Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (18 page)

It’s concentrated, triple X-rated
,

Soul-uniting, neon lighting,

Heat-provoking, engine stoking,

Unbelieving, heavy breathing,

Lusting, trusting, pelvic thrusting –

CODA to: That’s the power of love – love – love – love – LOVE
.

On Saturday night Phil had belted these words into the school hall at full volume, the rhythm speeding towards the climax of crashing chords from Roland, finishing on a guitar vibrato that trembled in the air. There was a moment of silence, then squeals and shouts from the floor. Phil looked too exhausted to acknowledge the audience, all energy ground out of him. Sandy was struck by the fact that it was happening here –
here
, in the hall where prayers took place every morning, where the girls silently filed in, form by form, their shoes squeaking on the polished floor, to stand for the hymns and kneel for the prayers. Never before could such a sound have penetrated the primness of St Clare’s.

Now, studying the words, she giggled, and looked at Roland’s bent head.

‘How do you know about all this stuff? You can’t have … you know—’

‘Go away, Sand,’ said Roland, head down. ‘I’m working.’

On the following Friday, the
Echo
carried a short piece headed
VICAR BANS LOCAL GROUP,
and a photograph in which the band members were just about identifiable.
Lead guitarist Roland Skipton, 18, penned the offending lines
, said the article, and Phil was quoted as saying, ‘
We’re only giving a picture of the lives and feelings of teenagers today. Songs about holding hands and writing love letters are old hat
.’

Roland’s father was appalled. ‘Did you stop to think of the disgrace to the family?’ Just in from work, he confronted Roland in the kitchen, brandishing the local paper. ‘If anything like this ever happens again, ever, don’t expect to look on this as your home. Go and … go and live in the back of a van with your precious Merlins or whatever you call yourselves, and see where that gets you.’

‘Douglas, for goodness’ sake!’ Patsy protested, a hand on his arm. ‘It hasn’t come to that.’

He shook her off, glaring, and renewed his attack on Roland. ‘No one would think you had mock A-Levels coming up. How will this get you to Oxford?’

‘Oxford’s your idea, Dad. I don’t remember being asked what
I
want.’

‘Your mother and I work hard to give you the best education, the best chances. You seem determined to squander them, spend your time making up filth—’

‘For Christ’s sake cool it, Dad,’ Roland muttered. ‘It’s only a bit of fun.’

Sandy – listening, frozen, not daring to speak – wondered how he could say that. His songs weren’t just fun: they were
him
. They had a passion and intensity that surprised her, usually kept so well hidden. She looked from one to the other, dismayed to see her father red-faced and even close to tears.

Their mother’s tactic was to wait for the outburst to be over, then take the role of peacemaker. ‘There,’ she soothed, when Douglas had repeated that Roland was a disgrace, and stomped upstairs. ‘He’s said his piece now – we can forget all about it. Let’s not upset ourselves any more, not with Christmas coming.’

Nothing must be allowed to spoil Christmas, those few days closeted with family over puzzles, Monopoly and TV. An aunt and uncle came to stay; camp-beds were brought out and the bed-settee unfolded at night, and there was a pleasurable air of making do. Entertaining her younger cousins allowed Sandy to join in games she’d usually condemn as childish, sprawling on the floor to shake dice, playing hide-and-seek and Murder in the Dark.

Roland disdained all this. He stayed in his room, claiming that he needed to revise for his exams; he appeared for meals, said little, and gave the air of being so absorbed in his studies that he couldn’t disengage his brain to indulge in games or frivolity. It was a ploy that wrong-footed their father: Roland was doing exactly as bidden, so how could he criticize? Distraction, lack of sociability, even rudeness would have to be excused. The Merlins weren’t mentioned, and Roland hardly left the house; but Sandy knew that Phil was visiting relations in York, and that the band had no bookings until mid-January.

Elaine was being allowed a party on New Year’s Eve, when her parents were staying away overnight. Excited phone calls were made; friends from school were invited, especially those with older brothers. Elaine made it clear that Sandy was responsible for getting not only Roland there, but the other three Merlins as well. Knowing that she could never reciprocate by having a party of her own – her mother’s idea of a party would entail jelly and ice cream, pass-the-parcel and the blowing-out of candles – Sandy tried hard, though the most she got from Roland was ‘Might do. If Phil’s cool with it.’

