by Guy Burt
In all that stays the same, though, there are changes: slow ones at first, but then starting to become noticeable. They don’t feel like much to start with, it’s true. But gradually – very gradually – I can feel them, and see them. Places where we used to play don’t hold the same interest for us any more, and we find new things to do. Some of our games are dropped, new ones invented to take their place. Small things, to start with. And at the time it’s that we just got bored of doing things that way; it’s never that it’s Anna who’s bored, and Jamie and I who are shifting with her, even though that’s the way it will seem to me one day.
And so summers pass, and years pass in the shadow of those brighter, more real, summer days. I get taller, but so do Jamie and Anna, and so I don’t really notice that any of us are any different. But sometimes small places where I used to hide are too small now, and things which once seemed very big now look to me to be more normal. All the time, though, it’s happening seamlessly, as though it’s not me that’s changing, but the rest of the world: I am held solid while things flow and meld and alter around me. That’s the way it feels – if it feels any way at all.
But then things really do start to change, in a way I can’t ignore. It’s as if a series of tremors shudder through the calm of the valley, making the earth tumble from the hill terraces and the lemon trees shiver and rattle their dusty leaves, even though there’s no wind. In one brief summer, all the change that has been building up around me unnoticed is let loose, unleashed in a brief series of convulsions that leave me gasping, my whole world suddenly different.
They start when I am eleven, when Jamie tells me about the school his parents want him to go to. A school in England. A school which will keep him away for all the term-times, and leave him free only in the holidays. A school that will pull the two of us apart, in those times of the year when Jamie is all I have. And there is talk, too, of the Anderson family moving to England: of Mr and Mrs Anderson selling their house at the end of the little row of four, and buying a new one there. It’s to do with work, Jamie says bitterly. Slowly it is borne in on me that this will actually happen; that it’s not just a story. Jamie will be the first to go – to get him settled there, Mr Anderson tells my parents – and then they will follow. The thought of Jamie leaving the valley is impossible to examine. Distantly, I remember when he arrived: seeing him standing, staring at the hills on the horizon. I have never considered that he might go as suddenly or as easily. But it’s going to happen; it’s going to happen.
This, then, is the change that first shakes my sense of my world, and it comes in an autumn when I am eleven. But hardly have I had time to allow it into my head – to make space for it in there – than there are others. That year turns slowly on its axis, and the summer comes when I turn twelve. Already it is a summer whose heat and freedom are tainted. At its end, Jamie will be leaving Altesa, and I shan’t see him again until Christmas. It will be like that from now on, I know. Trying not to think of this, I hug to myself the knowledge that Anna will be here soon. At least, I tell myself, we will always have the summers; that no matter how much distance comes between us the rest of the year, summer will always see us back here in Altesa, doing the same things, telling the same stories, telling the same jokes.
Even while I’m telling myself this, I think there is already some tiny, hidden part of me that knows this summer will be the last that we all share.
Anna says, ‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jamie thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose – no, not really.’
‘Why not tell your parents?’
‘I did. It doesn’t make any difference. They’re going to move there anyway, and I’ve got to go to school somewhere.’
‘That’s crappy,’ she says.
‘Yeah. It is.’
The cove is baking in the sun. Anna has a pair of little sunglasses which she’s pushed up on her head; secretly, I think they’re very smart. She’s thirteen now. Each year that passes is like a snap-shot of elapsed time: when she steps off the coach, she’s always a little different from how I remember her. This time, though, the differences are enough that I have to look twice to make sure she’s actually the girl we’ve come to meet. She’s grown her hair long over the time since we’ve last seen her, and she’s far taller than she was, too: taller even than Jamie, which shocks us both. At the beach, the changes in her are more obvious still. It’s been several years since we last swam in only our pants; for some reason, Anna becomes suddenly self-conscious about underwear, and starts to insist that we wear proper swimming costumes. For the past couple of years she’s had a mid-blue all-in-one swimsuit. Jamie and I can still swim in our underwear if we’ve forgotten to bring trunks, but if Anna forgets, she just sits out on the beach and watches us splash about, grinning at us when we wave.
This year, though, when she pulls off her T-shirt on the pebbles, she’s wearing a proper bikini – a top part and a bottom part, cheerful red with white straps on the shoulders. My first thought is how grown-up she looks, with her bikini and her sunglasses; my second – which comes as a kind of shock – is that she’s sexy. For one thing, unlike the chest part of her old blue swimsuit, the top half of her red and white bikini cups small but distinct breasts.
‘What are you staring at?’ she says.
‘You’ve – got a new swimsuit,’ I say quickly.
‘Yeah. Do you like it?’
‘Yeah. You look – really grown-up.’
‘Yeah? I think so, too. Jamie?’
‘Mm?’
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s nice,’ he says. ‘Bet it doesn’t make you go faster than the old one, though.’
Anna grins. ‘Is that a challenge?’
‘Why? Think you might stand a chance this time?’
‘“This time”? What does that mean? I beat you all the time.’
