Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  Luke shakes his head, breaking his sandwich into two pieces. ‘Man, you’ve gotta get out of there. Hey, maybe we could get a place together? You could come with me to the mainland?’ He prods Martin with his toe. ‘Mart? It would be a laugh! You and me, living together? You could do that photography course you keep going on about.’

  Martin continues chewing until his sandwich is finished, and reaches for another. ‘I couldn’t do that, mate. I haven’t saved enough for the camera yet – and I don’t want one of those cheap ones. It’s got to be a good one if I’m going to do a proper course. Anyway, you’ll be busy getting to know all your new mates at poly.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. Once an islander, always an islander. Seriously, you could get a job over there, no problem.’

  Martin turns the sandwich over in his hands. ‘But I’ve got my job with Dad. He’s getting more orders than ever these days, and I know he wants me to carry on the business.’

  ‘But what about what you want to do? You always said you wanted to work with animals, like David Attenborough.’

  ‘Or Johnny Morris.’

  ‘Don’t you want to do that any more?’

  Martin doesn’t answer for a moment. ‘Dad says there’s no money in it, and you can’t live on fresh air. He’s just had an order in from this big new gallery in London – forty frames – and they want them done really quick. He couldn’t do it all with just the one pair of hands. He couldn’t manage without me.’

  ‘But you must have ambitions, Mart. I look at my folks and think, I don’t want to end up like them, stuck in the same old place, doing the same old things. I’d rather top myself.’ He turns his face skyward as a cluster of noisy gulls passes over. ‘I mean, you must have some things you want to achieve before you die?’

  ‘I’d like to go on Concorde,’ Martin replies, after a minute’s thought. ‘Or hang-gliding. Like those fellas we saw over at Compton Down.’

  Luke brushes the crumbs from his lap. ‘Sorry, Mart. It’s just – it won’t be the same when I’m over there.’

  Martin drinks deeply from his water flask, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘That’s OK. You’ll be back some weekends anyway, won’t you? You said it yourself – Brighton’s not that far away.’

  Luke shields his eyes as he looks out over the endless horizon. ‘You’re right,’ he says, watching the sunlight as it ripples and shimmers across the water.

  ‘I know I am,’ says Martin, stretching out his long hairy legs and brushing the crumbs into the grass. ‘You’ll be back. Just like nothing’s ever changed.’

  Later that day, they set up their tent on the south side of the island, at a large cliffside campsite along the Military Road with views across the channel. It’s not overly crowded, but the owner has asked campers to stick to the near end of the site while they’re busy getting the place ready for the tourist season. The whirr of lawnmowers buzzes in the breeze as gardeners clear the overgrown borders, cutting down the meadow grasses at the edges, lopping off the fresh daisy heads before they’ve had a chance to unfurl. Before long, Luke knows, the campsites across the island will fill up with holidaymakers, crowding in from the mainland with their caravans and tents and hordes of noisy children. But for now it’s relatively peaceful, with just twenty or so pitches taken across the gently sloping hillside.

  Martin and Luke find a spot towards the top of the field where the grass is bathed in sunshine, away from the boisterous young families who congregate closest to the washing-up stations and showers. The sun is bright, but up here the wind whips and howls around the tents and guy ropes, tugging and swirling at Luke’s hair as if it’s caught in a vortex. He swipes his fringe aside, while Martin lunges clumsily, grasping for a corner of the tent which has slipped its peg as they struggle to get it anchored.

  There’s a small group a few tents away, perhaps in their late teens. They’ve got that polished city look; they’re definitely not from round here and they don’t look like seasoned campers. One of the girls is wearing a beige trouser suit, with flared bottoms and a short-sleeved jacket. She wears the jacket open, and beneath it Luke can glimpse a bright white bikini top. Nothing else. She catches Luke’s eye every time he glances in her direction, and after this has happened a few times he smiles uncertainly and gives her a little nod. She’s got long straight hair, dark blonde at the roots, graduating in colour all the way down her back to where the ends are pale and sun-bleached. The girl returns his smile and looks away, pulling a floppy sunhat down over her head.

  He drops to his knees to peer inside their own small tent. ‘How are we doing with the groundsheet, Mart?’

