by Maria Goodin
Max belched loudly, breaking the silence.
“Sorry.”
“God, you’re disgusting,” I groaned.
“What?” he protested, innocently. “Better out than in, that’s what I always say.”
“I can’t imagine working with my dad,” said Tom, sitting up and taking a swig from one of the bottles. “What a nightmare.”
“Your dad’s all right,” I said.
“Yeah, but his job… God, man, I would die sitting in those fucking council offices all day, pushing papers around a desk. And then coming home to us lot. It’s no wonder he’s friggin’ nuts.”
“Well, your dad’s gotta pay for all you kids somehow,” said Max. “’Specially with another one on the way.”
“Or my parents could just stop having sex. Which they should have done a long time ago. I mean, they’re both forty, for God’s sake. It’s disgusting.”
“You might finally get another boy to add to the Wilson clan,” suggested Max.
“Screw that, then I’ll have to share my room. I’d share a room with Jay’s sibling, but not mine.”
“Dream on,” I muttered.
“I do, my friend, every night.”
“My sister would eat you for breakfast.”
“That’s what I dream about.”
“Plus she has a boyfriend now.”
“Oh, no way!” cried Tom, disappointed. “Who?”
“This bloke that’s living opposite us. He’s moved in with his uncle across the street for a while. Got into some kind of trouble back home so his parents sent him away for a bit. His name’s Rocket.”
“Rocket? What kind of crap name is that?” asked Michael.
“I dunno. A nickname, I guess. He’s all right actually.”
And by “all right” I meant he was the coolest bloke I had ever met. He’d started taking Laura out to the big clubs in London, where he somehow knew all the DJs. He high-fived me whenever he came round and said Hey, dude! with a chilled-out grin. He gave me cigarettes without anyone knowing, including Laura. He normally wore a beat-up biker’s jacket and red chequered shirt, and he had black hair that hung just past his collar. He was that cool that I didn’t even mind the thought of him shagging my sister.
“No one’s parents should have sex,” chirped up Max. “Once they become parents that should be it. It should be the law.”
“Yeah, although Jay’s safe,” said Tom, “there’s no way his dad will be able to get it up anymore.”
“Or if he can he won’t be able to keep it up for long,” added Michael, “not at his age. One benefit of having an older dad – you don’t have to worry about him having sex.”
“Out of the things I worry about, that’s honestly not one of them,” I told him.
“He could be using Viagra,” suggested Max, helpfully.
“That’s true. He could be keeping it up for ages with Viagra,” said Michael.
“Could we please stop discussing my father’s erections?”
“I sometimes hear my parents having sex,” piped up Max. “My dad makes these weird hooting noises, like an owl.”
“What the hell?!” I cried, and we all laughed loudly. “That’s so disturbing.”
“You mean he doesn’t call out to Jesus?” asked Tom, referring to the family’s involvement in the church. “JESUS! JESUS! JESUS! OHHH, JESUS!” he yelled, his voice echoing across the night sky, making us laugh all the more.
Gradually we fell silent, and after a while a conversation about music started between Michael and Tom.
“You okay, Jay Boy?” asked Max. “You’ve been kind of quiet tonight.”
I’d tried to enjoy the evening so as not to drag anyone else down, but I wasn’t really feeling it.
“I’m okay. I just… I had a bit of an argument with Libby yesterday, that’s all,” I admitted reluctantly.
“Oh yeah? A lovers’ tiff?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “and it was so stupid. I mean, it was about nothing, really. But somehow it all got blown out of proportion. I don’t even know how. I’m sure it’ll just blow over, but I don’t know. It feels a bit shit.”
Part of me was yearning to tell Max all about it. Just like a part of me was yearning to tell him that Libby had said she loved me, and that I’d said it back, and that we’d spent a cold evening in the bow of her boat huddled under a blanket whispering about our imagined future together, and that I’d been both freaked out by the seriousness of it and genuinely excited, and that I really wanted to take things further with her but I was too nervous to try, and that sometimes I felt overwhelmed by the fear of losing her… But I knew that if I shared any of these things I’d be laying myself wide open to my friend’s mockery.
Maybe, just maybe, Max might say something sensitive and supportive – after all, he was a genuinely kind person, a Christian, a scout, and a lifelong friend – but it was just as likely he’d shout over to the others and within seconds I’d be the butt of their jokes. Because our friendships, as tight as they were, were forged on a mixture of fun, laughter, derision and humiliation. The ways we expressed our loyalty and affection for one another – an arm around the shoulder, a bear hug, some humorous words of wisdom – all fell safely within the age-old guidelines of male bonding. But venturing beyond those sacred boundaries? Sharing our fears, anxieties and emotions? Putting something genuinely personal out there and not knowing what you would get back? It was all too much of a risk.
It feels a bit shit.
That was about as emotional as any of us liked to get.
“Girls can be a bit mental, can’t they?” said Max, confirming that a deep and meaningful discussion about the nature of relationships had probably never been on the cards. “They get angry at the stupidest things, turn even the littlest thing into an argument.”
“Well, it wasn’t all her fault,” I conceded.
