Luke bumps his knee against Martin’s, hoping to elicit a laugh. ‘I know how much you love Abba, mate,’ he says.
Martin nods, finally raising his head.
‘Mate?’ Luke says quietly, noticing the moisture in Martin’s eyes.
After a pause, Martin takes a swig of beer and leans back in his deckchair. ‘It was nice. Really nice.’
Luke clinks his bottle against his friend’s. ‘Happy birthday, mate.’
Lunch is a roast, and as usual, it’s late. At two-thirty, Mum calls them all into the kitchen to help ferry the various bowls of vegetables and potatoes outside. She ceremoniously places a bottle of white wine on the table and hands a corkscrew to Dad.
‘Well, it is a special occasion,’ she says, casting a sentimental smile in Martin’s direction. ‘Now, I know we’ve got pork, but I’ve made Yorkshire puddings to go with it as I remember they’re your favourite, Martin, and there’s plenty more gravy if we run out.’
She passes the serving spoon to him, and he helps himself to potatoes. Dad pours the wine, and Martin passes the vegetable bowl back to Mum, fumbling awkwardly as she takes it from him. When she turns away, he stares for a moment at her pretty dress, his gaze lingering on the halter-neck behind her wavy French-pleated hair. Luke smirks, and Martin looks away, drowning his food in gravy with unsteady hands.
‘Ahhhhhh,’ says Luke, pointing at Martin’s plate.
‘Bisto!’ Kitty yells.
Martin smiles self-consciously and dips his head to concentrate on his food. A light breeze has picked up through the garden, but the sun remains resolute in the sky, and it feels like the height of summer. They eat, and, as Kitty fills her Yorkshire pudding with all the vegetables she plans not to eat, the lads chat about their plans for the coming months, and Dad keeps the wine flowing.
After Mum has cleared the lunch plates, she returns to the table with a Victoria sponge cake, decorated with white icing, Smarties and eighteen candles. Luke watches her, his view softened by wine, as she looks down at Martin with her pretty smile and kind eyes. His mind drifts back to thoughts of the dog woman at the campsite the previous weekend. Last night, still troubled by it, he’d waited until his mother was out of the room before relaying the whole conversation to Dad.
‘Oh, yes, I remember Sara Newbury, all right,’ Dad told him. ‘She only lives round the corner in Grasslands Avenue, but she keeps a caravan down at Caulks’ Farm for weekends. I heard that she’d had a bit of a falling out with Marie McKee not so long ago, all over something and nothing. I’m afraid she’s just a lonely little lady with an axe to grind.’
‘Ah, that’s it – Grasslands Avenue. I knew I’d seen her somewhere before – isn’t that the house with all the chihuahuas? Anyway, she was making a big deal about those parties you go to at the McKees,’ Luke said.
‘Well, she would.’ Dad laughed. ‘She’s probably just put out because her invitations stopped coming. Her husband died a couple of years back, and I think she went a bit funny – filling her house up with all those dogs – you know she’s got six? Imagine the smell. It’s no wonder Marie stopped inviting her.’ He picked up his newspaper, folded it down the middle and looked at Luke gravely. ‘Here, you might want to get yourself a rabies vaccination if her flea-bitten dog’s had a go at you – before you start foaming at the mouth.’ He clutched himself at the throat and started gurgling and bulging at the eyes, and Luke laughed too, reassured by his father’s typical response.
Here in the sunny cocoon of the spring garden, Luke pushes it from his mind. Kitty stands on her chair to lead the birthday song, crossly gesturing at Luke to join in, stretching across the table to stick her finger into the icing before Martin blows his candles out.
‘Wish!’ she yelps in Martin’s ear, making him jump.
Martin closes his eyes, and rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘OK,’ he says, nodding at Kitty when he’s done.
‘What was it?’ she asks, lowering herself back into her seat. She puts her small pink hand on his arm and gazes up at him earnestly. ‘A pony?’
‘Secret,’ he says, and he pats her on the head.
A breeze passes through the branches of the willow, causing the leaves to ripple and sway. One of Kitty’s teatowels snaps free of the clothes-horse and flutters across the lawn.
Gesturing towards Martin, Dad pushes back his chair and stands, easing his free hand into the pocket of his tight polyester shorts. ‘May I?’
