The Last Summer of the Water Strider (15 page)

‘I guess.’

‘Henry, you going to swing by with the boy?’

‘See how it goes.’

With that, we said farewell and made our way towards the exit. I was excited to go and visit her, although not out of any sexual promise. Despite her beauty, her frailty rendered her more or
less neuter. The fact that she had called me ‘boy’ rankled. She wasn’t that much older than me – although I had to admit there was something about her character that seemed,
if not ancient, then wizened.

Outside, a group of about twenty protesters had gathered, brandishing placards.
STOP THE PORN FESTIVAL
, said one.
CHRISTIAN MOTHERS AGAINST
ABORTION
, said another.
MARIJUANA KILLS
, said a third. Henry ignored them and made his way towards the Karmann Ghia, carrying a heavy tea chest full of books. I made
to follow him, but then I noticed Ash standing under the Christian Mothers Against Abortion banner.

She caught my eye. I felt that to go over and talk to her would somehow be a betrayal of Henry. But at the same time it seemed rude not to say hello. I walked over and she separated herself from
the group.

‘What are you doing here?’ I had to raise my voice to make myself heard over the singing.

‘Helping my father out.’

She nodded in the direction of a wide, tall man, built like a sturdy Victorian wardrobe, with wiry pepper-and-salt hair and a corrugated face. He stood at the forefront of the protesters,
fiddling impatiently with a megaphone, which tweeted and squawked as if protesting at its treatment. He was wearing a clerical dog collar to top off an outfit of black clerical vestments.

‘Are you part of . . . this?’

I looked around at the protesters. Ash was by far the youngest one there.

‘My father likes it if I come along. It passes the time. Lexham gets kind of boring – anything for a day out.’

I looked over to where Henry was packing up the car.

‘I have to go. I’m helping Henry.’

‘Shame.’

Her lips drew back to reveal a glimpse of those lascivious gap teeth, a flash of provocative, Pantone-scale eyes.

‘It is. Obviously, I’d like to stay and shout at people going in. Is that what passes for entertainment round these parts?’

‘It’s less fun than it sounds. Listen . . .’ She paused, as if carefully considering options. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and see me? Later in the week? Just to
pass the time? We could kick up a bit of dust in the village? We could carry banners and intimidate passers-by with slogans.’

I looked around at the car again. Henry was looking up, scanning for me. I took a step away from Ash.

‘If your dad doesn’t mind.’

I glanced at her Wesley Toshack. He had fixed the megaphone and was bellowing into it – complaining, from what I could make out through the distortion, that the church building, although
deconsecrated, should not be used for the purposes of promoting ‘drug culture’ and ‘free love’.

‘He’s not as scary as he looks,’ said Ash.

‘He looks livid.’

‘He’s caught a touch of the sun.’

Another flash of her eyes.

‘Just to pass the time. Sure.’

‘Monday? At the clock?’

‘The day after. Tuesday.’

‘About noon, then.’

I held up a hand to say farewell, and she reached out and touched her finger on my palm. This time she didn’t smile, but looked serious. As if the contract we had sealed was momentous.

I turned and walked towards the car. Henry was looking faintly irritable.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I was checking out the zoo.’

‘You see what I mean about Ash the Pash?’

So he had noticed after all.

‘What? That she’s a “red-hot chilli pepper”?’

‘That she’s a zealot.’

‘Just trying to please her dad, I think.’

Henry regarded the thin corona of protesters surrounding Wesley Toshack, all singing together now, a thin, gruelly rendition of ‘We Shall Overcome’.

‘I don’t know who are the most lame, the protesters or those protested against. This is a two-ring circus. Are you going to help me load up the rest of this stuff? Or are your
hormones too occupied with other matters?’

It took a couple more trips to finish loading the car. I was about to climb in when I saw Strawberry approaching across the car park. She waved and picked up her pace. Henry started the
engine.

‘Adam. I’m going to do another song. Do you want to stay and hear it?’

‘I’m meant to be going back with Henry.’

Henry revved the motor.

‘We’re all going back to Troy’s after the Fayre. Why don’t you come with? You can stay over. Crash on the couch. I checked with Troy. It’s fine.’

I looked at Henry. He shrugged.