“It’s periods and stuff, isn’t it?” continued Max. “Makes them go bonkers. Every month my mum loses the plot. Last week, she hit my dad over the head with her copy of Caravanning Monthly just because he didn’t offer her a cup of tea. I mean, talk about overreaction.”
I smiled, comforted by the fact that there were households like Max’s out there where being hit on the head with a camping magazine constituted drama. I loved spending time at his neat little house. It was so calm and quiet, and his parents so kind and mild-mannered, that it felt like a retreat from the chaos of the world. His mum brought us trays of orange squash and biscuits. It was like being enveloped in a warm, fluffy hug.
“Who’s overreacting?” asked Michael, latching on to the end of our conversation.
“Libby,” Max told him. “She’s got PMT and is being argumentative.”
I opened my mouth to protest, wondering why I ever bothered sharing anything when people didn’t listen properly, but Tom interrupted.
“Okay, so we’re back on Libby again, are we?”
“What’s that meant to mean?” I asked defensively.
“Nothing. Just that even when you’re actually with us and not her for once, you’re still talking about her.”
I felt anger swell in my chest. I’d been stressing myself out lately over dividing my time between Libby and my friends and my schoolwork. My mum was constantly pushing me to study harder, my friends were always nagging at me to go out. Was it any wonder the only person I wanted to be with right now was Libby? It sometimes felt like she was the only person who cared what I wanted.
“What’s that meant to mean, when I’m actually with you?” I spat, sitting up and glaring at Tom. His eyes looked sleepy and unfocused in the light of the moon.
“It means when you see fit to grace us with your presence.”
“I still hang out with you all the time!” I protested.
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
“You have to be kidding me! I saw you Wednesday. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”
“Well, only because you’ve fallen out with Libby, obviously. Which explai
ns the last-minute message saying you were coming out after all.”
“I just didn’t think I was going to be able to get my prep done in time!”
“Prep,” scoffed Tom, “or homework as us commoners call it.”
“You know, screw you!” I shouted, suddenly jumping to my feet. The tennis court spun and liquor rose in my stomach with a burn. “I’m getting so sick of your snide little remarks about my school. And my girlfriend! You’re becoming a right pain in the arse!”
“Whoa,” said Max, slowly hauling himself to his feet, “come on, guys.”
“Why don’t you just go hang out with her then?” spat Tom, sitting up. “If we’re such a pain in the arse!”
“You! You’re the pain in the arse!”
Michael stayed lying down but put his hands over his face and groaned.
“Then go be with her, like I said!” snapped Tom.
“What the… Where’s that even come from?!” I asked, spreading my hands out wide in confusion. “I wasn’t even talking to you about her!”
“For once.”
“Time to go home, boys,” chirped Michael, quickly scrambling to his feet.
“Yep,” said Max, putting an arm on my shoulder and steering me away. But I wasn’t having any of it. Months of repressed frustration at Tom were finally being given a voice thanks to his goading and Michael’s vodka.
“None of this is even about Libby and you know it!” I snapped, pointing a finger at Tom, who was now on his feet, swaying slightly. “It’s about the great fat chip on your shoulder. You’ve been weird with me ever since I went to St John’s, just because you can’t stand the fact I’m going to a private school when your parents can’t even afford the subs for football anymore!”
Tom, drunk and defensive, suddenly lunged at me, shoving me hard and sending me stumbling into Max whose sturdy frame prevented me from falling to the ground.
“You think you’re so special now, don’t you?!” he yelled.
I wordlessly shoved him back.
“Stop!” barked Max. He grabbed me by the upper arms, his large goalkeeper hands holding me still, while Michael tentatively blocked Tom’s way.
Tom and I glared at each other, our eyes wide and angry, before I broke free of Max’s grasp and with a quietly muttered Screw you strode off towards home.
Anger.
The one emotion that’s always permissible among boys.
I was lying on my bed in the dark, still fully clothed and fuming, when my dad knocked on my bedroom door.
“Tom’s here,” he said quietly, poking his head around, “he wants a quick word.”
I sighed heavily and dragged myself upright. I was starting to develop a headache.
“Don’t wake your mum,” he whispered as I pushed past him onto the dark landing. “And have you been smoking?”
“Nope,” I lied, trudging down the stairs.
“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled, “and you do the same please.”
Tom stood on the doorstep, his hands deep in his pockets, looking sheepish.
“What do you want?” I asked coldly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, kicking gently at the doorstep, “I was a dick.”
“I just don’t get what your problem is lately,” I complained.
He sighed and looked everywhere apart from straight at me.
“I dunno,” he muttered, “it’s just… it’s weird not having you at Allenbrook anymore, that’s all. And then you started going out with Libby, and I don’t mean to be a div about it, but what with your new school and your new girlfriend, it’s just I don’t see you as much and… I dunno. I don’t know why I’m being such a prick.”
In the glow of our porch light, his eyelids looked heavy. I stared at him and finally understood what his attitude had been about these past few months. Part of me wanted him to just say it. But I knew he wouldn’t. Out of all of us, Tom was probably the person least likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. Plus, he didn’t need to say it. Not really. I knew what he was getting at.
