out two pounds and go to get some change.

The woman in the booth stops texting and looks up from her
Heat
magazine long enough to take my money and hand over a couple of bags of coins. I toss one to Steph and we make for the Penny Falls.

Ten minutes later we still haven't fed all the coppers into the machine. Every time we're nearly out there's a big cascade from one of the shelves and another heap of coins falls out. All the others have finished now and they're wanting to get off.

I look at Steph.

“You about done?”

Steph puts a last penny into the slot and watches it rattle its way down onto the top layer. Nothing drops. She nods.

I bag up all our coins and hand them to a little black lad who's been watching us. His dad sees what I've done and smiles.

I check my watch. Nearly nine.

“Where to now?” I ask.

“I think we should go for a drink,” Gemma says. “We could try The Waterfront Bar.”

We go out of the side doors and back onto the walkway. Lights are coming on all across Whitbourne. The streetlights along the seafront and the strings of fairy lights along the pier. We turn left and pass a hot dog kiosk, a café and some gift shops. The Waterfront Bar is up ahead.

Last night at Wonderland I was worried about us being asked how old we were. As we push through the doors into the Waterfront, I see it's not going to be a problem tonight. Compared to some of the kids in here, Dylan looks like a pensioner.

George and Gemma go to find some seats. The rest of us head off to get the drinks.

The bloke behind the bar has overdone it with the piercings. He's got a nose ring, a stud under his bottom lip and what look like corks in his earlobes. There's a row of TVs along the wall to the right, all showing different things. Music videos.
Sky Sports
. One of those DVDs with an endless loop of spectacular car crashes.
They All Walked Away
, or something like that.

Robbie buys the round. Pints of Fosters for the lads, WKD for the girls. Dylan and Nikita stay by the bar while we pick up the glasses and bottles and go to join the others.

I take a seat and have a sip of my pint. As I put it back on the table, I notice something. George and Gemma are holding hands. I do a double-take. They're not making a big fuss of it or anything, but they're not hiding it either. I'm just getting my head round it all when I spot Dylan and Nikita outside one of the fire exits. They're not holding hands like George and Gemma. They're kissing.

Robbie's seen what's going on too. He leans over and whispers in my ear.

“Better get your act together, Chrissy Boy. You're being out-pulled by George and Dylan.”

He's only pissing about, but he's got a point.

I look at Steph. She's gazing out of the windows at the sunset. Her fingers are curled around her bottle of WKD. She's got pink nail varnish on. I try to work out what she's thinking, but I'd never make a mind-reader.

Suddenly I feel really under pressure. Like I'm on trial. I don't want to let my chance with Steph pass me by, but I don't know what's the best thing to do. I've always been too shy to make the first move with girls. I wait for them to make a move on me. But what happens if Steph never does? Is she waiting for me? Or has the thought not even occurred to her? Questions, questions, questions.

Dylan and Nikita are coming towards our table now. Dylan sits down and Nikita stays standing up. She motions to Steph and Gemma and they all trot off to the toilets.

Across from me, George and Dylan are sitting there smirking.

“The girls have got a lot to talk about,” Dylan says.

Robbie kicks my chair leg.

“Bet your ears are burning.”

“Why's that then?” I ask.

“Because the girls will all be wondering what's up with you, you nob. What are you waiting for? A written invitation? Steph's yours. Seal the deal.”

I rub my face with my hands.

“I dunno,” I say. “I don't want to make a tit of myself.”

Robbie rolls his eyes.

“But what's the worst that can happen?”

I shrug.

“I dunno,” I say again. “I don't want to mess up. I really like her.”

I'm expecting Robbie to laugh, but he doesn't. He just nods.

“I know you do, mate,” he says.

I have a mouthful of beer and sigh.

On the other side of the table, Dylan and George raise their glasses to one another. They knock them together, then George puts back half his pint in one go. He has a short break then he swigs down the rest.

I puff out my cheeks.

“You'll regret that later.”

George belches. I don't think he's bothering with sensible drinking tonight.

The girls are coming back from the toilet. If they've been talking about me they're not letting on.