‘Yeah, right. Let’s see you try. Alex? Umpire?’
‘Um – in a minute.’ I still have my trousers on and I’m fumbling with my shoes. Anna and Jamie are already halfway along the spur.
‘Alex! Come on! What’s keeping you?’
‘All right,’ I say. I fiddle with my trousers and pretend to have trouble getting them undone. The truth is that something has happened for which I’m utterly unprepared: for some reason, seeing Anna in her new bikini has made me wonder for a second what it would be like to touch her – to put my hand on one of her breasts, instead of just glancing at it. The thought’s really only in my head for a moment before she asks me what I’m looking at, and quick shame and embarrassment drive it away; but now there is something else, something even more embarrassing. It’s suddenly become very important that I keep my trousers on for a while longer. The material of my swimming trunks is quite stretchy, and if I take them off now, I’m sure Anna and Jamie will notice.
‘Alex! Come on!’
‘My zip’s stuck,’ I say. ‘I can watch from here.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Jamie says. ‘Say one two three go.’
‘Ready?’ I call. Their heads bob in unison, which makes me smile. ‘One, two, three – go!’
They both break the water at the same time, and I watch them all the way to the rocks which are always our target. It’s neck and neck right up to the end, and I can’t be sure at all which of them – if either – slaps their hand on the rock first.
I can see them treading water there, looking back at me expectantly. Anna calls, ‘Well? Who was it?’
I think for a moment of saying that it’s a tie; and then I shout, ‘Anna – just by a bit, though.’ Jamie wins all the time anyway.
‘Yes!’ Anna’s shouting. ‘She beats him again! Another world title to this incredibly talented newcomer!’ Jamie, I can just see, is shaking his head, and I can imagine his rueful grin.
Now, lying on the pebbles and waiting to get dry – I have managed to join them in the water eventually – I say, ‘It’s going to be strange, though.’
&nbs
p; ‘Yeah,’ Jamie says. ‘I know.’
Anna says, ‘But you’ll come back, won’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says. ‘Of course. It’s just that – well, it’s such a long way away.’
‘It won’t be the same without you here,’ I say, able at last to give voice in the mildest way to some of what I’m feeling.
‘No. I know.’
‘Who’s going to look at the stars with me?’
Jamie says, suddenly, ‘I’ll leave my telescope. You can use it when I’m not here.’
‘No,’ I say, at once. ‘You need it more than I do. I mean – thanks. But you should take it with you.’
‘And I’ll write to you,’ he says. ‘Lots. Every day, maybe.’
‘Yeah. And I’ll write back and tell you everything that’s happening here. That’s a good idea.’
Anna says, ‘I don’t want to talk about this. It’s sad.’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says.
‘We could go into town,’ she adds. ‘You know – get Cokes or something.’
‘Why not? That would be OK.’
‘And then maybe walk down to the harbour,’ she says. ‘We don’t go down there very often. We could see what it’s like.’
‘OK,’ I say.
Anna sits up and pulls her T-shirt towards her. ‘Hey, Alex,’ she says. ‘I’ve got something here – hang on a minute.’ She’s digging in the pockets of her jeans now. ‘It’s here somewhere,’ she says. ‘Yeah. Don’t look.’
I close my eyes, and hear Jamie say, ‘Oh, yeah, I remember that.’
‘You can open your eyes now,’ she says. When I look, she’s got the necklace on that I made her years ago, for the first birthday party she had with us. The stone that’s the colour of moonlight is just lighter than her skin, and the silver chain twinkles in the sun. As the summer goes on, and she tans, I know the contrast between stone and skin will get stronger.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Yeah. You’ve still got it.’
‘Of course,’ she says, seriously. ‘I keep it for special occasions, though. It’s too nice to wear all the time. It’s my best piece of jewellery. I don’t have much,’ she adds.
Jamie gets up and stretches. ‘Cokes at Toni’s,’ he says. ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’
‘Just like old times,’ Anna says, but somehow her voice sounds kind of sad.
* * *
It’s almost like old times, kind of like old times. Sometimes it’s so close you can hardly tell the difference. Those are the times I like best – the times when the things that have changed fade into the background, and we’re just Anna and Jamie and Alex, together.
It’s Anna who says it. Jamie’s having a bath – under protest, but Mrs Anderson says he’s got half the dust of the valley in his hair and clothes from the day’s play – and we’re sitting in his room waiting for him. I’ve got a comic open and Anna’s sitting by the window, staring up the valley. Although we never go there now, I’ve noticed that she still likes to look up at the chapel, as if maybe she’s expecting to see some signal from its belltower – some clue that the hermit’s back, waiting for us there.
‘You could go too,’ she says.
‘What?’
I look up, the images and captions of the story fluttering away from me like gaudy butterflies.
‘To school,’ she says, a little impatiently. ‘If you’re going to miss him so much, you could ask to go too. Your parents might say yes.’
I stare at her. It’s such a simple idea, but for some reason – perhaps because the whole idea of England seems half like a fantasy to me – it’s never crossed my mind. I say, ‘I’m not old enough.’