Roland had a secret girlfriend, Sandy was certain. It was written all through his more soulful lyrics:
I think of us together, but you know I’ll never tell, And I dream you won’t despise me, for
loving you too well … In my dreams you say you love me, though I’ve fallen, long ago, But I wake up and it’s raining, and there’s no way you can know
. When Phil sang these words, she could let herself think – giddyingly – that these were
his
feelings, but of course they came from Roland.

Her determination to find out who Roland dreamed of in this way came partly from
schadenfreude
; it would do Elaine no harm to find that she couldn’t always have what she wanted. Sandy loved Roland as he was, moony and withdrawn but with the amazing extrovert side he revealed only in performance. If he started going out with Elaine, it would create an awkward triangular relationship, with herself caught between them.

On the Thursday between Christmas and New Year, her parents went to the theatre, a treat they gave themselves once a year. They left early for the train to London; Roland was out, but returned with a bottle of vodka he’d bought, and was soon sprawled on the sofa, listening to
Revolver
at full volume, glass in hand.

‘Try some, if you want.’ The bottle was open on the coffee table. ‘A lot of girls like it with orange.’

Sandy fetched a glass and tried a little neat vodka. It tasted at first almost medicinal, then tingled on her lips and tongue and down her throat, making her cough. Within minutes she felt warmed and relaxed. She and Roland had never done this before; it made them allies, passing the bottle, pouring spirit into each other’s glasses, swigging like connoisseurs. Sandy sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa. Soon most of the vodka was gone – Roland far outpacing her – and she felt floaty, as if nothing mattered much.
Revolver
’s final track, ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’, was a weird one: all fragments of tunes that loomed and faded, giving a swimmy, drunken effect that exaggerated the swirl in her head. John Lennon’s voice, as he sang about letting go and floating upstream, might have been strained through a filter, coming from far off.

‘I don’t get this,’ Sandy said, tilting her head back to look at Roland upside-down. ‘What does it mean?’

She could ask, knowing that in his helpful brotherly way he would enlighten her. He wasn’t like the girls at school; to admit ignorance to them was to be pathetically childish.

‘Who knows? I don’t. But to me it’s … finding your real self.’ He was leaning back, eyes closed. ‘It’s like, you know, you can go from day to day doing what you’re told, thinking what you’re taught to think. If that’s all you do, how can you know who you really are? You’re the only one who can find out, by letting go of everything you think’s important.’

‘With drugs, you mean?’ Sandy searched for the right word. ‘Acid?’

‘If you can get it. But that shows you what’s already in your head. You only see what’s in there when you get rid of the clutter.’

Sandy tried to turn her gaze inward, to examine her own mind, but found only the buzz of thoughts that zipped back and forth, colliding with each other. Was there something deeper, running like a river beneath the daily trivia floating on the surface? What if she found nothing there? Her main thread of thought was about Saturday’s party and whether she should spend her Christmas money on the orange and purple tunic she’d seen in Chelsea Girl.

‘Roly,’ she asked – he’d hated being called that since he left primary school, but sometimes she forgot – ‘you will come on Saturday, won’t you? You and Phil and the others?’

‘Probably, unless something else turns up.’ He pulled himself up from the sofa and went to the gramophone, squatting next to the open lid.

‘And – what about
her
?’ she asked him, greatly daring. ‘Will she come?’

‘Who?’ He looked at her in genuine surprise.

‘You know.
Her
. The girl you write all those songs about.’

‘Ah.’ Roland slid
Revolver
back into its sleeve. He turned away; she saw the edge of a smile.

‘I can’t believe you make it all up. It’s so real. There
is
someone, isn’t there? I can tell by your face.’

‘Might be. Might not.’

‘Come on,’ she wheedled. ‘What’s the big secret? Why won’t you tell me who she is?’

‘You haven’t guessed? No, I don’t think you would.’

‘Guessed what? Is it Elaine?’

