Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  Kitty is busy collecting up daisy heads, to decorate the garden of her cardboard insect house. Luke has helped her to separate the box into rooms so that the woodlice and beetles have got two bedrooms, a bathroom and a living room to move about in, and the house now sits in the centre of the garden table, soaking up the afternoon heat. He peers into the box and spots a shrivelling earthworm that Kitty has installed in a sunny corner, whipping it out and throwing it back into the flowerbed before she notices.

  ‘Do you think we should give them some water, Kitty?’

  She nods and starts dotting the flower heads around the perimeter of the house. Luke fills an empty margarine tub at the wall tap. ‘It can be their bath,’ says Kitty, showing him where to put it. She scoops up a couple of woodlice and drops them into the water, poking them under with her finger.

  ‘No, Kitty!’ Luke grabs the tub and flicks the water and woodlice out over the cracked concrete patio. They immediately head for the nearest dark crevice, disappearing like miniature tanks, headfirst into the abyss.

  Kitty balls up her fists and starts to scream. Luke picks her up under his armpit, and swings her round and round until she stops screaming and starts to chortle instead. When he’s sure she’s completely over it he puts her on to her feet in the middle of the lawn, where she sways momentarily and topples on to her face. This time her crying is for real, and there’s blood where her front tooth has caught the edge of her lip. ‘Shit,’ he mutters, rushing to check her over. ‘Shh-shh-shh-shh,’ he soothes, and he picks her up to whisk her into the kitchen through the open back door.

  Mum and Dad are still in there; Mum’s angrily pushing a mop around the floor and Dad is propped up against the stove, his arms folded defiantly. He frowns at Luke as he places Kitty on the kitchen table.

  On seeing her mummy, Kitty holds her arms out, feebly wiggling her little fingers.

  ‘Oh, Kitty! What happened?’

  Kitty’s really bawling now, dribbling snot bubbles down Mum’s bare arm. ‘Lu-lu-u-u-u!’ she wails, bouncing a wretched finger towards him.

  Mum turns to look at Luke, who’s anxiously pinching his chin at the sight of Kitty’s bloody lip. ‘Luke?’

  He drops his hand. ‘What? She fell over!’

  ‘Noooooo!’ Kitty shakes her head, spreading the snot further. She pulls her head back and glares at him fiercely. ‘He made me!’

  Luke laughs, and looks to his dad for support. ‘That’s not true. She fell over. She was being silly, doing that twirling round thing she does. God, Kitty!’

  Kitty throws her head back and howls, and Luke stares at her in disbelief. ‘Sod this,’ he says, snatching up his crash helmet and stomping from the room. ‘I’m off to work.’

  ‘Luke!’ Mum calls after him. ‘Tell Kitty you’re sorry!’

  He pauses on the front door step and looks out across the sun-soaked driveway, at the dazzling shimmer of light as it bounces off the chrome of his freshly polished scooter. He thinks about Samantha in her little white shorts, feels the thrill of anticipation bubbling through his veins, and smiles. ‘Sorry, Kitty,’ he calls back along the hall, and he jogs across the front drive and sets off.

  When he arrives at Sunshine Bay, Luke has to report to the manager’s office, which sits at the entrance to the holiday camp. ‘Beware Wet Paint’ boards lean up against the steps to the front door, highlighting the freshly painted woodwork and jaunty new sign. The door is ajar, and the tinny sounds of the wireless radio float out of the open windows, through which Luke can see Philip Beckett sitting behind the desk, drinking Coca-Cola and concentrating on the large chart in front of him. Luke runs a quick hand across his fringe, before ascending the steps and poking his head through the door.

  ‘Luke Wolff!’ Philip grins, standing to offer his hand. ‘Welcome, welcome.’ He’s only a little older than Luke, but already his hair is deeply receding, the peaks of exposed forehead adding years to his appearance. He jangles the keys that hang from his belt loop. ‘All set to meet the rest of the gang?’

