Summer of '76

by Ashdown, Isabel

  ‘So, are Tom and Samantha both working today?’ Luke asks.

  ‘Tom is,’ Philip says, returning to the desk. ‘He was in here about ten minutes ago. He doesn’t start till nine. I think he said he was going to have a swim first – you’ll probably find him over at the pool.’

  Luke pushes the keys into his pocket and jogs down the wooden steps, out along the dirt path to the pool, swatting the insects away as he goes. He slowly edges around the side of the changing rooms, until he can see Tom, who’s doing lengths, alone. Luke waits until Tom starts another length away from him, before quietly making his way along the side of the pool and in through the entrance to the men’s changing room. Swiftly he reaches into his duffel bag to bring out the envelope of dried rosehip powder that Nanna handed him this morning on his way to work. He hurries to coat the inside of Tom’s underpants and T-shirt with the fine powder, before edging out of the changing rooms and dropping back down on to the path, unnoticed.

  The morning passes quickly, as Luke and Gordon move from chalet to chalet, by now having got their cleaning routine together finely tuned, with Gordon concentrating on the bathrooms while Luke sweeps out the bedrooms and changes the sheets and towels.

  ‘We’re a bit of a dream-team, you and me,’ Gordon says with a little flick of his duster.

  Luke curls his lip. ‘Don’t go getting any funny ideas.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Gordon replies, puffing out his chest. ‘You’re not my type.’

  Luke laughs, pausing to lean on his broom handle. ‘D’you know, for a while, I was actually worried that you and Samantha might get it together?’

  Gordon carries the bucket through the chalet and places it on the front step. He rests his hand on the doorframe. ‘Is that really so hard to believe? I mean, look at me!’ He holds his arms out wide, and makes a sweeping gesture down his body.

  ‘Don’t you get any bother? About being queer?’

  ‘Do you really have to use that expression?’ Gordon asks, indicating for Luke to follow him outside as he locks up the room.

  ‘Well, what expression should I use? I’ve never been friends with a poofter before.’

  Gordon yelps with laughter, picking up his bucket and trailing along the path beside Luke. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to find poofter offensive too. Anyway, in answer to your question, yes, I get all sorts of bother. More bother than I could even begin to tell you.’

  ‘Then why d’you make it so obvious, if it attracts trouble?’

  ‘Why hide it?’ Gordon replies, serious for once. ‘I could go through my whole life pretending to be “normal” like generations of men before me. And for what? For everyone else’s peace of mind, not my own. What’s the point in a life half lived, Lukester? I’d rather take what comes to me. And if people give me a hard time, well, I’ll just rub their bread rolls in my armpit and be done with it.’

  The leaden sky looks set for early evening in autumn, yet the warmth in the air is growing ever more oppressive. Luke turns to look at Gordon, with his underdeveloped body and baby hair and strange little knobbly hands, and is struck by a profound surge of affection.

  ‘It’ll be good to stay in touch when we’re both in Brighton,’ he says. He unlocks the door to the final chalet, stepping aside to let Gordon pass through.

  ‘You’ll never shake me off now,’ Gordon replies, flicking at the windowsill on his way through to the bathroom. ‘I’ll be round annoying you every five minutes. That’s a promise.’

  After a few minutes, Gordon leans out of the bathroom to dump the towels in a pile on the floor, clicking his fingers to get Luke’s attention.

  ‘I have to say you’re in surprisingly good spirits, Lukester. All things considered.’

  Luke opens up the bedroom window to let the stale air out. ‘Am I?’

  ‘And you know, he’s dropped right off my Christmas card list.’

  ‘Who – Tom?’ Luke wipes his forearm across his forehead and starts to strip off the bed sheets.

  ‘Who else?’ Gordon adds, meaningfully. He returns to the bathroom, whistling cheerfully.

  Luke balls up the sheets and throws them on to the pile, before starting on the second bed.

  ‘So, I guess it’ll be a bit awkward, won’t it?’ Gordon continues, sticking his head out of the bathroom again. ‘Next time you bump into him and Sam?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Luke replies. He thinks about the fact that he’s just slept with Tom’s stepmum, and for a brief moment considers telling Gordon, just to see his reaction. He straightens up to chuck a dirty pillowcase at Gordon’s head, laughing hard as it flops over his face. ‘Now stop asking me questions and get on with your job, you big nancy.’

