Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  ‘That’s nice, mate.’ Luke throws again, wondering what use a lighter is to someone who doesn’t even smoke.

  For a few long minutes they quietly watch the tide rippling gently against the sand as the evening light draws in, until Luke breaks the silence. ‘You know, some day you should think about moving out. You can’t stay living at home forever.’ He turns to look at Martin, who’s concentrating on his target. ‘Like they say, mate, spread your wings.’

  Martin turns away, pretending to search for the right stone.

  Luke throws another, this time hitting the bottle and spinning it in the opposite direction. ‘Maybe you’d even meet a nice girl if you had a bit more freedom to come and go as you please.’

  Martin remains silent, and Luke knows he can’t push it any further.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ says Luke, handing over a large pebble, and indicating at another bottle a few feet away down the beach. ‘We could just go for a quick pint before you go home. What d’you say?’

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ Martin says after some time, and he launches his missile.

  It hits the glass bottle, spraying shards of green glass far and wide.

  Late that night, Luke hears the rattle and thump of Dad and Simon, stumbling in from the pub.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Dad hisses loudly, as Simon tries to stifle his laughter, and the wooden umbrella stand tumbles over with a crash.

  Within moments Mum is in the hallway too, right outside Luke’s bedroom door, whispering angrily at the pair of them, telling Simon she’s had enough, that he should be back home with his own wife.

  ‘She doesn’t want me,’ he mutters.

  ‘Can you blame her, in this state? Honestly, Simon, we’ve had you here for long enough now. Sooner or later you’ve got to go home and sort things out with Laura.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me – and she doesn’t want kids.’ He sounds like a petulant child. ‘You know, Rich?’

  ‘I know, pal, I know,’ says Dad, his words coming out slushy. ‘Come on, sir. Another drink?’

  ‘Can I go and see Kitty? Say goodnight? Little Kit-Kat?’

  ‘Richard!’ Mum shrieks. ‘This has to stop!’

  ‘C’mon, Jo, love. He’s my bess friend. We can’t just throw him out into the street. You go back to bed, love. Go on. Go on.’

  Their voices move away, and Mum’s bedroom door closes, as the low voices of the two drunken men disappear behind the glass door of the living room, and the house is quiet again.

  11

  Met Office report for the Isle of Wight, mid-August 1976: Maximum temperature 78°F/25.6°C

  There hasn’t been a drop of rain for almost six weeks, and the entire island now has a bleached-out appearance, where the grass has scorched dry and the earth ruptures with drought. Out on the streets and pavements the asphalt softens and bubbles, clinging to the soles of flip-flops, scalding the feet of those foolish enough to go barefoot along the esplanade at the height of the day.

  On Sunday morning, the phone rings just as Luke emerges from his bed, startling him as he rubs his drowsy eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ he answers, his voice groggy with sleep. He was out late after work last night, celebrating his exam results, and his head thumps a dull beat.

  ‘Richard – John McKee here,’ says the voice at the end of the line. ‘There’s been another photograph. It’s Laura Drake this time.’

  ‘Oh,’ Luke replies, glancing along the hall for signs of Dad.

  ‘Cowardly bastards put it up on the board outside St John’s during this morning’s service. I thought perhaps it’s best if you or Joanna let Laura know. I know things between her and Simon are a little strained of late. Richard?’

  ‘I’ll just get him,’ Luke replies, and he drops the receiver against the phone stand with a clatter.

  In the kitchen, Dad goes off to take the call and Luke pours himself a glass of milk, sliding on to the kitchen bench to sit beside Kitty. He watches Mum as she hangs around by the kitchen door, casually trying to listen in on Dad’s telephone conversation, waiting for him to finish the call. When Dad finally returns to the kitchen, he and Mum step out on to the garden path, pushing the door shut to talk together in hushed tones. He might not be able to hear them, but from his kitchen seat Luke can still see the rise and fall of Dad’s hands beyond the glass panels, moving through the air expansively, betraying his disquiet.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asks when they return a few minutes later.

  ‘Nothing, nosy parker!’ Dad replies, too merrily.

