Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  Len laughs, pointing at Martin. ‘Hey-hey, we’re the Monkees!’ He’s moved up close now, flipping Martin’s hair with his finger. ‘It’s that lanky one off the telly!’

  The first girl squeals with laughter. ‘What’s that one called? Not Micky – you know, the one with the bowly haircut!’

  ‘They’ve all got bowly haircuts,’ Luke retorts, throwing her a contemptuous look. They look like cheap tarts compared to Samantha, both doughy-skinned and bland in their matching beige tunic dresses and boots.

  The taller one blanks him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘I know, it’s Peter, that’s the one he looks like. The lanky one. The dippy one.’

  The smaller one giggles again, and Len seizes the chance to put his arm around her shoulder and join in. His mates stand a couple of feet behind, nodding like a pair of bouncers.

  Luke shakes his head again. ‘Come on, Mart. Let’s get going.’

  ‘Running away?’ Len sneers. ‘Or maybe you poofs have got other business to get up to? That’s it – they’re benders!’

  Luke feels the heat rising, up through his chest and neck, filling the inside of his crash helmet. ‘So, not with Samantha tonight, Len?’ he says, watching Len’s expression shift.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just wondered where your girlfriend is.’ He jerks his head in the girl’s direction. ‘Thought you might have brought Sam with you. I was with her last night, and she was telling me how much she wanted to see the film. Just thought you might have brought her.’

  ‘You’re talking shit,’ says Len, dropping his arm from Amy’s shoulder. ‘Sam was working last night, you dick.’

  ‘I know,’ Luke replies smugly, recalling the coy smile she gave him as they passed on the path at break time. ‘She was on a late shift. With me.’ He gestures to Martin to get a move on, but he’s still standing in the same spot, looking gormless.

  Len takes a step towards Luke, along with his mates. ‘Come here and say that, Wolff.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Len, give us a break, will you?’ Luke says, dropping his shoulders in an exaggerated display of boredom. ‘We’re not at school now.’

  Len launches forward, but instead of going for Luke he reaches up and grabs a fistful of Martin’s shirt.

  Luke puts his hand out. ‘For fuck’s sake, Len, what are you starting on Martin for?’

  ‘Because he’s not right in the head,’ Len replies, maintaining his grip on Martin’s shirt as he stands rigid, unresisting. ‘Well, aren’t you going to fight back, spastic?’

  Luke smacks Len’s fist away with the flat of his hand. ‘What d’you mean, spastic? He passed more O-levels than you even took, Len. So if he’s such a spastic, what’s that make you?’ He gives a little scoff. ‘An amoeba?’

  Len turns to his mates. ‘A what?’

  ‘Pond-life,’ Luke replies. ‘Plankton.’ It slips out in a snigger. ‘You know, those small slimy things that are so insignificant that you hardly even know they’re there. A single-celled organism. You’d have learned about it at school if you’d stayed on long enough.’

  Len’s face contorts, and he grabs again at Martin’s shirt and shoves him backwards into his scooter, so that he and the bike crash heavily against the tarmac.

  ‘You stupid –’ All at once Luke’s on Len, thrashing out at him clumsily. His field of vision is distorted by the crash helmet, so his aim is off, and he only manages a glancing blow off Len’s shoulder. Len grapples Luke by the back of his neck and pulls him in, landing a powerful, square-on punch in his sternum.

  Luke wheezes for breath as he drops to his knees, retching, the helmet weighing heavy on his shoulders. ‘Len? What the fuck happened to you, man?’

  Len hooks his fingers in through the face of the helmet and pulls Luke up to standing. He can see Martin from the corner of his eye, still awkwardly draped over the collapsed scooter, while the girls stand back now, looking frightened; one has her hand clasped over her mouth and the other won’t even look in their direction.

  Len jerks his head at his mates. ‘He can’t call me names like that, can he? I want you to say sorry, Wolff. And your mate. Tit-Head.’

  He’s still got his fingers hooked into the top of the helmet, and Luke can feel the flats of his two filthy fingernails pressed up against his forehead. He jerks backwards to shake him off.

  ‘Stand up, Tit-Head,’ Len barks at Martin.

  Slowly, Martin eases himself up off the ground and attempts to pick up his bike.

