Summer of '76 (13 page)

‘Sorry?
Pathetic
. We’ve been giving her swimming lessons all week, and she’s just getting her confidence. All it takes is a berk like you in the pool and we’re back to square one!’

The man looks as if he’s been lying in the sun too long; his round belly is almost purple.

‘I’m
really
sorry,’ Luke repeats. ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’ He cocks his head to one side to address the little girl directly. ‘I promise.’

The man backs away, feeling down for his child’s hand. ‘Well. Well, you just make sure it doesn’t.’ He retreats to his sun lounger, his face swiftly disappearing behind the sports pages.

The little girl sits down on the floor with a comic, safely protected from the sun by her father’s rotund shadow, and Luke pushes off to glide over towards Samantha. He pulls a terrified face, rolling his eyes in the direction of the fat man.

‘
Berk
,’ Samantha whispers, giggling as he reaches her.

‘
True
,’ he whispers back.

Side by side, they swim to the far corner of the pool, where Luke hooks his arm up on the edge so that his upper bruises are clearly visible.

‘Luke, I hope you don’t mind me asking –?’ Samantha flutters a delicate hand towards his chest.

He looks surprised, pulls his chin in and surveys his torso. ‘Oh, this. Oh, it’s nothing.’

There’s a light splash at the other end of the pool, and to Luke’s dismay Gordon starts to swim in their direction. ‘
Great
,’ he mutters.

‘Sorry,’ Samantha says, looking embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No, no – not you! Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing.’

‘Is it a condition?’

‘What, this?’

‘Like birthmarks or something?’

‘No!’

Gordon’s now about four feet away and he’s swimming back and forth, within hearing distance, glancing up and giving Luke an encouraging nod every now and then.

‘Is it contagious?’ She recoils slightly as she says it, and her nose wrinkles.

‘God, no!’

‘Sorry,’ she says again. ‘I’m being too nosy. It just looks really painful.’

‘What’s that on your chest, Lukey?’ Gordon shouts over. He’s on his back now, doing a faultless back crawl across the width of the pool.

‘Nothing!’ Luke shouts back.

Samantha tilts her head sweetly. ‘Anyway, I won’t mention it again.’

‘No, I’m just being stupid,’ he says, suddenly afraid he won’t get a chance to expose Len. ‘I should tell you really. I got in a fight. I just thought it might put you off me if you knew.’

Samantha looks appalled.

‘Well, I didn’t exactly get in a fight. Actually, if you want the truth, I just got a right kicking.’ He looks down, trying out a wounded expression.

‘Oh, my God, Luke! You poor thing.’ She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him, and he feels her chest against his, the slightest brush of her bare thigh as she leans in. Gordon swims past again, giving Luke the double
thumbs-up
while Samantha’s back is turned.

‘
Piss off
,’ Luke mouths silently, and Gordon flips himself under the water to glide away towards the far end of the pool.

‘Did you call the police? I hope you went to the doctor’s – I mean, it looks terrible!’

Luke shakes his head and gives her his doleful face again. ‘I didn’t want any more trouble, so I kept it to myself. Martin helped me get home, and I’ve been trying to hide
the bruises ever since, but you can’t stay covered up forever, can you? To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it until you noticed.’

She rests her hand on his bicep and he clenches his fist to make it tighten, pleased to see it looks quite manly from this angle. He places his other hand on hers, pats it twice and lets it fall back into the water.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Just over a week ago.’

She shakes her head and squeezes his upper arm. ‘And have you got any idea who it was?’

Luke pinches his chin, in the way he’s seen Martin do when he’s nervous. ‘I’m not sure I want to say.’

Her hand slides up on to his shoulder and she gives him a firm little shake. ‘Luke? If you know who it was, you can’t let them get away with it!’

He looks up and nods slowly, maintaining eye contact all the while, loving the feel of her warm hand on his skin. ‘It was Len,’ he says. ‘Len beat me up.’

By Saturday morning, harmony appears restored in the Wolff household.

Mum was working at her sewing machine late last night, sitting at her workbench in her mismatched bra and knickers, rushing to finish off her new dress, cursing every time the thread snapped or the bobbin jammed in her old Singer. From time to time she’d call on Luke to hold a seam or adjust a pin for her, interrupting his TV shows, kissing him on the cheek every time he helped out, and he couldn’t decide if he was more pleased or annoyed at her change in mood. Right up until that point she’d protested that she wasn’t going to the McKees’ party; that she’d rather die than go. But on Thursday, when Dad arranged for flowers to be delivered while he was out at work, something in her shifted.
Just you and me
, the card said, and Mum threw herself into pre-party preparations, laying out her dress patterns and
rushing into town to pick up threads and sequins from Sew and Wear.