  At lunchtime they line up in the dining hall for lamb stroganoff and sticky toffee pudding. The hall is teeming with holidaymakers, all passing through in between swimming and lawn games, some of them looking painfully sunburnt and shiny from too much time spent by the pool. Gordon starts a ‘lobster tally’ on his fingers, pointing out the reddest of the guests as they pass from the top of the queue to find their seats in the hall. By the time Luke and Gordon sit down with their trays, the tally is up to eighteen.

  ‘He lives next door to you, doesn’t he?’ Gordon asks, setting down his tray opposite Luke’s. ‘Tom?’

  ‘God, you do go on, Gordon.’

  ‘It’s good to talk,’ he replies, as he fiddles with the salt cellar, trying to unblock the holes that have become clogged up in the damp heat. ‘It might help you to forgive and forget.’ He smirks to show Luke that he’s joking. ‘So, how will you exact your revenge, Lukey?’

  Luke shakes his head, and picks up his cutlery.

  Gordon wrings his hands like the Hooded Claw. ‘Well, you must have thought about it? What have you got in mind? Are you going to woo her back? Let down his tyres? Shit on his doorstep?’

  ‘Nothing so obvious,’ says Luke, smiling secretively as he shovels in a forkful of stroganoff.

  ‘Intriguing,’ Gordon replies. His attention is momentarily diverted, and he rests his fork on the edge of his plate, reaching out to nudge Luke’s arm across the table. ‘Over there,’ he says, and Luke turns to see Tom standing at the front of the queue, looking pained, an angry red rash having travelled up the side of his face and beneath his carefully messed hair.

  ‘Watch,’ Luke whispers to Gordon, as he attempts to suppress the smile that tugs at the edges of his mouth.

  Gordon waves at an irritable-looking Tom, who crosses the hall to sit with them, lowering his head and speaking to Luke as if nothing ever happened, as if everything’s just as it was before.

  ‘Man,’ he says, leaning in and keeping his voice low, his eyes scanning the room. ‘Man, you should be thanking me for a lucky escape, Luke. I’m not even kidding.’

  ‘You think?’ Luke asks with a sneer. ‘Why’s that?’

  Agitated, Tom looks from Gordon to Luke as his hand dips below the table to scratch at his groin. ‘I think she’s given me something. Samantha. My skin’s crawling, man. I think she’s given me the clap.’

  On his way home, Luke feels the first drops of rain as he passes through Brading, where several small children jump and scream on the church green, turning their faces skyward to catch the rare nectar on their tongues. All the way back, there are similar glad scenes as locals emerge to watch while the rain grows heavier, bouncing off the parched leaves and soaking into the arid earth of their gardens. For the first time in months, the streets glisten with moisture.

  Luke can’t bring himself to go straight home, knowing that they’ll all still be there: Mum, Dad and Simon, all of them smiling hard as they hold their breath, waiting for the next damning photograph to appear. This morning he found Mum in the bathroom, hacking away at the mildewed grout of the bath tiles, her mouth set in a livid line as the hardened filler chipped and flew beneath her chisel. She looked up at him sharply, flashing him the anger that has, for the time being, taken the place of her deep despair.
r />   Luke parks his scooter on the esplanade and wanders down the sand beside the pier, watching the rain as it hits the water beneath the dark sky. The tide is slow, languorous, sucking up hungry great gulps from the shoreline, only to push them gently back in again. The drops are refreshing on Luke’s bare arms, and he inclines his head, pushing his long hair back from his face to feel the cooling trickle of the long-absent moisture. The beach has cleared out entirely; the crowds of sunbathers have gathered up their towels and retreated to the parade in search of ice creams and amusements. Luke turns towards the pier. Drizzles of rainwater spew from its murky railings, forming tiny pools at the footings where it anchors to the shore. A few gulls squawk and peck between the concrete piles, fighting over abandoned sandwiches and taking shelter from the rain.

  As Luke watches the birds, a pale face appears from behind one of the struts; it holds his gaze, as if confused, then disappears again. It’s Len.

