Carl’s room was empty in the morning, his door locked and in lectures Sarah couldn’t concentrate, all she could think of was his beautiful face, his hands, his tan, his lips. Had he kissed another girl, had he slept with her? Had he? Had he?
Would he come back? Would he?
That evening she smoked the joints that Davy had brought, one, two, three, and the room faded until there was nothing but warmth, looseness, peace and she smiled as Davy left, smiled as Carl came in, held her in his arms, cradled her on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, my darling girl. I just felt worried about you, so worried. Please stop sewing this weekend, stop working, stop rehearsing and come with me. Sam Davis is having a party at Bracklesham Bay in a house he owns.’ He was stroking her arms, undoing her blouse, running his fingers beneath her bra, touching her nipple, easing the strap from her shoulders, taking her in his mouth and she arched her back, wanting more, knowing that he had wanted it for weeks, but she was too frightened.
‘Come away with me, my darling,’ he said, against her skin.
‘All of us,’ she said.
‘Just you.’ His tongue stroked her breast, her shoulder, her lips.
‘No, Davy should come too, it’s not fair, he’s been working too.’
His hand was on her thigh now, gently stroking. He undid her jeans, stroked her belly, her groin and then his fingers were between her legs, probing, gentle and his lips were on hers, his tongue deep.
‘Davy too,’ she gasped, because she was frightened of being with this man alone for a weekend – it would be so hard not to sleep with him.
Carl lifted his head. ‘He needs to practise, he’s not as good as the rest of you.’
Sarah felt his fingers leave her as her own anger rose. She pushed him aside, scrambling to her feet, feeling faint, falling back on to the bed, tasting the marijauna.
‘He’s just as good, he’s better. Arnie says so.’ She was wrenching at her zip.
Carl still lay on the bed, resting on his elbow. ‘So, Arnie’s the expert now is he – our fine electronics whiz-kid knows all about it, does he?’
Sarah was buttoning her blouse, her fingers trembling, her head swimming. ‘I know he’s good, and that’s what’s important and I’m not going without him, if I go at all. We do nothing but row, it’s all so pointless, the whole damn thing.’ She sat with her hands between her legs, her shoulders slumped. ‘So damned pointless.’
His arms came round her then, holding her, pulling her back beside him, not kissing her, just rubbing his cheek on her hair, cupping her face in his hand. ‘Fine, we’ll take him then.’
It was Friday the next day and they were leaving in the evening so Sarah cycled to Marks & Spencer and bought new bras and pants, not wanting to wear her mother’s any more because it wasn’t only Sarah’s hands that knew them now.
They took the train, then a taxi which entered a sweeping drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels, light pouring from the latticed windows of the old redbrick house with its moss-spattered roof.
Sam Davis met them at the door, kissing Sarah with his moist lips, drawing her into the dark panelled hall, his arm about her waist, moving from one pool of soft yellow light to another, introducing her and Davy to quietly spoken men and women, handing them plates for the buffet, guiding them to the table, tempting them with lobster, crayfish, crab.
‘It’s a lovely evening, lovies, take it into the garden, there are tables and chairs.’ He wafted away from them, his cravat matching his gold watch perfectly. They walked on to the terrace, smelling the sea in the soft wind, and ate the crab with their fingers as they found a table, sitting down to listen to muted Beatles music and it was as though everything had slowed, as though she’d stepped off the roundabout for a moment.
She felt Carl’s hand on her knee, saw him wave to an auburn-haired girl who was dancing alone on the terrace to Love’s Just a Broken Heart by Cilla Black. The girl came over and Carl pointed to Davy. ‘You two match, sit down and share his lobster.’ His voice was gentle, his eyes kind and Davy flushed, looked at Sarah and she nodded. ‘You do make a pigeon pair, you know.’
She leant back in her chair, feeling the cushion behind her, watching couples who ate, drank or danced.
‘I hope love isn’t just a broken heart,’ Carl said, his arm around her, pulling her towards him.
Sarah drank her crisp cool wine which she recognised as Chardonnay. He had never spoken of love before.