Steph sits next to me. As she smoothes out her dress, her hand brushes against mine. It might be a sign, but I can't be sure.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, we all take it easy. Drinking, talking, watching the TVs. I have a trip to the Gents, and on the way back I see there's some news about Letchford Town on
Sky Sports
. A possible takeover by a Saudi consortium with a five-year plan to make the club one of the giants of European football.

Dylan almost falls off his chair laughing.

“Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen. From League Two to the Nou Camp.”

Robbie stretches.

“You never know.”

“Wait until the Saudis get a look at the middle of Letchford,” Dylan says. “If the Ainsdale Centre doesn't put them off, nothing will.”

It goes quiet again. I sneak a look at Steph. She's still not giving out any signals. I'm starting to feel a bit of desperation. How come Dylan and George have cracked it and I haven't? That can't be right.

It's nearly half past nine. The concert at the bandstand is getting close to the big finale. I recognise the music from the 1812 Overture as it drifts across the beach.

“Come on,” I say, draining my pint. “Let's go outside and watch the fireworks.”

There's a murmur of agreement round the table. Everyone gets up.

We go out of the bar and turn left. Down on the beach the Spanish kids are still around, but the bloke with the metal detector is long gone. We pass a bait and tackle shop and a fortune-teller's booth and keep going until we get to the far end of the pier. The sea is churning against the framework of metal girders under our feet. We stand in a line along the railing, looking out across the water. The sun is sliding lower and lower into the sea, lighting up the whole sky with a reddish tinge, glinting off the roof of the bandstand.

Steph takes in the whole scene.

“It's beautiful,” she says.

I'm about to say something when there's a crash of cymbals and a cluster of rockets are screaming into the dusk from the beach behind where the Whitbourne Concert Ensemble are playing, exploding in showers of red and green.

For the next two minutes the fireworks keep coming, one after the other. It's a brilliant display, just like Robbie said it would be. The 1812 Overture is reaching a crescendo, explosions are thudding and echoing and multi-coloured sparks are cascading like fountains over the water. Robbie's wandered across to film it all on his phone. Glancing to my left I see Dylan and Nikita kissing. George and Gemma are whispering to each other.

I look at Steph. My stomach is turning itself inside out. If I don't make my move I know I'll regret it for as long as I live. I've got to kiss her. And I've got to do it right now. I'm ninety-nine percent sure she feels the same way. But if I've misjudged it, if she looks at me like I've gone mad, that won't just be the weekend spoilt. I'll never recover. I might as well throw myself into the sea.

I draw a huge breath and instinct takes over. Leaning across, I grab Steph's hands and pull her towards me. And even as I'm doing it, I know it's going to be okay. As another rocket whizzes through the twilight, our lips meet and there's no holding back. I've kissed a few girls, but it's never been like this. Steph's mouth is soft and warm and moist and sweet. I close my eyes and it's like I'm flying.

One final rocket scorches into the sky, and then the concert is over. The fireworks are finished and the band has stopped playing. All that's left is a smell of gunpowder on the warm night air, and the faint sound of applause. When the clapping ends, everything is strangely calm and quiet.

I pull away from Steph. A couple of inches, so we're looking into each other's eyes. She smiles.

“That took you long enough,” she says, giggling. “I thought I was going to have to jump on you.”

I give her a grin.

“I like to play it cool,” I say.

We both know I'm lying.

Robbie catches my eye. He winks, then he looks away.

We all stand and watch as the last rays of the sun disappear. My arm is around Steph's waist and hers is around mine. I'm on top of the world. It's another amazing memory. A few more minutes and the sky finally goes dark. It's time to head back indoors.

It's busier in the Waterfront now. All the chairs and tables are taken. Nikita gets another round in and we stay standing at the bar, watching the TV screens, listening in on an ugly bloke chancing his arm with a girl who's obviously not interested. The bloke's a gawky type, in the kind of T-shirt George would wear on a bad day.
Free Hot Dog
in big red letters and an arrow pointing to his cock. He definitely thinks he's in with a shout, but he's getting nowhere. Eventually the girl turns her back and walks off.