I thought about telling him I missed him too, but I was only going to say that if he said it first.
“I know I’m being a bit crap at meeting up lately—”
“No, it’s fine,” said Tom, shaking his head. “I get it. I just…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” I muttered, “about the football subs. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, I know.”
We stood there for a minute in silence, Tom kicking gently at the door frame with the toe of his trainer, and me staring at my socks.
“Is your dad… I mean, is everything okay?” I asked tentatively, wondering if there was anything else on his mind.
Tom shrugged. “Not really,” he mumbled.
I didn’t know what to say, or how much I could ask. I didn’t really understand what was wrong with Tom’s dad, none of us did. Depression was a word you heard sometimes, but it didn’t mean a lot to any of us. It seemed best to either make a joke about it, like Tom often did, or not talk about it at all. I chose the latter option, not wanting to show my ignorance or say the wrong thing.
“Go home, you div,” I said.
“We cool?” Tom asked, sticking out his fist.
“Yeah, we’re cool,” I told him, bumping my first against his.
He turned and sauntered down the garden path.
“Later, dickhead,” he called quietly.
“Later, shitface,” I called back.
And just like that we were friends again.
Chapter 11
Celebrations
Hello Tom
Apologies for contacting you out of the blue. The hospital gave me your email address
DELETE
Hi Tom
It’s been a long time. I heard you were at a hospital in Surry now so I spoke to
DELETE
Dear Tom
I hope you are well. It’s been a long time.
I was wondering if I might be able to visit you? I have some things I’d like to talk to you about. I have been doing some thinking about the past and
DELETE
Hey Shitface
DELETE
Tom,
Been a long time. Hope you are well. Any chance we can talk?
Jay
SEND
Apparently, Stu slid off the sofa and positioned himself on one knee in the middle of a particularly violent episode of Game of Thrones. I suppose it’s half-heartedly romantic, and it seems to sum up his relationship with Irena; deep-seated affection tinged with a hint of hostility. They constantly bicker behind the bar and she snaps at him, calling him an oaf and an idiot or other things in Polish that he may or may not understand, so that anyone who isn’t a regular at the Canal House might feel slightly uncomfortable and question their professionalism. But most of us know it’s just their way. They’ve been a solid couple for years, and news of their engagement is a cause for celebration, hence tonight’s barbecue. I just don’t feel like celebrating, that’s all.
I’ve not been sleeping well again. My meeting with Libby last weekend – far from bringing me the peace of mind I’d been craving – has led to a new kind of turmoil. On the one hand, I feel genuine relief in knowing she’s never held a grudge against me, and I’m grateful to have had the chance to say sorry, whether she thought I needed to or not. Some of the guilt has been lifted from my shoulders by seeing that she’s happy, successful, unharmed by the mess I made. I don’t know why I ever imagined otherwise. But a new kind of unrest has taken hold of my mind. Lying awake at night, unable to shut my thoughts off, I find the past playing out even more vividly than before. I’m in the long grass, nine years old, the warm sun on my face…
Do you want to kiss me?
And later, on her narrowboat, when we had to get to know each other all over again, when we were changed, teenagers, fumbling to find the words.
… I really like you…
And then when we were a couple. H
ours spent just talking, laughing, lying on her narrow bunk innocently holding each other, or taking our first, tentative, clumsy steps in kissing, touching… I remember the newness of it all, the excitement, the longing… but most of all I remember that feeling of connection. We fit. It felt easy. It felt right.
But after the night of the fairground nothing felt right anymore. And nothing really ever felt easy again.
It’s pointless, wondering what if. What if I’d handled my emotions better? What if I’d fought harder to stay together? Could we have ever made it work, despite the baby, despite everything? Probably not. She was right. We were just kids.
But still. What if?
I don’t know why I keep wasting my time on these thoughts. I’m an idiot.
She sent me a text the day after our meeting, which I fretted over for forty-eight hours before replying.
Hi. Good to see you yesterday. Just to let you know I agreed to do Stu’s mural. I’m planning on working on it weekends, pending weather. Take care. Libby.
I should have been happy for her. She’d looked genuinely enthusiastic to have a new project. Perhaps after her stressful career with the big advertising company she just wanted to get back to her roots, indulge her love of painting for a while, feel the sun (what there is of it) against her face. But the truth is my heart sank when her text came through. I was responsible for her coming here, but now I just want her gone. It had never been part of the plan to see her again. I’d just wanted to say my piece and move on. That was the idea of closure; box things up, seal shut with industrial-strength tape and send to archive, never to be thought of again.
But now she was sticking around, and she was texting me, and what did that even mean anyway? Good to see you. Was that an invitation to friendship? Was I meant to go and see her at the Canal House, call in one weekend, admire her mural and make chit-chat about her progress? Because, having given it some thought, I’m just not sure we could ever be friends. There’s far too much water under the bridge.
Or was her text saying exactly the opposite? Take care. Was that a final goodbye, her signing off, an over-and-out? Was she warning me where she would be and when so that I could stay away, saving us both the embarrassment of more awkward conversation?