Summer of '76 (27 page)

‘Sorry.
Sorry
. I was just thinking about when you called me and Martin benders. It’s just a funny word.
Benders
.’

Len smiles briefly – almost laughs, before he turns away again, bringing his expression under control. Luke puts his face in his hands, trying to pull himself together, feeling the grit of the sand grazing across his skin.

When he looks up, Len is looking at him, square on, holding Luke’s eyes for an uncomfortable moment too long. There’s no aggression in the look, but something else, something so profoundly sad that Luke’s heart stutters in his chest. Abruptly, Len’s focus shifts, fixing on some invisible point out at sea. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I always thought you lot seemed like the perfect family. Your mum and dad were always so bloody cheerful – so pleased to see you.’

Luke stares at him. ‘They liked you, Len, you know?’ he replies, not sure what use this is now. ‘And your mum’s alright, isn’t she? Well, she was always lovely to me.’

Len scratches his rough stubble with dirty fingernails, and looks back at Luke. ‘Mate, d’you know how many stepdads I’ve had since my old man left?’

Luke shakes his head.

‘Seven. That’s one for every year my dad’s been gone. One a fucking year.’

The rain is coming down harder now, hard enough to force little rivers of water through the cracks in the walkway overhead. Luke shifts position to move out of a stream.

Len grinds the end of the joint into the sand. He tears a corner off his thumbnail with his teeth. ‘Some of Mum’s blokes weren’t that nice.’

‘I’m sorry, man,’ Luke says, willing Len to turn back to him, but Len’s focus is far out over the water, unreachable. Luke pulls his knees up beneath his chin, patting the damp goosepimples beneath the pads of his fingers as he tries to think of something else to say. ‘So, where are you off to?’ he asks. ‘You’ve got your rucksack with you. Looks like you’re off somewhere.’

‘Mainland. It’s gotta be better than here.’

‘But I heard Samantha’s dad got you a job on the ferries?’

Len glances at him darkly, and a blush rises to Luke’s cheeks. He pushes back against the shadowy pillar of the pier. ‘I heard you two split up.’

Len laughs hard. ‘Samantha’s dad can stick his job. But that Sam, you know, she’s just a user. You’ll have heard a different story – but you know what,
she
took that money. Granted, we spent it together, but it was her idea in the first place. She knew exactly where to find it. But the minute she got busted, she said it was me. Obvious, really.’

It’s the most Len has said to him in years, and Luke feels like a fool. Checking his watch, Len gathers his things and pulls his heavy bag up over his shoulders. Together they leave the gloom of the pier and walk up towards the esplanade, where they stand on the deserted parade, as the ceaseless rain streams through their hair, making rivers over their faces.

‘Len, you know Martin?’

Len looks at him, shrugs.

‘He’s alright, man – he’s a good bloke. We all used to be friends, remember? You should give him a break.’

Len pushes the wet hair from his face and turns to scan the curling waves one last time. ‘We’re not all like the Waltons, Luke,’ he says, not unkindly, and he walks away, out across the dimming night as the rain lashes down, never once looking back at his oldest friend, who stands at the roadside, watching until he’s disappeared from view.

It’s getting late by the time Luke arrives back in Blake Avenue, and he parks his scooter beneath the carport, vaulting over a large puddle to let himself in. Heading through the hallway, he strips off his T-shirt and grabs a towel from the bathroom to rough-dry his hair and mop off his arms and legs.

In the kitchen, he’s met by the surprisingly formal assembly of Mum, Dad and Simon, the three of them sitting quite calmly around the table, a Kodak wallet of photos and negatives strewn across the centre of its wooden surface. Luke’s heart jolts, his mind a racing jumble of sickness and relief. ‘What –?’ he stammers, sliding along the bench to sit beside Simon, across the table from his parents.

Mum pushes the kitchen door closed and reaches across to squeeze Luke’s hand. ‘Kitty’s asleep,’ she says.

‘Are these –?’ Luke starts, but he can’t find the words, and he cautiously picks up the pictures and sifts through the images, one by one.

‘It’s the last of those bloody photographs,’ Dad says. ‘Thank God. Let’s hope that’s an end to it.’ He fetches a fourth glass and pours wine for Luke. ‘And you know, we had nothing to worry about, your mum and I – we’re not even in there.’