  ‘Leave that!’

  Martin eases the scooter back to the floor and stands quite still.

  ‘Right, Wolff. Tell him he’s a spastic. Tell him he’s a spastic. Go on. It’s what everyone else calls him but he should hear it from you.’

  Still winded from the punch to his stomach, Luke turns to look at Martin, who gives him a little nod. He bends forward, resting his hands on his knees, before pushing himself back up to full height, feeling ridiculous as he stands there in his crash helmet, arguing with Len Dickens. He’s had enough.

  ‘OK,’ he says, breathing out through pursed lips. ‘Tell you what, Len. Why don’t I tell you what everyone calls you, and then we’ll call it quits?’

  Len doesn’t answer, just clenches his fingers in and out of fists at his sides.

  ‘I’d want to know if I was you,’ says Luke, steadfastly staring into Len’s eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  ‘OK, here goes, then. Pikey. Fleabag. Rag and Bone. Inbred.’

  Len looks momentarily confused.

  Luke laughs loudly, the harsh sound of it bouncing off the garage doors and walls which back on to the car park. ‘Inbred? It means your mum screwed her own brother.’

  Len flies at Luke, knocking him to the ground as he pounds fists into his ribs again and again. He grabs at Luke’s helmet with both hands, bringing it repeatedly down on the tarmac, until Luke slips briefly from consciousness. He’s tugged back by the panic-stricken screams of the two girls and the tap-tap of their heels disappearing into the distance as they run out across the car park and into the night. ‘Len!’ one of the mates is shouting, but Len ploughs on, punching and thrashing as if he might pulverise Luke altogether.

  Luke isn’t fighting back now; he’s just lying there, taking it, and he fleetingly wonders where Martin is, because he can’t hear his voice.

  ‘Len!’ someone shouts again, abruptly, and then Len’s weight is gone, spirited away. Heavy footsteps retreat, breaking into a run, leaving just the sound of Luke’s heavy breath in the silence of the car park, and the distant hum of music from the town’s nightclubs along the promenade.

  Lying on his back, limp, Luke gazes up at the night sky through the open visor of his crash helmet. The sliver of a new moon is obscured behind a lamppost, so that it doesn’t look like the moon at all. He knows he hurts all over, but he can’t feel a thing. There’s a small movement to his left, and he feels the light tips of Martin’s fingers on his forearm.

  ‘Mart?’

  The fingers press against his skin. ‘I thought you were dead,’ Martin says, his voice quiet, shaking.

  ‘I’m so hot,’ says Luke, waggling his head weakly, feeling the sweat inside his helmet spreading at the base of his neck. ‘Can you get this thing off me?’

  Martin bends over him and releases the chin strap, cradling his head as he eases it off. He lowers himself to the ground and lies beside Luke, gazing up at the same patch of night sky.

  ‘I really thought you were dead,’ he says, his words turning into a swallowed sob.

  And then it rains; heavy, wonderful drops of rain that soak into their T-shirts and slick back their hair.

  When Luke and Martin finally arrive home in Blake Avenue, the rain-glossed street is in near darkness and they cut the engines at the top of the road, quietly wheeling their scooters along the path and into Luke’s driveway.

  ‘Want to crash here?’ Luke whispers, shaking the rainwater from his helmet as he stands on the front door
step, wincing at the dull corset of pain now encircling his torso.

  ‘Yeah. I don’t fancy bumping into my dad this late. I said I’d be back about half-eleven.’

  ‘What will he say when you don’t come home at all?’ Luke asks, carefully slotting the key into the lock. He turns it slowly and eases open the door.

  ‘Dunno. But I’d rather face him tomorrow than tonight.’ Martin rubs the tops of his arms vigorously, smoothing over the goosepimples.

  Inside, the smell of sweet and sour sauce hangs in the hallway. The house lights are all out except for the one in the bathroom, which is always left on in case Kitty wakes in the night. Luke grabs a towel from the rail and rubs it over his damp arms and legs before handing it to Martin, who does the same, draping it over the radiator when he’s done and glancing at his bedraggled hair in the half-light of the hall mirror.

