I’ve got a job! It’s brilliant; Andy and me went into Horrocks’ newsagent on the way home from school, and I asked about the paper round.
Mr Horrocks said, “Have you got a bike, lad?” and I said yes, and he said, “Can you get here at six a.m. to pick up the papers?” and I said yes. He rubbed his stubbly chin between his finger and thumb like he was thinking hard. Then he said, “You got a hat and gloves, lad?” and I nodded yes. He looked serious, like he’d changed his mind halfway through, but then he told me, “You can start on Monday.” And he patted me on the back and that was that. Didn’t even ask my age!
When we get down the road a bit, Andy pulls out a fistful of Flying Saucers and shares them.
“I could only get a few,” he says, his eyes squinting against the sherbet, “cos he was right by us this time. D’you get anything, Jake?”
I finger the Twix that I’d slipped up my sleeve as Mr Horrocks was telling me about the job. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to Mr Horrocks before today, even though he’s run the shop for as long as I can remember. There’s something calm about him, in his eyes under those bushy white eyebrows. He must be really old, but he’s got all his hair, only bright white. And he gave me the job just like that. I can’t wait to start, and I’m going to get my bike out as soon as we get back, to check the tyres and WD40 the rusty bits. I didn’t even ask how much I’d get paid.
“You can have it, Andy,” I say, handing him the Twix from my pocket. He’s chuffed to bits, and scoffs it before we get home.
My clock says 8.29 and it sounds like someone’s banging the front door down. After a pause, the doorbell rings. “Saturday,” I say out loud, pushing my eyes awake with the heels of my hands. I’m sure I can hear Dad shouting up at the window as I swing my legs out of bed, but we’re not meant to go to his until eleven. And even then, we usually have to bang down his door, and get him out of bed. Anyhow, I don’t like the sound of it, and I leg it down the stairs in my pyjamas, sticking my head in Mum’s room on the way past. She’s fast asleep. I wonder how she can sleep through that. When I get to the door, Dad pushes straight in, waving a letter around, looking really pissed off.
“Where’s your mum, Jake?” he asks, looking about the room, checking out the mess. “Out for the count, no doubt. Jake?”
I start to straighten up the cushions on the sofa, feeling the goose pimples pop up through my skin. Dad’s standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, still holding on to that bit of paper. I look at him, seeing the icy air puff out of his mouth into the cold room, and I say, “It’s bloody freezing, Dad.”
“Watch your bloody language,” he says and he clips me round the back of the head. “Come on, son. Get a jumper on and I’ll make you a cuppa. Andy still in bed?”
“Yep,” I tell him, and I run upstairs to put on a woolly. Upstairs, I check in on Andy, and then Mum again, and I’m glad to see them both asleep. I know there’s trouble brewing, but if I’m lucky I might get a bit of time with Dad before the shit hits the fan. When I get back downstairs, Dad’s cleared the fold-up table in the living room and the kettle’s starting to boil in the kitchen. He’s got his back to me, washing up a couple of mugs for the tea. The white letter is folded up in the middle of the living room table. I guess it must have been delivered in the first post for him to come over here all agitated like this. I straighten up the rag-rug by the fireplace while Dad finishes making the tea, and then he comes in with the two mugs and sits at the table.
“Sit down, son,” he says, nodding at the empty seat. Shit, I’m thinking, what’ve I done now? Maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s Andy. I’ve tried to keep an eye on him but I can’t be around all the time. At least next year he’ll be moving up to my school. Dad looks scruffy, puffy-eyed. What could be so urgent that he’d come rushing round here in just a T-shirt and jeans on a freezing Saturday morning? He looks like he hasn’t shaved, and one of the things I know he always does on a Saturday morning is shave. It’s part of his Saturday ritual, like putting a bet on the horses, and having a couple of pints in the Royal Oak, and having me and Andy for the afternoon. And a Mars Bar, he usually gets us all a Mars Bar on a Saturday.
“How was parents’ evening, Jake?” he asks me, as his fingers fiddle with the scruffy corner of the letter. There’s a smudgy blue colour to its edges, where he’s had it in the back of his new blue jeans. “Jakey? Are you with me, son? I asked you how parents’ evening went?”