Martin brings his fingers up to cover his face; Luke pulls them away, laughing.
‘Now, Martin, we’re all honoured that you agreed to join us on your special day.’
Mum clinks her glass with a spoon. ‘Hear, hear!’
‘And a little bird tells me you’re quite keen to take up photography?’
Martin nods cautiously, looking sideways at Luke.
‘Now, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was quite the photographer myself, back in my youth.’ Dad puffs out his chest, smiling sagely.
Luke helps himself to more wine.
‘In fact, in my London days, I was great mates with David Bailey, just before he got his big break.’
‘You met him once,’ Mum says. She hands a stack of side plates to Luke to pass around the table.
Dad looks injured. ‘I’ll have you know we were very nearly flatmates. If I hadn’t pinched his girlfriend, I’m sure we’d still be friends now.’
She shakes her head, addressing the lads. ‘And even when they did meet, they only exchanged a few words. It was at a party in Battersea, and I was there, so I don’t see how he managed to pinch David Bailey’s girlfriend with me in tow. Honestly, Richard.’
Dad sits down in his seat. ‘Jealous,’ he says, jerking his head in Mum’s direction. ‘So!’ He reaches under the table, and produces a wrapped shoebox which he passes across the table. ‘Happy birthday, Martin! I hope you don’t mind that it’s second-hand.’
At first Martin doesn’t even reach for it; he just sits and stares at the box.
Dad tops up his own wine glass. ‘It’s just that when Luke told me what you were after, I thought it was the perfect excuse to get myself a new one. So you’re very welcome to this old thing. If you’d like it, that is.’
Mum reaches over to stroke Dad’s forearm. Martin takes the box, holding it suspended over his slice of cake as Dad bobs his head, encouraging him to open it. He unwraps the paper and opens the lid, slowly lifting the camera out, his mouth drooping in wonder.
‘It’s a Brownie,’ he says, barely audible, gently running his thumb over the buttons and dials. ‘But, I can’t –’
Dad swiftly brings his finger to his lips, in the way you might do to quieten a class of schoolchildren. ‘Shh! It didn’t cost us a thing. Apart from the price of a fresh reel of film. And a flash bulb. I’m just glad to see it go to a good home.’
Martin sits in silence, gazing at his gift, as Luke shifts in his seat, eventually breaking the tension by waving at his dad and pointing to the camera.
‘Oh, yes – we must capture the moment!’ Dad takes the camera from Martin and sets it up at the far end of the table, fiddling and adjusting the timer. ‘OK – gather round.’
They all surround Martin at the head of the table, squeezing together to fit into the shot. Mum rests her arm around Martin’s shoulder, as Luke makes devil horns behind his head and Kitty clambers up to sit on his lap.
‘Ready, everyone?’ asks Dad, pulling in his stomach muscles as he sprints back to rejoin the group. ‘Cheese!’
Late in the afternoon, Luke and Martin take the bicycles from the garage and pump up the tyres before cycling down to the rocky beach at Whitecliff Bay. They wheel the bikes down the steep sloping path to the shoreline and prop them against the metal rails in the fading light, clambering up and over the rocks to a secluded spot looking out across the sand. Luke opens his rucksack and pulls out a bottle of Dad’s wine, removing the cork clumsily with his old Swiss army knife. They’ve already had several glasses with lunch, but
Luke’s in the mood to carry on. Martin stands with his back to the sea, fiddling with his new camera, humming to himself quietly as he slots the flash cube into place. The beaches are still fairly quiet, and, when the last dog walker disappears up the wooden walkway just before nine, the lads are the only people left as the beach nears darkness.
‘I can’t believe your dad gave me this.’ Martin snaps Luke as he pushes the base of the wine bottle into the sand, startling him with the flash so that he slides back off his smooth rock, kicking sand up with the toe of his sandal. He swears as he rights himself, making a grab for the wine bottle before Martin can reach for it.
‘Remember when we got stuck out on the rocks, trying to climb round at Culver Down? How old were we – eleven – twelve? It’s a wonder we didn’t drown.’
‘Remember the fat lifeboat man? He went mad at us, didn’t he?’
