by Iain Banks
‘Did you ever get any counselling for this, VG?’
She shakes her head, takes a deep breath and pulls away from him, still holding his waist with both hands. ‘No.’
He tips his head to one side. ‘You talked about this to anybody else?’
One quick shake of the head. ‘No.’ She frowns. ‘Well. I did try to tell Sam’s family, but they . . . They were understandably . . . They were very upset. The more I said the worse it got, so I shut up.’
‘Think maybe you should talk to somebody else?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Her eyes are the colour of old ice, and big and bright and very open, the look of perpetual surprise phased into something injured but defiant. ‘I’ve told you. And that’s more for you than for me. Feel free to feel privileged. I don’t need to tell anybody else. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell other people. Not without checking with me first.’
He shakes his head. Dear God, you’re a hard one, VG. Or at least you think you are. Who is he kidding? She is.
All the things he can think of saying sound trite and tired and clichéd when he thinks of them, so he doesn’t say anything.
He puts one hand up to her cheek. She leans her face very slightly towards his hand. Her eyes close. He lets his hand slip round behind her head to the nape of her neck. It feels soft and warm. He pulls lightly, bringing them slowly towards each other, and kisses her gently on the lips, nose and cheeks, then hugs her carefully to him again.
The year went on. Exams came and went. He grew a little taller, then stopped growing. He was shaving every couple of days now; more often if he was going out. He fancied other girls, danced and kissed and copped the occasional feel, but - even when, a couple of times, he was told he could - he didn’t take it any further, because he was trying to stay faithful to Sophie. He still wrote poems, and sent her a letter every week, usually writing a few lines each night before he went to sleep. He sent the letters to Aunt Lauren on her and Graeme’s farm in Norfolk. He’d sent a whole package the first time, a kind of edited highlights of all the poems and letters he’d written before Lauren had made her offer. He’d asked Sophie to reply in the covering letter that went with that first bundle as well as in most of the letters in the package, and he repeated the request in his first few letters after this secret postal service had been set up.
About a week after the first bundle had been sent, he allowed himself to start getting excited, waiting for the reply that now, surely, had to come. Their post was usually delivered after he’d gone to school, so he had to wait until he got home each day to see if there were any letters. The second Saturday after he’d had the conversation with Aunt Lauren, he’d hung around near the front door when the postman was due, making sure he was first to the mail, but there was nothing for him. The week became a fortnight, then three weeks, then a month. He wondered if something had come for him but had been intercepted by his parents. But that was paranoid. They weren’t like that. Were they?
He told himself it would take time. He imagined her being shut up in some forbidding Spanish boarding school - he’d seen photos of the Escorial, near Madrid, and that was the image he had whenever he thought of the place - and it being, perhaps, difficult for her to get out to a post office. He wondered if his mail was being intercepted before it got to her, if there was some strict housemistress who censored the mail of the girls and would never let anything as passionate and improper get through to one of her charges.
He wrote to Aunt Lauren, checking that she really was sending the letters on. She wrote back saying that she was. In his next letter to Sophie he asked her to write care of Jamie Boyd, his best friend for the last term. Jamie was the sort of pal who’d pass on mail dependably and unopened. Nothing came via Jamie either.
The Easter holidays arrived. He hoped that he’d hear something then, when she might be home and so able to write or phone. But still nothing. He decided she was probably staying with her biological mother, still in Spain. He’d have to be patient, wait until the summer holidays. She’d be bound to come back to the UK then. She’d be at Lydcombe and able to write or phone.
More studying, exams, homework, washing the car and doing housework to justify his pocket money, more snogs at parties.
At one party, at Plink’s house, a week before the start of the summer holidays, he got the knickers off a girl and used his fingers to make her come, hugging her to him afterwards.
His fingers smelled just the way they had with Sophie, which was achingly nostalgic and sweet, yet somehow sad at the same time. She was called Julie. He fell out with her the next day when he said he didn’t really want to go steady.
