by Susan Moody
‘Well, I do.’
‘As we’ve noticed.’ Orlando’s smile was white in his sunburned face. ‘We’ve seen it often enough.’
‘Seen what?’
‘How you get them to look at you.’
Currents were swirling here which I was suddenly aware might sweep us into waters too deep for us. Down the road, I saw Fiona emerge from our garden gate and wave in our direction. I jumped up, relieved. ‘Lunch time,’ I said. ‘Come on, Orlando.’
A couple of days later, Nicola showed up with something wrapped in newspaper. As we settled ourselves into the shingle, she opened it. ‘Look,’ she said, giggling.
‘What’s that?’ asked Charles. He and the other boys started sniggering as she held up a vast yellowing undergarment with suspenders dangling from it.
‘They’re corsets.’
‘What’re corsets?’
‘My grandmother wears them,’ said David.
‘They’re things that really really fat people wear to try and make themselves look thinner,’ Nicola said.
‘Where on earth did you get them?’ I asked.
‘Mum took me to a jumble sale and I saw them on a stall.’ Nicola looked at us. ‘I thought I’d give them to Fatty Vane. Or you could do it, Alice.’
‘She’s already got some,’ I said.
‘Maybe she could use another pair. Make her look nice for her girlfriend.’
‘Girl friend?’ said Julian.
‘Yeah. Surely you realized she’s a lesbian.’
‘What’s a lesbian?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Someone who like girls.’
‘I like girls,’ Charles said, leering.
‘Another woman, I mean.’
This was territory I didn’t want to explore. I flicked a finger at the corsets. ‘Anyway, these are much too big,’ I said. ‘Miss Vane’s not that fat.’
‘It’d only be a joke.’
‘Not a very nice joke,’ I said. ‘If you want to give them to her, do it yourself.’ I felt hot and frightened. I wasn’t used to challenging authority. Nor, despite the benign negligence with which we were brought up, were we accustomed to spite or nastiness. I could easily imagine Fiona’s reaction if she knew what Nicola was proposing and how embarrassed and hurt Miss Vane would be.
‘Okey doke,’ she said. ‘I will.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘Anybody want to come with me?’
Even the boys in her thrall were uneasy about administering such a direct insult to an adult. They kicked at the loose stones of the beach, coughed, stared about them. They were thinking of what their mothers would say if they were caught in such a piece of discourtesy.
‘God,’ said Nicola, eventually. ‘You’re all such wankers. I’ll do it myself.’
And she did, because I watched her do it, go up to Miss Vane, put her head engagingly on one side, offer her the package. I saw, too, Miss Vane’s shy smile of pleasure and wanted to run up, snatch it from her hands, throw the horrible corsets into the sea. But of course I didn’t, and was punished later by seeing Miss Vane’s face turn pale, her eyes water, the way she dropped the package into a litterbin. At that moment, I hated Nicola.
One afternoon, things took a different turn. After my music lesson, I came out of the gate of Number Seventeen to find them swinging on the bars across the road.
‘How’s the Groper?’ Nicola asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hands everywhere,’ said Nicola. ‘Or is it just with me?’ She widened her eyes at me. ‘Maybe he likes them a bit more mature than you, Alice.’
‘How exactly are you defining mature?’ asked Orlando, giving the word an ugly sneer. ‘Do you mean like you, Nicola?’
‘He’s a pervert,’ said Julian, glancing up at Mr Elias’s open window. He feinted an elaborate shot with the golf putter he’d taken to carrying around, since he had started golf lessons earlier in the holidays.
‘What’s perverted about him?’ Blushing with embarrassment, I hoped he couldn’t hear them. Was that him lurking up there, watching us from behind the dusty folds of crimson velvet?
‘He’s a beastly Hun.’ said Charles
‘A bloody Kraut,’ Julian said daringly.
I’d never heard either of them use such words or express such sentiments. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that,’ I said. Thunderheads were building up in the distance, and the air danced and crackled with electricity. An equally powerful surge of energy arced dangerously between the seven of us. ‘He’s a refugee.’