Now, as he steps into the hall from his bedroom, Luke sees the finished dress hanging on the back of the living room door. The fabric is a deep yellow and black print she bought some months earlier, and when you look closely you can make out the intricate Grecian design which weaves around the curves of the dress, up over the low-plunging neckline, coming to an end at the wide plastic loops of its halter-neck clasp.

He finds Mum in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs with one hand, pulling toast from under the grill with the other. ‘You’re just in time,’ she says cheerily, pointing towards the cupboard for Luke to fetch down an extra plate.

He pulls out a seat and nudges at Kitty to budge up, making her squawk. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘No occasion.’ Mum lifts a fried egg out of the pan and on to a slice of buttered white toast. ‘I just thought your dad could do with a bit of help this morning.’ She calls out into the hallway. ‘Richard! Breakfast!’

Luke fetches the ketchup and impatiently thuds away at the base of the glass bottle. ‘What’s up with Dad, then?’

‘Hangover,’ she mouths silently, setting out Dad’s plate and stretching across to cut up Kitty’s bacon.

‘Again?’

‘He was out with Simon last night. Blind drunk, the pair of them – I’m surprised you didn’t hear them. I had to virtually wrestle Simon out into the street, to stop him waking everyone up. It was gone midnight!’

‘He’s such an idiot when he’s had a few.’

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t very patient with him – but he can’t come round here every time him and Laura have a marital spat. I just hope it’s not awkward when I see him at the party tonight.’

Luke sneers. ‘Pissheads. You’d think they’d be old enough to know better. And they’re
teachers
.’

Mum takes a mouthful of bacon and chews thoughtfully. ‘It’s just as well I’m not teaching any more. I’d never be able to keep up with the social life. Mind you, Simon hasn’t got kids to worry about, has he? I’m sure he’d be a bit more restrained if he had a four-year-old bouncing into his bedroom every morning.’

Luke spears a piece of bacon and folds it into his mouth. Resting his knife and fork on the side of his plate, he makes a big display of stretching out, reaching back to tap his fingers on the wall behind. ‘So, what kind of party is it, then?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum replies without looking up.

‘Well, is it a birthday party? A fancy dress party? Simon said something about masks…’

‘It’s just a party.’ She carries on eating.

‘A cocktail party?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Or one of those Tarts and Vicars parties?’

‘Luke!’

‘I bet Dad would like that.’

Mum refills her cup with tea from the pot, and retrieves a piece of toast that Kitty has pushed off her plate.

‘I hope Mike’s up to it,’ Luke says, as he watches Mum stir milk into her tea. ‘He looked like he was having heart failure that Sunday – what d’you think’s wrong with him?’

Mum lifts her head and stares into the space just beyond Luke’s ear. She blinks, and meets his gaze again. ‘Diana seemed to think it was stress. And he did calm down a bit after a cigarette, so she’s probably right.’

‘I reckon she’s wearing him out,’ Luke grins. ‘I mean, he’s got to be sixty. At least.’

‘Actually, he’s fifty-eight. Di said she’s twenty-nine – exactly half his age.’

Luke waggles his knife. ‘Just as I thought: dirty old man!’

Dad skulks into the kitchen, shirtless, and joins them at the table, wincing as his chair catches on the floor. ‘Who’s a dirty old man?’ His face looks crinkled and puffy.

‘Apart from you?’ Luke replies, putting down his cutlery and folding his arms.

Kitty waves her toast above her head. ‘Berty ole man!’

‘
Oh, dear
, Dad. Overdo it a bit last night, did you? You’re not looking like such a ladykiller this morning.’

Dad ignores him. ‘Is there any coffee, love?’

Mum strokes a hand across his shoulders as she gets up to pour him a mug. ‘One or two sugars?’

He rests his face in his hands and puts up two fingers. Luke picks up his knife and fork and continues to eat his breakfast, growing increasingly chirpy as he enjoys the spectacle of his father’s hangover. Dad lifts his head as Mum places his coffee mug on the table, revealing a clear film of sweat beading up over his top lip. He returns a withering look as Luke smiles at him from across the table.

