Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  Luke pushes himself up out of the deckchair. ‘Right. I’ll go and mow the front lawn, I think.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she replies brightly. ‘Don’t forget – twelve-thirty! I’m bound to doze off.’

  He picks up his magazine and walks back up the garden, glancing in his mother’s direction before he reaches the house. How old is she – forty-one – forty-two? He recalls once overhearing his dad telling her she looked like a twenty-year-old from behind, and she’d smiled for a moment, before frowning and asking how old she looked from the front. Thirty, he’d replied, and she’d seemed pleased enough with that.

  Out on the drive, Dad’s clearing the rubbish from his car, and he looks up as Luke comes through the front door, squinting hard against the bright glare of the sun. On one side of the patchy lawn the grass is green and lumpy, while the other side, where the sun is harshest, is starting to take on a straw-like appearance. Luke’s been doing the lawn every weekend since he was fourteen, and he’s always quite enjoyed it, watching the stripes appear as he works his way up and down the garden. But last week Dad came home with one of those new hover mowers. Mum went mad, recounting a horror story about a man who’d electrocuted himself by mowing over the flex. Dad had laughed. ‘Daft bugger – sounds like he asked for it.’

  Luke carries the Flymo from the garage and drops the plug in through the bedroom window. He potters about the lawn for a while, picking up Kitty’s toys and throwing them into a heap at the edge of the drive. There’s a set of bright plastic saucepans, small to large, each of them with wide-eyed faces, which he lines up along the low front wall in order.

  ‘Hiiiii-yah!’ Dad leaps at him from behind, karate-style, causing him to yell and stumble backwards. ‘Gotcha! So, where’s your mum, then?’

  ‘In the nudist colony, out the back.’

  Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘Is she now?’

  Luke pulls a disgusted face.

  ‘Well, no time for all that, anyway – I’m going to wash the car. She needs a good polish. Want to help?’

  Luke reaches for the plastic saucepans and adds them to the toy pile. ‘Nah. I’m about to mow the lawn.’

  ‘Well, watch how you go,’ he says, indicating towards the cable. He strips off his shirt and drapes it over the gate, pulling a muscle-man pose for Luke. ‘Look at that,’ he says, inspecting his own bicep.

  Luke grimaces and turns away, embarrassed to see Mrs Bevis walking past with her shopping.

  ‘Morning!’ Dad calls after her.

  ‘Morning,’ she replies, shrilly, dipping her aged head so far down that Luke thinks she might tip over.

  ‘See?’ Dad says, patting his bare stomach. ‘Still got it. Right, I’d better wash that car before they slap a hosepipe ban on us once and for all.’

  Both set to work on their separate jobs, and before long the lawn’s looking less patchy. Luke has accidentally hovered the heads off Mum’s anemones, and he stuffs them underneath the grass cuttings before anyone sees, before starting on a circuit of the borders, pulling up stray dandelions and weeds to add to the heap. Dad’s whistling ‘Save Your Kisses for Me’ while he gives the car a final rinse with his sponge, stepping back every now and then to check he hasn’t missed a bit. He drops his sponge into the bucket and clicks his fingers to catch Luke’s attention, as a Regency red Jaguar slows in the road and bumps up the kerb into the driveway next door. Luke rakes the last strands of grass into the heap and rests on the wooden handle, watching, suddenly self-conscious about his naked torso.

  A large, balding man steps out of the driver’s seat, wearing what appear to be golfing clothes.

  ‘Hello, there!’ the man calls over.

  ‘Morning!’ Dad replies.

  Both men approach the low front wall that separates their two driveways.

  ‘Mike Michaels,’ the big man says, offering his hand.

  ‘Richard Wolff.’

  The passenger door of the car opens and a woman gets out. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties, dressed in white slacks and a bright red shift top. Her hair is a halo of tight, dark shoulder-length curls.

  ‘My wife, Diana,’ Mike Michaels announces. He puts his hand on the small of her back. ‘Di, this is our new neighbour, Richard.’

  At first she appears shy, as her gaze shifts between Dad and Luke, who face her in their shorts and sandals, staring back like a couple of stunned Mowglis.

  ‘Neighbours!’ she finally says, her face breaking into a wide smile.

  ‘Neighbours,’ Dad repeats, planting one hand on his hip, unconsciously slapping his bicep with the other. ‘Well, how about that? We haven’t had anyone this side for quite some time.’