‘He can’t help being a foreigner,’ Orlando said.
‘Kraut lovers, kraut lovers . . .’ Jeremy jeered at us.
I stared at him in astonishment. Over the years I’d known him, he had always been the quiet one, the fatherless boy with the straight-cut blond hair and red cheeks, who usually maintained a timid silence.
‘There’s definitely something funny about him,’ said Nicola. I sensed that while they waited for me, she had been playing them off, one against the other, and that now they were jockeying for position, each of them trying to outdo the other, each of them fearful that he would be elbowed out of Nicola’s charmed circle.
Was I frightened of rejection too? Was I trying to make up some of the ground that had been lost that summer? Or did I feel some deeper alarm? Whichever it was, I suddenly said, ‘Maybe he’s a spy.’ Immediately I knew, Judas-like, that I had sacrificed Mr Elias, made him a burnt offering laid upon the altar of conformity. I passionately wished the words unsaid, but it was too late.
The boys pounced. ‘A spy? What do you mean? How can he be? How do you know?’
My credibility was at stake. ‘He’s got a radio,’ I said reluctantly. ‘One of those ones that spies use, with bits sticking out of the top. And headphones.’
‘It’s true,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ve seen it myself.’
‘A crystal set,’ said Orlando. He was staring at me with astonishment and a hostility that made me hot with shame.
‘What kind of headphones?’ asked Julian.
I backtracked quickly. ‘But of course he can’t be. The war’s been over for ages.’
‘There’s still lots of spies about,’ announced Charles. ‘I heard about it at school. It’s because of the Cold War.’
We could see that he didn’t know exactly what the Cold War was and politely refrained from asking him.
‘Maybe national security’s at stake,’ Jeremy said importantly, made knowledgeable by the Rover, which he borrowed surreptitiously from a friend.
‘I think we ought to investigate,’ said Julian. ‘I mean, if he’s a spy and everything.’
‘How’re you going to do that?’ scoffed Nicola.
‘We could keep a watch on him.’
‘Yeah, follow him and everything. See where he goes.’
‘Why would a spy be living here?’ I said.
‘Precisely,’ added Orlando. ‘What’s there for him to spy on in a place like this?’
‘The Marines,’ said Charles. ‘It’s a naval establishment. They might be researching all sorts of stuff here.’
‘Like what?’
Charles shrugged, trying to look as though he knew what he was talking about. ‘Submarines, or something. Technical breakthroughs in naval warfare.’
‘That’s what they do in Portsmouth, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Not here.’
‘What does it matter?’ Nicola had that dangerous little flame in her eyes that I was coming to recognize. ‘He’s German, isn’t he? That’s evidence enough for me.’
The boys nodded doubtfully.
We went home, me hating myself, ashamed, Orlando haranguing me furiously. ‘How could you have said something like that?’ he demanded. ‘You know as well as I do that the poor man’s not a spy.’
The incident caused a rift between us all. For years we’d all spent our summers together, never articulating our affection for one another, but nonetheless relying on it, as part of the changeless predictability that was our childhood. Now O
rlando would have nothing to do with the others and I found that I too didn’t want to join them as they hung about on the green, swinging on the silver railings outside Mrs Sheffield’s house, staring up at Sasha’s window. Led by Nicola, they gave the Nazi salute if they saw him, or sang the Horst Wessel song in voices loud enough for him to hear if he listened. They followed him when he walked past the lifeboat into town; they followed him home again. Julian produced a notebook and pencil and kept an ostentatious record of his comings and goings.
Did he notice? Was he hurt, angered, or merely indifferent? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
Darkness came late on those hot August evenings, and our mothers could see no point in keeping to normal bedtime hours, so we were allowed to stay up much longer than usual. Miserably skulking along the back road to avoid them, I could see them lined up along the railings, taunting and catcalling.
Orlando finally told Fiona what they were doing, without divulging my part in it.
‘What?’ She was outraged. ‘Tormenting that poor young man? But why?’ She stared at me. ‘Do you know why, Alice?’
‘They . . .’ I swallowed, avoiding Orlando’s accusing gaze. ‘They think he’s a spy.’
