By the Shore

by Galaxy Craze

  Mrs Whitmore opened the door of a long room with Victorian furniture. The girls were sitting on the floor on a white lace cloth, having a picnic. There was a fireplace, and the windows overlooked a tidy garden.

  “May!” Barbara shouted, as I walked in. She sat at the head. Her hair was curled at the bottom, and she wore a candy-flosscoloured dress with ruffled sleeves. Everyone was wearing paper party hats; some had feathers in them and others said HAPPY BIRTHDAY in silver glitter.

  “Hurry! Sit in your spot; we were just about to pull the crackers!” Barbara pointed to an empty place at the other end, next to two girls from our form, Emma and Pauline. They were best friends. They looked at each other and then moved closer together, making a spot for me at the end.

  A pile of brightly wrapped presents with ribbons and bows lay next to the sofa. I held on to my envelope; it would get lost over there with those boxes. Mrs Whitmore stood by the fireplace, looking at us. Two girls I had never seen before sat across from me. They looked alike; their eyes pointed up at the sides like the tips of wings, and they both had straight dark brown hair pulled tightly off their faces. They sat up perfectly straight.

  “These are my cousins, Charlotte and Clare. They can’t spend the night; they have ballet tomorrow,” Barbara said. One of them leaned forward, her whole body a dip and glide as she picked up one single crisp from the bowl. They didn’t move like the rest of us. They seemed as though they were from another country.

  “Everyone cross your arms,” Maisie yelled, blowing her fringe away from her eyes. She was the field hockey goalie. We crossed our arms in front of us, taking the ends of each other’s crackers.

  “Go!” Maisie shouted. She was the loudest girl in our class. We pulled; there were popping sounds and sparks and the smell of gunpowder in the air. Charms and tissue-paper crowns fell onto our laps. Mine was a miniature parachute diver with a plastic parachute.

  “Look!” Emma, the girl next to me, said. She held up a silver bracelet. Everyone was quiet, looking.

  “It’s not real?” Courtney said.

  “It is, it’s marked.” Emma pulled it closer to her, reading a tiny silver tag on it, her brown hair falling in ringlets around her face.

  Mrs Whitmore walked into the room, carrying a silver tray layered with tea sandwiches. “Cucumber, egg and mayonnaise, butter and cheese, ham and cheese.” She bent down on her knees, lowering the silver tray to the floor.

  “Thank you, Mummy,” Barbara said. Mrs Whitmore smiled at her softly, tilting her head to the side. Then she brought in another tray of teapots, three different ones, two painted with flowers and one in the shape of a swan. The plates were white and pink paper, but we each had our own china teacup and saucer, white with green and gold flowers around the rim.

  Mrs Whitmore made a soft groaning sound when she stood up, placing her hand low on her back.

  “What shivers and shakes at the bottom of the ocean?” Polly asked, reading a piece of white paper.

  Everyone closed their mouths, thinking. Mrs Whitmore stood at the door with her hand on the knob, waiting to hear the answer.

  “Well, go on, tell us,” Courtney shouted. She wore a black dress with a V shape down the back; you could see her bare skin.

  “A nervous wreck!” Polly said. Mrs Whitmore shook her head, laughing.

  Outside it looked dark through the windows, but inside the room it was warm from the fire. We passed around the heavy teapots; our hands moved over the silver sandwich tray. There were other things in front of us: fizzy drinks, coloured paper cups, a bowl of Smarties. When I looked down I saw the dried mud on the heel of my shoe and wrapped my fingers around it.

  The door opened, and an older girl and boy walked in wearing ponchos, their cheeks still red from being outside. The girl was Sara, Barbara’s older sister.

  “Why are you all sitting on the floor?” Sara asked. She had long straight blond hair with a centre parting.

  “We’re having a picnic,” Barbara told her. Sara kissed Barbara on the top of the head and said, “Happy birthday.”

  “This is my sister, Sara. She’s seventeen.”

  “This is Oliver,” Sara said, putting her arm around him.

  His dark brown hair was parted on the side and pushed back behind his ears, chin length. He had a long nose and pale skin; his lips were a dark red.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” Sara said. “Oliver’s at university. He’s just home for Christmas.”

