by Paige Toon
‘I like this cottage,’ he says.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it? But your pub is in a great location. Do you live upstairs?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You must have an amazing view.’
He nods. ‘My bedroom is the best thing about living there because it faces the fields instead of the car park at the back. I’d probably appreciate it more if my parents weren’t always knocking about.’
‘Is it noisy?’
‘I don’t mean knocking about in that way.’
‘No, I know.’ I smile and he touches my face fondly.
‘It would be noisy if I ever spent any time in my bedroom,’ he explains. ‘But I’d rather get outside with Dyson. Anyway, I work most nights, so I’m usually the last one upstairs.’
‘You work a lot.’
‘I have to.’
‘Have you saved up much money towards a car?’
‘It’s going alright. They pay me as little as possible and then I still have to shell out for rent, so it’s taken longer than I wanted it to.’
‘Couldn’t you work somewhere else that pays better?’
‘Not without moving out and then I’d still have the rent problem. I’ll be doing that soon enough. I just have to stick it out for a couple more months.’
A feeling of melancholy engulfs me. I’ve known Joe for only a few days, but the thought of losing him in under six weeks already feels unbearable.
‘You not hungry?’ He nods at the sandwich that I’ve barely touched.
‘No.’ I shake my head.
He lies down and pulls me to him for a kiss. The sound of a car in the driveway makes us both jump away from each other.
‘My mum must be back.’
‘I’d better get going.’ He stands up.
‘You don’t have to rush off . . .’
‘I should get back, anyway. My shift starts in an hour.’
‘Okay.’ I’m disappointed.
He goes out through the back garden gate to the driveway. I follow him to see my mum trying to open the car door without hitting Dyson. The dog starts to bark with excitement.
‘Sorry!’ Joe shouts. He seems to do a lot of apologising for his pooch. He hurries to the car and grabs Dyson’s collar, dragging him away so Mum can get out.
‘Hello, there,’ she says, and there’s an undercurrent to her tone which is not as pleasant as it usually is when speaking to my friends. It makes me feel nervous. I suppose she’s still smarting about Joe’s mum the other night.
‘Hi, Mrs . . . Sorry, I don’t know Alice’s last name.’
‘Simmons,’ Mum and I answer simultaneously. ‘But you can call me Marie. Did you have a nice walk?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, it was nice.’
I realise that Joe is nervous, although for different reasons to me. It endears me to him even more, if that’s possible.
‘I was just leaving,’ he says, struggling to hold Dyson back.
‘I’ll see you out,’ I say, indicating the front gate. He goes through and lets go of Dyson’s collar. The dog shoots off down the track.
Joe turns back to close the gate, leaving me on the other side. ‘Are you around tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Tomorrow and for the next six weeks,’ I reply with a smile.
‘Five and a half,’ he corrects and my heart sinks. ‘Shall I swing by in the morning?’ he asks, oblivious.
‘Sounds good.’ That’s a lie. Tomorrow is too bloody far away.
‘Okay. Is nine too early?’
‘Nope.’ Six a.m. would be better. I’d even be happy with five. This evening would be ideal. Actually, if you could just not leave at all, that would be pretty much perfect.
‘See you.’ He glances over my shoulder at Mum, who is unpacking the last of her things from the car. He starts to walk away as she heads inside to the kitchen.
‘Joe!’ I call and he spins around. I beckon for him to come back and then I lean over the gate. ‘You forgot something.’
He grins and kisses me quickly, then turns to leave.
‘Hang on.’ I grab his arm. ‘What’s your surname?’
‘Strickwold.’
‘Joe Strickwold,’ I repeat.
‘It’s a bit of a tongue-twister.’ My fingers fall away from his bicep into his warm hand as he steps away. ‘Till tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ I nod, giving his hand a quick squeeze. Then he’s off.
‘You’ve moved your relationship onto the next level already,’ Mum teases when I walk back into the kitchen with a spring in my step.
‘You saw that, did you?’ I feel my face heat up.