‘A spy? What, for Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they so pigheadedly ignorant that they think a Jewish refugee would spy for Germany?’ As she spoke, Fiona was walking towards the front door. ‘Have they no sense of compassion? Or common courtesy?’
She came back half an hour later. ‘I’ve put the fear of God into them. I told Charles and Julian that Colonel Tavistock would have been thoroughly ashamed of them if the poor man were here today, and that I’d have to think twice about allowing them into this house again. As for that Nicola . . .’ She made a disgusted noise. ‘I’m a strong believer in independence, as you two know. I prefer to let you children make your own mistakes, which is why I don’t often lay down the law. But there are times when it needs to be done.’ She looked at me. ‘Alice, I’m very close to forbidding you to have anything more to do with that frightful girl.’
I glanced in appeal at Orlando but his face was stony. All my life he’d been my rock. Now he was rejecting me. ‘But shouldn’t we show compassion to her too?’ I said in desperation, foreseeing that I would have to spend the rest of the holidays as a social outcast.
My mother raised a glacial eyebrow. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Isn’t her father –’ Too late I remembered my promise to Ava. ‘– isn’t he in prison or something?’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘One of the boys told us,’ Orlando lied easily. ‘Can’t remember if it was Charles or Julian.’ Neither of us dared to meet her eyes.
‘This is something you should never mention to anyone,’ Fiona said. ‘And of course, we have to be understanding. On the other hand, whatever her family circumstances, they don’t excuse the way she – and the others – are treating poor Sasha Elias.’
She looked at Orlando and her face softened. ‘I’d like a quick word with Alice on her own, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
Alarm and guilt pulsed through me. What had I done?
‘I’ll be in the garden,’ Orlando said, as he opened the door to leave.
As soon as it had closed behind him, she said: ‘How’re you getting on with your music lessons?’
‘All right,’ I muttered.
‘Why don’t you play me something?’ she said.
I was embarrassed, unused to so much attention. I launched into The Fairy’s Picnic. If she was impressed, she didn’t say so.
‘How do you get on with Mr Elias?’ she asked. There was something in her tone that made me uneasy.
‘Fine. He’s nice.’
‘Does he ever . . .’
‘What?’
‘. . . touch you?’
‘Of course not.’ My face burned. He did touch me from time to time, but not in the way that I suspected she meant.
‘I’ve been told that he sometimes uses . . . um . . . inappropriate behaviour.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Louisa Stone mentioned something.’
Nicola must have been saying things, either in order to divert attention from the campaign of terror she’d tried to initiate, or to excuse it. ‘What’s inappropriate behaviour, anyway?’
‘He’s never asked you to . . . to sit on his lap?’ Fiona was almost as embarrassed as I was. ‘Or put his hand . . . on your knee? Or . . . um . . . elsewhere?’
‘No! If Nicola said that, she’s lying. It’s disgusting of you to say such things.’
‘I’m only repeating something I was told.’
‘It’s lies!’ I shouted. ‘He doesn’t do anything. Just teaches me the piano.’
‘Are you telling me the truth, Alice?’
‘Yes!’
‘Very well. We won’t mention it again. But if you ever have the slightest—’
‘I won’t. He’s not like that, not in the least.’
‘Very well. I shall invite the poor man to dinner. Try to make up for the behaviour of your . . . friends.’ She gave me an ice-cold stare. ‘In fact, I’ll invite them along too. It’s time I had Lisa Tavistock round, and Louisa Stone.’
‘Good God,’ Yelland said later, told of the impending supper-party. ‘She’s not seriously contemplating having people to dinner, is she?’
‘That’s quite enough, Mr Yelland,’ said Ava.
‘More than enough,’ Orlanda said.
‘What did you say, you rude little sod?’ demanded Yelland.
‘Now, now.’ Ava reached into her mending basket for more grey wool to darn Orlando’s school socks, ready for the end of the holidays. ‘When she puts her mind to it, Mrs Beecham can be a very good cook. Very inventive.’
‘Inventive says it all.’
