Summer of '76 (7 page)

‘What about girlfriends?’ Samantha asks, raising her eyebrows.

‘Not at the moment,’ Luke replies, feeling his cheeks colour.

Samantha turns her gaze on Gordon.

‘Me? Not
ever
,’ he says, and then in a whisper, his hand cupped at his mouth, ‘Nor ever likely.’

Samantha jumps up to grab Gordon’s hand. ‘I know I’m going to just love you, Gordy. And for the record, boys, I
do
have a boyfriend.’ She picks up a feather duster and daintily steps up on to the bed, stretching into the far corners to brush away the winter cobwebs. She looks over her shoulder at Luke and smiles. ‘Just in case you wondered.’

Simon and Laura arrive for supper that night, carrying three bottles of wine and a large kilner jar of sloe gin.

‘He’s going through a midlife crisis,’ Laura announces, putting the bottles down on the dresser and kissing Mum on both cheeks. Laura’s had her hair cut into a short pixie crop, with little dark spikes framing her tiny face. ‘He’s even started talking about digging up half the garden and planting an allotment.’

‘Self-sufficient,’ Luke says, holding the gin up to the light. It shines a vibrant burgundy red through the evening glow of the kitchen window.

‘Exactly!’ Simon pats him on the back, and starts removing the foil from the top of one of the wine bottles. He slides along the bench to sit beside Luke. ‘I’m pleased to see that Luke’s in harmony with the
Zeitgeist
. Unlike Laura – bloody pessimist.’

‘
Realist
,’ Laura replies, pulling out a chair to sit beside Dad, kissing him on one cheek and reaching across the table to squeeze her husband’s hand. She twirls the shiny black plastic studs in her earlobes and smiles derisively. ‘Honestly, I swear he’s turning into a
bona fide
hippy – I’ve never seen you let your hair grow longer than a couple of inches before, Simon. It’s almost down to your shoulders.’

‘Doesn’t stop him looking like a double for Leslie Phillips,’ Dad laughs, accepting one of Simon’s cigarettes and waggling it in front of his mouth. ‘
Helllll-ooooo
.’

Simon strokes his pale moustache. ‘You know me, Richard, old boy.’

‘Anything I can do, love?’ Dad asks, as Mum carries a large dish of chilli-con-carne to the table, pushing it along to make room for the boiled rice.

She’s wearing a long-sleeved lace blouse, with wrist ruffs that flop over her hands and irritate her as they get trapped between her fingers and the dishes. She pushes at her loose hair with the back of her hand.

‘Just go and check on Kitty, will you? Make sure she’s asleep.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Simon says as Dad scrapes his chair back.

They disappear into the hall, cigarettes and glasses in hands, and Mum starts to serve up, letting Laura take over when she remembers the salad she’s neglected to take out of the fridge. Luke sneaks a top-up of white wine while her back is turned; Laura smirks and taps the side of her nose.

‘How is she?’ Mum asks when the men return to their seats. She lights a candle at each end of the table and sits beside Simon.

‘Gorgeous!’ says Simon, flipping out his napkin and placing it on his lap. ‘And, you’ll be pleased to hear, fast asleep.’

Luke stretches across the table for the salt. ‘You should have kids,’ he says to Laura. ‘You’d make great parents.’

‘Yurgh!’ she replies with a little shudder. She pinches the ends of her little black necktie and removes it, fanning a hand over her warm face. ‘We’d be a disaster, wouldn’t we, Simon? We can hardly look after ourselves, let alone a house full of screaming brats.’

‘Not that Laura thinks you two are brats, of course,’ Simon adds.

Laura refills her glass, making a point of pinching Luke’s cheek affectionately. ‘Mmm, delicious supper, Jo. Thanks. Now
that’s
one of the few things your People party have got right, Simon.’

‘It’s not
my
People party. I’m just interested in a few of their policies.’

Laura waves him away. ‘Stop being so touchy.’

‘What policies?’ asks Luke, trying to find a way into the conversation.

‘Use less energy, produce fewer kids. It makes sense, if you think about it.’

‘Produce
fewer kids
? But life isn’t as simple as that, is it?’ Mum rests her fork on the side of her plate. ‘Sometimes you can’t plan those things.’

