Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  She pushes the door back against the wall, sliding the wedge beneath it with a push of her bare toe. ‘Oh, everyone’s got something to hide, darling,’ she says. She kisses him on the cheek and tilts back against the doorframe, where the morning air breezes lightly from the garden, rippling her gown like water.

  Luke pauses momentarily, carefully storing to memory the beautiful vision of Diana as she stands in the doorway, knowing it will never happen again. ‘Thanks,’ he says, barely a whisper.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she replies with a small dip of her head, and then he’s gone, out through the side door and over the wall, silently slipping into his own bedroom and under the sheets, where he’ll sleep off his hangover for the rest of the day.

  12

  Met Office report for the Isle of Wight, late August 1976: Maximum temperature 83°F /28.2°C

  As late August heads towards September, the humidity across the country is becoming intolerable, as news headlines claim that Britain is in the grip of the worst drought in five hundred years. The island throngs with locals and holidaymakers, all vying for space on the beaches, any sense of everyday order and work routine having evaporated along with the water from the rivers and streams.

  For the twenty-four hours following his birthday an eerie calm settles in Luke’s home; Mum and Dad quietly occupy themselves in separate corners of the house, while a subdued Kitty trails between them, giving in occasionally to flop about on the dusty lawn, too hot to complain or whimper. Simon is still with them, but he’s been spending more time out of the house lately, since he and Mum had another bust-up last week, when he took Kitty down to the beach without asking her. Nobody calls at the front door, not even the postman, and the telephone doesn’t ring at all. It’s as if the brakes are on, as if the whole world has slowed to a halt, and Luke embraces the silence, crawling back beneath his bedcovers and disappearing behind a welcome curtain of sleep.

  When Friday comes round, he should be working, but instead he rises early and phones in sick, telling Philip he’ll be back on Sunday, to collect his wages and say his final goodbyes. ‘I’m really sorry to let you down,’ he lies. ‘I just need a couple of days to get over this stomach bug.’ He hangs up, relieved that, for the next couple of days at least, he doesn’t have to face Tom and Samantha.

  After a shallow mid-morning bath, Luke waters the front garden, trailing back and forth along the hall with buckets of soap-clouded bathwater, which he distributes along the borders, throwing the last of it across the dehydrated lawn. It has become second nature now, to reuse the water. Luke watches as it slowly seeps into the earth, taking long minutes to soak through the hard-baked top layer, into the parched soil below. He replays his conversation with Martin on the phone last night, when he asked yet again about that missing reel of film. Martin was evasive, offhand even, and something in his uncharacteristically cold tone told Luke that he was lying, that he knows where that film is after all.

  Luke swings the bucket idly at his side, wandering over to the front wall, where he scans the road beyond his gate. The street is empty, bar a few weary house sparrows that chirp and flutter in the branches of the tree opposite. There’s no activity from the Michaelses’ house, nor from Mrs Bevis’s the other side. It’s no wonder; it’s so hot, everyone’s taken to hiding out in their houses, out of the heat, out of the endless glare of the sun.

  Back inside, he finds Mum in her bedroom, sitting up on the bed with Kitty asleep at her side. She’s reading a book, holding it up in her left hand, gently twirling a lock of Kitty’s hair with her right.

  ‘Anything good?’ he asks from the doorway.

  She turns the book face down across her lap and pats the bed, as Luke crosses the room to perch on the edge of the mattress beside her.

  ‘You’re not working?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s too hot,’ he replies, flipping the book round to see the cover. ‘It’s nice to see you reading again, Mum. Remember when I was little, we used to sit and read together for hours? I loved that.’

  ‘I don’t know why I stopped,’ she says, gazing across the room with a little frown. ‘I used to live for books. Before your dad, reading was my grand passion.’

  ‘Maybe you should try to make more time for that type of thing? I mean, you must get a bit bored, just looking after all of us. Don’t you?’

  She smiles at him gently. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘But it must be boring. The same thing, day in, day out? Don’t you sometimes wish for a bit more excitement?’

  Kitty wriggles on the bed, letting out a little whine as her thumb drops from the corner of her mouth.

  Mum brings her finger to her lips. ‘Shush,’ she whispers.