  Mum fiddles with the teatowel, folding it and unfolding it, seemingly oblivious to Luke and Kitty sitting at the bench. ‘Don’t wake Simon yet,’ she tells Dad. ‘Let him have a lie-in.’

  Dad starts preparing breakfast for the family, punctuating his activities with jovial quips, joking with Kitty while Mum lingers at the back door, gazing out into the garden beyond.

  ‘One egg or two?’ Dad asks her, patting her bum as he passes, making her flinch.

  ‘Richard,’ she hisses.

  Dad grimaces at Luke, pretending to look scared behind Mum’s back. He’s got a cushion zip mark pressed into his forehead from his night spent sleeping on the sofa. Luke found him and Simon in the living room this morning, Dad sprawled out on the sofa, Simon flat out on his camp bed, his arms straight along his sides, his parched-looking mouth hanging open. The room stank of stale beer and ashtrays.

  ‘I’ll have two,’ says Luke, stooping below the table to tie his shoelaces. ‘Two eggs. So, what was that all about on the phone?’ He looks up to watch his parents’ reactions.

  Dad returns to the hob, his back resolutely turned to the group. ‘Nothing important.’ Mum stares at him blankly and shakes her head, as he strides across the room and switches on the radio, tuning it in to some pop channel before cracking a sizzling egg into the frying pan.

  ‘I’ll make the tea,’ says Luke, getting up and indicating for Mum to sit in his place. Mutely, she slides across the bench to be opposite Kitty.

  ‘Are you sad, Mummy?’ Kitty asks, reaching over the table to pat Mum’s hand.

  Mum reaches out and clasps Kitty’s hand between her palms. ‘No!’ she says brightly, and turns her face to the wall.

  ‘Mummy?’ Kitty pleads.

  Mum waves her hand in front of her face. ‘I’m fine, Kitty! I’m just a bit hot. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m fed up with this weather – it’s just too much now!’

  Luke stirs a sugar into his mug, and pushes open the other door into the garden.

  ‘That’s better,’ says Mum, and she gives him a forced smile as he passes her a cup of tea. ‘So, no work today, Luke?’

  ‘No – now I’ve got my place confirmed, I thought I’d sort out some of my packing ready for September, work out what to take, what to leave behind. The bookshop phoned to say my textbooks have arrived, so I can pick them up tomorrow.’

  Dad slides the plates on to the table and sits on the bench beside Mum.

  ‘Goodness, it won’t be long before you’re off, Luke,’ she says, her fingers covering her mouth nervously.

  He sits at the end of the table and picks up his knife and fork. ‘First week in September – that’s when I’ll be moving into my rooms. I think lessons start the week after, something like that.’

  Mum pushes at her egg yolk with the tip of her knife. ‘It doesn’t seem like five minutes since you were Kitty’s age, and now look at you, nearly eighteen and off into the world on your own –’ She suddenly gasps. ‘Luke! Your birthday!’

  Luke carries on eating. ‘It’s this Wednesday.’

  ‘Is it?’ asks Dad.

  ‘We said we’d do a party, Richard. Remember?’ She looks as if she might cry.

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum. Honestly, I’d rather do something on my own anyway. Tom said he’d drive us over to the Ryde Queen up at Newport. There’s a group of us going from work.’

  ‘But it’s your eighteenth. You’re
supposed to do something special on your eighteenth birthday, Luke.’ She puts down her knife and fork and stares at her full plate of food. ‘I can’t believe we haven’t organised anything.’

  He glances up and sees just how ragged she looks. ‘Mum, do you think you should go to the doctor’s?’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Dad says, incredulous. He turns to look at Mum, who now has her face in her hands.

  ‘That’s not normal, Dad,’ Luke says quietly, with a nod of his head. ‘Look how thin she’s got, and she’s hardly been outside for the past month – it’s the hottest summer of the century, and she looks paler now than I’ve ever seen her. Sorry, Mum, but it’s true.’

  Dad crams the last of his toast into his mouth and glares at Luke, chewing it fiercely before washing it down with tea. ‘Well, you certainly know how to make a woman feel better about herself, don’t you? Nice work, Luke.’

  ‘What? Bloody hell, Dad. I only said something because I’m worried! I’m not the one who got her in this state, am I?’