  Luke leads them through to the kitchen, where he flicks on the lights and closes the door with a soft click. ‘Dad’s been out with Simon,’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘Wonder if there’s any leftovers.’

  An array of Chinese takeaway boxes covers the worktop, and Luke flips the lids off each in turn, unearthing four prawn balls, half a tub of special fried rice and an almost full bag of cold chips.

  ‘Bingo,’ he says. As he reaches up into the plate cupboard, a spasm of pain cuts through his ribs, causing him to drop against the sink. ‘Man,’ he growls into his fist.

  Martin puts down his helmet and helps Luke to the kitchen table where he can ease himself on to the wooden bench. ‘Maybe we should’ve got you to the hospital?’ he says, frowning hard.

  Luke shakes his head, lifting his T-shirt to look at his injuries properly. His torso is red and blotchy, turning darker around his sides as the bruising starts to come through. ‘I’ll be alright,’ he says, grimacing. ‘Just get me some of that food and I’ll feel a lot better.’

  Martin pinches his bottom lip between his forefinger and thumb. ‘But if it gets worse, you’ll get it looked at?’

  ‘Yes! And grab one of those bottles while you’re at it. I need a drink.’ He waves his hand towards Mum’s DIY wine rack, still filled with leftover white Château Wolff.

  Martin divides the cold leftovers between two plates and places them on the table, along with a couple of glass tumblers, the dusty bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He picks up the corkscrew and bottle, holding the two in place.

  ‘Give it here,’ Luke says when Martin hesitates. He screws down into the cork and places the bottle on the tiles between his feet. ‘Look, mate. Hold it like this,’ he says, showing Martin how to grip the bottle with his shoes, where to place his hands. ‘And then pull. I think I’ll pass out if I try to do it.’

  Martin follows Luke’s instructions and swiftly pops the cork from the neck of the bottle. He beams with pride, filling the tumblers to the top.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Luke, clinking glasses. ‘Now brace yourself –’ They both take a swig of wine and Luke slumps forward, silently thumping his fist against the tabletop.

  Martin’s bony Adam’s apple visibly rises and falls as he swallows. He flexes his fingers in and out with a wince. ‘That’s strong.’

  Luke’s laughing, clumsily wiping away his tears. He reaches for the bottle and tops up their glasses. ‘It’s a bit like vinegar. But I bet it’s good for pain relief.’

  Martin stretches out his long legs and chews away at the cold chips, gazing into space like a grazing cow. ‘Why d’you think Len went so mental tonight?’

  Luke shakes his head. ‘He’s been building up to it for years.’

  He thinks of the day when they were thirteen, when the police were called down to the rocks at Whitecliff Bay, where Len’s brother had just washed up on the shoreline, a week since he’d last been seen stumbling out of the Jolly Roger at closing time. Len had been one of the last to hear about it; Luke had talked him into cycling down to Blackgang Chine that afternoon, to see if they could sneak in to look at the new season’s attractions, and by the time they’d got back, after dark, Len’s mother was hysterical, ranting in the doorway when they arrived. Len had dropped his bike against the metal steps of the caravan and pushed his mother inside. ‘What’s up?’ Luke called after him, but Len didn’t even look back; he just slammed the door and that was that. Luke didn’t see him again for the rest of that summer, and when they returned to school in September the gulf between them had just been too great.

  Martin takes a pensive sip of wine. ‘I think it was what you said about his mum sleeping with her brother.’

  Luke chokes, coughing hard, spraying wine sideways as he tries to catch it behind his hand. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, recovering, wiping the mess from his lap. ‘Yeah. That did seem to trigger his psycho attack.’ He reaches across the table for the wine. ‘I think I touched a nerve there.’

  ‘So, do you think it’s true?’

  ‘No, you plank! I just said it to – well, I don’t know why I said it. To wind him up, I suppose. I’m just fed up with him hassling you all the time, man. Like I say, he’s a fucking idiot.’

  Martin looks embarrassed and he looks down at his hands. ‘I just kind of froze. You know?’

  Luke finishes off the last of the wine and stacks the empty plates by the sink. ‘Man, forget it. I know fighting freaks you out. And anyway, he wouldn’t have flipped if I hadn’t said what I said, so it’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.’