Luke studies his dad, bemused. This is the first time he’s spoken directly about these parties, the first time he’s implied he had anything to fear. Gone is his jokey irreverence, replaced by an earnest calm, his steady hand on Mum’s shoulder as she fixes her eyes on Luke’s. He turns
his attention back to the photos, which, but for just one, are quite harmless – gulls on the esplanade, sparrows in the dust, swallows at dusk. Typical Martin shots of wildlife and birds, the images crisp and clear.

‘Have you checked the negatives?’ he asks.

Dad nods. ‘All there. All accounted for.’

Luke frowns, looking around the group in wordless question.

‘It was Sara Newbury,’ Dad says in reply. ‘I caught her, just a couple of hours ago, outside the library, trying to pin this one on the board.’ He waves the final picture and drops it on the pile with a flick of his wrist.

Luke retrieves the photo for a closer inspection. It’s a wonderful shot: Fatty Michaels in the altogether, an arrogant smile across his smarmy chops, his copious flesh exposed for all to see. Of all the pictures, it’s the one Luke would most liked to have seen on display. ‘You should have left her to it, Dad. Fat fucker.’

‘
Luke
,’ Mum tuts, casting him a brief disapproving glance.

Simon laughs and puts an arm around Luke’s bare shoulder, squeezing him once and releasing him. ‘You’ve always been a good judge of character, Luke, old boy.’ He lifts his glass and clinks it against Luke’s.

Luke runs a weary hand across his brow, looking from the face of one parent to the other. ‘So, no more secrets?’ he says. ‘Please?’

Mum reaches for Luke’s fingers, lacing them with hers; Dad nods resolutely and reaches for the wine bottle. ‘No more secrets,’ Dad says.

A rattle of the kitchen door handle startles them all, and Kitty staggers in clutching Marty the elephant, pausing in the doorway to rub her eyes and squint at the gathered adults. The atmosphere in the room shifts at once; Luke catches the fleeting glance between Mum and Simon, the small shake of Dad’s head. He feels exposed, sitting bare-chested in his damp
shorts, as ever the one on the outside, the one looking in. It’s as if the abrupt change in weather has modified everything, shunted it all off-centre so that, once again, the world he sees is a different version to the one he knew before.

Kitty pads around the table and leans her fuzzy head on his arm. ‘Lu-lu,’ she says, the words mumbled about her thumb. ‘Thirsty.’

Luke slides off the bench and lifts her into his seat, where she clambers up next to Simon while Luke fetches a glass from the cupboard and fills it at the tap. As he turns to take Kitty her drink, his breath catches in his chest. Mum and Dad sit on one side, their clasped hands a tangle on the table top. Kitty stands on the bench beside Simon, leaning into him, her arms draped around his neck, her sleepy head resting on his. The shades of their hair are so remarkably alike, it’s impossible to tell where Simon’s hair stops and Kitty’s starts.

A drop of water slops up over the edge of the glass, plopping to the floor at Luke’s feet, the silence of the room now roaring in his ears. Slowly, his eyes turn to Mum’s. ‘You and Simon?’ he whispers.

Mum picks up her glass and drains it, placing it down carefully as she refuses to return his gaze.

‘
You
and Simon?’ Luke asks again.

‘
No
!’ she whispers angrily, finally turning to face him. She lowers her voice, inclining her head towards Kitty, like a warning. ‘
No
. It wasn’t like that.’

In a fog of confusion, Luke walks across the kitchen, and holds out the glass to his sister. She drinks thirstily, and returns the glass to him before climbing down off the bench and wrapping her arms around his waist. Luke stands at the head of the table, cradling Kitty’s head and trying to suppress the trembling of his legs as he waits for someone to speak.

‘Why don’t I put Kitty back to bed?’ says Simon. He slides out from behind the table, gently squeezing past Luke to pick up Kitty and leave the room.

Luke stares at the empty doorway.

‘Sit down, son,’ Dad says, his voice solid. He scans the table.

All the colour has drained from Mum’s face, and she can barely look at Luke as he lowers himself into the seat opposite. The cuckoo clock ticks loudly in the quiet pause, as the rain trickles down the window pane, pooling on the outside ledge. Mum studies the table top; Simon returns to the room and tops up the glasses.

‘It’s hard to know where to begin…’ Dad starts, dipping his forefinger in a tiny bright spill of red wine.

Luke rolls his head back in exasperation, feeling the knots crunch along his neck. ‘Bloody hell,
Dad
! Just spit it out, will you? You’re killing me here!’

He raises his palms in surrender. ‘OK, OK. It’s these parties – well, I’m sure you’ve worked out a fair amount for yourself, son. You’ve heard the gossip – seen the photographs.’