Laura puts her fork down too. ‘Isn’t that what the birth control pill is for? It’s revolutionised women’s lives across the world.’ She reaches for one of Simon’s cigarettes.

‘And all for the better. But we’re not robots, are we?’ Mum blows the cigarette smoke away from her face. ‘You can’t tell people how many kids to have, any more than you can tell someone who they should marry. It’s about choice.’

‘Choice is all very nice, Jo, but we can’t go on naively ignoring this economic crisis forever. At some point we have to acknowledge it – and do something about it.’ Laura wafts
her cigarette towards the men to encourage them to join in the debate. ‘Don’t we?’

‘Telling people how many children they can have is ridiculous. What if they told people they couldn’t have
any
kids. Or even that they
must
have kids?’ Mum flips her hair over her shoulder. ‘You’re someone who’s already exercised her choice not to have kids, Laura – how would you feel about that?’

Laura sighs loudly. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. That could never happen. It’s a fact, the planet will always need fewer human beings on it, not more.’

‘But the size of the population just isn’t an important consideration to a woman who desperately wants a child, is it?’

‘It should be.’ Laura grinds her cigarette stub into the ashtray and pushes it up the table. ‘We’re not dumb rabbits, for fuck’s sake! If nature has been good enough to bless a family with a child, I think it’s perfectly reasonable for a nation in crisis to dictate that they stop there. Stop them all procreating thoughtlessly.’

Mum releases a harsh laugh.

Laura raises her eyebrows. ‘It takes more conscious thought to decide
against
having multiple children than it does to let nature take its course. So yes –
thoughtlessly
.’

‘
Laura
,’ Simon says. ‘Time to get off your soapbox.’

‘More chilli?’ Dad asks, offering the spoon to Simon. He nods, letting Dad serve up as he leaves his seat to fetch a second bottle of wine.

‘You know what? In the grand scheme of things, the economy is the least of our worries. It’s the dark shadow of progress from heavy industry that’s killing us.
That’s
what’s destroying the fragile ecology of the earth.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Dad says, banging his knife against the side of his wine glass. ‘Time out, everyone. It’s a bit early in the evening to start getting this heavy!’

Mum tops up Laura’s wine glass and forces out a smile.

‘Sorry,’ Laura sighs, reaching over to rub Simon’s wrist as he retakes his seat. ‘I told you – he’s having a midlife crisis. So! I hear the McKees are busy planning their next party. What’s the theme, Simon?’

‘Masks at Midnight,’ he replies, subtly withdrawing his hand from hers.

‘Sounds like fun,’ says Dad. ‘It’s bound to be, if Marie’s organising it.’

The men laugh, and Dad inclines his head to kiss Mum on the side of her face. She tuts, shouldering him off with the briefest of movements.

Luke leaves the table to fetch himself a glass of water, leaning against the sink as he waits for the tap to run cold, glancing back at the assembled adults, at the well-worn rhythm of their drinking and conversation. From here, they appear to act as one, pulsating as they do with shared laughter, with boredom, with pent-up opinions and unspoken desires. At the next bottle they move on to staffroom gossip, and when dessert is served Luke takes his crème caramel to his room, leaving them to it. He can tell by the number of empty bottles already, it’s going to be a late session.

There’s a little sunny patch in the back garden where Mum can sunbathe naked without fear of being seen by the neighbours. Mrs Bevis on the one side is shielded by a high wall, and on the other side the gardens are only separated by a low picket fence but the house has stood empty for the past year or so.

They’re nice gardens, with sloping lawns running down to trees and shrubs at the lower edge. Beyond the dilapidated picket fence, next door’s garden has turned into a meadow, overrun by nettles and tall grasses where butterflies and moths hover, collecting nectar from the wild clover and sprawling buddleia.

Luke is on a late shift today, and he sits in a deckchair, his closed eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, sunning his chest. He should be studying, but it’s too hot to think. He listens to the sounds of his mother preparing her sunbathing spot, as she crosses the garden in her flip-flops, laying out her towel and fluffing up a cushion she’s brought from the living room.

‘Gosh, it’s beautiful! Not a cloud in the sky.’ She sighs contentedly. ‘Imagine, if it’s like this in June, what on earth will the rest of the summer be like?’