‘Open the back door, Jo,’ he asks feebly, running his hand across his brow. ‘It’s roasting in here.’

‘Silly boy,’ she says, planting a kiss on the top of his head and leaving the table to push open the back door, propping a loose paving slab against it to hold it in place. She sits again and resumes her breakfast.

‘
Silly
,’ Luke agrees earnestly.

Dad continues to ignore him, and attempts a mouthful of bacon.

‘Silly Billy,’ mimics Kitty. When Dad doesn’t acknowledge her, she starts up. ‘Silly Billy Gilly Willy Hilly Jilly Pilly Shilly –’ She bounces in her seat, bashing her little hands on the tabletop with each syllable, causing Dad’s coffee to slop and spill. ‘Quilly!’

‘KITTY!’ he shouts, so loudly that she shudders, her eyes startled wide.

For a moment her bottom lip quivers, but when she realises Dad isn’t taking any notice she slides down from the table and marches across the kitchen towards the open back door. She sets her jaw firmly and slaps her hands on her hips. ‘SILLY!’ she yells. ‘BILLY!’ And she stomps into the garden.
A few seconds later, she returns, to push over the paving slab and slam the door shut.

‘Little git,’ says Luke.

Mum slaps his hand, and starts to clear the table, carrying dirty plates and cups over to the sink. ‘No, she is
not
.’

‘Dad agrees,’ Luke says, noticing the colour starting to return to his father’s cheeks.

Dad saws into his bacon and smirks back at Luke. ‘I don’t know where she gets it from. It’s certainly not me.’

‘Richard! That’s an awful thing to say!’

‘Well, maybe she’s not a git. But she’s certainly her mother’s daughter,’ he says with a playful smirk.

Mum pulls on her rubber gloves and fills the sink, humming along to the radio as she washes the dishes. After a companionable silence while he eats, Dad mops up the last of his egg yolk and pushes away his empty plate, stretching his arms taut above his head and letting out a long, loud growl as he rises from the table. He picks up his dirty plate and slides it into the washing-up bowl, wrapping his arms around Mum and nuzzling her neck. ‘
You to me are everything
–’ he sings, swaying her gently, and she nestles her face against his.

Luke retches loudly. ‘Urgh, you look like a couple of those disgusting French exchange students that hang around the pier.’

Mum squeals softly, as Dad bites her shoulder.

‘Who wants to see that?’

Dad laughs and releases her, and starts to rummage around in the hanging basket beneath Nanna’s cuckoo clock, pulling out a box of soluble aspirin. ‘I’ve got to sort my head out before tonight.’ He pauses to read the thermometer built into the side of the clock. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says, tapping the glass panel. ‘It’s already seventy-eight degrees, and it’s only just gone eleven! That’s got to be a record for June.’

Luke hands his plate to Mum and reaches for the teatowel. ‘They say we’re in for a heatwave. And they’re still talking about a drought.’

‘Don’t be daft, son,’ says Dad, stirring his cloudy aspirin and knocking it back in one wincing motion. ‘This is England. We’ll be up to our necks in puddles by the time the school holidays come round. That’ll be just my bloody bad luck – I’ll probably limp over the finishing line in July, just as the skies open up for a washout summer.’ He reaches round Mum and drops his glass in the washing-up bowl, before slapping her on the bum.

‘So, who else will be at the party tonight?’ Luke asks, picking up another plate.

Dad pauses in the doorway, pulling in his stomach muscles and patting his ribs as Mum empties the bowl and gives the sink a wipe-over with the cloth.

‘I’m not really sure, love,’ she replies. ‘It’s the first time they’ve thrown a big summer party like this.’

Luke swizzles the teatowel into a thick rope, and spins it out again. ‘But you’ve been to loads of parties at their place.’

‘I wouldn’t say
loads
,’ says Dad.

Luke watches Mum closely as she wipes down the clean sink a second and third time. ‘You were there around Christmas, and I know you’ve been to quite a few since then. Easter. That weekend in May.’

Mum drops the dishcloth in the sink and snatches the towel off him.

‘Alright, Luke! Honestly! You make it sound like we’re never here.’

‘I’m just saying. You’ve been to quite a few parties over at the McKees’. That’s all.’

She frowns and turns to Dad, who shakes his head despairingly and disappears down the hallway and into the bathroom.