Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  ‘Nut job,’ says Kitty, bashing her spoon on the edge of the table. ‘Nut. Job.’

  Mum scowls at Luke.

  ‘Strange man,’ Dad agrees, reaching across the table for the salt. ‘Hardly surprising, though, is it? I’d probably be the same if I didn’t have a wife to sort all those things out.’

  ‘I think he’s shy,’ says Mum, ‘like Martin. Anyway, we can’t let Martin’s birthday go by without a celebration. Why don’t we have him over for Sunday lunch, Richard? Kitty and I can make him a cake and we’ll sort out a little present or something. What do you think, Luke?’

  ‘OK,’ Luke says after some thought. ‘Why not?’

  Dad mops up the last of his sauce with a hunk of bread. ‘This casserole’s good.’

  ‘It’s not bad at all, is it?’ Mum replies cheerily. ‘Chicken chasseur. I think I’ve done a rather good job of it. It’s one of Marie’s recipes.’

  Luke shrugs. ‘Who’s Marie?’

  ‘You know, as in John and Marie? She’s a wonderful cook.’

  The recollection of the frazzled old dog lady shunts to the front of Luke’s mind. ‘The McKees? Aren’t they the ones who have all the parties?’ He looks up, a forkful of food hovering over his plate.

  Mum pauses, just a fraction of a second. ‘That’s right.’ Her voice is light and breezy, like when she’s talking to the postman or the Avon lady. ‘We were there last weekend, remember, when you and Martin were babysitting? What did she cook that night, Richard?’ She turns to Dad, who appears deep in thought as he helps himself to more chicken. ‘Richard?’

  A large dollop of thick sauce falls between the serving dish and Dad’s plate. It glistens wetly, and for one collective moment they all stare at it, before the silence is broken by a loud rap on the open door leading out to the back alley.

  Kitty waves her spoon in the air as Simon Drake appears in the doorway, a hand loosely hung in his shorts pocket, a lock of golden hair obscuring one eye. ‘Uncle Simon!’

  ‘Afternoon, Wolffs,’ Simon says, pushing the hair from his face and smiling widely. He indicates for Luke to budge along the bench, and eyes the empty plates with interest.

  ‘Simon – can I get you a drink, sir?’ Dad springs up to fetch a couple of beers from the fridge, opening the first and handing it across the table. ‘What brings you?’

  Mum points to the casserole; Simon nods approvingly, and she fills a plate for him. Kitty clambers out of her seat, padding across the kitchen and out through the back door, the sound of her singing trailing away as she disappears into the garden.

  ‘So, Simon – what did Laura have to say when you rolled in drunk the other night?’ Mum gives Simon an annoyed look.

  ‘I was hardly drunk!’

  She looks between the two men and scoffs. ‘You could barely stand up, the pair of you.’

  ‘Friday night?’ Luke smirks. ‘You must’ve been – I heard one of you kick the milk bottles over. You didn’t stop laughing until Mum came out and told you off.’

  ‘I did not tell them off!’ Mum says, smoothing her hands over her lap. She turns back to the men. ‘I was worried about you waking the kids up.’

  Simon leans over and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Sorry?’ he offers, feigning shame.

  She doesn’t look convinced, still scowling hard as she indicates for Luke to fetch Simon a knife and fork from the drawer. ‘Well, I hope Laura gave you an earful when you got home.’

  He laughs. ‘Believe me, she did.’

  Dad raises his bottle in Simon’s direction, and Mum smiles despite herself.

  ‘So, how’s the new job going?’ Mum asks, sitting back in her seat. ‘It must be a bit different being in charge, isn’t it? Especially when you’ve got to keep the likes of Richard in line.’

  Dad laughs. ‘It’s about time we got some fresh blood at the helm. Shake things up a bit. Simon’s doing a great job.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ says Simon, resting his fork to one side. He nudges Luke and takes a swig from his beer bottle. ‘I reckon your old dad’s just pleased to have his best mate in the headmaster’s seat. He thinks no one will notice how lazy he is, with me there to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘As if!’ Dad laughs.