‘A bit hard not to. The window is right there.’
‘How was your day?’ I change the subject. Thankfully, she lets me.
‘Very good. I went to Lulworth Cove and picked up a few bits and bobs. I found a fossil of a sea snail or something like that. I want to go back in the morning. You should come with me. It’s very pretty.’
‘Um, no, I can’t,’ I reply. ‘Joe’s coming to get me at nine.’
‘Joe again?’ Uh-oh. I know that tone. ‘Aren’t you seeing a bit too much of him?’
‘God, Mum, it’s only been a few days,’ I reply huffily. I hate it when she questions me like this. I’m eighteen, for pity’s sake. ‘I thought you wanted me to make friends?’
‘Friends? Is that what you are?’ Her tone is wry.
‘Well, you know . . .’
‘I just don’t want you to let your work suffer.’
‘I won’t. I’ve got weeks of summer sprawled out before me. I’ll get it done,’ I say, forcing breeziness into my tone.
She smiles at me. ‘I guess you know what you’re doing.’
‘I do. Show me the fossil, then?’
The next morning Joe and I return to Dancing Ledge. The jittery feeling has been in my stomach all night and it’s even more intense now. I don’t want to keep my hands off him. He’s so warm and perfect. To my amazement, he seems to feel the same.
‘I could kiss you all day,’ he says.
‘Don’t you need to eat?’
‘Nope.’
‘Drink?’
‘Nope.’
‘Me neither,’ I say.
‘I really can’t get over your eyes,’ he says, staring into them, almost searchingly. ‘They’re the greenest green.’
‘I like yours too,’ I admit.
‘Boring brown.’
‘They could never be boring. No, it’s like they have an inner light or something. They’re dark, but they still seem to sparkle.’
He starts to laugh at me.
‘Don’t be mean!’ I cry, whacking him on his arm. ‘Maybe that did sound a little corny, but it’s true.’
‘Where are your parents from?’ he asks suddenly.
‘They’re both British, but my grandmother on my father’s side was Chinese.’
‘Where was she from?’
‘Beijing originally, but her parents took her to Britain when she was young. My grandfather was British.’
‘I didn’t think Alice Simmons sounded very Chinese.’
‘No.’
‘Do you speak it?’
‘Mandarin? No. I wish I could, but my dad always speaks English.’
‘Maybe you could take it as a subject at university.’
I look ahead, thoughtfully. ‘That’s a really good idea. They do have an option to take a language module. I’ll check it out when I get there.’ I gaze across at him. ‘Xie_xie.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘For the idea.’
He shakes his head with amusement. ‘You are such a brainiac!’
‘So, Joe Strickwold,’ I say. ‘When are you coming to visit me in Cambridge?’
‘Joe Strickwold – you even said it without tripping over it.’
‘I’ve been practising: Joe Strickwold, Joe Strickwold, Joe Strickwold.’
‘Impressive. Alice Simmons, Alice Simmons, Alice Simmons –
actually, yours is a bit of a tongue-twister too.’
‘Alice Strickwold. Jesus, that’s even worse.’
‘I’ll have to change my name to something simpler before you marry me,’ he jokes.
A thrill goes through me. I know, I’m getting way ahead of myself.
‘Oi, you haven’t answered my question.’
‘About coming to visit you in Cambridge?’ he checks. ‘You might be sick of me by then.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You won’t want me cramping your style when you’re meeting all these smart know-it-alls.’
‘I’m absolutely certain that’s not going to happen.’
‘You can’t be certain.’
‘Yes, I can. I don’t want to go out with some ponce from Cambridge University. They wouldn’t want to go out with me, anyway.’
‘No guy would ever turn you down.’
‘Stop it!’ I laugh. ‘How can you say that?’
‘You’re beautiful.’ He shrugs as if it were obvious, even though no one has ever said that to me before.
‘I think you’re gorgeous too.’
‘Come here and kiss me.’
I do as I’m told.
