Summer of '76 (21 page)

She releases a slow breath and closes her eyes again.

‘So I see Simon’s here,’ he says. ‘Does that mean you’ve sorted things out with him?’

She lies still. The curtains sway lightly beside the open window and Luke surveys the familiar items of his parent’s room: Mum’s dusty stack of unread books, pushed to one corner of the windowsill; the chair on Dad’s side, piled up with crumpled clothes; Mum’s dressing table, scattered with perfumes and hair rollers and bottles of gold-capped nail varnish. He glances along the length of her fragile body, his
eyes coming to rest on her pretty painted toenails, feeling like he’s teetering on the edge of an unfinished dream, about to drop back in.

‘Mum?’

She opens her eyes and swipes away her tears, releasing a slow breath before she speaks. ‘Simon’s going to be moving in for a while.’

On August 5th, Big Ben stops running. Luke stands in the early morning kitchen while everyone else sleeps, eating Marmite on toast, listening to the news on the radio.

Dad appears in the doorway, turning up the volume to hear the end of the report.

‘Metal fatigue,’ Luke says. ‘Apparently it’s knackered.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Dad replies, filling the kettle and fetching down two mugs. ‘You know the world’s going to pot when you can’t even rely on Big Ben any more. And you heard they’ve appointed a drought minister now? It’s a bit late in the day, if you ask me. Should have done something about it months ago. What’s he going to do, wave his magic wand and miraculously fill the reservoirs? I don’t think so.’

Luke watches his father as he makes the tea and slides four slices of bread beneath the grill.

‘Is she OK, Dad?’ he asks, placing his dirty plate beside the sink.

‘Your mum? She’s fine. She’ll be even better once she’s had breakfast in bed.’

‘You know what I mean. You can’t have missed the fact that she’s been miserable since Simon moved in. She’s been in a right state all week.’

‘She’s just tired. She’ll soon snap out of it.’ He rubs Luke’s back and places a jar of jam on the tray. ‘Are you popping in to see Nan on your way back tonight? You haven’t been round there for a while.’

‘That’s what she says about you every time I call round. You should make more of an effort, you know, Dad. She’s
your
mum.’

‘Well, I’ve been busy. Stop off and buy her a nice tin of biscuits for me? She’d like that.’ He finishes making the tea and loads up the breakfast tray. ‘And stay out of the living room, will you, son? Simon might need a bit of a lie-in today.’

Tom’s on a different shift, so Luke takes his scooter and sets off alone in the early sunshine, enjoying the peace of the calm roads and avenues. As he turns out of Blake Avenue, he sees Sara Newbury with three of her dogs on the verge outside her gate. Even though it’s still early, she’s only wearing shorts and a bikini top, and she clutches one of the chihuahuas snugly under her crêpey brown arm. She stiffens as he approaches, obviously suspicious of a helmeted stranger passing by at this time in the morning. Luke is relieved when the Rottweiler takes no notice of him but instead lowers his backside and pigeon-steps around for a moment, feverishly sniffing to locate the optimum patch for his bowel evacuation. Luke slows to a stop a few feet away, conspicuously watching Sara Newbury, confident that she has no idea who he is behind the cover of his crash helmet.

‘I hope you’re going to clear that up,’ he calls through his open visor, keeping his voice friendly and nodding towards the mountain of dog turd that now adorns the scrubby grass verge.

She gasps, furious, and pushes open her purple gate to wave the dogs inside. Luke carries on up the road, feeling the warmth of the morning breaking through, as the hum of lawnmowers and birdsong starts to fill the air. The distant whisper of the sea is always there, a transparent layer that
lies beneath all other sounds, as it rolls over the beaches that surround the island, ever constant. Fleetingly, he wonders if he’ll miss the island when he’s gone; he wonders if it will miss him.

Turning into Lark Road, he stops outside Martin’s house and pauses to watch the swallows as they swoop above the rooftop and disappear into the back garden. He props up his scooter and carefully unstraps Martin’s
Young Americans
album, removing it from its carrier bag and checking it over to make sure it’s not been damaged on the way. He walks up the front path and props it against the doorstep, taking a step back to look up towards the first-floor windows, where the curtains are drawn. The red graffiti has been scrubbed back again, but a shadow of it remains, the flecks over the front step like a blood trail from the house. He hasn’t had any contact with Martin since he stopped by with Tom last week; he’s got to get that film off him, but he’s not sure how to broach it after the way their last conversation played out. Luke knows he was an arsehole, but he doesn’t seem to have it in him to apologise, and he’s not sure that Martin would want to know anyway. He cranes his neck to look at the upstairs window, blinking at the reflected sun and willing his friend to appear behind the glass and make it all alright again. But the curtains remain closed as the house sleeps on, and Luke walks away, back along the path, and out through the wrecked wooden gate.