  Oliver put his hands in his trouser pockets. Sara had gone to our school, but now she was getting her A levels.

  “Gosh,” we all said.

  “I like your beads,” Polly said to Sara.

  “Thanks,” she said, and walked out of the room, taking Oliver by the hand.

  When they were gone, Barbara leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, “They’ve had sex.”

  “They have?” we said and covered our mouths with our hands. “Gosh,” we all said again, slowly, as though we were imagining it.

  “Raise your hand if you’ve done it,” Courtney said.

  We all looked at one another, but none of us raised our hands. Above us, the chandelier hung down like an umbrella of lights.

  “How far have you gone?” Courtney asked Maisie.

  “If my mum walks in, pretend to be talking about something else, like a book or a horse,” Barbara whispered to us.

  We nodded and moved in towards each other, closer together. Clare counted out five Hula-Hoop crisps and put them on her fingers like rings.

  “You start,” Courtney said to Maisie.

  “French-kissing and feeling there.” She pointed to her breasts. “And also there,” she said, pointing her finger at her lap.

  “Under or over clothes?”

  “Under,” Maisie said, then grabbed a handful of Smarties.

  “What did you do to him?” Pauline asked, moving around, sitting on her heels. Polly pushed her plate and teacup forward and sat in closer.

  “I touched his willy, over his trousers.” Everyone giggled and made a face when she said that word, “willy”.

  “Next.” It was Charlotte’s turn, one of the ballerinas. She shook her head, her face a little pink. Then it was Clare’s turn, the other ballerina. She said, “French-kissed.” By the way she looked down, fingering the edge of her dress, I knew she was lying.

  “Your turn, May. What have you done?” Courtney asked.

  “The same as her,” I said, pointing to Clare.

  “With who?” Maisie asked me, leaning forward. There was something about the way she moved, walking towards things as though she might drive right through them, that made me want to stay far away from her.

  “This boy in London over the summer.” My face was turning red but not because I had lied; it was from something else. I kept wondering, When will we start talking about something more? Something we would have to pull out of ourselves, that would make us all the same. I wanted some kind of magic and wings, the conversation people have right before they fall in love. It was the thing I thought my father would tell me on the rocks. Upstairs, later, sitting huddled together, telling secrets—that’s when it will happen, I thought.

  Suddenly, the lights went out. Mrs and Mr Whitmore walked in, carrying the birthday cake. Sara and Oliver followed them, singing “Happy Birthday”. Mr Whitmore bent down, almost dropping the cake, and placed it in front of Barbara. She sat up straight and took a deep breath.

  “Make a wish!” her mother called out to her as she cut the first slice. There were marzipan flowers on the cake and marzipan mice. It all seemed so young. After the cake, Barbara opened the presents—records and a rainbow poster, a new denim jacket, a gold heart on a chain—tearing at the paper and bows, throwing them to the side. When she opened the picture of Jet she kissed it and hugged it to her chest, falling backward in a pretend faint.

  Barbara put on a new Olivia Newton-John record. Sara showed us all the new moves, how to shimmy our shoulders and shake our hips really quickly. She
tried to teach us how to spin around and flip our hair at the same time, but it flew into our mouths and we bumped into each other. Oliver sat on the sofa, tapping his foot and eating the leftover sandwiches.

  “Let’s do the Bus Stop!” Sara yelled excitedly. She kicked off her clogs, pulled Oliver off the sofa, and told us to line up. “Follow me!” she shouted over the music. We were in a row behind her. She had her back to us, and then she started moving her hips. “Shuffle to the side... lift your leg and shuffle the other way. Clap your hands and spin!”

  Mr and Mrs Whitmore stood by the wall, watching, and Sara shouted, “Dad, come on!” You could tell he wanted to because he had been singing along. Mrs Whitmore blushed as she watched her husband walk over, swinging his hips.

