Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (2 page)

I saw Colin Carpenter for the first time last summer. Hugh and Keith had just started building their tree fort when Colin’s family moved to Wickham Forge. Colin’s father works in the City—investment banking, I think—and they bought a house on the posh side of town. Colin was good with his hands. He had all sorts of power tools that the other two lacked—saws, drills, and sanders—and he knew how to use them. The fort looked a whole lot better once he got through with it.

Except for one thing: It didn’t have a ladder. The only way you could get to it was by climbing the adjacent tree—easy because it had plenty of low branches—then walking across a plank of wood the boys slung between it and the fort. The boys scampered across it like squirrels, then dared Sophie and me to follow. I didn’t want to, but Sophie danced after them like a gymnast on a balance beam.

I held back, scared witless, while Hugh and Keith hurled insults at me. Colin told them to shut up, so I sat down and straddled the plank and bumped my way toward him. He reached for my hands, pulled me into the fort, and we fell backward amid a chorus of jeers. Then he rolled over and suddenly he was lying on top of me.

His hair flopped forward and tickled my cheek. His eyes were so close I could see yellow flecks among the green. He smiled. So did I. And when he helped me sit up, I could swear his lips brushed the top of my head.

I take a hot bath, using the last of Mum’s pink bath salts. They’re gritty and they don’t dissolve very well because the water’s not hot enough, so it’s like sitting in sand but without the fun of being at the beach. If I could be bothered, I’d go and get a kettle of hot water, but then Mum would want to know why. So I ignore the grit and lie back with my feet propped on the taps and wonder what it’s like to fall in love.

Is it like Sophie, who’s ecstatic about one boy this week and head over heels about another the week after? Or is it like my parents, who’re so different I can’t begin to imagine why they got married in the first place? Mum bosses Dad around something awful, yet he puts up with it. Sophie reckons it’s because he’s got a girlfriend on the side. I think she’s mad. My father would never do that.

I pull the plug and haul myself out of the tub. It’s summer but the bathroom is cold. I wrap myself in a towel and peer in the mirror. Maybe I’ll cut my hair. Or get a perm. Anything would be better than plaits. Yes, plaits. I’m fifteen and my mother insists on plaits. The only girls my age with hair like this are called Heidi and they’re blond and they live in Switzerland and they know how to yodel.

I pick up Mum’s nail scissors and trim off some split ends. I snip a bit more, then chicken out and drop the scissors in the sink. If I
really
wanted to piss her off, this’d be the way to do it. Cut it all off. Instead, I scoop my hair into a ponytail and secure it with an elastic band.

The door opens.

“Jillian Hunter, how many times have I told you not to wear your hair like that?” Mum snatches the elastic. It snaps and my ponytail falls apart.

“Ouch!” I rub my head.

“Put something on,” she says. “You’re half naked.”

“Mum, I just had a bath.”

“Don’t argue.”

I gather up my clothes and slope off to my bedroom.

Oh, God, my bedroom. My mother’s memorial to the Flopsy Bunnies and
apple-cheeked
girls in long dresses, pantaloons, and poke bonnets. In one corner, Peter Rabbit wages war on Mr McGregor; in another, Mrs Tittlemouse tells Mr Jackson to get lost. Good for her. I wish I was brave enough to say that to my mother. I want Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney on my walls—not bloody Mabel Lucie Attwell and Beatrix Potter. And I want plain, ordinary paint—lavender, blue, yellow—I don’t care, as long as it’s not baby pink.

Dad comes in to wish me goodnight. “Do you need anything?”

“A hug.”

“You feeling all right, love?” His brow is furrowed like a washboard. I run the tips of my fingers down it—bump, bump, bump—like I used to when I was little. He smiles, takes my hand, and kisses it. His mustache tickles. “Will you be seeing Sophie tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I snuggle into bed. Right now I’m not fifteen. I’m back to being five, and my father’s about to tell me the story of Katherine, his magic princess, who rides a giant cat with wings and a unicorn’s horn.

“Well, then,” he says, getting up. “You girls have a lovely time. Okay?”

Wickham Forge

July 1973

The next day, Sophie and I go spying. We crouch behind bushes and wriggle through long grass in the Lombards’ back garden. The boys are in the tree fort, unaware of our presence. I think. At one point, Keith runs across the plank and slides down the tree and I could swear he’s looking straight at us.