Andy, Leah, he and Cory spent the first two weeks of the summer holidays in Antigua. He felt he was practically thrown at the sixteen-year-old daughter of a Manchester couple who were in the bungalow next to theirs; the adults suddenly became fast friends and their offspring seemed to be expected to follow suit. Emma was blonde and leggy and attractive in an ice-maiden kind of way but the only similarity to Sophie was that she had braces. They kissed at a dance in the big hotel. The next day they rode around part of the island in a two-person bike thing with a canopy and he told her something about Sophie and his feelings for her. She understood, seemed almost relieved. They played a lot of tennis and kept in touch for years afterwards until she moved to South Africa.
During the summer he had a work-experience job at Kew; just general digging and lugging and so on, but it was at Kew, which was all that mattered, and he loved it. He started going out with one of the girl trainees, Claire. She was small, dark, chunky and curvaceous. They kissed sometimes but she wouldn’t let him go any further than putting his hand between her top and her bra. They went to each other’s houses; her parents lived in a semi in Hounslow under the Heathrow flight path. They spent time listening to records and playing games and kissing. He still felt he was being faithful to Sophie. This was, partly, an act; cover.
The summer wore on.
Still nothing from Sophie. Grandma Win had invited him to Garbadale for the last two weeks of the holidays, to do some gardening if he was so inclined - goodness knows, the place could do with all the help it could get - just to relax and amuse himself as best he could if he’d prefer. He hadn’t said a definite yes or no yet, but he needed to make up his mind.
There’s a small family do at the Richmond house; Kennard and Renée come with Haydn and Fielding and while he and Haydn are playing on the NES - he’s got a US version of a new game called Super Mario Brothers via his pal with the computer magazine-publishing dad - Haydn mentions being at Lydcombe a couple of weeks ago and seeing cousin Sophie. Alban drops the controls.
What?
Sophie had been there for about a month at that point. Off to the States to stay with Aunt, umm, well aunt and uncle somebody - he couldn’t remember . . . Haydn looks at his new Casio watch, which has an entire tiny keyboard of buttons, and of which he is inordinately proud, even though his fat little fingers can barely manage the buttons . . . Leaving today, actually. This evening, in fact. Ha! That distant roar could be Sophie’s plane leaving now, for all they know. That’d be funny, wouldn’t it?
For an instant, as he sinks back against the side of the bed - Fielding is on it, cross-legged, reading a comic he’s brought with him - Alban thinks of dashing for the underground station and getting to Heathrow, finding her, maybe catching her right at the departure gate the way they did in films, and persuading her to stay behind, at least getting her to promise to write.
He’s getting another roaring in his head, and tunnel vision. Last time this happened he’d been smacked full in the face by a football. He hears Haydn talking about Lydcombe, about Sophie. Met some of her pals. Went on a speedboat ride. She tried to get him on a horse but it was very high up. Her boyfriend was very rude to him and Fielding. She’d said the reason for that was because she was leaving for the States soon for a couple of years and he - her boyfriend - knew she was leaving him probably for ever. If and when she came b
ack he’d most likely be married with a couple of brats via some farm girl, and she’d have a Californian hunk in tow. But, hey - such was life.
Alban excused himself, staggered to the toilet, leaving Haydn blinking after him, asking him, Was he all right?
He sat on the loo seat for a long time with his head in his hands.
He needed to get out. He went down to where the oldies were, still at dinner, and said he needed some fresh air (some curious looks, but that was all), went out into the garden and over the back wall, along the lane, across a couple of roads and into the vast darkness of Richmond Park. He lay on the grass, looking up at the sky; a dirty orange cloudscape of reflection. Off to one side, between the clouds, he saw the navigation lights of the aircraft. Coming in, of course. Usual westerly airstream, so cousin Haydn was wrong; her plane would have taken off heading west, heading for the States, out over the M4 corridor, across Wales and Ireland . . .
Except, no, now he thought about it coldly, the planes went north-west towards Scotland before crossing the Atlantic. They’d flown to New York a couple of years ago, and after the trouble he’d gone to to get the window seat - out-tantrumming Cory, basically, though his trump card had been that she’d sleep most of the way - he’d taken care to keep asking his dad what they could see out of the window every now and again. Scotland, had been the reply a couple of times. They might even be flying over Garbadale right now . . .