‘It’s not how it sounds…’ Mum says quietly.

‘I know, Mum,’ Luke replies, and he sighs deeply, wondering if he even has the energy to go on with this. ‘I know. But, right now, I couldn’t give a toss about your stupid parties. It’s him –’ he flicks his head towards Simon ‘– and Kitty I want to know about. What the hell is going on here? Is Simon – is he Kitty’s
dad
?’

There’s a brief exchange between Mum and Dad, one set of eyes flickering up to meet the other. They both nod. Luke lets a long, slow breath slip out between his lips as the enormity of the revelation sinks in. He scans the kitchen, weighing up his next move. Luke the boy would flounce from the room now, slam his bedroom door, wallop up the volume and shut out the world. But he doesn’t want to be that boy any more.

‘I don’t know if I can listen to any more of this. It just goes on and on. I can’t take much more of it.’ He breathes deeply, and for a few moments no one speaks.

‘Luke, old pal,’ Simon finally says, shunting round to face him. ‘You really need to hear this. Hear them out, will you?’

Mum rests her hands in her lap and opens her mouth to talk. ‘It was just the once,’ she says, after what seems like an age. ‘Five and a half years ago. That was the first party we went to, and that was the only time either of us ever,
ever
went with anyone else.’

Luke eyes her coldly, waiting for her to continue.

‘When you were born, we loved you so much, Luke. All we ever wanted was just one more child – a brother or sister for you, to complete our family.’

She looks to Dad.

‘After we’d had you, we tried for another baby for years, son. Years and years. And nothing happened.’

Mum runs a thumbnail around a knot in the wood. ‘Eventually, we went to the doctor’s and found out the problem was with your dad, not me. He said that my chances of getting pregnant again by Dad were virtually nil.’

‘Lazy sperm,’ Dad says.

‘Bloody hell,’ Luke says, shaking his head. He can’t believe they all look so composed.

‘Simon had met Laura by then,’ Mum carries on, ‘and they’d told us about these parties, always trying to get us to go along and try it out. Of course, we laughed it off – thought it was just a phase they were going through.’

Simon expels an involuntary chuckle, immediately shaking his head remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.
Totally
inappropriate. It just sounds funny when you say it like that, Jo.’

Mum glares at Simon, smoothing her hands across her lap.

‘Mum?’

‘Sorry, Jo.
Sorry
,’ Simon says, taking over. ‘Look, the whole thing was my idea – let’s get that straight before we go any further. You need to know that, Luke. I offered – Laura and I weren’t planning for children, and I was happy to help out if I could.’ He gestures towards Mum and Dad. ‘These are my best friends – what else was there to do?’

Luke shakes his head.

‘So we agreed, the party was the best place – keep it simple – if we all went with someone else, there could be no jealousy, no cause for upset. And that, as they say, is that.’

A burst of rainfall hammers against the kitchen window. Luke runs his hands over his face, wishing he could hide behind them forever. ‘Man, I don’t really know what to say about all this.
Simon
is Kitty’s dad?’

Mum and Dad reach for each other, their hands linking, a small sadness passing between them.

‘
Richard
is Kitty’s dad,’ Simon corrects, his brows knitting together, his headmaster’s voice rearing up. ‘I just provided some of the material needed. Better me than some complete stranger, eh?’

Dad folds his arms and taps the wood with the tip of his forefinger. ‘We’ve so much to thank Simon for, Luke. We wouldn’t have Kitty if it wasn’t for his friendship. It doesn’t change a thing, Luke. She’s still your sister. We’re still your parents. Nothing’s changed – you know that?’

Luke rises and walks across the room, stopping beside the dresser to gaze at the small display of birthday cards lined up along the shelf.

Mum joins him, holding her arms wide. ‘I’m so sorry we left it so long, love. There’s just never been a good time to tell you…’

He allows her embrace, letting his head drop against her shoulder. Exhaustion pools in his chest.

‘We should be grateful for everything we’ve got, Luke,’ Dad says.

Luke raises his head to look at him and Simon, sitting either side of the table, swarthy as fishermen. Simon’s hair has been bleached lighter over the summer months, and Luke now sees Kitty so very clearly, with her waving blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Simon studies his fingernails, not looking up, and Luke understands it all, his desire to hold tight to this ready-made family, when he has none. He thinks of Len, alone this evening, walking away into the coursing rain, never
looking back. Luke steps back and looks at them all, at Mum and Dad and Simon.