Luke hears her flip-flops land as she kicks them off her feet and on to the patio; they fall with a little slap, amidst the soft buzz of insects and the distant hum of weekend lawnmowers. He crinkles one eye to see her, over by Mrs Bevis’s wall. She’s wearing her blue bikini, performing her daily stretches, bending to bounce her fingertips lower and lower towards her flexed toes. A pair of sparrows bursts through the leaves of the willow tree, landing on the grass a few feet away, where they flap and squabble like a dance, exploding into the air again to bomb through the branches in neat formation.

Luke wipes the sweat from his brow.

‘Tell me when it gets to half-twelve, Luke. I have to pick up Kitty from down the road – she’s playing at Susan’s.’ She drops her bikini top on the grass and steps out of her bottoms, before settling herself face-down on the towel, bunching up her hair so the sun can reach her neck.

Luke pushes himself up out of the deckchair. ‘Right. I’ll go and mow the front lawn, I think.’

‘Good idea,’ she replies brightly. ‘Don’t forget –
twelve-thirty
! I’m bound to doze off.’

He picks up his magazine and walks back up the garden, glancing in his mother’s direction before he reaches the house. How old is she – forty-one – forty-two? He recalls once overhearing his dad telling her she looked like a
twenty-year
-old from behind, and she’d smiled for a moment, before frowning and asking how old she looked from the front. Thirty, he’d replied, and she’d seemed pleased enough with that.

Out on the drive, Dad’s clearing the rubbish from his car, and he looks up as Luke comes through the front door, squinting hard against the bright glare of the sun. On one side of the patchy lawn the grass is green and lumpy, while the other side, where the sun is harshest, is starting to take on a straw-like appearance. Luke’s been doing the lawn every weekend since he was fourteen, and he’s always quite
enjoyed it, watching the stripes appear as he works his way up and down the garden. But last week Dad came home with one of those new hover mowers. Mum went mad, recounting a horror story about a man who’d electrocuted himself by mowing over the flex. Dad had laughed. ‘Daft bugger – sounds like he asked for it.’

Luke carries the Flymo from the garage and drops the plug in through the bedroom window. He potters about the lawn for a while, picking up Kitty’s toys and throwing them into a heap at the edge of the drive. There’s a set of bright plastic saucepans, small to large, each of them with wide-eyed faces, which he lines up along the low front wall in order.

‘Hiiiii-yah!’ Dad leaps at him from behind, karate-style, causing him to yell and stumble backwards. ‘Gotcha! So, where’s your mum, then?’

‘In the nudist colony, out the back.’

Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘Is she now?’

Luke pulls a disgusted face.

‘Well, no time for all that, anyway – I’m going to wash the car. She needs a good polish. Want to help?’

Luke reaches for the plastic saucepans and adds them to the toy pile. ‘Nah. I’m about to mow the lawn.’

‘Well, watch how you go,’ he says, indicating towards the cable. He strips off his shirt and drapes it over the gate, pulling a muscle-man pose for Luke. ‘Look at that,’ he says, inspecting his own bicep.

Luke grimaces and turns away, embarrassed to see Mrs Bevis walking past with her shopping.

‘Morning!’ Dad calls after her.

‘Morning,’ she replies, shrilly, dipping her aged head so far down that Luke thinks she might tip over.

‘See?’ Dad says, patting his bare stomach. ‘Still got it. Right, I’d better wash that car before they slap a hosepipe ban on us once and for all.’

Both set to work on their separate jobs, and before long the lawn’s looking less patchy. Luke has accidentally hovered
the heads off Mum’s anemones, and he stuffs them underneath the grass cuttings before anyone sees, before starting on a circuit of the borders, pulling up stray dandelions and weeds to add to the heap. Dad’s whistling ‘Save Your Kisses for Me’ while he gives the car a final rinse with his sponge, stepping back every now and then to check he hasn’t missed a bit. He drops his sponge into the bucket and clicks his fingers to catch Luke’s attention, as a Regency red Jaguar slows in the road and bumps up the kerb into the driveway next door. Luke rakes the last strands of grass into the heap and rests on the wooden handle, watching, suddenly self-conscious about his naked torso.