  Martin is scrambling around inside, trying to hook the plastic cover under the canvas walls and on to the pegs on the outside. He sprawls across the sheet with one side of his face pressed against the plastic surface in concentration, a tiny pink tip of tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Near-ly… there!’ He pushes himself into a sitting position and brushes the dust from his hands. ‘That should do the trick.’

  Luke crawls inside and sits beside him, cross-legged, looking up and around their sleeping space. ‘Bloody hell, Mart, it’s not that big in here is it? You’ll have to sleep with your feet sticking out of the tent.’

  Martin lies down and stretches himself out to try it for size. He’s too long to lie flat. ‘I’ll have to sleep on my side, then,’ he says, rubbing a grubby finger along the bridge of his nose. ‘Don’t know how they can call it a two-man tent. It’s not even long enough for one man.’

  Luke hops on to his feet and looms over him with a menacing snarl. ‘Not for a super-freak like you, maybe!’ He jabs Martin in the ribs, making him shriek. It’s a high-pitched ‘Yeeearghhh!’ sound and Martin lashes out in reflex, knocking Luke over so that he tumbles out of the tent flap, in full view of their neighbours. When he gets to his feet, the blonde girl’s looking over again. She’s whispering with the others in her group, who are now all craning to get a good look.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ one of them calls over, a snooty-looking girl with a big flicky fringe. ‘Did oo see a ickle bumble bee?’

  The group howls with laughter, including two lads in ironed shorts and shirts who are returning from the standpipe with plastic tanks of water. Everything in their party looks brand new, even the guy ropes.

  ‘Daft girls,’ Luke mutters, offering up a small embarrassed shrug and wandering round to the other side of the tent. He self-consciously brushes dust patches from the seat of his cut-off jeans, suddenly aware of his scruffy appearance. He’s only brought one spare T-shirt with him, and he’s already started to whiff a bit.

  Martin crawls out and gets to his feet, stretching his arms high above his head, so that his long, thin shadow cuts across the faded orange canvas.

  ‘Who’s daft?’ he asks, lazily scratching at his armpit and yawning.

  Luke cocks a discreet thumb in their direction, allowing himself another quick peek at the girl with the long hair. She’s very pretty.

  Martin puts his hands on his hips and looks over, squinting into the afternoon light for a better look. His tiny shorts look ridiculous. ‘What, them?’ he says, too loudly, and he points right at them.

  ‘Oh, my God, Mart! Do you have to be so uncool?’ Luke drops to the ground so that he’s obscured by the tent. He rubs his hands across his face and groans. ‘Fucking hell!’

  Martin shrugs and sits down beside him. ‘Sorry, mate. So what are we gonna do for food tonight?’

  Luke gets up and starts to unstrap the rucksack from the back of his scooter, unrolling his sleeping bag and laying his belongings out on his side of the tent, before crawling out backwards and flicking the earth and grass from his knees. ‘Fish and chips? We could stop off for a pint somewhere at the same time. I’ll need something to knock me out if I’ve got to spend the night cramped up in a tiny tent with you and your stinky feet.’

  Martin snorts a little laugh and unpacks his few items, throwing them
into the tent in a small heap. Making a pillow of his jacket, Luke lies back against the grass. The wind has dropped a little now, and the sun feels warm against his skin. Martin stands beside him, looking out across the campsite, casting a shadow across Luke’s face, shielding him from the sun. Luke frowns up at him. ‘Cheers, mate. I was hoping to get a nice Martin-shaped tan mark across my forehead.’ He props himself up on his elbows and nods towards the ground. ‘Chill out, man. We’re meant to be taking a proper break from revising, clear our minds.’

  Martin pulls his T-shirt over his head and lies on the grass alongside Luke, stretching his arms above his head like a man about to do military sit-ups. ‘God, I’m white,’ he says, taking a good look at his broad, bony chest.

  Luke snorts, and reaches for his sunglasses. ‘I’m definitely gonna need these now.’

  For a while they lie there, side by side, just watching the other campers come and go, soaking up the warmth of the afternoon in companionable silence. The blonde girl passes by and takes a good look at them before returning to her group. ‘See that one?’ Luke says, when she’s gone. ‘She reminds me of Samantha Dyas.’