‘She’s going to invite Nicola Stone and her mother.’ Orlando twitched an eyebrow. ‘That’ll be a real treat. Don’t you agree, Mr Yelland?’
‘Why the hell should I find some minx of a schoolgirl a treat?’
‘I just thought you might.’
He was obviously being significant in some way, but I didn’t know how, and had no desire to ask him.
Mr Elias came the next Friday. I contrived to sit next to him at the big mahogany table. With the PGs, the mothers, Nicola, Julian and Charles, Jeremy Gardiner, we were crowded, so that I couldn’t avoid touching Sasha Elias’s arm or thigh every time one or other of us moved. I’d changed out of my usual Aertex shirt and shorts, and put on a summer dress; my newly-short hair was freshly washed, and I was wearing the turquoise-and-silver necklace my father had given me for my last birthday.
Orlando noticed – he noticed everything – but made no comment. Which was much worse than if he had. I felt soft, as though I were moulded out of marshmallow, yet at the same time, I burned with a heat I couldn’t define, so much so that my mother wondered aloud whether I’d spent too much time in the sun that afternoon. I shook my head.
Did he think I looked pretty? Was he aware of the curl of hair over my left eye, achieved by sleeping with my hair secured in criss-crossed kirby grips? Had he noticed my necklace? Did he feel the flame coursing through my body when our arms accidentally brushed? Jealousy seared me as he talked with Fiona and Orlando about music. I was the one who knew him best; he wasn’t theirs, he was mine, wasn’t he?
FIVE
Each holiday had its own ceremonies but the summer offered another ritual which was exclusive to Orlando and me. We were the blackberry pickers, and we took our duties very seriously. We saw our role as that of hunters and gatherers, bringing home provisions that would see the family through the coming winter. The blackberries would be made into jam, or added to the big greasy-skinned cooking apples Fiona managed to obtain from a nearby farmer. She and Ava would spend a day turning them into the blackberry-and-apple which constituted our staple pudding until the following summer, either in pies or as tarts, or eaten with c
ustard or evaporated milk. Without our annual contribution, we feared that the rest of the household might go hungry.
At the start of each summer holidays, we would pump up the tyres of our bikes and cycle down the coast road to inspect our blackberry sites. We knew from experience that the denser the thickets of brambles, the juicier and sweeter were the fruit. We chose only the most inaccessible places, where the heavily-thorned fronds would deter everyone but the most dogged picker; if we saw broken branches or plastic bags, evidence of picnickers, we would pass by.
Through the summer weeks, we kept a close eye on our chosen locations, going out every few days to inspect them and make sure that the ripening process was proceeding to schedule. We loved the salt winds in our hair as we free-wheeled along the road which ran below the cliffs, the smell of crushed fennel, the occasional wizened crab-apple trees which had somehow flourished in among the brambles, the flat scented plates of elderflowers which would later become rich with dark bunches of fruit.
The blackberries ripened early that last summer. Orlando and I visited them every few days, watching as the hard green berries began to fill out, to turn hard and red then plumply purple. Now they were definitely black and lustrous, almost ready for the picking. We’d done our reconnaissance carefully, earmarked the places likely to provide the highest yield for the lowest effort, searched out the hidden patches where other, less experienced pickers, might not venture.
We had refined our picking techniques over the years. Our equipment included two of Aunt’s walking sticks, one of the golf clubs from the elephant’s-foot stand, punnets for picking into, bowls for carrying. We had to choose the right clothes. That year, an old jacket of my father’s to protect Orlando’s bare summer arms, a sweater of Callum’s for me.
As serious blackberry pickers, we seldom spoke as we reaped our harvest, and almost never ate any of the ripe black fruit. That year, while I learned to play the piano in the close fug of Mr Elias’s bed-sitting room, Orlando spent a lot of time cycling up to the cliffs.
One afternoon, I came away from a piano lesson to find him dawdling by the gate of Mrs Sheffield’s house, holding both our bikes. ‘I’ve found a new place,’ he said. ‘Come and look. I don’t think anyone’s ever been there except me.’