Carl spoke again, very quietly low. ‘Let’s dance, I’m not hungry, not while I can hold you.’
He laced his fingers through hers, pushing back his chair, slipping his arm round her as she joined him, pressing his body against hers as they danced and the music was We Can Work it Out by the Beatles.
‘We can, can’t we?’ he murmured into her hair, running his hands down her back, holding her buttocks, pressing her to him.
She leant into him, breathing his scent through his shirt, watching Davy laughing with the girl, his arm round her, their two heads close together and she relaxed. ‘We have worked it out, we’re here and it’s as though we’re in another world. Carl, you’ve given me so much.’ She looked at the pop singer on the next table, the photographer smoking pot and nodded to the woman he was with, smiling as she came across and talked to them of The Secret Of The Golden Bough which Sarah had bought from the Indica Bookshop, and of John Coltrane.
‘Brilliant, of course,’ Sarah said, wondering if anyone in Newcastle had ever heard of him, knowing that no one in Wassingham had.
‘I’m not too keen on jazz though,’ Carl said, rubbing his hand up and down her back, then whispering into her ear, ‘Just on you.’
He eased her away from Marlene and walked her away from the patio across level sweet-smelling grass, kissing her, stopping, holding her close, running his hands down her sides, her bare thighs, the outside of them, the inside, easing his fingers into her pants, stroking her gently. Oh God. Then he withdrew and held her buttocks, breathing, ‘Thank God you came into my life just when mini skirts arrived.’ He pulled her after him, towards the trees which edged the lawn, stopping again, undoing her dress now that they were far from the noise of the music, the chatter, undoing all the buttons, letting it hang loose.
‘Jesus, you’re lovely,’ he murmured, standing back, pushing the dress aside, running his fingers from her shoulders to her thighs and she felt as though she was swollen, exposed, raw-nerved, on fire but frightened. She pulled her dress to her again, doing up the buttons, because it didn’t matter if she recognised Chardonnay and John Coltrane, she was just a girl from Wassingham who was too frightened to give herself.
Carl pulled her to him. ‘Trust me, darling, here let me do them up properly.’ He bent his head to see by the moonlight, then took her hand, leading her further into the wood, down a beaten path and there were lights at the end.
They approached a stone pavilion hung with lanterns and with cushions strewn about. Sarah hesitated at the foot of the steps.
‘Come on, my darling,’ Carl said, pulling her with him, taking her inside the one-roomed building, holding her to him, kissing her gently, so gently, licking her lips, her cheeks, his eyes looking into hers, his hands holding her face. Kissing her again and again but there was nothing else, just kisses and she relaxed again.
He moved to the table which was laid with bowls and a burning spirit stove. He took a silver spoon from a cut glass bowl, removed the lid of a porcelain jar and dug deep and she saw the hash gleaming darkly as he tipped it into the glass bowl, kissing her again as he put the spoon down, touching her mouth with his fingers.
‘I love you, darling,’ he murmured, looking deep into her again and she saw that he did, and knew that she loved him too.
He lifted the glass bowl, heated it and she saw the glass turn cloudy, then thick grey, watched him as he trapped the smoke, turned and held it to her, his lips glistening with moisture from her mouth.
‘Breathe it,’ he commanded gently, bending her
head down to the glass. She looked into his eyes and again saw the love and nodded. He removed his hand and she breathed deeply, so deeply and now he did too and she gripped his shoulders, kissing his head, holding his arms, kissing his hands as he breathed in the smoke, taking the glass from him, breathing again, feeling a stroking begin inside her head, the kisses on her face.
He laid her on the cushions and took the clothes from his own body and he merged into the soft light of the lanterns, the soft sound of the music which drifted around them, in them, through them, then he came to her, kneeling over her, and she stroked him, pulled him on to her, kissed him and then he was gone but there was no sense of loss, just the floating of her body.
Then she felt his hands again and they were pulling apart her dress, ripping the buttons and she watched as they rolled across the paved floor, spun then fell, one, two, three.