  ‘From the year below us?’ Martin says. ‘She’s a bit like her. You know she’s going out with Len now?’

  ‘Who, Samantha?’

  Martin nods.

  ‘Bloody hell, what’s wrong with the world? Len Dickens? She must be mad. He’s a thug.’

  ‘He wasn’t always,’ Martin says, pressing his fingertips against the skin of his chest to test the heat.

  ‘I don’t know why you’d defend him, Mart. He’s never given you anything but grief.’

  ‘I’m just saying, he wasn’t always that way. He was a good mate back in primary school.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. Before he turned into a mental case.’ Luke gets to his feet and yawns. ‘Right! I need a piss.’ He chances a glance at the nearby group, who are now distracted as they try to decipher the instructions on a new tin of camping gas. ‘I’ll fill up the water bottle while I’m down there.’

  He takes the path to the toilet block, going the long way round, to avoid the blonde girl and her mainland friends. He wonders if they’re staring at him, taking the mickey out of his scruffy clothes and unkempt hair, laughing at his pale giant of a friend.

  As he nears the block, his attention is diverted by a huge black dog, a Rottweiler, galloping down the slope from the other side of the campsite, and in a split second Luke realises that it has him in his sights. In one fluid movement the dog jumps at him, knocking him to the ground with ease. He lands on his side, balled up beneath the huge beast as it barks great bellowing woofs across the campsite for everyone to hear. The rear end of the dog looms over Luke’s face, its grotesque testicles swinging between thick, muscular hind legs.

  ‘Dillon!’ In the distance, Luke can hear the dog’s owner jogging down the hill to retrieve him. ‘Dill!’

  The dog steps over Luke and sits beside him, accepting treats from the woman’s wrinkly brown hand. Luke scrabbles to his feet, brushing himself off and glancing up the hill to see all the residents of the campsite looking in his direction. He tugs at his earlobe.

  ‘Oh, you are a naughty little dog, aren’t you?’ says the small woman, massaging the beast’s jowls vigorously. She nuzzles his head with her face, and when she looks up Luke recognises her as a local from his part of town. He’s embarrassed to see that, apart from the camera looped around her neck, she’s covered by just a faded navy blue bikini which hangs limply on her bony frame. She looks as if she’s spent her whole life lying in the sun, slowly frazzling away like a raisin.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as “little”,’ he says, picking up the water flask knocked from his grasp during the assault.

  The woman studies Luke closely, narrowing her eyes. ‘Aren’t you Richard Wolff’s lad?’

  Luke blinks, surprised.

  ‘Hmm, thought so.’

  He juggles the flask from one hand to the other. ‘Sorry – I don’t think I know –’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. I’ve seen you with your dad in the town a couple of times, but I didn’t like to come over. You look like him.’

  There’s an awkward pause. ‘So, how do you know my dad?’ Luke asks, more to fill the gap than out of interest.

  ‘I met him at one of the McKees’ parties.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He glances past her to see if the others are all still watching.

  ‘That was a few years back now.’ She stares at him as if she’s asked him a question and is waiting for some answer.

  ‘Oh.’ Luke gives her a polite smile. ‘I’ve heard Mum and Dad talking about the McKees’ parties.’

  ‘Of course you have. Everyone’s heard of the McKees’ parties. I used to be Marie’s yoga teacher,’ she says archly, stretching out her turtley neck and rolling her shoulders, as if to illustrate the point. The slobbering dog pushes his muzzle into the palm of her hand and she looks up at Luke sternly. ‘Not any more.’

  Something in her unblinking pale eyes sets his teeth on edge. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get going,’ he says, holding up the flask.

  ‘Tell your dad you bumped into Sara Newbury. Though of course he might not remember me.’ She tilts her head.

  Luke smiles flatly and starts to walk away.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ she calls after him.

  He doesn’t like her tone; he turns briefly to scowl back at her as he continues to walk. She raises her thin eyebrows. ‘Still going to those parties, are they?’

  Luke stops, puzzled, and watches as she pulls her chin in primly, hunching down to feed another treat into the dog’s slobbering mouth. Luke can see each gnarly vertebra that runs down her darkly tanned back.