  The song was like a celebration, with all the claps and “oohs.” With Sara, we were the same, all younger girls following her. The music was loud and we were hot from dancing and laughing. Every time Sara said shuffle, her father couldn’t move his feet fast enough, and instead he’d shake his bum around. It was podgy and square in his beige trousers, and every time we looked at it we burst, nearly falling down. Our stomachs hurt, but we couldn’t stop; everything was funny, and we collapsed on the floor, tears streaming down our bright-red faces. It’s like when you get tickled so much that all someone has to do is wiggle their fingers in the air and you feel it.

  Later, we went up to Barbara’s bedroom. The ballerinas had been driven home, and Sara and Oliver had gone out to a party. Maisie’s mother was coming to collect her, because she wasn’t allowed to spend the night. She stood square and cross-armed in the hall waiting for her.

  On the way upstairs, Courtney said, “Her mum won’t let her stay because she wets the bed.” When we passed Barbara’s parents’ room she poked her head in to say goodnight. They were lying in bed in their nightclothes eating a piece of cake. “Thank you for such a fun party. We’re tired from all the dancing,” Barbara said.

  Barbara’s bedroom looked as though it belonged to a child. There was a miniature armchair with a footstool, and on the shelves were rows of dolls in ball gowns with their hair still perfect. Rosebud wallpaper covered the walls, only now it was hidden in places by posters of rock stars.

  Polly sat down in the small armchair, stretching her legs out in front of her. “When are they coming?” she asked.

  “We have to phone them,” Barbara said, leaning against the wall. She looked like a little girl in her pink dress, against the bright wallpaper, on her birthday.

  “Phone who?” I asked, but Barbara wasn’t listening.

  I sat down on the bed next to Emma and Pauline.

  Barbara picked up the phone and dragged it into the bathroom. “Court, Polly, come on,” she said to them.

  I moved my hands over the eiderdown; everything had flowers on it with long squiggly stems wrapping around each other. Pinned to the wall, above the bed, were photographs of Barbara, Courtney and Polly: at the beach, posing outside a shop on a city street.

  Barbara came running out of the bathroom half undressed. “We have to make the beds up,” she said, out of breath, as she pulled blankets and eiderdowns from the closet.

  “Grab our bags,” Polly and Courtney yelled from the bathroom, and Barbara rushed back in, one bag in each arm.

  Emma and Pauline walked over to the pile of blankets and began folding them the long way and laying them out like sleeping bags.

  “Who’s coming?” I asked them.

  The two of them looked at me across the room but didn’t say anything for a moment. Then Pauline said, “Their boyfriends.” Something about her mouth scared me; it was like touching barbed wire.

  “Who? What boys?” I asked. My voice shook a little. I could hear sounds coming from the bathroom: water running, a hair dryer, the three of them talking very fast at the same time.

  “Older boys, from Shepperton.” Shepperton was a bigger town a few miles away.

  Finally, the bathroom door opened and the three girls walked out, smelling of perfume. Polly wore a fringed suede waistcoat, tight dark blue jeans, and high-heeled shoes. Courtney had turned her black dress around, so now the V came down the front. Her hair was in a high twist and Barbara’s gold heart choker was around her neck. When she moved in a certain way, you could see her small chest, her nipples.

  “May?” Barbara said to me, and something in my chest lifted.

  “Yes?” She stood in front of me in a red leotard.

  “Can I borrow your skirt? Please.” She pointed to the one I was wearing, my denim miniskirt. I unbuttoned the top button, pulled it down over my thighs, and handed it to her. I thought there was something wrong with her eyes, but it was just blue eye shadow.

  “Thanks,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. I stood in my shirt and tights; then I remembered that there was a hole in the bottom of them and put my hand over it. I looked behind me but no one had noticed; they were all looking in the mirror.

  Outside I heard a sound. I thought it was the wind, howling around the house.

  “You might be cold,” I said to Barbara, as she fastened her cork sandals. She wasn’t wearing tights.

  “I think you look really good, Barbara,” Pauline told her, and Emma nodded in agreement. They were sitting next to each other on the bed.

  I heard the sound again and walked over to the window, but Polly was dancing in front of it, looking at her reflection, the fringe of her waistcoat twirling up as she spun around. I went to the window at the other end of the room. Outside, the trees stood still. There was no wind.