  Luke nods, pushing his hands into his shorts pockets, and he follows Philip as he locks up the office and leads the way to Housekeeping, where he will pick up his kit and meet his new workmates. All along the way they pass various camp workers: gardeners, chefs, maintenance men and cleaners. A group of Suncoats, three girls and a young man with thick black sideburns, sit on the benches outside the ballroom in their bright orange jackets, smoking cigarettes and chatting. The man salutes Philip as they pass and he returns the gesture, winking at one of the young women with a cluck of his tongue. ‘Piss off, Beckett,’ she laughs, tossing her head back as he returns a showy leer. Her hair falls around her face in luscious dark curls, and her lips are painted pillarbox red. They all look like air hostesses.

  ‘I love it when they’re like that,’ Philip confides as they round the corner to meet the rest of the temporary staff waiting beneath the Housekeeping sign.

  Luke joins the other new starters, slipping in to stand beside Samantha as Philip counts them up and refers to his clipboard to delegate their tasks.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispers, flashing a smile and giving him a nudge. ‘Do you know anyone else here?’

  He shakes his head. Samantha waves at Philip and points to Luke, indicating that she wants to pair up with him. Philip nods and makes a mark on his chart.

  ‘Right! Most of you already know me – if not, I’m Philip. Suzy is the other duty manager, who you’ll see tomorrow, so, if you’ve got any problems or questions while you’re here, come and find one of us over in the managers’ office. We don’t bite – honest! Now, you’re in teams of three per chalet: one on beds, one on bathrooms, one on brushing, dusting and windows. Once I’ve called your teams, head inside and see Brenda and the gang, and they’ll take you to your first chalet and show you the ropes. OK? So, Team One – Samantha Dyas, Gordon Lurie and Luke Wolff. Off you go.’

  Luke, Samantha and a puny-looking lad called Gordon head inside, and, as soon as Brenda has escorted them to their first room and explained the job, Samantha takes charge. She drops back on to one of the single beds and bounces gleefully, kicking her legs about like a schoolgirl. ‘Introductions!’ she says. ‘If we’re going to work together, we should know a little bit about each other.’

  Luke inwardly cringes, furtively eyeing Gordon, with his pale skin, National Health glasses and baby-soft hair. He looks like a complete pleb.

  ‘Oh, I’ll go first,’ Samantha says, smoothing her hands over her tanned thighs. ‘I’m Samantha Dyas. Sam. I’m seventeen years old, I live on the outskirts of Sandown, and my father’s a vicar. Yes, a vicar! I’m into T-Rex and Dr Hook and Janis Joplin.’ She bobs her head towards the boys, inviting them to share too.

  Gordon rubs his chin, looking like a wizened old professor. ‘Eclectic music choices, young Samantha. I approve.’

  Samantha laughs, her eyes wide.

  ‘Well, I’m Gordon Lurie, I’m nineteen and I’ve just finished my first year at Brighton Polytechnic. I’m staying with my dear old mum in Newport, who incidentally cooks the best moussaka in the northern hemisphere, and what I don’t know about music – pop in particular – isn’t worth knowing.’ He smiles complacently and turns to Luke.

  Luke rakes his fingers through his hair, wondering where to start. ‘Well, you know I’m Luke – I’m nearly eighteen –’

  ‘Ah, nearly,’ Gordon croons, amiably leaning in to bump shoulders.

  Luke frowns. ‘Alright, I’m seventeen, I live in Sandown, and I’ve just done my A-levels – well, I’ve got my last two still to do. I like Bowie, Velvet Underground, T-Rex –’ He looks at Samantha for her approval. ‘Oh, and I’m off to Brighton Poly in September too. That’s if I get the grades.’

  ‘Well, fancy that!’ Gordon says. ‘Perhaps we’ll be neighbours.’

  ‘What about girlfriends?’ Samantha asks, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Luke replies, feeling his cheeks colour.

  Samantha turns her
gaze on Gordon.

  ‘Me? Not ever,’ he says, and then in a whisper, his hand cupped at his mouth, ‘Nor ever likely.’

  Samantha jumps up to grab Gordon’s hand. ‘I know I’m going to just love you, Gordy. And for the record, boys, I do have a boyfriend.’ She picks up a feather duster and daintily steps up on to the bed, stretching into the far corners to brush away the winter cobwebs. She looks over her shoulder at Luke and smiles. ‘Just in case you wondered.’

  Simon and Laura arrive for supper that night, carrying three bottles of wine and a large kilner jar of sloe gin.