  ‘And I suppose you’re trying to suggest I am?’ He slams out of his seat, ineptly scraping bacon rinds into the bin.

  ‘The birds could have had those,’ Luke retorts, feeling like an idiot the moment he says it.

  Mum is sitting upright now, at an angle with her back to the men, walking her fingers back and forth across the table to distract Kitty.

  ‘The birds?’ Dad yells. A livid vein throbs on the side of his temple. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Luke?’

  ‘I’m talking about you! You and your stupid parties!’ Luke shouts back.

  ‘Luke, stop it!’ Mum spins round to face him, her eyes wild.

  ‘Do you really think you can keep something like this a secret, Mum? You all think you’re so bloody sophisticated, that you can all handle it, you and your big swanky friends – but you can’t!’

  Simon appears in the doorway, squinting his puffy eyes against the bright light of the kitchen.

  ‘Luke, I’m warning you –’ says Dad, grabbing for the rest of the plates, scraping them so hard over the bin they sound as if they might shatter.

  ‘Please!’ Mum beseeches.

  The noise is deafening: the music from the radio, the plate-scraping, the shouting and gasping. Luke pushes past Simon, thumping the doorframe as he goes. ‘Well, guess what? You’re not sophisticated, or special, or clever!’

  ‘LUKE!’ Dad bellows, dropping the last plate into the sink with such force that it cracks in two.

  ‘Christ,’ Simon says, running a hand through his unruly blond hair and stepping back.

  Luke lurches back in through the door and picks up his empty mug, lobbing it across the kitchen to land hard against the broken plate. ‘You’re no different from that idiot next door. You’re just a bunch of – of fuckers!’

  ‘Language, Lu-lu!’ Kitty screams, silencing them all.

  No one speaks, and Kitty sits immobile, clearly stunned that she’s managed to silence the room. After what seems like an endless impasse, Luke stoops to kiss Kitty on the top of her head, before leaving the room. ‘Sorry, Kitty,’ he calls back, and he walks calmly along the hall and out of the house, slamming the front door as he leaves.

  On the evening of Luke’s birthday, Tom calls at eight to drive them over to Newport. Luke is in the kitchen eating a sandwich, watching Mum as she quietly tends to her wine production, when Tom walks in and knocks at the pine table to announce his arrival.

  This afternoon, after three days of silence, Luke finally gave in and spoke to his parents, after they got Kitty to call him out to the garden for a surprise tea party. Mum presented him with a triple-decker sponge cake, iced and decorated with eighteen candles and all his favourite childhood sweets, and Dad handed him an envelope containing eighteen pounds, as well as a brand new Swiss Army knife, shiny and unused. In typical Wolff family style, Sunday’s argument goes unmentioned, and despite the forced jollity of the day a cautious atmosphere still weighs heavy.

  ‘Alright, hippy?’ Tom reaches across the table and flicks Luke’s hair, before noticing Mum hunched down among her wine barrels, checking through the tubes and joiners. ‘Hey-ho, Mrs W,’ he says, giving her one of his charming smiles. ‘Hope you don’t mind me letting myself in – the front door was open.’

  ‘Not at all, Tom,’ she says too brightly, pushing her hair off her face, rolling out her breeziest voice for Luke’s birthday. She puts her hands on her hips and gives Tom a soppy smile. ‘It’s so nice of you to take Luke out tonight – he’s really looking forward to it.’

  Luke nods drily at Tom.

  ‘No problem. I’ve been meaning to check out the Ryde Queen since I got here. Nice to have someone to go with.’ He places a carrier bag on the table and pushes its boxy shape across towards Luke. ‘Happy birthday, man.’

  Mum tightens the top of her wine barrel and dries her hands on a teatowel, folding it neatly and placing it on the dresser. She stares into space for a few seconds, before noticing Tom’s gift. ‘From you, Tom?’

  Luke pats the shape, rotating it slowly as if trying to guess the contents.

  ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Didn’t think you’d mind too much, Lukey-boy.’ He sits astride the bench opposite, resting his back against the wall, casually drumming his fingers on the table.

  Luke reaches inside the bag and pulls out a shoe box. Inside is a pair of green Converse All Star baseball boots.