  ‘You should keep that dog under control,’ he calls over, struggling to restrain his rising irritation. ‘He’s too big to be running about off the lead.’

  The woman visibly bristles, her little hands balling into fists at her side. With a flick of her grizzled head she walks away, back up the slope towards her caravan, with the beast trotting obediently at her side.

  Fleetingly, Luke’s mind separates from his body. The sky is wide and unending overhead, the light too vivid, this patch of island too small. As the woman finally disappears into her caravan at the top of the field, Luke exhales, at once conscious of his surroundings, and heads for the toilet block, stopping at the standpipe to run his face under the water pipe on the hard-standing. It’s cool and clear down here in the shade of the brick building, and he’s momentarily invisible, concealed by the shadows. He shakes the water from his hands and massages wet fingers across his scalp before stepping out into the sunlight. Shielding his eyes, he looks back up the hill towards Martin, who’s up on his feet now, keeping watch. The sun illuminates him clearly: his great shadow cast long and thin, his arms limp at his sides, shoulders dipped. Luke can hardly bear the thought of climbing back up the hill in full view of all the other campers, and he’s seized by the urge to run. He could just keep on walking around this building and drop down on to the beach via the coastal path. He could lie back against the pebbles and soak in the rays for a few hours, undisturbed by anyone. He could do it; he could do it right now.

  But he won’t. He’ll fill his flask with drinking water and walk back up through the field, avoiding the mocking gaze of the holidaymakers, and he’ll let Martin know he’s alright. Nothing to worry about, mate. Because he is. He’s alright.

  Back home on Monday evening, the family sits around the kitchen table for supper, as a light evening breeze blows in through the open back door. Luke sat the first part of his English exam today, and he’s still feeling irritable from two hours spent concentrating on his paper in the heat of the school gym. He studies his parents; they chat comfortably, like normal parents in an average family. His father’s hand slips around his mother’s waist as she stretches over to serve Kitty peas and potatoes. Mum complains about yet another flood from the twin-tub and Dad grumbles t
hat they can’t afford a replacement. He jokes about one of his unbearable colleagues at work; she tells him he shouldn’t be so unkind, but laughs all the same. Luke observes the simple domesticity of it all, knowing he should be grateful for it, but inexplicably resenting them all the same.

  ‘Good weekend, Luke?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Cracking weather for it. You’ve been lucky. How was the tent?’

  ‘Small.’

  Mum touches Luke’s hand lightly; he pulls it away. ‘I still can’t believe you’re old enough to be riding around on a big motorbike like that on your own, Luke.’

  ‘It’s a 50 CC, Mum, and it’s a scooter. It’s hardly big.’

  ‘Alright, Luke,’ Dad says. ‘She’s a mother. It’s natural for her to worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried. Just a bit sad that my little boy’s all grown up.’ She pulls a melancholy face and sprinkles salt over her potatoes. ‘You know we’re going to miss you when you’re gone.’

  Luke shakes his head. ‘You make it sound like I’m dying.’

  ‘Is Lu-lu going to die?’ asks Kitty, her face crumpling up.

  ‘No!’ says Mum, stifling a laugh with one hand, reaching out to comfort Kitty with the other. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Bad luck, Kitty. I’ll still be coming back to tickle you every now and then.’ Kitty smiles broadly, using the diversion to grab a handful of peas and scoot them on to the floor.

  ‘So, what are you up to over the next week or two? Apart from exams, obviously,’ Mum asks.

  ‘Dunno. It’s Martin’s eighteenth this weekend. Expect I’ll have to sort out something for him. His dad’s a complete arsehole, so I doubt he’ll have anything arranged.’

  ‘Luke.’

  ‘Well. It’s true. From what Martin says, he’s turning into a bit of a nut job.’

  ‘Poor boy,’ says Mum, gazing at her plate. ‘You know, I haven’t seen his dad for years. He always did keep to himself, even when they first moved here. Remember, Richard? We asked him round for a drink, didn’t we, when the boys started getting friendly at school? We thought he might be glad of it, as he’s on his own. But he didn’t come. Said he had too much work on.’