It was just another of those things I thought he didn’t need to know. Sometimes staying quiet does avoid a whole load of hassle. I try to take a sip out of my tea, but it’s too hot.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, and I don’t want to look at him, because I know he’s disappointed. He doesn’t say anything, and I say, “I’m sorry, Dad,” again, and then my stupid face starts blubbing, and my nose is bubbling snot, and I just can’t stop, and I’m crying like a stupid baby. Blub blub blub, like a stupid baby. I should be able to handle this. It’s just a stupid parents’ evening.
“Jakey, lad – come on, son,” Dad says and he comes round the table, pulling me in to him like I’m little again, and all I want to do is stay there.
“I couldn’t get her out of bed, Dad!” I’m nearly shouting. I’ve got to keep my voice down. “I tried, and tried, but then it was gone five thirty, and it was too late to call you, so I thought, if we just don’t go, maybe they won’t even notice, so we just didn’t go. I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll give you your 10p back – it’s still in my pocket upstairs.” I swipe at my soggy face, and bury it in my tea, which is nearly drinkable now. Dad pushes the hair off my face, and I’m embarrassed about him seeing me cry. The folded letter sits in the middle of the table. I nod at it. “So what does it say then? The letter.”
Dad sits back in his own chair. “Nothing much, son. They just want to see me. They were a bit worried that your mum didn’t turn up, and they know we’re not together any more. That’s all, Jake, nothing for you to worry about.” He looks at me long and hard. “Jakey – we’ve just got to get on with it, son. None of us wants the school busybodies poking about, do we? Let’s just do our best, eh? Phone me next time. That’s all.”
The stair creaks and Dad goes, “Andy, mate! How’s my little man then?”
Andy shuffles down the stairs, pyjamas twisted and his hair standing up on one side. He rubs his eyes as Dad ruffles his yawning head, and I go off to wash my face. The last thing Andy needs is to see that I’ve been crying.
“Jake!” Dad calls up to me. “You might as well get yourself dressed now – we’ll head straight off if it’s alright with you. There’s no need to wait around for your mum to wake up – we’ll leave her a note.”
That’s two more hours with Dad than normal. Bonus! I catch my skinny reflection in the mirror as my face breaks into a smile, and even the rotten feeling inside starts to shrink.
“Dad?” I yell down the stairs. I love you, Dad.
“What?” he yells back.
“I like your new jeans,” I tell him.
There’s a pause, before he answers, “Alright, Jakey. Don’t wake your mum up, for God’s sake.”
I can’t stop grinning now, and I pull on my own blue jeans and plimsolls, before skidding down the stairs, two steps at a time, still wearing my pyjama top under my jumper. On the way out I quickly fill the kettle, and put a tea bag and a clean spoon in a mug on the side, next to Dad’s note. Andy and I grab our parkas and we ease the front door shut behind us.
As we all head off down the street together, Dad’s got us either side of him, hands in his pockets, trying not to shiver.
“Thought you could help me choose a little tree for the flat?” he says. “Cheer the place up a bit. Only three weeks to go, you know. Wa-hay, boys!” Then he does his usual Noddy Holder impression. “It’s Christmas! So, have you been good little boys for Santa then? Eh? Eh?” and he’s scruffing our hair, and poking our ribs, and it’s a laugh being with Dad.
When we get home from Dad’s at 6.
30, the kitchen bin is on the doorstep, scrubbed clean and drying upside down. Mum is up. We open the front door and hear the TV on in the living room. I look at Andy, putting my finger to my lips to shush him, and creep into the kitchen to check it out. It’s spotless. I give Andy the thumbs up and we take our coats off and go through.
“Hello, my lovely boys!” Mum smiles, throwing her arms out to beckon us to the sofa. She’s wearing her nice purple tunic and her black hair is brushed shiny and long.
“Did you have a good time with your dad? I’ve bought a Battenberg for tea – and Doctor Who’s on in ten minutes. Come here, you handsome princes!”
And she grabs us in this sort of huggy neck-lock, one under each arm like she hasn’t seen us in a week. She smells clean and warm. Andy’s face is level with mine, and I give him a cross-eyed spanner face. Andy laughs and I know he had a good day today.