  Luke remains where he is, gripping the end of the rake handle as Diana glances over at him and waves.

  Dad turns to beckon him over. ‘This is my son, Luke. Come and shake hands with Mr Michaels, Luke.’

  ‘It’s Mike!’ he bellows, shooting out his arm.

  ‘Hi,’ Luke says. Mike’s hand is huge and wet with sweat, and Luke’s about to wipe it away on his shorts when Mrs Michaels suddenly reaches over the wall to shake hands with him too. Embarrassed that she’ll think it’s his sweat, Luke mumbles something about clearing the lawn and leaves Dad chatting with them. As he fills the wheelbarrow with grass clippings, he allows himself occasional glances at Mrs Michaels, who’s now perched on the edge of the little wall so that her white slacks tighten over her thighs. She’s laughing, her fingers dancing like butterflies to emphasise her words. Dad’s loving it, standing there in his cut-off shorts and bare chest, next to her fat old husband. Luke can see him pointing at their car, as Mike Michaels hitches up his checked trousers and strokes the bonnet.

  Dad whistles over. ‘What do you think of the motor, Luke?’

  ‘Very nice,’ he calls back, and Mike Michaels rubs his paunch, as if he’s just enjoyed a good meal.

  A removals van pulls up at the roadside. Mike Michaels claps his hands and strides off towards the vehicle, opening the side door and standing back to let the driver step down. ‘Good to meet you, Richard!’ he calls over. ‘And I hear we have friends in common!’

  ‘Really?’ Dad replies.

  ‘Yes – the McKees. We’ll have to get you all over one night soon!’

  Diana gives a little wave and disappears around the far side of the house, while Mike Michaels lights up a cigarette and starts to direct the two removals men ferrying pieces of furniture from the van and into the house. Dad can’t get over to Luke quick enough.

  ‘Well, she’s a bit of alright,’ he says, rubbing his hands together with glee.

  Luke gathers up an armful of grass and drops it into the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,’ Dad goes on, nudging his arm with his knuckles.

  ‘Not bad, I s’pose,’ he replies. ‘Nice hair.’

  ‘And the rest! They both seem nice enough.’ Dad’s eyes follow the removals men as a collection of potted pampas grasses and yukka plants are placed on to next door’s driveway. ‘Though he’s got to be twenty years her senior if he’s a day!’

  ‘Sugar daddy?’ Luke smirks.

  ‘Probably. Well, let’s face it. I wouldn’t think she’s with him for his athletic physique.’ As he says this he hitches up his shorts and pulls in his stomach muscles, continuing to watch the activity next door. The men unload a set of garden chairs and parasols. ‘Looks like they’ve got a few bob, judging by the furniture. Wonder what he does. Did you see the leather armchairs going in?’

  ‘Dad,’ Luke hisses. ‘At least try to look busy while you’re spying on the new neighbours. Try to be a bit more subtle.’

  ‘Good plan!’ Dad picks up the rake and starts drawing it across the clear lawn as the heat continues to throb down into their front garden. ‘Bloody hell, it’s a scorcher.’

  The removals man holds up a deckchair. ‘Where d’you want these, Mr M?’

  Mike Michaels holds his hand up to block out the sun. Luke wonders if he ever g
ets burnt on that great big bald patch.

  ‘Take them straight through to the garden, John. Through the side gate. Here – give me a couple and I’ll take you down there.’ They pick up the chairs and force open the rusty gate which leads to the back of the house.

  Dad stops raking and stretches, yawning loudly. ‘I haven’t seen much of Kitty today. Is she indoors?’ he asks.

  Luke looks at his watch. ‘Shit!’

  At that moment, travelling from the back garden, over the low walls and picket fences, Mum’s shriek pierces the gentle summer hum of Blake Avenue. It sounds like a Carry On scream, rendered saucily comical by the knowledge that Mum is out back in her birthday suit. Luke covers his mouth with his hand; Dad throws his head back and howls, bringing the palms of his hands down, slap, on to his bare knees. ‘Oh, dear, Luke. Your poor mother.’

  Luke lets the last pile of grass drop to the hard lawn, breaking into a run towards the house. ‘She’s going to kill me!’