‘No, I know. Not this year. But next year you would be. Then you could be with Jamie and come back here for the summer.’
I keep staring at her as the notion filters through my mind. She’s right; if I were in England with Jamie, we’d be together through term-times as well. And England with Jamie would be better than Altesa without him, even though I’m sure England itself will be a colder and greyer place, with more heavy green curtains all the way down to the floor.
‘Alex?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, slowly. ‘Maybe.’
‘You can ask Jamie when he’s out of the bath.’
‘No,’ I say, suddenly deciding something. ‘Don’t say anything.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos my parents might not let me. Wait, and I’ll ask them, and then we can tell Jamie.’
She nods. ‘OK. That sounds like a good plan.’
A grin breaks over my face. ‘Thanks, Anna,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ she says, smiling back. With the window open behind her, and the valley stretching out to the skyline, I think she looks very beautiful.
When I go to buy sweets, Anna shakes her head. ‘I don’t like those ones any more,’ she says.
‘But they’re your favourite.’
‘No. They’re too sickly. Get me fruit-flavoured ones.’
I say, ‘You really don’t want the red ones?’
‘No. They’re really too sweet, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I think so too.’
The afternoon when we go to the harbour end of town is calm and still, and the heat hangs in the air all through the valley. Jamie and I just have shorts and trainers on; Anna has shorts too, but also a shirt that she’s tied up so it shows her tummy. Again, I think how adult she looks like this.
At the far end of the bay, just past the main part of the harbour, there is a fish market and some big shed-like buildings where the fishermen keep things. We walk along the sea wall at the back of the harbour, looking at the boats moored there, hardly moving on the smooth water. Sometimes there is just the tapping of a rope against a mast in the quiet air.
Jamie says, ‘There’s where the river ends.’
We look, and nod. We’ve seen this before, but it’s still weird to look at the rectangular concrete channel that comes through from the town and know that, if you were to jump down into it and walk all day, it would take you right to the top of the valley.
Anna says, ‘You guys want a drink? There’s a bar.’
‘OK,’ Jamie says.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
The bar is a little place, set back from the waterfront. There are plastic tables outside with colourful parasols sticking up on poles through their centres. Inside, the bar looks dark and cool and vaguely nautical, as though it must be crowded with old sailors and fishing-boat men in the evenings. Now, though, at half-past three, it’s quiet. There’s only one person – an old man who I’m sure is a sailor – sitting under one of the parasols and sipping a small glass of beer.
Jamie and I sit ourselves where we can see the boats. Anna finds change in her pocket, and Jamie and I hand over what we’ve got also.
‘Get me a big Coke,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ Anna says, suddenly. I know from her tone of voice that she’s had an idea. Instead of going to get the drinks, she sits down, leaning closer to us. Jamie and I lean in too, instinctively.
‘What?’ Jamie says.
‘Have you ever had beer?’
Jamie blinks. ‘No. Have you?’
‘I’ve had wine lots of times,’ she says casually. ‘But not beer. You want to try some?’
‘Um … all right,’ Jamie says. ‘Bet you won’t like it, though.’
‘Bet I will.’
‘You won’t. Girls don’t drink beer.’
‘Well, I will.’
‘Get me a big beer, then,’ I say. I’m thirsty, and although the idea of drinking beer doesn’t strike me as all that appealing – my father sometimes drinks beer, and I think the glasses smell rather nasty afterwards – I’m determined to be as casual as Anna is about the whole thing.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘You sure?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says after a moment. Anna gives us a conspiratorial grin and gets up, heading for the bar.
Wh
en she’s inside, I say to Jamie, ‘Do you think she’ll like it?’
‘No,’ Jamie says. ‘Of course not. She’s too young.’
‘She doesn’t look as young as she did,’ I say.
‘No. I know. But still,’ he says, reasonably.
‘Might we get in trouble if anyone sees?’ I say.
‘Well,’ Jamie says uncertainly.
A shadow falls across the table and we both look up. There’s a man standing there, watching us and smiling slightly. It takes me a moment to recognize the regular, handsome features, but when I do I glance instinctively at Jamie. I can see from the look on his face that he’s made the connection, too.
‘Hello,’ Signor Ferucci says. The sun is behind him and I have to squint to see him clearly.
I say, ‘Hello.’ Beside me, Jamie mumbles something inaudible.
Without being asked, Signor Ferucci pulls a chair out and sits down. There is still a faint smile on his face. I can see him much better now: the neat beard, trimmed short and starting to grey; the lean lines of his cheekbones and jaw. He looks ageless: a young man’s vitality in an old man’s face. His eyes are pale – almost grey – but when they catch the light they look both kind and terribly hard. There are little creases at their corners that might have come from laughter, but Signor Ferucci’s face doesn’t look as if it laughs a lot. I can imagine the ghost of a smile there widening, perhaps, but not actual laughter. I find I can’t easily pull my gaze away from him.