  They creep out of the kitchen and into the living room, in search of cushions to make up Martin’s bed. Luke flips on the main light.

  ‘Piss off!’ Dad mutters from his sleeping position on the sofa, waving a fist in the air. His eyes are still closed, and he freezes momentarily before his body goes slack again and he flops back against the cushion with a small snore.

  Luke pushes Martin backwards out of the room, grabbing a couple of cushions before pulling the door closed. Handing them to Martin, he squeezes his eyes shut, punching out into the hallway in an imitation of his dad, taking a feeble swipe at Martin. He laughs hard, thinking better of it as he clutches his sides again.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ asks Martin, looking bemused as he follows Luke down to his bedroom.

  ‘He’s had a skinful,’ Luke replies, indicating for Martin to pull out the sleeping bag from beneath his bed. ‘Teachers’ night out – it’s always the same. He goes out telling Mum he won’t be too late, then rolls in shit-faced with a bag of curry, making loads of noise. Trouble is, he’s a rubbish drinker. He’ll be like a dead man for the rest of the weekend.’

  ‘Why does he do it, then?’

  ‘Peer pressure. It’s always a big session when Simon’s involved. It drives Mum mad. She kicked Simon out the other night when they turned up late after the pub. I couldn’t believe it – I heard her tell him to get back to his own wife and leave us in peace. Dad tried to step in and calm her down, but she wasn’t having any of it – I’ve never heard her talk to anyone like that before. She called him a cuckoo.’ He picks up one of his own pillows and passes it to Martin to add to the makeshift bed, before helping to roll the sleeping bag out over the cushions. ‘Honestly, man. Teachers. You’d think they’d know better, what with all that responsibility. Mum always says the trouble with Dad is that he can’t bear to miss out on anything. So he’s always the last one at the end of a party, always wanting to be at the centre of everything. And even if he’s not, he’ll try to convince you that he was right there when it all happened. Like the festival they had up at Wootton in ’69. He tried telling me he got to go backstage with Bob Dylan, that he was one of the lucky few, ’cos he only played for an hour. Turns out he was round at Nan’s house all evening, keeping an eye on things because she was a bit worried about a couple of tents that had turned up in her back garden overnight.’ They both laugh. ‘Nan says he’s one of nature’s show-offs.’

  ‘Like a peacock,’ says Martin, kicking off his shoes.

  Luke steps out of his jeans and pulls on his pyjama bottoms. ‘Just like a peaco
ck.’ He eases himself into bed, holding on to his breath to stop from crying out, exhaling slowly. ‘Him and Mum will have had a fight when he got back – that’s why he’s on the sofa.’

  Martin balls up his T-shirt and throws it across the room, wriggling down inside the sleeping bag, which only just reaches below his armpits. He lies flat out, his long arms resting alongside his body. ‘What do they fight about? Your mum’s so nice; I can’t imagine her arguing about anything.’

  Luke thinks about it for a few moments, replaying the argument he overheard before he went out to meet Martin. Dad had come in from chatting to Mike Michaels over the garden wall, saying that Mike had suggested they pair up for John and Marie’s party at the end of the month. Mum lost her temper, and when Dad said Mike was only offering them a lift Mum called him ridiculous and naive and kicked him out of the kitchen altogether.

  Luke glances across at Martin lying prone on the floor, his damp hair looking as if he’d never had his posh haircut at all. He pulls the light cord above his bed and shifts himself on his pillow, flinching at the deep ache of his ribs. ‘I’m not sure really. Something’s going on but I’m not sure what. There’s something about these parties they’ve been going to that’s got them all worked up.’

  ‘The McKees’ parties?’ Martin asks softly.

  In the darkness, tiny bursts of white light play behind Luke’s eyelids. After a moment’s silence, he asks, ‘Did I tell you about the McKees’ parties, mate?’

  ‘No,’ Martin replies, haltingly. ‘But I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘The delivery driver who comes for the picture frames. He was talking about it last week when I was helping him to load up the order.’

  It feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room.

  ‘What did he say about them?’

  Martin shifts in his sleeping bag, the rustle of it clear and sharp in the darkness.

  ‘Mart?’

  After a moment’s pause he speaks. ‘He said they’re all at it. That it gets quite wild.’