Samantha and Gordon are on the same shift as Luke, and after work they decide to avoid the crowded pool and take a swim in the sea instead. Luke’s irritated that Gordon wants to come along, that he can’t take a hint and let them have a bit of time to themselves, but he does his best to hide it lest Samantha notices and thinks he’s an idiot.

They find a quiet spot a little way along the beach, beyond the jetty, and stretch out on their towels, side by side, with Samantha in the middle. The water laps gently against the
shingle shore, and the sun beats down in a seemingly endless blanket of heat.

‘This is the life, eh?’ says Gordon, flexing his scrawny pink toes. ‘I thought I’d miss out on the summer holidays, working all the time. But we get the best of both worlds, don’t we? Like they say, every cloud has a silver lining.’

‘You’re like a walking encyclopaedia of clichés,’ Luke says. He’s propped up on his elbows, admiring the increasingly dark tan of his own belly.

Samantha flicks his ankle with her foot. ‘Don’t be mean!’

‘Well, he is!’ Luke replies, resisting the urge to flick her back.

‘It’s true,’ says Gordon, his voice serious. ‘I am. My mum’s always saying so. There’s no smoke without fire.’ He sits up, cross-legged, reaching for a pebble to roll between his palms. ‘So, what do we think of the current number one?’

‘Oh, I love it!’ Samantha replies, brushing sand from her towel with a delicate little movement of her foot.

Behind his sunglasses, Luke pretends to stare into space, allowing his eyes to linger on her honeyed legs. ‘What is it?’

‘Elton John and Kiki Dee. You know –
Don’t go breakin’ my heart
–’ Gordon breaks into song, shimmying his shoulders like a girl.

‘Yeah, yeah – I know it!’ Luke interrupts, embarrassed to be sitting with him. ‘Thanks for that, Gordon.’

‘I know you love me really, Lukester.’ Gordon sighs and flops back against his towel as Samantha gives Luke a knowing little smile.

‘You do, though, don’t you, Luke? Who couldn’t love our Gordy?’

Luke grunts, watching a trio of rowing boats pass by, filled with holidaymakers and camp staff. A little girl, about Kitty’s age, waves at them, and Luke waves back.

‘That’s sweet,’ says Samantha, lying back and stretching her arms high above her head so that her stomach caves in to reveal two achingly dark hollows where her hips meet the
top of her bikini briefs. ‘Not many young men would bother waving back, would they?’

‘Wouldn’t they?’ he replies, flipping over on to his front. ‘I’ve got a little sister, so I suppose I’m used to it.’

‘Have you?’ She rolls on to her side so she’s facing him, with her back to Gordon, who’s now breathing deeply with his T-shirt draped across his face. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Kitty. She’s four.’

Samantha rests her head on her arm and gazes at him, her face looking all dreamy.

‘Are you alright now?’ he asks, deciding to act on the moment. ‘After your break-up with Len?’

She looks down, and then her eyes slowly travel up the length of his body, until they meet his. ‘It was a lucky escape,’ she replies. ‘How about you? Those bruises he gave you were pretty bad.’

‘I think it looked worse than it felt.’

‘Really?’

He laughs. ‘
No
. It hurt like hell. But, it’s fine now.’ He turns on to his side in a mirror of her, pulling his chin in as he checks out his chest and torso. ‘See, all gone.’

Samantha reaches over and runs a finger along the groove between two ribs, making him flinch as her fingertip brushes the rim of his bellybutton. She looks over her shoulder to where Gordon lies beneath his T-shirt, and leans in to kiss Luke, her tongue slipping between his lips in a single, shocking movement. She pulls back and smiles boldly, her eyes lingering on the obvious swelling inside his nylon swimming trunks. She presses the flat of her hand against his groin, fitting her pretty fingers around the outline of his cock.

‘You’re very brown,’ she says, increasing the pressure.

‘Mediterranean blood,’ he replies, holding her gaze.

‘You’re kidding?’ Her hand releases him and drifts to his wrist, and he wonders if she’s able to feel his racing pulse through his skin.

‘Yeah, I’m kidding.’

Luke is suddenly aware of just how close they are; how her small breasts are pressed together as she lies on her side; how her long fingers now move and caress the sand between their towels. He smiles at her, trying to incorporate his puppydog look at the same time.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks, lifting her head, looking concerned.