  Luke lowers his voice. ‘I thought I’d go over and visit Nan today, see if she needs anything. Her ankle’s still playing her up a bit, so she might want me to pop down the shops and fetch a few things.’

  ‘She’ll like that,’ Mum says. ‘You’re a good grandson.’ She strokes Kitty’s hair, smoothing it from her face, exposing her clear soft forehead. ‘I still feel bad that we didn’t do much for your birthday, Luke. Why don’t I cook you a special lunch before you leave – we could get Nanna over, and Martin? Even Tom, if you like?’

  ‘Not Tom,’ he replies quickly.

  Mum looks surprised. ‘Oh. Well, whoever you like. But we should do something, shouldn’t we? It’s a big deal, turning eighteen – and going off to polytechnic on your own.’

  Luke’s staring out of the window, trying to tune in to the sound of a distant aeroplane as it passes over. ‘OK,’ he says when she nudges him. ‘That’d be great.’

  Mum closes her eyes, inhaling deeply as her head eases back against the pillow. He watches her for a moment, seeing the tension in her facial muscles, the tightening of her jaw. He places his hand over hers and squeezes it gently.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘How long is Simon staying for?’

  She opens her eyes.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look as if he and Laura are going to patch things up, does it?’

  She looks away. ‘I hope it won’t be much longer, Luke. I want my home back. I want my living room back.’

  ‘You need to be firm with Dad, you know? Assert yourself. Women’s rights and all that.’ He smiles, wanting her to smile back.

  A single tear runs down her cheek, and bounces off the book in her lap. She reaches out for his face, cupping his cheeks in her hands and kissing him softly on the nose. ‘I just want to get back to how things used to be.’

  ‘They will be, Mum, before you know it.’ He sits back to look at her squarely, trying to convey his understanding. ‘I’d better get off to Nanna’s. If I get there early enough, I’ll be in with the chance of some lunch. More than I’d get around here.’ He smirks, patting her leg as he gets up to go.

  Mum covers her face and laughs silently, brushing away her tears, and checking her fingers for mascara. ‘Luke?’ she says, as he reaches the door. ‘There’s a job advertised at the library, starting in September. I saw it when I picked up my book. What do you think?’

  He stands in the doorway, looking at her and Kitty, noticing the way the sunlight streams in through the net curtains, making halos of their loose hair. ‘I think it’s a great idea, Mum. You’d be brilliant.’

  ‘You think they’d even consider me?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Mum, they’d be mad not to.’

  The wooded approach to Nanna’s house ripples with birdsong as Luke slows and turns his scooter into her path. He removes his crash helmet, and pauses a moment to sit in the dappled sunlight, listening to the peaceful murmur of trees and the distant sounds of holidaymakers down at the creek beyond her garden. He could live here, quite happily, quite quietly.

  Nanna raps on the window and beckons him in.

  ‘You’re just in time for a bit of shepherd’s pie,’ she says, drying her hands on her apron. She taps her cheek with her finger, and he stoo
ps to give her a kiss.

  Nan hobbles across the kitchen to fetch an extra plate, her limp as bad as ever. She winces as she steadies herself on the corner of the table and places the plate down, pausing to gather herself before she returns to the sink to continue with the drying-up.

  ‘How are your aches and pains, Nanna?’ Luke asks, taking the teatowel from her and pointing to a chair.

  She hands it over and takes a seat. ‘I’m alright, son. Tell you what: in ’ere, it’s all tickety-boo,’ she says, tapping her head. ‘It’s just the bits on the outside that’s gone to seed. Old age, son, that’s what it is. Wouldn’t recommend it.’

  ‘You’ll outlive the lot of us, Nanna,’ Luke says, putting away the last of the pots and hanging the towel on its hook. ‘Have you heard the birds out there today? They’re making a hell of a racket – the woods across the road are humming with them.’

  ‘It’s the ladybirds,’ she says, rubbing her knee through a wrinkly beige stocking. ‘Bloody millions of them; I’ve never seen the like. Mrs Fenton walked past my window the other day, all dressed in her Sunday best – yellow hat, yellow dress – covered in ’em, she was. Every time she brushed ’em off, more landed – her back was crawling! I called out the window to her, “What’s that on you?” Well, you know what a bible-basher she is; probably thinks it’s a plague sent to test us.’ She slaps her thigh and cackles, her eyes glazed over. ‘Oh, flip,’ she suddenly says, putting her hands in the air. ‘Run outside and turn off the hose, would you, son?’