Anyway, Haydn had been wrong. They wouldn’t have heard Sophie’s plane taking off. The distant roaring they could hear from the house was made by planes coming in to land.
He closed his eyes and turned his head away, letting the tears come.
He got up reluctantly a little later, feeling old and tired and worn out by it all, like his life was already over. He didn’t really want to move, he wanted to stay here lying on the warm, fragrant grass, listening to the traffic on the road and in the sky and smelling the cool night smells of the great park and mourning his lost love, but he couldn’t stay. They were probably already starting to worry about him, maybe calling for him in the garden, out looking for him even.
He went back to the house, relieved to find no teams with torches searching the garden. Not even anybody at the back door, calling him. He stuck his head round the door of the dining room; laughter and the smell of smoke. Yes, good, no problem. Feeling better? Fine. They hadn’t realised how long he’d been gone.
Upstairs, Haydn was smugly beating a squirming, bleating Fielding at Super Mario Brothers.
‘And anyway, what are these classy drugs?’
‘Sorry, Beryl?’
‘On the news. They keep talking about them.’
‘Ah: heroin, cocaine?’ Fielding says, uncertainly. He looks over at Alban, who looks over at Verushka, who narrows her eyes and then smiles.
‘What are what?’ Eudora asks. It is the night before Fielding is due to take Great-Aunt Beryl and Great-Aunt Doris towards Garbadale while Verushka will drive Alban there. A dinner has been arranged, at Rogano, in the city centre. Alban has invited Eudora, Verushka’s mother.
‘And what is it that makes them classy in the first place?’ Beryl asks. ‘Is it just the price?’
‘When I was young,’ Doris announces suddenly, ‘one didn’t have to travel abroad to discover oneself. One was, rather, simply always there.’
‘Drugs, Eudora,’ Verushka tells her mother.
‘Drugs, really?’ Eudora says, her gaze darting around the table as though looking for evidence.
Verushka smiles. ‘I think we’re talking about class A drugs.’
‘Why are we talking about drugs, darling?’ Eudora asks. She’s a tiny, lively old lady - not that old, Fielding supposes; Mathgirl must be about early thirties, so he’d guess her mum would be mid-fifties. She wears a cream suit and dark blouse. Nicely done hair, sort of grey-blonde. You wouldn’t, Fielding thinks, but if you had to, it wouldn’t be so bad. Not like if you had to with somebody the age of Doris or Beryl - that kind of thing doesn’t bear thinking about. Pretty stylish, really, old Eudora. When she walks she moves in a way that seems to have become a lost art.
Actually, maybe you just would anyway.
‘Who’s for pudding?’ Alban asks, as menus are redistributed. Then he leans over to talk quietly to Beryl.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Verushka says to her mother.
‘I was thinking of having a cigarette. Do you think this would be all right?’
Verushka looks pained. ‘Oh, Eudora, please don’t.’
‘Oh, I see!’ Beryl says, sitting upright.
‘You had a gap year, didn’t you?’ Doris is saying to Fielding.
‘Building toilet blocks in Mozambique,’ he tells her. ‘Hated it. Only went there because of an old Dylan song.’ Fielding shakes his head. ‘God, that was a mistake. It was rubbish.’
‘So, did I hear that you will be going camping while we’re all up at Win’s?’ Beryl asks Verushka.
‘I shall be camping,’ Verushka says. She’s had a few drinks. Not exactly a bucketful - like Fielding, she’s driving tomorrow - but sufficient to loosen her tongue.
‘I’m sure you could stay at the house if you liked,’ Beryl tells her. This is probably not true, Fielding suspects. Sounded like the place is going to be full up, what with most of the family, some people from Spraint and various lawyers being present.
‘The camping’s not the point,’ Mathgirl tells Beryl. ‘The climbing’s the thing.’
‘Climbing? What, mountains?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And is there a group of you doing this?’
‘I think I shall have the cheese,’ Doris announces. ‘And perhaps a small port.’
‘No,’ Verushka says, ‘just me.’