‘So did my dad.’ Luke laughs. ‘Well, it was bloody stupid. Of course, it was Len’s idea in the first place.’
‘Whenever we got into any bother it was Len’s idea.’ Martin smiles wistfully, fixing the lens cap over his camera. He folds himself on to the rock beside Luke, his large feet burrowing beneath the sand.
‘Len. I can’t even start to imagine what Samantha Dyas sees in him. Stupid little pikey.’
Martin’s brow wrinkles. ‘He’s not a pikey, mate.’
‘Well, they live in a caravan, don’t they? So, he must be a pikey.’
‘They didn’t always, though.’ Martin looks over towards the rocks at Culver Down. ‘They had that nice place along the esplanade, before his dad went off. It’s not exactly Len’s fault they ended up in a caravan.’
Luke shrugs, taking another drink from the bottle. ‘Yeah, yeah. OK, maybe he’s not a pikey. But he’s still a dickhead. You of all people should agree with that, Mart.’
He hands Martin the wine. It’s a clear sky, and the tide is low, gently rippling in the distance. The light of the half-moon catches on the wet pebbles along the shoreline so that they blink and flicker as thin cloud cover steadily crosses the sky. ‘Just a couple of weeks until exams are over.’ Luke sighs. Martin passes the bottle back to him, and he jams it back into the sand between them.
‘You’re lucky, Luke, with your folks,’ Martin says.
‘Yeah, I suppose they’re alright.’
‘And Kitty. I wish I had a little sister like her.’
Luke doesn’t answer for a moment. ‘How are things with your old man, mate? When I called for you earlier – well it seemed pretty obvious your dad didn’t have a clue it was your birthday. Your eighteenth birthday, man.’
Martin reaches forward to scoop up a heap of damp shingle. ‘He does his best. It’s just he’s never been very good at that kind of thing.’
There’s a shriek from the coastal footpath overhead; the lads pause, listening intently, until they hear laughter as the young voices trail away.
‘I suppose,’ Luke replies. ‘I guess it’s my mum who sorts all that stuff in our house. Birthdays, dentists, school uniforms. All that mum stuff.’
Martin lets the shingle filter between his fingers and on to the sand between his feet.
‘You know when you moved here?’ Luke asks. ‘D’you remember your first day at school, when Mrs Harwood put you next to me in class? I still reckon she did it to take the piss. I mean, I was so small I only looked about five or six. And you were so tall, you looked like a teenager.’
‘I wasn’t that big.’
‘You were! Your shoes were massive – and your jumper sleeves were always too short.’ He slaps his hands down on his thighs. ‘You looked like Herman Munster.’
‘No change there, then,’ Martin holds up one of his size thirteen feet, waving it in the air, sprinkling sand.
‘Nah. It’s good to be tall. The girls love it – I wish I was a few inches taller.’
Martin nods his head gently and gazes out over the water, watching the blinking lights passing over the horizon as the faint shush of the lapping waves drifts in and out of reach.
Brushing sand from the back of his calf, Luke shifts on his rock. ‘You’ve never really told me much about before you came here, mate…’ He laces his fingers together and stretches awkwardly. He knows Martin isn’t comfortable talking about this; he’s tried before. Luke watches the side of his face, trying to read his expression.
‘Can’t really remember all that much about it. I was only eight, and we’ve never been back since.’
Martin digs his feet further into the sand.
‘So, what made your dad choose the island?’ Martin’s discomfort is pouring off him, but Luke can’t seem to stop himself from going on, and he leans forward, trying to make contact, to provoke some kind of an answer.
Martin runs his broad hands across his face, releasing a small groan and dropping his head. ‘I think I’ve had too much to drink,’ he mumbles.
They sit in silence for a few minutes longer as the distant lights fade and disappear from the horizon, and Luke decides to drop it. It’s Martin’s birthday, for fuck’s sake.
Martin takes the bottle and drinks until there’s nothing left, letting the empty vessel slip from his fingers to the sand with a hollow thud. He turns his head and looks at Luke face-on, the swill of alcohol casting a milky film across his eyes. ‘It was an accident,’ he says. ‘A car accident.’
‘Man,’ Luke exhales. ‘I had no idea.’