I can’t bear it when he leaves me that afternoon. The hours without him drag by like nothing I’ve ever known. I’ve never had a crush like this before. And yes, I am calling it a crush, even though the L word has popped into my mind on more than one occasion. My head tells me it’s far too soon to be using words like that, but, God, I like him so much. ‘Like’ really doesn’t cut it. I adore him . . . I fancy him . . . None of those phrases do it justice, either. I need him. I’m obsessed by him. That’s more like it. I’m not going to tell him this, though, for crying out loud. I sound like a nutcase and he’d run a bloody mile. I suppose I’m still in the honeymoon period.
My dad arrives on Friday afternoon and it’s damn near impossible to concentrate during dinnertime when he’s talking about his week at work. My mum knows what’s up with me, I’m sure of it. She’s planned a jam-packed weekend for the three of us and I swear that she’s trying to keep me from Joe, unaware that he’s busy at the pub. After dinner, I try to watch telly because reading is futile, but even that won’t take my mind off him. I keep thinking about walking across the field to the pub so I can see him, but I’m too wary of facing his parents when I get there.
When Mum and Dad go upstairs to bed I go outside to the gate and stand there, looking out into the blackness. In some small and silly way I feel like it’s bringing me closer to him.
I wish he had a mobile phone so I could call him, but he’s putting all of his money towards a car.
I turn and sit on the bench. It’s a clear night and the stars above are bright. Unlike in London, there is no orange haze here from streetlights. It’s beautiful.
I finally cracked yesterday and told Lizzy about Joe. Her mum is recovering from the operation quite well, although they won’t know yet if they’ve removed all of the cancer. Susan starts chemo next week; it will be horrendous for her, let alone for my friend, who will have to watch her mother go through hell.
Lizzy was surprised that I had met a boy – and even more surprised that I’d kissed him. We had both thought we’d be in a bit of a backwater here. She tried to sound excited for me, but I know she just wishes she were here having fun and that all this awful stuff wasn’t happening to her family.
I suppose I should go to bed. I’m about to stand up, but freeze. Is that . . . a dog panting?
‘Joe?’ I ask quietly.
‘Alice?’
I get up and run to the gate.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper into the darkness, and then I see him, stepping onto the track from the field. Dyson is already at the gate, wagging his tail. He crouches, ready to bark, and my reflexes work quicker than I would have ever given them credit for because I rush out of the gate and bend down to pat him rigorously before he can utter a sound. I don’t want him to rouse my parents. Their bedroom overlooks the garden at the back, but I don’t want to take any risks.
Joe reaches me and I stand up and throw my arms around his neck.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, beyond delighted.
‘I took Dyson for a walk and my feet just kind of took me this way. I’m not stalking you,’ he adds.
‘I wouldn’t mind if you were.’
He grins. ‘What are you doing outside?’
‘Waiting for you,’ I reply with a smile. His kisses are tender, more tender than they have been. Out of the blue I feel like I’m going to cry. It’s the weirdest feeling.
Dyson whimpers and collapses in the dirt at our feet. Joe glances down at him and then back at me. The bizarre urge to cry vanishes.
‘Did your dad arrive today?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Are they asleep?’ He nods towards the house.
‘I think so.’
‘He’d kill me if he knew I was out here with his daughter.’
I giggle. ‘I am eighteen, you know.’
‘It wouldn’t make a difference. If you were my daughter . . .’
‘What a gross thought!’
‘Urgh!’ He grimaces and gently punches my arm. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘You’re working, aren’t you?’ I check before answering.
‘Yeah.’
In that case . . . ‘We’re going to visit some castle by the sea.’
‘Portland?’
‘That sounds familiar. Have you been?’
‘No. I’d like to go, though.’
‘Come with us?’
‘I have to work, remember.’
‘Pull a sickie!’
‘What, with my parents right there to check up on me? And they would,’ he adds. ‘No. Anyway, you’d better spend some time with your dad. I don’t want to gatecrash.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ I am desperate for him to come, even though I know that he won’t.
He smiles and kisses me. Again.