“Shh!” Sophie warns. She’s wearing shorter-than-short shorts, a gauzy blouse, and no bra. How can I compete? Colin will take one look at her and melt.

We hold our breath and keep still. Keith walks past us, less than five feet from our hiding place, to go check on the line he’s cast in the stream. It’s not really a stream—more like a swampy ditch—but he’s convinced it contains edible fish. He wades into the water and adjusts his pole. He’s not wearing a shirt and his gray flannels are rolled to his knees. Must be a pair of his old uniform trousers. Hot and scratchy. Almost as bad as the rubbish Sophie and I have to wear—pleated maroon skirts that make you look fat no matter how skinny you are, and those miserable velour hats we stuff in our satchels the minute a boy walks by. Keith comes out covered with slime.

“Our very own swamp monster,” Sophie whispers.

“Shh! He’ll hear us.”

But he doesn’t. He obviously hasn’t a clue we’re watching because he reaches down the front of his pants and scratches. Or maybe he does know and he’s just showing off.

“Stupid git,” Sophie says.

But she’s smiling and I wonder if she fancies him. If she does, it’d be almost like incest, wouldn’t it? I mean, she’s known him for years. He’s like a second brother. Or does she fancy Colin? I couldn’t bear it if she does. So far, she’s not shown any interest. He’s one of the guys. Her brother’s friend. Right? I’ll die if she flirts with him.

We wait.

This isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. Crouching behind a hawthorn bush and talking in whispers is dead boring. I know Colin’s up there because his bike’s leaning against the tree. Otherwise, I’d go home.

Sophie says, “I’m fed up.”

“Me too.” I stretch my legs. God, are they stiff.

“So, how about we go on over and see what they’re doing?” Sophie stands up, tugs at her shorts. They’re baby blue and really, really short, with gingham pockets on the back. My mother would never let me wear anything like that. “We’ll pretend we’re out for a walk,” Sophie says. “Don’t you dare tell them we’ve been spying.”

As if I would!

They don’t seem a bit surprised to see us.

Colin leans out the fort’s window. His bottle-green shirt is unbuttoned and I can see a faint patch of light brown hair on his chest. I think he looks a bit like Burt Lancaster. Sophie and I watched
From Here to Eternity
on the telly last weekend. She was hot for Frank Sinatra but all I could do was gawp at Burt. I mean, he’s old. Same age as my dad, but he was dead sexy. Just like Colin. They’ve both got crooked grins and their hair falls exactly the same way over their foreheads. Sophie says I’m barmy.

Colin grins down at us. “Come on up.”

If I could fly, I’d be there in a millisecond.

“I’ll go,” Sophie says. “You stay here. I’ll make them come down.”

“Thanks.”

Sophie scrambles up the tree, skips across the plank, and disappears. A minute later, she returns to earth with three boys following her like baby chicks after a mother hen.

We sit around the boys’ campfire. They tell jokes, and although I try not to, I blush at the worst ones. They flex their muscles, beat their chests, and make Tarzan noises. They fart. They have burping and spitting contests.

Hugh and Keith lie down nose to nose and arm wrestle. Their faces turn red, their muscles bulge like tennis balls. They grunt and groan. It’s hard to tell who’s winning.

Sophie pokes her brother in the back. “Your shoulder blades stick out like chicken wings.”

“Do not!”

“Gotcha!” Keith slams Hugh’s arm on the ground.

Pissed at her for making him lose, Hugh forces Sophie’s arms up behind her. “So, let’s see your shoulder blades then.” Her bones stick out. More than his. Then, suddenly, everyone’s vying for biggest chicken wings. Even me. I arch my back and reach behind and of course this makes my boobs stick out too.

Keith leers at them. “Jill wins. She’s got the biggest ones right here.”

I look down. My blouse buttons have popped open.

“You dirty-minded little sod.” Sophie rams his thigh with her foot. Keith reaches for her, but Colin intercepts.

“Cut it out.”

I turn away and fasten my blouse. Maybe I’ll go home.

Sophie says. “Let’s make tea.”

“I’d rather have a fag.” Keith holds out a packet of Players. Hugh takes one. Colin shakes his head. So do I. God only knows what would happen if Mum smelled cigarette smoke on my clothes.