‘Really? Just you? Isn’t that rather dangerous?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Verushka agrees. ‘Thanks, I’m fine,’ she says, handing the waiter back the menu. She sits back, arms folded. ‘Not really supposed to climb by yourself. In theory three’s the minimum, so if somebody’s injured one stays with the injured party and the other goes for help. But that’s not so important nowadays with mobile phones and tiny wee walkie-talkies and strobe lamps and pocket flares and space blankets and GPS and bivvy bags and so on. You can have an emergency in comfort these days. Still not advised, going by yourself, but not completely irresponsible.’ She sticks a nail between two teeth, digs around and then rinses with water.
‘Darling!’ her mother says, frowning.
Verushka grins at her mum, tips her head briefly in what might be an apology. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping never to see the inside of a rescue helicopter,’ she tells Beryl.
‘Well, I think you’re awfully brave,’ Beryl tells her, ‘climbing up mountains all alone.’
‘Brave or foolhardy,’ Verushka agrees. ‘Depends on one’s definition. Frankly, I’d admit to selfish.’
‘For pudding?’ Doris says, horrified, looking at Verushka.
Beryl touches Doris’s arm lightly. ‘Selfish, dear,’ she says.
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Selfish, dear?’
Verushka shrugs. ‘I don’t like climbing with other people. I prefer to be by myself. And it’s taking a bigger risk because of that. So, selfish. Yes.’ She takes up her water glass again.
‘So, is that why you haven’t married Alban?’ Beryl asks Verushka, who is taking a mouthful of water at the time and comes very close to spitting it back out again.
‘I beg your pardon, Beryl?’ she says, somewhere between a smile and laughter.
‘Well, you know,’ Eudora says, leaning over conspiratorially to Doris, ‘I’ve asked her the same thing myself.’
‘Beryl . . .’ Alban says, sounding like he’s a headmaster addressing a kid. One of those, Worst of all, you’ve let yourself down voices. It’s hard to tell with the fairly dim level of lighting back here, but Fielding strongly suspects Alban is blushing. Verushka is looking a little rosy around the cheeks herself. Wow, Fielding thinks,
this is fun!
‘Well, you’ve always seemed very sweet on each other,’ Beryl says, sounding perfectly reasonable. ‘I simply wondered.’ She looks round the table. ‘Oh dear, have I said the wrong thing again?’
‘Not in the least, dear,’ Eudora tells her.
‘I’ll have the chocolatey thing and this dessert wine,’ Doris tells the waiter, tapping the menu with the leg of her glasses.
‘Alban,’ Beryl says, putting her clasped hands on the table. ‘Why haven’t you asked this young woman to marry you?’
Alban closes his eyes, puts his elbow on the table and his hand over his eyes, shaking his head once.
Verushka purses her lips and stares at the table.
‘Hmm? What’s that?’ Doris says to the waiter. ‘Different sizes? Oh, well, large, I think, don’t you?’
‘Oh dear, I’m embarrassing my nephew,’ Beryl says. She turns to Verushka. ‘Am I embarrassing you, dear?’
‘I’m pretty hard to embarrass,’ Verushka says. She still looks flushed though.
‘Well, what would you do if he did?’ Beryl asks. Mathgirl has her gaze fixed firmly on Beryl and does not look at Alban. This undoubtedly means something but Fielding is buggered if he knows what.
‘Marriage isn’t something that I’ve ever really contemplated,’ Verushka says. She smiles widely. ‘I’m very happy with my life. It would be hard to improve it.’
‘Yes, but just supposing he did ask you.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, I suppose. Now.’
‘I’d ask him why he was asking anybody to marry him when he hadn’t yet resolved his feelings for his cousin Sophie,’ Verushka says, and looks over at Alban, at last, with a small smile.
‘And?’ Beryl pursues.
‘And then I’d listen to what he said in reply,’ Verushka says smoothly.
Alban catches Fielding’s eye. ‘And it was all going so well,’ he sighs.
Fielding shrugs. ‘C’est la vie, cuz.’
Doris looks round, seemingly confused. ‘Have we had coffee yet?’