  Without a thought, Luke jogs across the softening sand, his T-shirt now slicked to his body, large drips of water hanging from the hem of his shorts. ‘Len?’ he calls out, as he steps into the gloom beneath the walkway.

  Len is sitting with his back against one of the struts, his elbow propped on a large rucksack. He holds out his beer can, flicking his head for Luke to sit with him. Luke rests his palm on the wet pillar, trying to assess the situation, taking in Len’s drawn expression, his unthreatening pose. He reaches for the can, takes a swig and returns it before sitting cross-legged against the opposite pillar. ‘Alright?’ he says.

  ‘You can have a whole one if you want.’ Len passes him an unopened can, avoiding eye contact, pulling his jacket close around his shoulders.

  For a short while they drink in silence, listening to the slap and drip of the rain beyond the pier. Len takes a ready-rolled reefer from inside his denim jacket and lights up, drawing on it a few times, pausing to look at it closely before offering it to Luke. He takes it, inhaling a few tokes, as the effects stream through his limbs, to linger about the backs of his knees like a heat haze.

  ‘Didn’t think you smoked,’ says Len.

  Luke concentrates hard on not smiling. ‘That’s good stuff.’

  ‘Should be. It cost enough.’

  Luke takes a few more drags, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, feeling the weight of it pressing in at his ribs. His mind lights on the night Len beat him up, how quickly they’d resorted to childish name-calling, just as they would have done back at primary school. Luke shakes his head. He’d called Len an amoeba. An amoeba. He laughs aloud, losing control, sighing between splutters as he stretches across to return the joint. Len scowls at him as if he’s an idiot; Luke holds his palms up, still laughing.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. I was just thinking about when you called me and Martin benders. It’s just a funny word. Benders.’

  Len smiles briefly – almost laughs, before he turns away again, bringing his expression under control. Luke puts his face in his hands, trying to pull himself together, feeling the grit of the sand grazing across his skin.

  When he looks up, Len is looking at him, square on, holding Luke’s eyes for an uncomfortable moment too long. There’s no aggression in the look, but something else, something so profoundly sad that Luke’s heart stutters in his chest. Abruptly, Len’s focus shifts, fixing on some invisible point out at sea. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I always thought you lot seemed like the perfect family. Your mum and dad were always so bloody cheerful – so pleased to see you.’

  Luke stares at him. ‘They liked you, Len, you know?’ he replies, not sure what use this is now. ‘And your mum’s alright, isn’t she? Well, she was always lovely to me.’

  Len scratches his rough stubble with dirty fingernails, and looks back at Luke. ‘Mate, d’you know how many stepdads I’ve had since my old man left?’

  Luke shakes his head.

  ‘Seven. That’s one for every year my dad’s been gone. One a fucking year.’

  The rain is coming down harder now, hard enough to force little rivers of water through the cracks in the walkway overhead. Luke shifts position to move out of a stream.

  Len grinds the end of the joint into the sand. He tears a corner off his thumbnail with his teeth. ‘Some of Mum’s blokes weren’t that nice.’

  ‘I’m sorry, man,’ Luke says, willing Len to turn back to him, but Len’s focus is far out over the water, unreachable. Luke pulls his knees up beneath his chin, patting the damp goosepimples beneath the pads of his fingers as he tries to think of something else to say. ‘So, where are you off to?’ he asks. ‘You’ve got your rucksack with you. Looks like you’re off somewhere.’

  ‘Mainland. It’s gotta be better than here.’

  ‘But I heard Samantha’s dad got you a job on the ferries?’

  Len glances at him darkly, and a blush rises to Luke’s cheeks. He pushes back against the shadowy pillar of the pier. ‘I heard you two split up.’

  Len laughs hard. ‘Samantha’s dad can stick his job. But that Sam, you know, she’s just a user. You’ll have heard a different story – but you know what, she took that money. Granted, we spent it together, but it was her idea in the first place. She knew exactly where to find it. But the minute she got busted, she said it was me. Obvious, really.’

  It’s the most Len has said to him in years, and Luke feels like a fool. Checking his watch, Len gathers his things and pulls his heavy bag up over his shoulders. Together they leave the gloom of the pier and walk up towards the esplanade, where they stand on the deserted parade, as the ceaseless rain streams through their hair, making rivers over their faces.