‘You should go inside,’ he says, pulling away and rubbing my arms with his perpetually warm hands. ‘You’re cold.’
‘Come and sit on the bench with me for a bit,’ I plead.
He hesitates and then nods. ‘Stay.’
‘Bring him in, just in case he barks,’ I suggest.
‘Okay.’ The delighted dog squeezes through the barely-open gate and I breathe in sharply as he runs down the driveway, but I know that the garden gate is locked so he won’t have a chance to bark up at my parents’ window. I’m past caring, anyway. I’d keep Joe here at all costs.
We sit down on the bench and snuggle into each other. He wraps his arms around me and drapes his coat over my shoulders. I nuzzle my face into his neck.
‘That tickles.’ He chuckles, so I kiss him there. ‘Stop,’ he says, laughing quietly. Then he bends down to kiss my neck.
‘Argh!’ I whisper, trying not to squeal. It does tickle.
‘See?’ He raises one eyebrow at me in the darkness. I put my fingers up to touch the silver ring that is pierced there.
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Not much.’
‘Have you had many girlfriends?’ That question came out of nowhere.
‘Not really,’ he replies. What does ‘not really’ mean?
‘What does “not really” mean?’ If he thinks I’m a saddo, so be it.
‘I haven’t been serious with anyone.’
‘What does “serious” mean?’
‘Alice!’ he exclaims, laughing. Is he embarrassed?
‘Have you had many boyfriends?’ He turns the question around before I can pry further, but I will get to the bottom of this discussion; he just doesn’t know it.
‘No,’ I reply, then, with a smile: ‘Not really.’
‘What does “not really” mean?’
‘I haven’t been “serious” with anyone, either.’
He’s no longer smiling, and nor am I. He kisses me gently.
‘I can’t go a whole
weekend without seeing you,’ he murmurs.
‘Me neither.’
‘Shall I come by tomorrow night after closing?’
I nod, and then we’re kissing again.
I’m in a daze the next day as I wander around Portland Castle checking out Henry VIII’s handiwork. He had the castle built in the 1540s to protect against French and Spanish invasion, but that’s all I can tell you about it, other than the fact that it is very big and very grey. The rest of the time I’m in another world. I’m not entirely oblivious to the looks my parents keep giving each other, though. My dad attempts to broach the subject when we find ourselves on our own.
‘Mum says you’ve met a boy.’ My dad has short, brown hair like his father, and a brushstroke of his mother’s eyes.
‘Mmmhmm,’ I reply non-committally.
‘I hope you’re still making time—’
‘. . . to do some work, yes, Dad,’ I interrupt him with a yawn. ‘What you and Mum seem to forget is that I was planning to come on this holiday with Lizzy, so I wouldn’t exactly have been holed up in my bedroom reading if she were here. What’s the difference?’
‘Well . . .’ he splutters. ‘Lizzy’s Lizzy.’
‘And Joe’s Joe. He’s not taking up any more of my time than Lizzy would have been. Less, in fact, because he has to work.’
‘Yes, I heard about that.’
‘About the pub?’
‘His parents.’
I sigh. ‘He’s nothing like them.’
‘You say that, Alice, but it’s impossible to avoid one’s genes entirely.’
‘Well, Joe has,’ I snap.
I don’t want to remind him of my age, but I will if he keeps pushing me.
‘Look,’ I say in a gentler tone, ‘this is my last summer before I leave home. Please let me enjoy it.’
He wraps his arm around my neck. ‘Okay, sweetie. I’ve said enough.’
I suddenly feel gracious. ‘You should meet him. I’ll introduce him to you before the weekend is over.’
He nods. And then we’re back to our history lesson.
My promise to my dad has to wait, because Joe comes to see me again just before midnight, when my parents have already turned in for the night. We sit out on the bench for almost two hours. I’m absolutely shattered by the time he leaves, and I fall into bed without brushing my hair or taking off my make-up. I don’t tend to wear much – only mascara and a little eyeliner – but my lashes will certainly be stuck together in the morning.