  Luke jogs through the house and out through the doors at the back, to find the hose snaking across the parched lawn, feeding water into the old concrete pond at the side of the garden. He turns it off at the tap and reels it back in so that it’s out of view of the neighbours. ‘Nanna!’ he scolds as he returns to the kitchen. ‘Nanna, there’s a hosepipe ban, you know?’

  She pulls a baffled expression.

  ‘You must have heard about it,’ he says, wrinkling his brow to let her know he’s not fooled. He sits on the seat opposite her, and kicks off his baseball boots, removing his socks and flexing his hot feet under the table. ‘It’s all they talk about on the news – drought this, drought that. You can’t have missed it, Nan. S.O.S? Save or Suffer.’

  Nanna shrugs. ‘It’s for the birds. It’s not their fault we’ve got no water. That nice wildlife bloke on the telly said they’re the ones suffering – the birds – so I thought I’d put a bit of water out for ’em. They like a bath, ’specially those lovely little house sparrows.’

  She eases herself out of her chair and struggles over to the oven, opening up the door to release a hot burst of cooking into the room. She lifts the shepherd’s pie out and places it on a pot stand in the centre of the table, handing a serving spoon to Luke as she lowers herself into her chair.

  ‘How was your birthday?’ she asks, pushing the hot dish back along the table.

  Luke takes a mouthful of food, and chews slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Crappy,’ he finally says, and he takes another forkful.

  ‘I thought you were going out with that new lad, Tom, and the girl you liked?’

  ‘I did. That’s why it was crappy. This is delicious, Nanna. Thanks.’

  She serves him another scoop of food as he eats ravenously, enjoying his meal more than any he’s tasted in weeks. ‘So what happened?’

  Luke sighs, and rests his fork for a moment. ‘In a nutshell, Nanna, we went out to a nightclub, and we were having a fine old time, until my new mate got off with the girl I really liked and they left me there to get home alone. Honestly, I only went off to get a bit of fresh air for a few minutes and they disappeared. Apparently they were all over each other.’

  ‘And he’s meant to be your mate?’ Nan purses her lips and shakes her head. ‘Dirty bastard.’

  Luke splutters, covering his mouth with his hand. He picks up his fork. ‘That’s why I love coming to see you, Nan. You always know the right thing to say.’

  After they’ve cleared the dishes they take a slow walk around the garden, to see how the plants are doing. So many of them have wilted and died. Nanna points out those that want cutting back, and Luke collects them up in the wheelbarrow as she hobbles alongside him, leaning heavily on her knobbly stick.

  ‘Here we go,’ she says when they reach the top end of the garden where the hedge backs on to the creek. She holds out her hand and Luke passes her the secateurs, which she uses to cut and collect a dozen or so rosehips. She slips them into the front pocket of her pinny and hands back the secateurs. ‘So when will you next see this Tom fella?’

  Luke scrutinises her suspiciously, and picks up the handles of the wheelbarrow as they head back towards the house. ‘Sunday. It’s my last shift, so I’ll probably have to face up to him then.’

  ‘Alright, son. Well, make sure you stop by here on your way to work, eh? We’ll give that Tom a little something to remember you by,’ she says, patting her apron pocket.

  Luke laughs, and helps her up the step and into the house.