Mary, March 1963
Rachel’s so tall and lean, she might almost look like a man. Except she doesn’t; she looks long and elegant and effortless, as if her limbs are made of mercury, the way they swing and gesture at her side. Every movement is fluid, and her dark curls tumble around her brown shoulders, picked up by the sea breeze to swirl about her face.
“Do you know about our brother?” she asks me casually, as she bends to pick up a nugget of polished green glass. “Look,” she says, inspecting it against the light.
The damp wind is howling around my ears, and I wish I’d brought a jacket down from the house. I frown at her.
“Mummy had a baby boy, and it died. That’s probably why she gets how she does.” Rachel says this like it’s everyday news, nothing to make a fuss about. She brushes her sandy hands over her tight red slacks.
“When?” I ask, not really believing her.
“After you, I think. I heard Mummy crying to Daddy about it the other day. So I snooped around in their things when they were out one afternoon, and I found the medical papers.”
“What would they say if they caught you? Rachel! Are you sure? About the baby?”
“Yes. It was there in black and white. Male, date of birth, weight, name, time of death. Urghh. It gives me the shivers to think about it.”
“So what was his name?”
“Oh, I can’t remember. What’s it matter anyway?”
“He was our brother, Rachel! Of course it matters. Sometimes I think you haven’t got a heart.”
“Well, I seem to recall it was William, now I think harder.”
“William. How sad. Poor Mummy. Can you even imagine the pain of losing a little baby like that?”
“As I say, it explains a lot. Mind you, poor Daddy too, but you don’t see him moping about feeling sorry for himself.”
“Rachel! This is so horrible! How can you talk like that?”
Rachel strokes her fingers down my arm, and smiles warmly. “You know I don’t mean it. I’m just sick of everything revolving around her all the time.”
Her eyes are full of water, and I wish I could see into her thoughts. She strides ahead over the pebbles.
“Is there a grave?” I call out to her.
She turns and walks backwards, leaning into the wind. “I don’t know. They don’t know I know, so I can’t exactly ask about it. Maybe.”
When we reach the next groyne, we sit at the water’s edge, cross-legged, and skim pebbles out to sea. The sky is a murky grey, and a salty mist lies between the horizon and the clouds, obscuring the distant piers of Brighton. I think about that little baby boy, pale and dead.
“I’ve got a bit of a dilemma,” says Rachel, still skimming stones.
I study the side of her face. She’s always so full of news, whereas nothing ever happens to me. She knows everything first, and everything happens to her before me. She’s the robber of new things.
She sighs deeply. “So, the dilemma’s name is Darren. He’s a dreamy dish, like Paul Newman, bright blue eyes and sun-kissed hair. When he’s near me, I’m a wreck. My heart beats like a drum. But he’s not our type at all, and Mummy would have a fit if she met him. And Daddy would load up that shotgun he’s always going on about. But I can’t stay away from him. He does the gardens up at the college, and I wag off to meet him when it’s double typing, because I’ve already got a speed of a hundred and twenty words a minute. When he kisses me, I’d do just about anything.” Her face is misty and flushed. She turns to look at me. “In fact, I have done just about anything with him.”
She grins, and I gawp at her. “You mean, you’ve done it? You’ve actually done it? With a gardener? Oh my God, Rachel. Oh my God. You’re right about the shotgun. Daddy must never know.”
Rachel looks very pleased with her story. “That’s not all. He’s asked me to marry him.”
“But Rachel, you’re just eighteen!”
“God, Mary, I’m not actually going to marry him. He’s a gardener, for Christ’s sake. He might be a Greek god, but he’s no provider. Mummy would never recover, and I’ll not be the one to finally send her over the edge, thank you very much. I’ve just got to work out how to let him down gently. And I’m not quite ready to finish it yet. Mary, if you could see him! This is lust, pure and simple. Sometimes I just stare out of the window as Mrs Fanshaw drones on about salutations and punctuation, and I’ll spot him in the distance, pushing a wheelbarrow, or bending to pull out a weed in the borders, and I swear my thighs start to tingle, just like they do when he runs his rough fingers under my skirt.”