A large, balding man steps out of the driver’s seat, wearing what appear to be golfing clothes.

‘Hello, there!’ the man calls over.

‘Morning!’ Dad replies.

Both men approach the low front wall that separates their two driveways.

‘Mike Michaels,’ the big man says, offering his hand.

‘Richard Wolff.’

The passenger door of the car opens and a woman gets out. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties, dressed in white slacks and a bright red shift top. Her hair is a halo of tight, dark shoulder-length curls.

‘My wife, Diana,’ Mike Michaels announces. He puts his hand on the small of her back. ‘Di, this is our new neighbour, Richard.’

At first she appears shy, as her gaze shifts between Dad and Luke, who face her in their shorts and sandals, staring back like a couple of stunned Mowglis.

‘Neighbours!’ she finally says, her face breaking into a wide smile.

‘
Neighbours
,’ Dad repeats, planting one hand on his hip, unconsciously slapping his bicep with the other. ‘Well, how about that? We haven’t had anyone this side for quite some time.’

Luke remains where he is, gripping the end of the rake handle as Diana glances over at him and waves.

Dad turns to beckon him over. ‘This is my son, Luke. Come and shake hands with Mr Michaels, Luke.’

‘It’s Mike!’ he bellows, shooting out his arm.

‘Hi,’ Luke says. Mike’s hand is huge and wet with sweat, and Luke’s about to wipe it away on his shorts when Mrs Michaels suddenly reaches over the wall to shake hands with him too. Embarrassed that she’ll think it’s his sweat, Luke mumbles something about clearing the lawn and leaves Dad chatting with them. As he fills the wheelbarrow with grass clippings, he allows himself occasional glances at Mrs Michaels, who’s now perched on the edge of the little wall so that her white slacks tighten over her thighs. She’s laughing, her fingers dancing like butterflies to emphasise her words. Dad’s loving it, standing there in his cut-off shorts and bare chest, next to her fat old husband. Luke can see him pointing at their car, as Mike Michaels hitches up his checked trousers and strokes the bonnet.

Dad whistles over. ‘What do you think of the motor, Luke?’

‘Very nice,’ he calls back, and Mike Michaels rubs his paunch, as if he’s just enjoyed a good meal.

A removals van pulls up at the roadside. Mike Michaels claps his hands and strides off towards the vehicle, opening the side door and standing back to let the driver step down. ‘Good to meet you, Richard!’ he calls over. ‘And I hear we have friends in common!’

‘Really?’ Dad replies.

‘Yes – the McKees. We’ll have to get you all over one night soon!’

Diana gives a little wave and disappears around the far side of the house, while Mike Michaels lights up a cigarette and starts to direct the two removals men ferrying pieces of furniture from the van and into the house. Dad can’t get over to Luke quick enough.

‘Well, she’s a bit of alright,’ he says, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Luke gathers up an armful of grass and drops it into the wheelbarrow.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,’ Dad goes on, nudging his arm with his knuckles.

‘Not bad, I s’pose,’ he replies. ‘Nice hair.’

‘And the rest! They both seem nice enough.’ Dad’s eyes follow the removals men as a collection of potted pampas grasses and yukka plants are placed on to next door’s driveway. ‘Though he’s got to be twenty years her senior if he’s a day!’

‘Sugar daddy?’ Luke smirks.

‘Probably. Well, let’s face it. I wouldn’t think she’s with him for his athletic physique.’ As he says this he hitches up his shorts and pulls in his stomach muscles, continuing to watch the activity next door. The men unload a set of garden chairs and parasols. ‘Looks like they’ve got a few bob, judging by the furniture. Wonder what he does. Did you see the leather armchairs going in?’

‘
Dad
,’ Luke hisses. ‘At least try to look busy while you’re spying on the new neighbours. Try to be a bit more subtle.’

‘Good plan!’ Dad picks up the rake and starts drawing it across the clear lawn as the heat continues to throb down into their front garden. ‘Bloody
hell
, it’s a scorcher.’

The removals man holds up a deckchair. ‘Where d’you want these, Mr M?’