  Dad’s still laughing as he follows Luke up the front step and into the hall, where Mum has now locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. He knocks on the door, resting against the frame with a fixed expression of amusement on his face while Luke watches on.

  ‘Go away!’ she yells.

  ‘So –’ Dad clears his throat ‘– you’ve met the new neighbours? Mike’s the tall one in the Rupert Bear trousers. I think the other one’s called John. He’s the removals man.’

  Mum goes quiet on the other side of the door, while Dad reaches over and prods Luke, inviting him to join in.

  ‘Mike seems quite nice, doesn’t he, Mum?’

  ‘GO AWAY!’

  ‘Don’t suppose he was counting on such a warm reception,’ Dad says, deadpan, drumming his fingers on the wall. ‘Anyway, fancy a nice cup of tea, love?’

  Mum kicks the bath panel as Dad heads off to the kitchen, where he resumes his cheery whistling, and all falls silent again beyond the bathroom door.

  ‘Mum?’ Luke says cautiously.

  There’s a pause. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s nearly one o’clock. D’you want me to go and get Kitty for you?’

  He hears her closer behind the door.

  ‘Thanks, Luke. Yes, please, love.’

  Luke stops off in his room to pull on a fresh T-shirt. As he reaches the front step on his way out, he hears Dad calling back down the hall towards his mother.

  ‘That’s nice of Luke, isn’t it, Jo? Saves you getting dressed.’

  Her furious shrieks follow Luke all the way out to the front gate, where he raises his hand to Mike and Mrs Michaels, who stand beside the open doors of the removals van, covering their mouths.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Luke,’ Mrs Michaels calls after him as he jogs off down the road to fetch Kitty.

  He turns, still running on the spot, to see her raise an elegant arm, the sun casting her in dark relief, her fingers fluttering in the still air.

  ‘You too,’ he replies, pulling back his shoulders and running like a man.

  On Sunday morning Luke is woken by his alarm at eight, set so that he can drive up to the holiday camp at Sunshine Bay for an early shift. The sound of Kitty’s off-tune singing rouses him again as he drifts back into sleep, and he gets up and dressed, paying particular attention to his hair, pinching a squirt of Dad’s Bacchus aftershave on his way out. Until the school term ends, Samantha is only working weekends and the odd afternoon, like him, so there’s a good chance they’ll be put together again. He thinks about Len, and what he’d say if he knew he was spending his days with Sam; he’d hate it. God only knows what she sees in Len. He’s passingly good-looking, a bit like a grubby David Essex, but that illusion soon disappears, the minute he opens his mouth. All that glue-sniffing beneath the pier must have addled his brain over the years, just as it did his brother’s.

  As it turns out, the schedules have all been drawn up for the next two weeks, and Samantha, Gordon and Luke are teamed up for the same shifts. Today they’re on the older chalets towards the edges of the camp, and, after Luke’s initial awkwardness around Sam, they soon start to relax and chat more easily while they work. Gordon meanders about the bedrooms, stripping off the bedlinen and showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge of the music charts. Luke knows he should find him irritating, with his square appearance and over-familiar chitchat, but somehow he doesn’t. Gordon entertains Samantha no end, and it’s a good feeling to be with them, working, earning money, having a laugh.

  ‘Of course, “Fernando” is the one to beat,’ Gordon says, as they get to work on their third chalet. ‘Number one for four weeks on the trot. But it’s no wonder really. It’s classic pop. I love Abba, don’t you, Lukey?’

  Luke stops sweeping, looks up from his broom and shakes his head slowly, looking at Gordon like he’s mad.

  Gordon splutters, throwing his arms up theatrically, disturbing the dusty shards of window light. ‘What? You have to be joking! Why not?’

  ‘Because they’re, hmm, let me think… shit.’

  Samantha hoots with laughter, appearing from the bathroom in her rubber gloves. She brought them from home, saying her mother insisted when she heard that they’d be cleaning other people’s loos. Her face glows beneath a light sheen of perspiration.

  Gordon sits heavily on one of the twin beds, looking astonished. ‘I have never – I mean never – met anyone who doesn’t love Abba.’ He smiles at Sam and pokes a finger in Luke’s direction. ‘You’re going to be a challenge, young Luke.’

  ‘Oi. Don’t call me “young” Luke. Just “Luke” will do fine, thanks.’