‘Troy’s only staying here for another hour or so. I’ll introduce you to some people. What do you say?’

‘All right.’

She grabbed my hand and squeezed it feebly.

‘Good. Come on. I’m due on stage. My audience awaits. Catch you on the flipside, Henry.’

‘OK,’ said Henry, with an air of slight weariness. He turned to me. ‘If you need to get back, there’s a bus to Lexham from Bristol on the hour.’

She led me back towards the hall. I turned to wave goodbye, but Henry was already driving away.

Inside, Strawberry moved towards the stage, still limply holding my hand. Just before we reached it, she turned towards the stall selling
Shrew
magazine.

‘Hey, Vanya, could you look after the boy for a few minutes? If you can bear that much testosterone messing with your oestrogen.’

Vanya was taking some change in return for one of the magazines. She didn’t look up.

‘“The boy”?’

‘Adam. He’s staying with Henry down at the boat. His nephew.’

Now she threw me a glance.

‘Makes no difference to me.’

‘Great. Listen, you coming down to Troy’s later?’

‘I might drop by. Yeah.’

Strawberry let go of my hand, and Vanya beckoned me behind her table. Strawberry mounted the stage and picked up her guitar. I sat on a single upright chair to Vanya’s left.

Strawberry hit the first few chords of a song that I recognized as ‘Freedom’ by Richie Havens.

Vanya handed me a copy of
Shrew
.

‘Here. Educate yourself.’

I took the magazine and started to flick through it. It was badly printed, and contained headlines like
END HUMAN SACRIFICE
–
DON
’
T GET MARRIED
,
WOMEN
’
S MOVEMENT AT THE CROSSROADS
,
THE NEW WAR AGAINST
WOMEN
.

Strawberry was getting carried away with ‘Freedom’, her voice cracking again
.

Vanya sat down next to me. She smiled. She had a certain odd, contradictory atmosphere to her – an earth-mothery aura of concern and indiscriminate warmth mixed with an undertow of
thoroughgoing, scattergun resentment.

‘So what do you think of it?’

‘Um.’

‘You can be honest.’

‘Everyone seems kind of pissed off.’

‘Do you know much about the women’s liberation movement?’

‘Not really.’

‘Any of the articles in there catch your attention?’

‘One of them said that all men were rapists.’

‘Who knows what’s buried in the hearts of men?’

‘Even so.
All
of them?’

‘Not every article reflects the views of the management.’

‘Is that you?’

‘I’m part of the collective. Would you like a cup of tea or something?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Biscuit?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Do you masturbate?’

I stared at the floor and picked at my fingernail with my front teeth. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too obviously.

‘Of course you masturbate. You’re a . . . what? Fifteen-year-old boy?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘What do you think about when you masturbate?’

‘I . . .’

‘Don’t worry. I’m all in favour of masturbation. It’s universal. I’m just asking what you masturbate
to.
’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I muttered into a space somewhere in front of my chest.

‘Then why won’t you tell me?’

‘Women.’

‘What kind of women?’

‘Ones without any clothes on.’

At that moment Strawberry appeared, clutching her guitar. I hadn’t even noticed her stop singing, but I became aware of the faint after-smattering of applause.

Vanya looked up and smiled innocently, as if we had been discussing gardening or cake recipes.

‘You’re talented, Straws.’

‘Have you been giving the boy a hard time?’

Vanya gave me a soft look.

‘I’ve been yanking his chain a little. Makes a change from him yanking his own.’ She prodded my arm playfully with her index finger. ‘Have I been giving you a hard time,
Adam?’

I shook my head.

‘He’s a bit shy, isn’t he?’

‘He has hidden depths, I’m sure. Listen, Troy and I are setting off now. Come on, Adam. See you at the square, Van.’

‘You know, you should make some recordings or something. Wasn’t Troy going to make some introductions? He’s connected, isn’t he?’

‘He says he is. But then, he says a lot of stuff.’

Troy appeared behind the stall, lugging a box of crystals.

‘I say a lot of stuff? About what?’

‘Whatever you say stuff about. I mean, you’re not short of opinions,’ said Strawberry.