She felt his hands on her breasts, tearing at her bra, ripping it from her, kissing her body, licking it and now she was floating so high, and her limbs were loose and lost.
‘Please,’ she begged, ‘please.’ But the words were so far away, the stroking in her mind so strong. ‘Please,’ she whispered, kissing his smile, running her hands down his body, finding him, stroking him then pressing his body on to hers. ‘Please.’
He raised himself to kneel over her again and now his hands found her, easing off her pants, stroking her gently, bending, kissing her, licking her and she moaned from the pleasure that rippled from his tongue, again and again until she could hardly breathe, and the ripples grew and the pleasure surged, again and again, inside and out.
She shut her eyes, and all she could see was a golden light. There was no fear. She looked at him, so golden too in the light, his lips parted and swollen, his eyes half shut.
‘Please,’ she said, lifting her arms to him and he looked at her and took a condom from the pillow behind her, easing it on.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You, just you.’
He shook his head. ‘No, we don’t want babies yet, my darling.’
She wanted to weep for the babies she wanted to have with him, and for his love which protected her, but the stroking was still there, the floating, the pleasure and now he was on her, pushing himself gently into her, so gently and after a moment’s pain there was nothing but a surge of light, of being, and another, and another, again and again until she thought she would die.
That night they lay together on the cushions and loved again, and then he held a joint to her lips and they breathed in deeply, before walking across the dewed lawn when dawn was breaking, sinking into the bath which led from their room, his legs round her, his hand soaping her body, hers soaping his.
As the sun warmed the day they lay on the lawn with the others, smoking pot and she smiled at Davy, who lay with the auburn girl, and they tapped to the music of the Beatles together and Sarah could still feel Carl inside her and knew that she would only ever love him.
They drank coffee and she smiled at Sam as he dropped sugar lumps into all their cups.
‘I don’t take sugar,’ she murmured, lying back in Carl’s arms.
‘You’ll like this, my darling,’ Carl said, rubbing his finger down the curve of her neck.
She drank, sipping slowly, and the music began to pound and then to slow, to thump, to pulse faster and she turned to Carl in fear. He held her.
‘LSD, darling. We’re getting all the treats this weekend; don’t worry, I’ll look after you, just remember that your mind will fly open, this will open doors to unbridled creativity, to another world. I know, believe me, I know.’
She lay back in his arms, feeling the waves of euphoria sweeping over her, gasping in wonder at the swirling colours of the sun through the trees, the flowers in the bed, the dresses of the girls, but then it was too bright, it was swirling too fast, she was breathing too fast, the music was pounding, rushing and then a flower opened up inside her and she basked in the sun which was warmer than it had ever been and the flowers brighter, the scent of Carl sharper. She didn’t have to talk, to think. All she had to do was to be.
The following week, she went on the pill and to more parties with Carl. They took LSD tabs and as they cycled to college in the morning Davy told her that it was as though he had never tasted, smelled or heard anything before, that he wanted to keep that depth and clarity of perception all the time and she understood every word he said.
They played at the gig and Sarah explained to Carl that Davy fumbled because of the LSD. That was why his timing was wrong, his voice too quiet. Carl took her to bed, loved her and then heated hash for her.
She replied to Annie’s letter, telling her that the gig had gone well, that she was sorry she hadn’t written for three weeks but life was hectic, busy, and such fun.
She wanted to write and tell her of her love but she didn’t, neither did she tell her of the drugs because how could she understand that it was not as harmful as they had always told her it was. It was just light, love, the unlocking of doors, an explosion of talent, because Davy’s art had broken new boundaries and leapt into psychedelia and their rooms were festooned with his work.
‘But don’t send any up to them,’ Sarah warned. ‘They’d freak. They wouldn’t understand.’
They played at a party of Sam Davis’s the following week and Sam praised them, but said that Tim and Davy needed just a bit more polish, a bit more experience. In bed that night Carl said, ‘Don’t worry, I know how you feel about him, I’ll think of a way to brush up his style.’ Then they sucked hash and she sank into its arms, and Carl’s, not thinking, just being, just accepting.