  ‘Mate, this is too much,’ he says, holding one up, turning it over in his hands. ‘They’re brilliant, man. Brilliant.’ He slides to the edge of the bench and kicks off his shoes, loosening up the new white laces and easing his feet in. ‘Ace,’ he says, nodding to himself and smiling broadly. ‘And they’re the right fit.’

  Mum smiles knowingly. ‘So that’s why you asked for his shoe size last week.’

  ‘I was back home at the weekend, meeting some old mates, and I picked them up then. There’s this brilliant place on the King’s Road. It’s got all the latest stuff – printed T-shirts, studded belts. You should see the woman who runs it; she’s proper punk.’

  ‘Ooh, punks,’ says Mum. ‘Aren’t they the ones with the chains and piercings? Sounds a bit brutal to me, all that anarchy.’

  Luke ignores her as he readjusts his laces, wishing his mum would go off and do something else, with her stupid cheery voice and fake smile.

  ‘That’s where people get it all wrong, Mrs W,’ says Tom, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles on the wooden bench. ‘Really, it’s a lifestyle – an attitude – a whole new way of expression through music.’

  Mum looks thoughtful. ‘Interesting. There’s always something new, isn’t there?’

  ‘You know what, Luke, she’s cool, your mum.’ Tom rubs his jaw appreciatively.

  ‘Ha,’ Luke snorts, not looking at Mum.

  ‘It’s true, man. She’s one cool mamma.’

  ‘Stop teasing.’ Mum laughs. She turns away to run a sink of hot water, and Luke pushes the bench out, irritably motioning that they should leave.

  ‘So Mr W’s out with my old man tonight, isn’t he?’ Tom asks from the doorway.

  ‘I think so. Richard and Simon went off to call for him about half an hour ago,’ Mum smiles over her shoulder as they leave. ‘Have a good time, boys. Look after him, Tom!’

  Beside the front door, Luke rummages through the coat cupboard, searching for his denim jacket.

  ‘I wouldn’t go expecting your dad back in any fit state,’ Tom says as he stands in front of the hall mirror, checking his reflection, first one side then the other. ‘My old man’s on a mission. Diana and him had a massive fight before he went out. Blazing, it was. Something about these mucky photos everyone’s talking about.’

  Luke doesn’t answer, pretending to be preoccupied in his search.

  ‘Man, you’re fine as you are. It’s been eighty-two degrees today – believe me, you’re not gonna need a jacket. So what d’you reckon?’ Tom says, lowering his voice. ‘D’you think they’r
e all involved in these wife-swapping parties, then?’

  Luke kicks the door shut behind him and pushes his hands into his pockets as they walk down the drive towards Tom’s car. ‘Nah. They’re all too straight. Anyway, I’m just glad to get out of this place for the night, man. I don’t need the hassle.’

  ‘But there’s gotta be something in it,’ Tom goes on. ‘I wonder how they do it – is it like picking teams at school, where you all line up and hope you’re not the last man standing? Imagine the humiliation, being the last of the ugly swingers to get picked. Ha!’

  He unlocks the car and they get in, rolling down the windows to release the built-up heat of the day. Despite the advancing hour the vinyl seats are still hot to the touch, filling the car with a cloying scorched smell. Tom pulls out into the road and slaps Luke on the thigh, before reaching across and opening the glove compartment with one hand, pulling out a half-bottle of scotch. He hands it to Luke. ‘Woohoo! The big Eighteen, man! Have a slug of that, get you in the party mood.’

  Luke breaks the metal seal, raises the bottle and takes a drink, hooking an elbow out of the window to feel the breeze on his skin. ‘Cheers, mate.’

  ‘And nice threads, by the way – I see you finally ditched the flares.’

  Luke stretches his legs out to admire his newly tapered black trousers, reaching down to snap off a loose thread that’s been left hanging. ‘Yeah, I got my mum on the sewing machine this afternoon. They look alright, don’t they?’

  As he looks up, he sees Martin walking along the pavement towards them, an envelope in his hand. Luke turns his head away too late, and their eyes meet briefly before the car sails by.

  ‘Yeah, you look cool, man,’ Tom says. ‘Specially with the new boots. The ladies are gonna be falling at your feet.’