  ‘Len, you know Martin?’

  Len looks at him, shrugs.

  ‘He’s alright, man – he’s a good bloke. We all used to be friends, remember? You should give him a break.’

  Len pushes the wet hair from his face and turns to scan the curling waves one last time. ‘We’re not all like the Waltons, Luke,’ he says, not unkindly, and he walks away, out across the dimming night as the rain lashes down, never once looking back at his oldest friend, who stands at the roadside, watching until he’s disappeared from view.

  It’s getting late by the time Luke arrives back in Blake Avenue, and he parks his scooter beneath the carport, vaulting over a large puddle to let himself in. Heading through the hallway, he strips off his T-shirt and grabs a towel from the bathroom to rough-dry his hair and mop off his arms and legs.

  In the kitchen, he’s met by the surprisingly formal assembly of Mum, Dad and Simon, the three of them sitting quite calmly around the table, a Kodak wallet of photos and negatives strewn across the centre of its wooden surface. Luke’s heart jolts, his mind a racing jumble of sickness and relief. ‘What –?’ he stammers, sliding along the bench to sit beside Simon, across the table from his parents.

  Mum pushes the kitchen door closed and reaches across to squeeze Luke’s hand. ‘Kitty’s asleep,’ she says.

  ‘Are these –?’ Luke starts, but he can’t find the words, and he cautiously picks up the pictures and sifts through the images, one by one.

  ‘It’s the last of those bloody photographs,’ Dad says. ‘Thank God. Let’s hope that’s an end to it.’ He fetches a fourth glass and pours wine for Luke. ‘And you know, we had nothing to worry about, your mum and I – we’re not even in there.’

  Luke studies his dad, bemused. This is the first time he’s spoken directly about these parties, the first time he’s implied he had anything to fear. Gone is his jokey irreverence, replaced by an earnest calm, his steady hand on Mum’s shoulder as she fixes her eyes on Luke’s. He turns his attention back to the photos, which, but for just one, are quite harmless – gulls on the esplanade, sparrows in the dust, swallows at dusk. Typical Martin shots of wildlife and birds, the images crisp and clear.

  ‘Have you checked the negatives?’ he asks.

  Dad nods. ‘All there. All accounted for.’

  Luke frowns, looking around the group in wordless question.

  �
�It was Sara Newbury,’ Dad says in reply. ‘I caught her, just a couple of hours ago, outside the library, trying to pin this one on the board.’ He waves the final picture and drops it on the pile with a flick of his wrist.

  Luke retrieves the photo for a closer inspection. It’s a wonderful shot: Fatty Michaels in the altogether, an arrogant smile across his smarmy chops, his copious flesh exposed for all to see. Of all the pictures, it’s the one Luke would most liked to have seen on display. ‘You should have left her to it, Dad. Fat fucker.’

  ‘Luke,’ Mum tuts, casting him a brief disapproving glance.

  Simon laughs and puts an arm around Luke’s bare shoulder, squeezing him once and releasing him. ‘You’ve always been a good judge of character, Luke, old boy.’ He lifts his glass and clinks it against Luke’s.

  Luke runs a weary hand across his brow, looking from the face of one parent to the other. ‘So, no more secrets?’ he says. ‘Please?’

  Mum reaches for Luke’s fingers, lacing them with hers; Dad nods resolutely and reaches for the wine bottle. ‘No more secrets,’ Dad says.

  A rattle of the kitchen door handle startles them all, and Kitty staggers in clutching Marty the elephant, pausing in the doorway to rub her eyes and squint at the gathered adults. The atmosphere in the room shifts at once; Luke catches the fleeting glance between Mum and Simon, the small shake of Dad’s head. He feels exposed, sitting bare-chested in his damp shorts, as ever the one on the outside, the one looking in. It’s as if the abrupt change in weather has modified everything, shunted it all off-centre so that, once again, the world he sees is a different version to the one he knew before.

  Kitty pads around the table and leans her fuzzy head on his arm. ‘Lu-lu,’ she says, the words mumbled about her thumb. ‘Thirsty.’