‘
Elaine?
No.’ He was laughing at her, not unkindly; maybe he was laughing at himself. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’

Sandy shook her head. It was like this at school, when remarks went to and fro over her head like taller people passing at netball, arcing the ball over her head while she grappled hopelessly at the air. Roland took some while choosing another record; when it started she recognized his favourite Rolling Stones single,
Paint It Black
, with its troubled, urgent rhythm.

‘Come on, then,’ she tried. ‘You’ve got to tell me now.’

‘All right then. But you might not like it.’ He looked at her. ‘And for God’s sake don’t tell Mum and Dad. Promise?’

‘OK, but why’s it such a big secret?’

Roland gave his inward, private smile. ‘Because – it isn’t a she.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘What I said. It isn’t a girl. It’s Phil.’

‘What is? I don’t get it.’ She sat up, cross-legged. ‘It’s Phil who writes the songs? But I know he doesn’t. I’ve heard you making them up.’

‘Oh, Sand, you’re so naïve! Listen. There isn’t a girl, real or imaginary. I write the songs. About Phil. And he sings them back to me. Do I have to spell it out?’

‘You mean you—Oh, but that’s—’ Sandy bent forward to clasp her knees, head reeling;
that’s disgusting
was what she’d been about to say. ‘D’you mean you – you and him …’

‘No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer’s no.’ Roland went back to the sofa and flopped down on his back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Some things I keep to myself.’

‘So it’s just the songs? You haven’t told him? Why not?’

Roland’s mouth twisted into a smile. ‘Why d’you think? I don’t want to spoil it. He’d run a mile.’

‘I don’t blame him. It’s perverted.’

‘It isn’t, Sand. It’s the most beautiful thing there is. I thought you might try to understand.’

‘I
am
trying. It’s a bit much to take in.’

She wasn’t sure she believed him; was he making this up, to tease her? In a way, yes, of course it was obvious that he and Phil were close, in the way footballers were, or the Beatles, or the boys that pushed and armlocked each other at the bus stop, ignoring everyone else – it didn’t have to mean they were
like that
. It was only recently that Sandy had become aware of homosexuality, through jokes passed around at school; jokes she hadn’t understood. ‘Did you hear about the two Irish queers?’ That was one of Elaine’s, relayed in the form room one rainy break time. ‘John Fitzpatrick and Patrick Fitzjohn.’ A beat of silence, then shrieks of laughter from the other girls, hands clapped to mouths: ‘Elaine, you’re awful!’ Nonplussed, Sandy had looked from one to the other, concealing panic beneath a hesitant smile. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Sandy?’ mocked Susan Morgan. ‘Someone explain.’ Someone did, with gestures; aghast, Sandy tried to pretend she’d known all along, but convinced no one. ‘She’s so
naïve
,’ she heard Susan hissing to Elaine, as they took their maths books out of their desks. Now Roland had called her that as well. It seemed to be the worst kind of condemnation.

‘But it’s against the law. You could go to prison.’ She knew that much, from Elaine.

‘That’s because the law’s stupid. How can it be against the law to love someone?’

Her own brother was telling her he was
one of them
, and not ashamed, and calling it beautiful, and talking about love, not the sexual things people joked about. At least, if they saw her now, Susan and the others would have to credit her with sophistication: drinking vodka and discussing such matters with her rock musician brother. What did
they
know, after all? All their posing was nothing but talk.

‘Are you
sure
, though? That you’re – you know – like that?’ she ventured. ‘And sure Phil isn’t?’ Maybe she could get used to the idea; if Phil were like Roland he’d be more unobtainable than ever, but she would never need to be jealous of another girl.

Roland gave a humourless laugh. The vodka was nearly finished now; he drank straight from the bottle, upending it for the last drops. ‘Yes, and yes, I am sure. It’s girls with Phil. He’s the one who fancies your friend Elaine, if you want to know.’

Sandy closed her eyes, feeling this as a physical pain in her chest; it was only right that she should share Roland’s hurt. Hazily she thought of it as a diagram, like the vectors they did in maths at school, with angles and arrows: I love Phil, and Roland loves Phil as well, but Phil fancies Elaine, and Elaine loves Roland. No one loves me. It lacked symmetry; it toppled under its own weight. In her mind, these diagonals made a rickety kite; tweak any corner and it would twist out of shape.