  Mum clears the plates and places a defrosted Black Forest gâteau on the table, handing Simon the serving knife as she returns to the sink to wash the forks for dessert. ‘Well, I hope you two can learn to pace yourselves a bit better,’ she says without turning round, ‘especially you, with all this responsibility, Simon.’ There’s a loud clatter as she drops the clean cutlery on to the draining board.

  Simon slices into the gâteau, moving his head closer to Luke’s as he passes him a plateful. ‘Was she really cross about the other night?’ he whispers.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Luke replies, trying and failing to pick up the dessert with his hands.

  Dad scoops a deep curl of cream on to his finger and drops it into his mouth, his eyes following Mum’s backside as she stretches across the table to pass out the clean forks. He runs his hand up over the smooth contours of her tight slacks and gives her bottom a firm pat. ‘Ignore her, Simon,’ he says. ‘She’s just jealous she wasn’t out on the town with us, aren’t you, love?’

  Mum pulls her seat up to join them, her eyes moving from one man to the other before her face cracks into a reluctant smile. ‘Yes, of course I am, silly. Now eat your cake!’

  The pathway to Martin’s front door is accessed via a small wooden gate the colour of driftwood. The house name, which reads ‘Shingles’, is entirely bleached, leaving only an etched imprint, nailed to the decaying gatepost. Despite their long friendship Luke has only called on Martin a handful of times over the years, as he knows he’s not entirely welcome.

  ‘Dad doesn’t like visitors,’ Martin once told him, years ago, after he’d chased down the road to catch up with Luke, who was close to tears because Martin’s dad had just shut the door in his face. He’d only wanted to show off his new roller skates. ‘He just gets funny about strangers knocking on the door,’ he had added for emphasis.

  ‘But we’ve known each other for ages!’ Luke had replied, angrily swiping at his cheeks with the back of his wrist.

  Martin had looked lost, his awkward limbs already too long and gangly for his years. ‘Well, he doesn’t like people,’ he said, and they dropped the subject and headed off towards the seafront to call on Len.

  Today is yet another dry, searing day; Luke pushes the gate closed behind him, treading along the narrow path which ruptures with dandelions, limp and broken in the uncommon May heat. Hollyhocks and lupins droop and fall at the path’s edge, evidence of a once pretty cottage garden. Stepping around a rusted lawn roller, he knocks on the front door, suddenly conscious of the garden’s silence in contrast to the sharp gull cries that carry up from the seafront, haunting and clear. He’s nervous that Mr Brazier will answer the door, but he doesn’t really have a choice. He’s been phoning for days without a reply, and his mum really needs to know if Martin’s coming for lunch or not. Yesterday she went out and bought cake ingredients and new candles, saying she’d make it anyway, just in case he does manage to come over. After a minute or so, there’s no answer, and he knocks again, before cupping his eyes to peer into the darkness beyond the salty front windows. The bright sunlight from the back of the house cuts through the lounge, casting deep shadows across the disarray of the room. Newspapers pile up against the leg of a wood-framed sofa, while pots and plates cover the sideboard at the rear of the room.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Luke mutters as he scans the mess.

  Dropping back from the window, he turns his face to the sky as another cluster of gulls passes over, screeching and cawing until they’re far from view. As he turns to leave, he catches the opening whirr of saws in the still air, drifting over from the back of the house where he knows Mr Brazier keeps his workshop.

  ‘Martin?’ Luke calls out, pushing back the high grass and nettles that obscure the path along th
e side of the house. ‘Mart?’

  The long grasses grow sparser as he reaches the rear of the red brick building, where he comes out on to a large lawn. The workshop sits at the far end of the garden, a huge wooden construction, built across the full width of the plot. It stands with its double doors wide open, the noise of circular saws buzzing and shrieking from within. A wrecked bike lies abandoned at the edge of the path: Martin’s old bicycle, the one he’d once used to pedal all over the island with Luke, back in their primary years. Now, it looks tiny, insignificant; a rusting relic from the scrap yard.

  Luke reaches the opening to the workshop and leans in. Martin and his dad are at the bench, both of them wearing protective goggles and canvas aprons, bent over their work in concentration. The machine grinds to a halt and the two men look up, alerted by Luke’s thin shadow stretching out across the sunlit concrete.