  On Saturday evening, instead of retreating to his bedroom, Luke sits up with his parents and Simon, watching television. Dad takes the armchair, while Mum and Simon sit either end of the sofa with Luke awkwardly wedged in between. Luke glances at Mum from time to time, wondering what she’s thinking as she sets her gaze towards the television, trying to avoid his eyes, trying to act normal. At the nine o’clock news, Dad tops up his and Simon’s wine glasses, putting the bottle down when Mum covers her glass with a flat hand, her eyes still fixed ahead. The island still lies beneath a blanket of oppressive heat, and as they watch together in silence Luke’s thoughts drift over his night with Diana, back to the warmth of her encircling arms, the soft pressure of her moving hips. Even though he knows it will never be repeated, not with Diana at any rate, he savours the memory, returning to it again and again, a reassuring distraction from the chaos of his life. Sitting here in the uneasy humidity of yet another airless night, he feels entirely disconnected from the events playing out across the rest of the world, as if their island exists alone, in its own little bubble. In Belfast there’s news of yet another bombing, while Catholics and Protestants march side by side for peace, many of them pushing prams or carrying babies. The east of England is slowing to a standstill as sudden downpours cause flash flooding, the unexpected volume of water powerless to penetrate the sun-baked fields and hardened ditches. Weather experts say we haven’t seen a summer like it in over a century, a summer of such severe drought, of forest fires and failing crops and plummeting milk yields. Thunderstorms in Mildenhall have brought down an American Air Force plane, killing eighteen passengers and crew, while across the Atlantic in Greenland another crashed earlier in the day, killing twenty-three. Even the sporting world is affected by this strange shift, with the England–West Indies match at Lords unexpectedly rained off before close of play. Despite the disappointment of interruption, the spectators, weary from endless weeks of sunshine, stand from their seats and cheer.

  ‘The world’s gone mad,’ Dad says, taking a sip from his wine glass. ‘It’s like Bedlam out there.’

  So it’s a surprise when the day’s news ends on a light-hearted report from Notting Hill, depicting the preparations for the bank holiday carnival and predictions that it will pass off peacefully this year. Yet something in the joyous scenes of costume-making and steel drum rehearsals unsettles Luke as he leaves the room and heads for bed. All night long, an imperceptible anxiety tugs at his drifting mind, merging with half-seen visions of Diana, disturbing his humid sleep like an unfinished dream, where the ending is just a whisper away.

  Luke’s final shift starts at nine, and he arrives early to stop off at the managers’ office and settle his final wages. There’s a thick cloak of pressure in the atmosphere; overhead, the sun shines brightly on the mainland side of the island, but back towards the west the sky darkens, growing pewter-like in colour.

  As he approaches the office he’s drawn to turn his face towards the swoop and fall
of the swallows that dance high above the building, dipping low to feed on the flying ants that swarm in the angry sky. At the foot of the wooden steps, he discovers the source of the ants: a desiccated mound of soil that erupts from the dusty earth, spewing winged insects like a nightmarish volcano.

  He knocks on the office door and enters to find Suzy and Philip both on duty, wrestling for space behind the small desk, where they push papers about and count out event tickets.

  ‘Sorry about the last couple of days,’ Luke says when they look up. He shifts his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other. ‘I had gastroenteritis or something. Horrible.’

  Suzy wrinkles her chin critically. ‘Couldn’t have been worse timing, Luke. You know it’s the busiest weekend of the season? We’ve been run off our feet.’

  ‘Yeah, like I say, sorry.’

  She swipes the perspiration from her upper lip, and ignores him. ‘God, it’s muggy.’

  Philip rocks back in his chair and smiles at Luke, screwing his face up at the back of Suzy’s head. ‘Ignore her, mate. She’s in a bit of a huff, that’s all.’

  ‘Sod off, Phil,’ she says, continuing to count tickets.

  ‘That Tom fella has copped off with Samantha, hasn’t he? I think Suzy was a bit keen on him, weren’t you, Suze?’

  ‘No,’ she replies through gritted teeth. ‘Why would I bother with an idiot like him?’

  Philip nods vigorously, rubbing his chin in a show of disbelief.

  ‘So, they’re going out together?’ Luke asks, casually. ‘I had heard something, but I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Suzy gave them an official warning yesterday, didn’t you, Suze?’ Philip pats her on the back.

  ‘Yup.’ She looks at Luke, straightening up and tapping her pen in the palm of her hand. ‘Caught them snogging outside the ballroom – they were on duty. We can’t have that. Not on duty.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do anything like that, would you, Suze? Not on duty.’ Philip laughs raucously, pushing his chair back and walking round to the front of the desk. ‘What a bloody hoot,’ he says, and he runs his finger down the rota chart and locates Luke’s name. ‘Here you are – Luke Wolff – you’re over on the far chalets for the first couple of hours, then pool duty after lunch.’ He returns to the desk drawer, where he picks out the relevant room keys and hands them to Luke. ‘You’re with Gay Gordon.’