  Gordon sniggers and swings his feet up coyly, putting his hands behind his head while he earnestly studies the other two, Luke with his broom, Samantha in her pink gloves. ‘Good golly, Miss Molly,’ he sighs, forming a square with his fingers to frame them in his view. ‘Wouldn’t you two make the most fabulous couple?’

  At the end of their shift Luke returns the cleaning trolley to Housekeeping, before heading back to meet the others in an out-of-action chalet they discovered on their walkabout at lunchtime. The lock is rusted and broken, and there’s no end of maintenance work needed to bring the rooms back up to use, but it’s still furnished, with a good view across the lawn towards the Suncoats’ accommodation block. When Luke arrives, Samantha and Gordon are already there, each reclining on one of the twin beds amidst a fog of fragrant smoke. The windows are all nailed shut and the chalet has a humid, damp odour which reminds Luke of the salt-soaked panels of the beach huts on Sandown seafront, when the holidaymakers have all gone home.

  ‘Lukester,’ Gordon drawls as Luke eases the door closed behind him. His eye squints as he inhales deeply. ‘Care for a toke, young man?’ He holds the joint out, and smiles, watching Luke closely as he brings it to his lips. ‘What a cupid’s bow to die for,’ Gordon sighs, and his eyelids slide shut, his fingers waving lightly, like a king dismissing a serf. He resembles a shrunken old man lying on the bed, pale-skinned and thin-haired, laid out for the coffin.

  Luke laughs at the thought, coughing out little chokes of smoke, and Sam budges up on the bed, indicating for him to squish on beside her. She’s wearing her tiny shorts again, and as he shifts closer to keep from toppling off the bed he feels the soft brush of her skin against his.

  ‘This is cosy,’ she says, reaching across to take the joint from his far hand.

  Across the lawn, some of the Suncoats are now congregating between shifts, sharing cigarettes and cans of drink in the afternoon heat. They look so much older, the women curvy and tall, some of the men thick-armed and moustached. Gordon props himself on to his elbows for a better look, commenting on the broad shoulders of the Burt Reynolds lookalike at the centre of the group. ‘What a dish,’ he says, rolling his eyes as if it’s all too much.

  ‘What does your mum think?’ Sam asks, craning her neck to look directly at Gordon.

  He appears to give it some thought. ‘Nothing,’ he replies, his eyes still on Burt Reynolds, who has no
w taken off his jacket to sit on the bench with his arm draped around one of the girls. ‘She’s too busy arranging my next blind date to even notice my, well – lack of interest in the opposite sex. Honestly, she’s always trying to pair me up with her friends’ daughters, talking about me as if I’m some kind of Greek god.’

  Luke laughs, then stops short when Gordon scowls at him. ‘Well, you don’t look very Greek.’

  ‘Really? Some might say I’m a bit of an Adonis.’ He strikes a pose, flexing his puny white bicep as Luke and Sam collapse on the bed, shrieking with joint-fuelled laughter. Gordon sucks in his cheeks, feigning offence, sitting up to roll another, and Luke lets his gaze drift with the blue sky beyond the glass of the window, feeling the beads of perspiration prickle his upper lip.

  ‘So, I hear you know my Lenny?’ Samantha suddenly says, startling him out of his daze.

  He stiffens, at once feeling exposed as he lies beside her on the narrow bed. ‘We were friends at primary school.’ He sits up, mirroring Gordon on the bed opposite.

  She nods. ‘That’s what he said.’

  Luke waits for her continue, but she just lies there smiling mysteriously. ‘Yeah, we were good mates back then,’ he says, ‘but not so much once we were in our teens.’

  ‘You’re not at all how he described you,’ she says, and Luke instantly feels defensive, a surge of hatred for Len pushing out through his chest. ‘He said you’re a bit of a wimp.’ She puts a hand up in front of her mouth.

  ‘Nice,’ Luke replies, and he turns to Gordon, who’s sucking deeply on the fresh reefer. ‘I remember that was one of his favourite expressions: “wimp”. For anyone who didn’t go around intimidating the other kids with their fists.’

  ‘Luke!’ Sam gasps, before shrieking with laughter again. ‘He’s my boyfriend. You can’t say that!’

  Gordon passes the smoke to Luke. ‘Oh, I think he can, Sam. I mean, Lenny does sound like a bit of a thug, darling. And I haven’t even met him.’