  ‘What the –’ growls Mr Brazier, snapping the goggles up and over his head. A cloud of sawdust lifts and floats around his face, catching like gold in the streaks of light from the glass panels above. His greying hair stands in an angry peak at the crown. ‘Who the bloody hell invited you in?’ he shouts.

  ‘There was no answer at the front door, so I –’

  Martin’s dad flings down the goggles and strides towards Luke with such pace that he’s sure he’s going to hit him. Luke’s fists ball up instinctively. Martin catches his father by the arm as he passes; he swings round to face his son, shaking his hand off violently.

  ‘It’s Luke, Dad,’ Martin says, shrinking back, rubbing his dusty hands on the front of his apron. ‘It’s just Luke.’ He must be six inches taller than his father, and yet he looks so small beside him.

  Mr Brazier’s face is stony grey. He glares at Luke accusingly, before lumbering back to his work, pausing to point his finger at Martin. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool, son.’

  Martin returns to the bench, his long arms hanging limp. The swirling motes ripple in the light, circling Mr Brazier as he indicates towards a screwdriver, which Martin passes to him.

  ‘What d’you want, Luke?’ he barks over his shoulder. ‘We’re working.’

  Martin picks up a pencil, which he nervously twirls between his fingers. There’s black paint smudged along the crooked lines of his nose, and something in his expression reminds Luke of the day when he broke it, tripping and smashing his face into the gritty surface of the playground as he fumbled to catch the ball that Len had lobbed over from the field. They were still friends back then, and Len had sprinted over to help, pushing his grubby handkerchief beneath Luke’s nostrils to stem the blood flow as they guided him inside to find the school nurse.

  Luke takes a single step forward, halting as he notices his shadow shift over the rippled floor. ‘Well, it’s just, you know it’s Martin’s eighteenth today?’

  Mr Brazier’s brow crinkles, and he makes a small grunting sound.

  ‘Well, it’s my mum, really. She wanted to know if he could come to ours for lunch.’

  Martin taps his Adam’s apple once with the pencil, avoiding eye contact with Luke.

  ‘Did she?’ Mr Brazier mutters. He reaches across the bench and picks up a tape measure, drawing it out and along the edges of a completed picture frame. ‘Thinks he’s a bit of a charity case, does she?’ He hooks one finger through the corner of the frame and lets it swing, turning to look at Luke for his answer.

  ‘No!’ Luke answers. ‘No. We just thought, you know –’

  ‘What? That he wouldn’t have anything better to do on his birthday?’

  ‘No, but –’

  Mr Brazier pulls on his leather gloves and waves Luke away. Martin shakes his head at Luke, a tiny movement, before reaching for his own goggles and fixing them over his face. He turns his back to Luke as the machinery screams into action again.

  Luke’s skin feels hot and clammy beneath his black T-shirt and he pushes away the hair that sticks to his forehead, as the heat of the sun’s rays scorches the skin of his legs through the open doorway.

  ‘She said to ask you too,’ he shouts over the noise. It’s a lie and he instantly regrets saying it.

  Martin’s dad utters a harsh cough of a laugh, and he shuts off the machine. ‘Really?’ He faces Martin, who’s gripping a strip of pine between both hands. ‘So, what d’you think of that, son?’

  Martin doesn’t respond. He stares blankly at the strip of wood, as if he’s stopped breathing. Outside the wide opening to the workshop, house sparrows chirp and batter about in the dusty patch of earth.

  Luke walks away. ‘Sorry,’ he says, raising his hand half-heartedly as he reaches the fullness of sunshine beyond the entrance. The sparrows scatter and take flight. ‘Happy birthday, mate.’

  He kicks his way back through the weeds at the side of the house, cursing the nettles as they sting the soft skin behind his knees; cursing Martin’s dad. He pushes open the broken gate, jamming it back into place and clicking the latch as he goes. ‘Fucker,’ he mutters as he rounds the corner at the top of the road where he left his scooter.

  To his surprise, Martin appears, benign and lanky, wheeling his scooter through a concealed hole in the hedge, shaking the wood shavings from his hair.

  ‘How’d you get there?’

  ‘Back gate,’ Martin replies. ‘We never use the front these days. Too overgrown.’ He guides his scooter off the kerb.