Hugh and Keith light up. Colin tells them they’re stupid to smoke, then goes off to gather more firewood. Sophie unearths a packet of Typhoo tea and a tin of sweetened condensed milk in the boys’ stash of food. They’ve only got three mugs. Blue and white enamel. Chipped. Dented. One’s missing a handle.

“I’ll share with Hugh,” Sophie says, scowling at her brother. “We’re family. We’ve got the same germs.”

Colin comes back with an armload of wood. He dumps it by the fire. “Oh, good. You found the tea.”

“We don’t have enough mugs,” Sophie says. “I’m sharing with Hugh.”

“Then I’ll share with Jilly.” Colin flashes his Burt Lancaster grin. Good thing I’m sitting down or my legs would’ve given out.

Keith stubs out his cigarette and claims the third mug.

The tea is strong and sweet enough to make my teeth tingle. Grass clippings and specks of dirt float on top, but I don’t care. I hand the mug to Colin.
Our
mug. The one without a handle. The most beautiful mug I’ve ever seen. He takes a sip from the same side I just took one from and hands it back.

His lips and mine have touched the same bit of mug. Does it count as a kiss?

I catch Sophie’s eye and she grins. Colin’s shoulder brushes against mine and I’m wondering how hard I dare lean into him when a spider the size of a Brillo pad runs up my arm.

I’m not scared of spiders, but I scream anyway.

Colin, who is terrified of them, grabs it and hurls it into the fire.

“Aren’t you the brave bugger,” Keith says. He pushes his friend in the chest. Colin pushes back. I hold my precious mug tight to keep it from spilling and the next thing I know, they’re rolling on the ground laughing and yelling and it’s a tangle of arms and legs, elbows and knees.

Someone’s foot kicks a bit of burning wood. Sparks fly. They land in the grass and Hugh dumps his tea on them. He chucks his empty mug at his sister and joins in the fight. Sophie laughs. Is she egging the boys on? I can’t tell if they’re serious or just mucking about.

Keith crashes into me and I roll away from him. That’s when the cramp hits. Groaning, I curl into a ball, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Sophie whispers, “Did that idiot hurt you?”

“No.” I groan again. “Cramps.”

The boys stop fighting, or wrestling, or whatever the hell they were doing. Keith shuffles off to check his fishing lines and Hugh disappears into the woods. To pee, probably.

Colin squats down beside me. “What’s wrong?”

I begin to shiver. Colin takes off his shirt and wraps it around my shoulders, then helps me up. “I need to go home,” I whisper to Sophie. Home, of course, means Sophie’s house. Not mine. My mother has no sympathy. She’d tell me to stop whining, that I was being a baby.

“I’ll come with you,” Sophie says.

“Let me.” Colin cups a hand beneath my elbow.

Sophie clamps her mouth to my ear. “This is your big chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

I stumble beside him and wonder how much boys know about periods and cramps and having babies. Hell, I don’t know much, and I’m a girl. Sex ed at school is a joke, and Mum certainly won’t discuss it.

Sophie’s mum is in the kitchen. The place reeks of paint. Not the cheap,
one-coat-covers-everything
junk that Sophie and I used in her bedroom, but real paint. Oil paint. The stuff used by artists who paint pictures. Like Claudia Neville. Her blond hair is pulled back in a twist and secured by a couple of thin, long-handled brushes. Her face is dotted with paint—red, purple, and yellow—and a half-finished landscape leans against a wooden easel beside the fridge.

Claudia was twenty-one when Sophie was born. My mother was thirty-five when she had me, which means that Mum is now fifty and Claudia’s only thirty-six.

Big difference.

Maybe that’s the problem. My mum doesn’t understand teenagers and Claudia does, because she can still remember what it’s like to be one.

She takes one look at Colin, then turns her soft gray eyes toward me. “Why don’t you go and lie down on Sophie’s bed? I’ll be up in a minute with a hot-water bottle.”

Sands Point, Connecticut

June 2010

Funny, isn’t it, how you’ve not thought of someone in years and then, without warning, something as dumb as a bucket of nails triggers a memory and you’re knocked almost breathless by it. This morning I was on the roof, nailing down loose shingles, and suddenly, there he was, up in that tree, fixing the fort Hugh and Keith had been trying to build all summer. Good thing I wasn’t near the edge or I’d have fallen off. I blinked, and Colin Carpenter vanished.

Jeez. Where the hell did
that
come from?