  ‘He’s going through a midlife crisis,’ Laura announces, putting the bottles down on the dresser and kissing Mum on both cheeks. Laura’s had her hair cut into a short pixie crop, with little dark spikes framing her tiny face. ‘He’s even started talking about digging up half the garden and planting an allotment.’

  ‘Self-sufficient,’ Luke says, holding the gin up to the light. It shines a vibrant burgundy red through the evening glow of the kitchen window.

  ‘Exactly!’ Simon pats him on the back, and starts removing the foil from the top of one of the wine bottles. He slides along the bench to sit beside Luke. ‘I’m pleased to see that Luke’s in harmony with the Zeitgeist. Unlike Laura – bloody pessimist.’

  ‘Realist,’ Laura replies, pulling out a chair to sit beside Dad, kissing him on one cheek and reaching across the table to squeeze her husband’s hand. She twirls the shiny black plastic studs in her earlobes and smiles derisively. ‘Honestly, I swear he’s turning into a bona fide hippy – I’ve never seen you let your hair grow longer than a couple of inches before, Simon. It’s almost down to your shoulders.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop him looking like a double for Leslie Phillips,’ Dad laughs, accepting one of Simon’s cigarettes and waggling it in front of his mouth. ‘Helllll-ooooo.’

  Simon strokes his pale moustache. ‘You know me, Richard, old boy.’

  ‘Anything I can do, love?’ Dad asks, as Mum carries a large dish of chilli-con-carne to the table, pushing it along to make room for the boiled rice.

  She’s wearing a long-sleeved lace blouse, with wrist ruffs that flop over her hands and irritate her as they get trapped between her fingers and the dishes. She pushes at her loose hair with the back of her hand.

  ‘Just go and check on Kitty, will you? Make sure she’s asleep.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Simon says as Dad scrapes his chair back.

  They disappear into the hall, cigarettes and glasses in hands, and Mum starts to serve up, letting Laura take over when she remembers the salad she’s neglected to take out of the fridge. Luke sneaks a top-up of white wine while her back is turned; Laura smirks and taps the side of her nose.

  ‘How is she?’ Mum asks when the men return to their seats. She lights a candle at each end of the table and sits beside Simon.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ says Simon, flipping out his napkin and placing it on his lap. ‘And, you’ll be pleased to hear, fast asleep.’

  Luke stretches across the table for the salt. ‘You should have kids,’ he says to Laura. ‘You’d make great parents.’

  ‘Yurgh!’ she replies with a little shudder. She pinches the ends of her little black necktie and removes it, fanning a hand over her warm face. ‘We’d be a disaster, wouldn’t we, Simon? We can hardly look after ourselves, let alone a house full of screaming brats.’

  ‘Not that Laura thinks you two are brats, of course,’ Simon adds.

  Laura refills her glass, making a point of pinching Luke’s cheek affectionately. ‘Mmm, delicious supper, Jo. Thanks. Now that’s one of the few things your People party have got right, Simon.’

  ‘It’s not my People party. I’m just interested in a few of their policies.’

  Laura waves him away. ‘Stop being so touchy.’

  ‘What policies?’ asks Luke, trying to find a way into the conversation.

  ‘Use less energy, produce fewer kids. It makes sense, if you think about it.’

  ‘Produce fewer kids? But life isn’t as simple as that, is it?’ Mum rests her fork on the side of her plate. ‘Sometimes you can’t plan those things.’

  Laura puts her fork down too. ‘Isn’t that what the birth control pill is for? It’s revolutionised women’s lives across the world.’ She reaches for one of Simon’s cigarettes.

  ‘And all for the better. But we’re not robots, are we?’ Mum blows the cigarette smoke away from her face. ‘You can’t tell people how many kids to have, any more than you can tell someone who they should marry. It’s about choice.’

  ‘Choice is all very nice, Jo, but we can’t go on naively ignoring this economic crisis forever. At some point we have to acknowledge it – and do something about it.’ Laura wafts her cigarette towards the men to encourage them to join in the debate. ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘Telling people how many children they can have is ridiculous. What if they told people they couldn’t have any kids. Or even that they must have kids?’ Mum flips her hair over her shoulder. ‘You’re someone who’s already exercised her choice not to have kids, Laura – how would you feel about that?’