  Luke stares at him, baffled.

  ‘He said I can come,’ Martin says.

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah. He said I could have the day off. As it’s my birthday.’

  Luke wrinkles his nose as he fastens his chinstrap. ‘That’s big of him.’

  Martin shrugs.

  ‘So, what did he get you? For your eighteenth?’

  ‘This!’ Martin holds up a ten-pound note. ‘Just now. Told me to get myself a few drinks or something. But I’m going to save it towards my camera. Good, huh?’

  Luke shakes his head. ‘He gave it to you just now?’

  Martin looks blank.

  ‘You’re joking, mate. He’d forgotten?’

  The whirr of saws floats up and over the hedges from Mr Brazier’s workshop, and Martin glances in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Not really. Well, kind of, but he remembered in the end, didn’t he?’

  Luke slaps him on the arm and does his best to smile. ‘Yeah. Of course. He remembered in the end.’ He watches as his best friend clambers on to his scooter and starts up the engine.

  Martin rubs his hands together, and grins through his helmet visor. ‘So, what’s for lunch?’

  It’s warm enough to eat outside, so Mum sets out the long bench in the garden, covering it with two mismatched tablecloths, clipped together with pegs. She’s wearing an ankle-length dress, in a turquoise and pink floral design, like the flowers that hang from the baskets at the front of the house. Kitty follows her round, placing knives and forks where Mum points, counting loudly as she goes, while Luke and Martin sit with Dad in the deckchairs beside the willow tree, drinking cold beers and watching the birthday table take shape.

  ‘’Appy Birthday to Yoooou,’ Kitty sings, spinning in clumsy circles, making Martin laugh as she stumbles about.

  Luke stretches his arms over his head and snaps his fingers. ‘Here, Kitty, come and sing Martin his birthday song. Remember, the one we talked about earlier?’

  She skips once, then runs across the lawn, darting beneath the branches of the weeping willow and through the teatowel entrance to her clothes-horse den. Martin sits forward in his seat, ducking his head to see where she’s gone.

  ‘Wait,’ says Luke. ‘She’s got it all worked out, mate. Special birthday song, just for you –’

  The teatowels flap as Kitty pokes her head out. ‘’Troduce me, Lu-lu!’

  Luke pushes himself up from his seat and stands at the edge of the willow branches. He makes a trumpet of his hands. ‘Ta-da-da-dahhh! I’m pleased to present, for your ears only… the mar-vel-lous, mechanical Kit
ty! And today, she’ll be singing Martin’s all-time favourite song –’ He laughs. ‘“Fernando”!’

  Martin shakes his head as Kitty twirls into the centre of the garden, trailing a fluffy mohair scarf, to the light applause of the gathered family. She raises a dramatically cupped hand against her ear. ‘Can you hear the drums, Banando?’

  Luke presses the beer bottle to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

  ‘They were shiny there for you an’ me, flibberdee –’ She sings and sways across the lawn, filling the lyrical gaps with confident lah-lah-lahs, making up the actions as she goes along, creating balletic arcs with her arms and legs. ‘Something in the hair and light – stars and bright, Banando!’

  Mum watches from the table, paused in her duties, clapping in time as Dad hums along, conducting with his forefingers.

  ‘Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah – same again! Ohhh yes, my friend –’ She roly-polys three times across the garden and lands in front of the seated men, until finally she reaches her crescendo and jumps to her feet with outstretched arms. ‘Banando!’

  Martin puts down his bottle and claps, a slow, happy smile creeping across his face.

  ‘Yee-hah for Kitty!’ Luke yells.

  ‘Fank you verry much,’ she says, bowing deeply before sprinting over and launching herself at Martin, where she clings to his neck and presses her face against his.

  ‘Well done, Kitty!’ Mum calls over on her way back to the kitchen, a bunch of napkins in her hand. Kitty releases Martin, and runs back across the lawn to resume her role as table assistant as Martin settles himself back down into the deckchair.

  Dad pats his exposed belly, his eyes firmly closed against the sun. ‘She’s a star, alright.’

  ‘What d’you think, Mart?’ Luke asks.

  Martin doesn’t answer. He’s leaning on to his knees, scrutinising the ground between his feet.