He clears his throat self-consciously. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Oh, sorry. Your eyes went a bit funny. For a minute there I thought you were going to
faint
.’ She pats him on the hand again and rolls over on to her back, draping an arm across her forehead.

A glider sails across the skyline, momentarily casting them in shadow.

‘You know, you’re right, Gordy,’ she sighs. ‘This
is
the life. Look at the three of us, lying here under the sun. We’re all young, free and single, aren’t we? It doesn’t get much better than this.’

Luke arrives home by late afternoon, having called in on Nanna on the way back. He helped her out with a few jobs in the back garden and stopped for a cup of tea while she counted out five one-pound notes and slipped them into a brown envelope for him to put by for his birthday.

‘How’s your pal Martin?’ she asked. When Luke tried to avoid the subject, she clucked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Just because you’ve got all these fancy new friends up at the holiday camp, don’t you go dropping Martin. There’s no friends like old friends.’

It preoccupied him all the way home, as he grew increasingly anxious about Martin, and about the missing reels of film, and he even stopped briefly at the end of Lark Road, staring up the street towards Martin’s house, wrestling with the idea of calling for him. But in the end he decided against it; he wouldn’t know what to say.

When he first gets home he thinks the house is empty, as he unlocks the front door and makes his way through the cool, quiet hallway. He rests his helmet on the kitchen bench and goes straight to the sink to splash water over his face and neck, running himself a glassful which he drinks thirstily. It’s only as he sets the tumbler down on the side that he hears voices on the back lawn. He pushes open the kitchen door and wanders out into the garden. Mum and Dad and a woman Luke doesn’t recognise are standing at the boundary to the Michaelses’ garden, talking to Mike and Diana across the fence. Simon Drake sits apart from the group, reclining in one of the deckchairs in his shorts and sandals, drinking beer beside the willow tree. He smoothes his forefinger and thumb across his sandy moustache, as if deep in contemplation.

The woman turns her head and starts visibly when she sees Luke walking towards them.

‘Oh, Luke,’ says Mum, looking pale and flustered. ‘You’re home!’

Luke claws at his damp hair. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello! Marie McKee,’ the woman says, an efficient little hand shooting out to shake his.

‘Oh – how rude of me!’ Mum flaps. ‘Luke, darling, this is Marie. You know, as in John and Marie?’

Diana waves from the other side of the fence. From here, he can only see her upper half, and she’s wearing an orange bikini top, her shoulders shiny with oil. She smiles at him like a sleepy cat. ‘How’s work? Luke’s working with Mike’s Tom, you know, Marie. At the holiday camp.’

Dad and Mike don’t say anything, and Luke wonders what they were talking about before he turned up.

‘Tom says it’s a lovely job,’ Diana continues, bringing her hands up to adjust her straw hat. ‘They get full use of the pool and all the facilities.’

Dad clears his throat. ‘Luke, can you give us a few minutes? Marie only arrived a short while ago, and we just need to have a quick chat with her.’

Luke raises a quizzical eyebrow at Simon, who languidly raises his hand to return a salute. Dad flicks his head towards the back door, to hurry him along, and Luke holds his hands up in defeat, returning to the house and wandering into the cool living room, where the far window opens straight out opposite Mike’s fence. He finds Kitty on the other side of the room, flopped out on the sofa with her thumb hanging from her sleeping mouth, and settles into the seat beside her, exhaling a jaded sigh as he eases his shoes off. He can’t wait to get off this island; he’s sick of being constantly pushed away, sick of being forever on the outside, listening in.

‘So, who else saw the photo, Marie?’ Mum asks, her voice travelling in through the window, crisp and clear.

Luke sits forward in his seat.

‘A better question might be, who didn’t?’ Marie answers shrilly. ‘I mean, could it have been in a more public place? The post office! Good God, it’s just about the busiest place in the whole town!’

‘Slow down, now,’ says Mike, trying to take control. He’d have been good in the army. ‘How did you come to hear about it, Marie?’

There’s a moment’s silence, and Luke resists the temptation to sneak over and spy from the edges of the curtains.

‘Joyce Harrison phoned me just after lunch; I was out in the rose garden, spraying the greenfly. I could have died on the spot, and Joyce was so embarrassed. She could hardly say the words – a
pornographic image
, she called it. She said there’d been phone calls all morning long, between the committee members, deciding what to do about it.’

‘What a bunch of busybodies!’ Mike exclaims. ‘I hate to think what kind of fuss the education authorities will make over
your
photograph, Simon.’