In July Davy went to Hamburg with Carl and another group, who took him along as lead guitar.
‘To give him that edge, darling,’ Carl said as he kissed her goodbye at the station.
‘Write,’ she called as the train pulled away. ‘Please write and don’t be sick on the ferry, Davy.’
Her bags were heavy as she lugged them on to the train, heaving them into the luggage rack, smoking cigarette after cigarette and stubbing them out in the ashtray, watching the countryside unfold, the blackened verges, the wheat ripening to the colour of Carl’s hair and she ached for him and the glow which surrounded their lives together.
She slept, woke, tried to read her course notes. She’d passed her exams, but only just, there were no flying colours for her but who cared, life was too short. That’s what Davy had said too, when he got his results.
Wassingham was as small as she remembered it, and just the same, always the same, and so were her family, the pigeons, the neighbours, the smell of coal, the grime. She lay in bed that night and ached for Carl again then walked to the beck in the morning, smoking pot as she sat by the willow, wondering if they were there yet, wondering why she couldn’t have gone too.
‘It’s business, not a holiday,’ Carl had said. ‘I only just managed to swing it for Davy, couldn’t get them to take Tim.’
She smoked another joint, holding her face to the sun, exhaling slowly, feeling her thoughts become submerged beneath the haze, and she preferred it that way.
That evening her mother asked why she hadn’t gone with them and treated it as a holiday.
‘Because it’s not a holiday, it’s business. You of all people ought to be able to understand that.’ Sarah flung down the tea towel and slammed up to bed.
That night Annie held Georgie in bed. ‘She’s in love, in pain. She’s not sleeping, you can tell that. She looks so drawn and pale – I’d like to meet him, just to see what he’s like.’
Georgie sighed. ‘She needs to keep busy – let her have this week to settle down, she seems so jumpy – then give her some work to do in the design department, Tom’s all for it.’
The next day Georgie took Sarah with him to the tossing point three miles to the north and she sat in the car, wanting to scream at the creaking of the basket, the fluttering of the birds, the boredom of it all, the rawness of her nerves. God, she must be tired.
She s
tood in the north-east wind, turning up her collar, thinking of the warmth of Bracklesham Bay, the touch of those hands, the feel of his lips, the feel of him inside her, the glow of the hash, the softness of a joint, the vividness of a tab.
‘Let ’em go then, Sarah,’ Georgie said, leaning on his stick, gauging the wind. ‘Easily calm enough for them.’
She stopped, undid the straps, let the lid fall back and watched as the birds fluttered and took flight, wheeled, dipped, then soared.
‘It’s so good to have you home, to do this with you again, bonny lass,’ Georgie said.
Sarah smiled. ‘I’m so glad I’m here, Da,’ but she wasn’t. She wanted to be with Carl, wanted his hands to undress her at night, heat her hash, roll her joints. She wanted all that and none of this, and she hated herself for it.
A letter arrived from Davy at the end of the week and she tore it open, scanning the page, skimming over the flea-ridden digs, the smoky club, the heckling British sailors calling for the Beatles, then slowed and read again and again of Carl taking photographs of them all outside the Kaiserkeller, then walking them all down the Reeperbahn dodging the prostitutes.
Finding it tiring, the sessions are so damn long, but Carl’s helped me out, he’s a great guy, Sarah, he really looks after us both, doesn’t he?
Sarah waited for the second post, but there was no letter from Carl. There was none the next week either, and she shook her head when her mother asked her if she would help out in the local shop while they moved the manager across to supervise the opening of the new one in Gosforn.
‘I’ve too much college work to catch up on, Mum,’ she said, bending her head over her file.
Another letter came from Davy the following week and his writing was scrawling, untidy and there were psychedelic motifs beneath his signature.
Annie leant over her shoulder and picked up the envelope. ‘Good lord, is he writing it on a bus or something?’
Sarah smiled. ‘Yes, he’s off on a trip.’ Not your sort of trip though, Mum, and she went up to her room, looked out across the levelled slag heap and could have screamed with boredom and frustration and the pain of getting no letter from Carl.
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