  Laura sighs loudly. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. That could never happen. It’s a fact, the planet will always need fewer human beings on it, not more.’

  ‘But the size of the population just isn’t an important consideration to a woman who desperately wants a child, is it?’

  ‘It should be.’ Laura grinds her cigarette stub into the ashtray and pushes it up the table. ‘We’re not dumb rabbits, for fuck’s sake! If nature has been good enough to bless a family with a child, I think it’s perfectly reasonable for a nation in crisis to dictate that they stop there. Stop them all procreating thoughtlessly.’

  Mum releases a harsh laugh.

  Laura raises her eyebrows. ‘It takes more conscious thought to decide against having multiple children than it does to let nature take its course. So yes – thoughtlessly.’

  ‘Laura,’ Simon says. ‘Time to get off your soapbox.’

  ‘More chilli?’ Dad asks, offering the spoon to Simon. He nods, letting Dad serve up as he leaves his seat to fetch a second bottle of wine.

  ‘You know what? In the grand scheme of things, the economy is the least of our worries. It’s the dark shadow of progress from heavy industry that’s killing us. That’s what’s destroying the fragile ecology of the earth.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Dad says, banging his knife against the side of his wine glass. ‘Time out, everyone. It’s a bit early in the evening to start getting this heavy!’

  Mum tops up Laura’s wine glass and forces out a smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ Laura sighs, reaching over to rub Simon’s wrist as he retakes his seat. ‘I told you – he’s having a midlife crisis. So! I hear the McKees are busy planning their next party. What’s the theme, Simon?’

  ‘Masks at Midnight,’ he replies, subtly withdrawing his hand from hers.

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ says Dad. ‘It’s bound to be, if Marie’s organising it.’

  The men laugh, and Dad inclines his head to kiss Mum on the side of her face. She tuts, shouldering him off with the briefest of movements.

  Luke leaves the table to fetch himself a glass of water, leaning against the sink as he waits for the tap to run cold, glancing back at the assembled adults, at the well-worn rhythm of their drinking and conversation. From here, they appear to act as one, pulsating as they do with shared laughter, with boredom, with pent-up opinions and unspoken desires. At the next bottle they move on to staffroom gossip, and when dessert is served Luke takes his crème caramel to his room, leaving them to it. He can tell by the number of empty bottles already, it’s going to be a late session.

  4

  Met Office report for the Isle of Wight, early June 1976:

  Maximum temperature 72°F/22.1°C

  There’s a little sunny patch in the back garden where Mum can sunbathe naked without fear of being seen by the neighbours. Mrs Bevis on the one side is sh
ielded by a high wall, and on the other side the gardens are only separated by a low picket fence but the house has stood empty for the past year or so.

  They’re nice gardens, with sloping lawns running down to trees and shrubs at the lower edge. Beyond the dilapidated picket fence, next door’s garden has turned into a meadow, overrun by nettles and tall grasses where butterflies and moths hover, collecting nectar from the wild clover and sprawling buddleia.

  Luke is on a late shift today, and he sits in a deckchair, his closed eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, sunning his chest. He should be studying, but it’s too hot to think. He listens to the sounds of his mother preparing her sunbathing spot, as she crosses the garden in her flip-flops, laying out her towel and fluffing up a cushion she’s brought from the living room.

  ‘Gosh, it’s beautiful! Not a cloud in the sky.’ She sighs contentedly. ‘Imagine, if it’s like this in June, what on earth will the rest of the summer be like?’

  Luke hears her flip-flops land as she kicks them off her feet and on to the patio; they fall with a little slap, amidst the soft buzz of insects and the distant hum of weekend lawnmowers. He crinkles one eye to see her, over by Mrs Bevis’s wall. She’s wearing her blue bikini, performing her daily stretches, bending to bounce her fingertips lower and lower towards her flexed toes. A pair of sparrows bursts through the leaves of the willow tree, landing on the grass a few feet away, where they flap and squabble like a dance, exploding into the air again to bomb through the branches in neat formation.

  Luke wipes the sweat from his brow.

  ‘Tell me when it gets to half-twelve, Luke. I have to pick up Kitty from down the road – she’s playing at Susan’s.’ She drops her bikini top on the grass and steps out of her bottoms, before settling herself face-down on the towel, bunching up her hair so the sun can reach her neck.