  “What time is it?” Courtney asked, picking up the Snoopy alarm clock on the desk.

  “If my mother knocks, turn off all the lights and pretend you’re asleep,” Barbara told us.

  “Okay,” Pauline said, but she sounded worried. “Do you think she’ll come up?”

  Then I heard that sound again, coming through their voices: a long moan.

  “What’s that noise?” I asked, standing very still.

  “Is it them? Was it a car horn?” Courtney asked, running to the window. Polly flipped her hair back.

  “Is it them?” Barbara asked, standing behind her, their voices high and shaky.

  Courtney shook her head. “No one’s there.”

  “I’m dying for a fag,” Polly said, flopping down on the bed.

  “That sound.” I put my finger over my lips. Everyone stood still, listening. Then it happened again, circling around the room like a beacon.

  “That’s a cow. Poor cow, it’s bellyaching. I hate that noise,” Barbara said, putting her hands over her ears.

  “What’s bellyaching?”

  “It’s when they take the baby cow away from its mum,” Barbara said.

  “When they’re weaned,” Emma said.

  The sound of two beeps came from down the street. Barbara, Polly, and Courtney stood frozen, as though the curtain were about to go up. The sound of two more beeps, short and loud, two pushes on the horn.

  “It’s them!” they said together, jumping up, their hands and hair flapping around like something fraying.

  One by one, they climbed out of the window, grabbing the branches of the tree, a low, sturdy, safe tree right outside Barbara’s window. An old apple tree for her to climb out on, late at night, to older boys waiting in a car at the end of the road.

  “I’m not wearing any knickers,” Courtney said as she climbed out.

  Pauline, Emma, and I sat on the bed looking after them, watching them run down the road and into the back seat of the car.

  The car drove off, slowly at first, then fast. We watched its lights get smaller and smaller. When they had gone, Emma pushed herself off the bed, walked over to where Barbara had dropped her pink dress, and picked it up. She held it by the shoulders and brought it up to her face as though she were smelling it.

  “When do you think they’ll come back?” I asked Pauline, who was still sitting on the bed, staring out of the window.

  “Not till late.” She pick
ed up her overnight bag and went into the bathroom. Emma followed her, and they closed the door behind them.

  I pressed my face against the cold glass of the window. I could hear the cow standing in the field, crying. It’s just a cow, I told myself, it’s just a cow . . . but she loves her child too. She’ll forget soon, I told myself, she’ll forget soon . . . .

  I heard someone laugh behind me and turned around.

  “You have a hole in your bottom,” Pauline said, pointing.

  “I know.” Then I saw what it was about her that made me think of barbed wire; her small pointy teeth.

  Emma and Pauline wandered around Barbara’s room, looking at her things, picking them up, putting them down, trying on her clothes. They found the photograph of Jet and huddled over it, staring.

  “How do you know Jet Jones?” Pauline asked, walking towards me, pulling a hairbrush through her hair. Emma stood next to her, their shoulders almost touching, turning the silver chain bracelet around her wrist.

  “I don’t know Jet Jones,” I said. And for a moment I felt as though I couldn’t move.

  “What?” Pauline said, the hairbrush stuck in her hair.

  They walked closer to me, both of them.

  “I don’t know him,” I said again.

  “You were making it up?” Emma asked.

  I nodded. Pauline and Emma stared at me with tight smiles on their faces. I stared back at them until I felt my eyes flicker and I had to look away.

  I saw Pauline give Emma a sideways look and they went into the bathroom. As they closed the bathroom door one of them said, “What a fibber!”

  I turned, looking out of the window, at the branches of the trees, at the dark night, and I wished, the way you wish when you’re a child, that I could fly home.

  I lay down under a blanket on the floor. The light was on and I thought, I’ll never fall asleep here. I counted the hours until morning; then I lay on my side and traced patterns in the rosecoloured carpet. It made my eyes feel heavy, but then the moaning came through the walls, through the windows. I stayed very still. I imagined the calf lying exhausted in a pile of hay. Lives are ruined every day, I thought. I pulled the pillow out from under my head and put it over my face and ears. That was how I fell asleep, with everything dark and muffled.