‘My dad was driving the van when it happened.’ Martin turns his hand over and scratches at a callus. ‘He was a gardener back then – and we’d just stopped to pick up some new tools on the way back from town. I remember Mum saying to leave it until after the weekend, that she wanted to get home – but he went anyway. He said he had a rockery that wanted breaking up the next week.’ He stops mid-flow, staring into his palm like he’s reading off it.
For a moment, Luke thinks he’s not going to continue. ‘And?’
‘It was one of those Austin vans, with the covered back – you know? Blue. He stuck the new things in the back of the van, on top of some wooden boxes he’d been meaning to clear out for a while.’ He reaches out for the empty bottle, turning it upside down to reassure himself that it’s empty. ‘It was a country lane, and a bird hit the windscreen. Dad had to brake, hard; the new sledgehammer slid straight over the passenger seat and hit her in the back of the head – right here –’ he traces a line along the base of his skull ‘– and that was it.’
‘Mate, where were you?’ Luke asks.
‘I was on her lap. When it happened I slipped straight off, on to the floor of the van, not a scratch on me. He made me get out of the car, but I’d already seen her face and I knew she wasn’t in there any more, because her eyes were open, but just staring at me, like a blind person. He shouted at me then, Get out! So I got out of the car and fetched up the bird, and sat down at the edge of the field, like Dad told me to, while he ran for help.’
‘Man,’ Luke whispers again.
‘It was a swallow,’ Martin says. ‘Just a young one. Its tail streamers were short, you see; that’s how I knew it was a young one. I wanted to take it home and bury it there, but he wouldn’t let me. He took it and hurled it out into the field like a piece of rubbish.’
Martin raises his arm and the moonlight glows white across his hand, before his fingers unfurl and drop to his lap. He stands unsteadily, indicating that he’s ready to go. Luke looks up at him, searching for his returning gaze.
‘Does he blame himself, mate? Your dad?’
Martin pushes his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I know he’d rather it had been me that died that day.’
‘That’s not true.’ Luke gets to his feet with a stagger and they start off towards the wooden walkway. ‘How can you even think that?’
They pause at the top path to untangle their bikes, their faces suddenly clear in the white light of the moon. ‘Because it’s true,’ Martin says. ‘Because he tells me all the time.’
3
Met Offi
ce report for the Isle of Wight, late May 1976:
Maximum temperature 63°F/17.1°C
It’s been raining all night, and Luke wakes to the sound of rainwater running through the broken downpipe outside his bedroom window, the trickle and splash of it hitting the concrete path at the front of the house. From beyond his room, he can hear music from the kitchen radio pouring out along the hallway, irritating him as it seeps beneath his bedroom door. Abba’s still at bloody number one. The front door slams shut as Dad leaves for work, making the metal windows shudder beside Luke’s head. He sits up in his bed and pulls back the curtains to watch the white Dolomite reversing down the rain-slicked drive. The car pauses at the rusty gate as Dad checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror before carrying on over the kerb and speeding off along the road. Luke pulls the covers up over his head and drifts in and out of sleep for a little longer, until the grating music from the kitchen radio finally drives him from his bed in search of breakfast. In the hallway, Kitty charges at him with Tiny Tears, hitting him square in the side with a plastic foot.
‘Banando!’ she yells as Luke stumbles backwards.
‘Watch it, Kitty! My bloody ribs.’
Mum sticks her head out of the kitchen, frowning. ‘Language, Luke. She’s only four!’
Kitty hurls the naked doll over her shoulder and roly-polys down the hall. Luke weaves his way through the barrels and siphon tubes which clutter the kitchen floor, stubbing his little toe on a tub of brewing sugar as he reaches across to flick off the radio. Mum has recently discovered wine-making and she’s busy setting up her second production.
‘Hey, I was listening to that,’ she says, shifting the fermentation tank to clear a path.
Luke rummages in the food cupboard, pulling out half-empty cereal boxes and shoving them back in. ‘What are you making – red or white?’
‘Red. Claret. It’ll be ready in six weeks – maybe we can save some for your eighteenth. Thought it would save us a fair bit doing it this way.’
‘But the kit must’ve set you back quite a lot?’ He lays a place for himself at the table, setting a bowl and spoon next to the cornflakes packet.
Summer of '76 Page 5