“Rachel! You did not let him do that! You’re lying. Or you’re a hussy!”
She leans back and inspects her bust, tugging the hem of her blouse down, tight over her slim figure. “I guess I must be a hussy, then,” she says, and she smiles at the sea with satisfaction. “I’ll think of something,” she ponders. “Secretarial school finishes in a few months, so I’ll make the most of it until then. Come July, it’ll be au revoir Darren the Gardener.”
Rachel closes her eyes, and stretches her long arms behind her head. She’s a lithe sea serpent. She could just slither across the wet pebbles and slip down beneath the waves. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Your time will come, Mary,” she says. “When you’ve felt the undeniable power of physical passion, you’ll understand.”
Jake, December 1984
Miss Terry is drawing one of her chalk pictures on the blackboard.
“So, does anybody know who these figures are supposed to be?”
The picture shows a great round sun, with two winged men flying towards it. I know that it’s Icarus and Daedalus, but I don’t want to be the one to answer again. Miss Terry’s arm is raised as she points to the board, and the light from the window blazes through the white material of her shirt. I’m sure I can see the outline of her bra from here.
“Jake?” She’s looking at me. Standing right beside my desk, at the front of the classroom.
“Miss?” I feel my cheeks glowing hot.
“You must know, Jake?” She’s smiling at me now, her fingertips resting on the corner of my desk.
“Icarus and Daedalus, Miss.”
“That’s right, Jake, good. And what’s the story of Icarus and Daedalus?”
My palms are sweating. “Um, well, King Minos was angry when the Minotaur got killed. And Daedalus was the inventor, who invented the maze. So King Minos blamed him. He locked Daedalus and his son Icarus in a high tower.” I pause, looking up at her, hoping I can stop now.
“Very good, Jake. That’s right. So, how could they escape? Anyone hear what Jake just said about Daedalus’ job? What was his job?” She looks about the classroom with wide eyes. They’re green eyes, like mine. I can see them from here. I can see the pupils of her eyes from here.
“Inventor,” a few muffled voices call out.
“That’s right! Daedalus was an inventor. The tower was filthy with the bodies and feathers of dead birds that had used the tower as their home. So, Daedalus created two pairs of enormous wings, using the feathers and bones of these dea
d birds, bound together with candle wax. Icarus and Daedalus strapped the wings to their shoulders and launched themselves from the window of the tower.” Miss Terry weaves in and out of our desks, like a bird gliding through the sky, her arms held wide. “‘Stay away from the sun!’ cried Daedalus. ‘For the heat of the sun will melt the wax, and you will fall!’ But Icarus was having a fine time, and wouldn’t listen to his old dad. He did his own thing, looping and whooping through the sky. And guess what? He flew too close to the sun. The wax of his wings was turned to liquid in an instant and as Daedalus landed safely on an island nearby, he saw his son, Icarus, plummeting into the Aegean sea far below, leaving nothing but a few feathers floating and bobbing in the sunlight.”
She comes to a stop, back at my desk, her wings now hanging limp by her side, her head bent forward to signal that her story has come to an end. A few of the cocky boys at the back of the class clap and shout, “Bravo!” Miss Terry is smiling now, doing a little bow to the class, her face pink and shining.
“And the moral of the story is?” she asks us all, expectantly.
“Listen to your dad?” someone calls out from behind me.
“Yes, that. But, more to the point, it’s about respecting the wisdom of your elders. If Icarus had respected his dad’s advice, and known his own limitations, he may have made it to the island in one piece too. OK – that’s it for today – thanks everyone!”
The class bundle out just as the bell rings in the hallway.
“Didn’t see you at parents’ evening, Jake,” Miss Terry calls after me as I leave, behind everyone else.
“No, Miss. Flu. Mum had flu. Really bad, actually. We nearly had to get the doctor out, but then she got better suddenly, so we didn’t have to in the end. So – yep, that’s it. Actually, we thought it was pneumonia at one point, but it wasn’t.”
“OK, Jake.” She’s cleaning the blackboard, and the hem of her blouse top lifts up and down as she stretches and sweeps. I can see a little stripe of creamy skin each time she lifts her arm. “Well, tell your parents I’ll look forward to seeing them at the next one.”
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