‘He’s a bullshitter,’ said Vanya, throwing a rolled-up scrap of paper at his head, which bounced, like a pebble on a trampoline, off the halo of his hair.
‘Olympic-standard.’

‘Get knotted, you old dyke,’ said Troy affectionately. ‘You coming with?’

‘I’ll be there later, I guess. And I’m not a dyke, you fairy.’

‘See you later, Van. Sorry there won’t be any muff-hunting. Only Pattern and Adam.’

‘And Strawberry,’ said Vanya.

‘You ain’t going to get Strawberry munching at the Axminster, dear. She’s
entirely
post-sexual.’

T
roy’s home was a one-bedroom flat in a Regency square, with a very large front room – maybe twenty-five feet long and nearly that much
across – put together beautifully. Every single object – statuettes, vases, clocks, gongs and chimes – seemed to be in precisely the right place. There were abstract oil paintings
on the wall, one of them just uninterrupted brown covering the canvas from corner to corner. The floors were plain varnished boards, which in those days was radical. There were rich, dark-patterned
rugs that smelled of citrus fruit. There was no television, neither was there an overhead light suspended from the plaster ceiling rose. Evening sun was coming through the high windows that
overlooked the square. The sashes were open, admitting a mild breeze into the room.

There were two immense three-seater sofas – one red, one dark blue – both upholstered in velvet plush and decorated with vividly embroidered scatter cushions. There was a coffee
table with intricately carved legs that, Troy informed us, had recently arrived from Kashmir, and a hanging on the wall dyed in a pattern that showed white roses against a pink background. There
were a couple of dining chairs, and a few large cushions on the floor.

I had been there for about an hour, and was slowly beginning to unbend. The conversations at the Fayre had left me uncomfortable. These were clearly people who didn’t mind saying what they
felt, and this was the opposite of the convention in Yiewsley. Being asked whether or not I masturbated was bad enough, but the fact that Troy was unashamedly homosexual discomfited me even more.
My experience of gay people came entirely from the television – Larry Grayson or John Inman. Troy was nothing like this stereotype. He was powerfully built, with a six o’clock shadow on
his garden-trowel chin and muscles that rippled through his T-shirt. Although he did occasionally lapse into rather arch forms of speech – describing himself sometimes in the feminine –
there was nothing particularly mincing or camp about him.

I was loafing on one of the floor cushions, sipping on a glass of not very well chilled white wine. Strawberry was reading Troy’s palm on one of the sofas, while Pattern and Vanya were
arguing animatedly on the other. Pattern was starting to raise his voice. Vanya got up with a look of distaste on her face and walked over to me. She carried a half-drunk bottle of wine with
her.

‘How you doing, boy?’ She lowered herself down on to a cushion beside me.

‘As soon as you start losing the argument you just walk away, don’t you, Vanya?’ Pattern snapped from the sofa.

‘That’s not why I’m walking away, Pattern. I’m walking away because I’m bored with your rantings and because I’ve decided that Adam has been ignored quite
long enough. He’s come all the way from – where is it?’

‘Yiewsley.’

‘Yiewsley. Wherever that is. And hardly anyone has talked to him since he’s arrived.’

‘I’m OK,’ I mumbled.

‘Funny that you were overcome with empathy at the exact moment that you couldn’t sustain your point any more. So you walked away. It’s what you do,’ said Pattern.

‘Oh, how
female
of her,’ said Troy drily, without looking up from his palm, where Strawberry was tracing a line with her finger.

‘You said it,’ said Pattern.

‘What do you know about females, Pattern?’ said Vanya. ‘You’ve only had one girlfriend since you were fifteen.’

‘Therefore. I know the mindset.’

‘On a sample size of one.’

Vanya turned her attention to me.

‘Do you find me attractive, Adam?’

‘Am I allowed to?’

‘I’m not really a lesbian, you know. Troy is just using his sledgehammer wit.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m not flirting with you either. You’re still a kid.’

‘Everyone keeps saying that. Like being a bit younger than everyone else makes me some kind of simpleton.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I’m not bothered.’

‘I’m sorry about that interrogation earlier about your personal habits. I was bored and cranky. I get like that when I’ve got nothing else to do. It was rude of me. I had no
right.’

‘It’s OK.’