Mike Michaels holds his hand up to block out the sun. Luke wonders if he ever gets burnt on that great big bald patch.

‘Take them straight through to the garden, John. Through the side gate. Here – give me a couple and I’ll take you down there.’ They pick up the chairs and force open the rusty gate which leads to the back of the house.

Dad stops raking and stretches, yawning loudly. ‘I haven’t seen much of Kitty today. Is she indoors?’ he asks.

Luke looks at his watch. ‘Shit!’

At that moment, travelling from the back garden, over the low walls and picket fences, Mum’s shriek pierces the gentle summer hum of Blake Avenue. It sounds like a
Carry On
scream, rendered saucily comical by the knowledge that Mum is out back in her birthday suit. Luke covers his mouth with his hand; Dad throws his head back and howls, bringing the palms of his hands down, slap, on to his bare knees. ‘Oh, dear,
Luke
. Your poor mother.’

Luke lets the last pile of grass drop to the hard lawn, breaking into a run towards the house. ‘She’s going to kill me!’

Dad’s still laughing as he follows Luke up the front step and into the hall, where Mum has now locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. He knocks on the door, resting against the frame with a fixed expression of amusement on his face while Luke watches on.

‘Go away!’ she yells.

‘So –’ Dad clears his throat ‘– you’ve met the new neighbours? Mike’s the tall one in the Rupert Bear trousers. I think the other one’s called John. He’s the removals man.’

Mum goes quiet on the other side of the door, while Dad reaches over and prods Luke, inviting him to join in.

‘Mike seems quite nice, doesn’t he, Mum?’

‘GO AWAY!’

‘Don’t suppose he was counting on such a warm reception,’ Dad says, deadpan, drumming his fingers on the wall. ‘Anyway, fancy a nice cup of tea, love?’

Mum kicks the bath panel as Dad heads off to the kitchen, where he resumes his cheery whistling, and all falls silent again beyond the bathroom door.

‘Mum?’ Luke says cautiously.

There’s a pause. ‘What?’

‘It’s nearly one o’clock. D’you want me to go and get Kitty for you?’

He hears her closer behind the door.

‘Thanks, Luke. Yes, please, love.’

Luke stops off in his room to pull on a fresh T-shirt. As he reaches the front step on his way out, he hears Dad calling back down the hall towards his mother.

‘That’s nice of Luke, isn’t it, Jo? Saves you getting dressed.’

Her furious shrieks follow Luke all the way out to the front gate, where he raises his hand to Mike and Mrs Michaels, who stand beside the open doors of the removals van, covering their mouths.

‘Nice to meet you, Luke,’ Mrs Michaels calls after him as he jogs off down the road to fetch Kitty.

He turns, still running on the spot, to see her raise an elegant arm, the sun casting her in dark relief, her fingers fluttering in the still air.

‘You too,’ he replies, pulling back his shoulders and running like a man.

On Sunday morning Luke is woken by his alarm at eight, set so that he can drive up to the holiday camp at Sunshine Bay for an early shift. The sound of Kitty’s off-tune singing rouses him again as he drifts back into sleep, and he gets up and dressed, paying particular attention to his hair, pinching a squirt of Dad’s Bacchus aftershave on his way out. Until the school term ends, Samantha is only working weekends and the odd afternoon, like him, so there’s a good chance they’ll be put together again. He thinks about Len, and what he’d say if he knew he was spending his days with Sam; he’d hate it. God only knows what she sees in Len. He’s passingly good-looking, a bit like a grubby David Essex, but that illusion soon disappears, the minute he opens his mouth. All that glue-sniffing beneath the pier must have addled his brain over the years, just as it did his brother’s.

As it turns out, the schedules have all been drawn up for the next two weeks, and Samantha, Gordon and Luke
are teamed up for the same shifts. Today they’re on the older chalets towards the edges of the camp, and, after Luke’s initial awkwardness around Sam, they soon start to relax and chat more easily while they work. Gordon meanders about the bedrooms, stripping off the bedlinen and showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge of the music charts. Luke knows he should find him irritating, with his square appearance and over-familiar chitchat, but somehow he doesn’t. Gordon entertains Samantha no end, and it’s a good feeling to be with them, working, earning money, having a laugh.