I tell Dad that we had roast beef, and how it was so much tastier than boring old turkey. We didn’t have a Christmas pudding, because no one here really likes it that much, so instead we had a huge, lovely trifle and a big chocolate yule log. He doesn’t say much to that, but tells me he’s got a present for us both, that he didn’t get a chance to give it to Mum before we left. But we’ll like it, he says, it’ll be worth the wait. Then his doorbell goes, and he stops, and says, “That’ll be Stu,” and we say happy Christmas again and he’s gone. I sneak back to the front room, and Mum’s still asleep in front of the fire. Ellie’s on the rug, and when she looks up at me I can see that she’s wearing one of Katy’s disgusting new Care Bear hair clips in her fringe. She huffs and plonks her head back down to sleep. I’d be pissed off too, if I was her.
The day after Boxing Day we all go on this massive six mile walk over Tennyson Down. It’s cold and bright, and you can see all around the island, with the sea on both sides. It’s getting towards tea time, and the sky is beginning to show pink. When we get to the highest point, there’s a big stone cross, in memory of the poet, Tennyson. I’ve heard of him, but I couldn’t tell you what he’s written. At the cross, we all sit to catch our breath and eat beef sandwiches on the wooden benches that run around the monument. Aunt Rachel’s also packed some orange juice and mince pies, and it feels just like the taste of Christmas Day all over again, but right here, high up on top of the world.
Mum and Andy are a bit behind us, and they make it up to the summit a few minutes later. Mum’s eyes fix on me and George as she takes the last few paces. She brings her hand to her mouth and gasps.
“Look at them, Rachel!” she cries out, pointing to us. “It’s uncanny – have you had a good look at them?”
I stare at Mum as George frowns at me for an explanation.
Rachel looks us over, and shrugs. “Well, they’re cousins after all, Mary. It’s not so surprising. Remember how everyone used to say that about you and cousin Anne?”
“I know, I know. I still can’t believe they were born on the same day!”
Mum stands for a few moments, hands on hips, feet planted wide, looking at us from one to the other, smiling and shaking her head. George rubs his eyebrow scar and looks at his feet. I can tell he’s smirking, trying to not let her see it. I pull an annoyed face at her, but she doesn’t seem to register.
Mum’s attention is suddenly caught by the view. “Oh my God, Rachel! What a place! What a view!” Her face is shining and bright, almost mad-looking with happiness. “How could you bear to live amidst such beauty?” She flings her arms wide, her head back, deeply breathing in the cold air, and blowing it out in great white billows. Her eyes sparkle wildly, as if she’s just discovered the meaning of life.
Rachel laughs, and goes to hug Mum, like a mother to a daughter. But Mum grabs her hand and starts running down, down, down the hill that we’ve just climbed, pulling Aunt Rachel screaming and laughing behind her, her scarf trailing in the breeze. As they stop in the dip below us, I see a dark cloud rising above the sea. It moves and soars, leaving the sea behind it, and as it draws closer we see clearly the hundreds, even thousands of tiny birds that make it up. Mum and Rachel see it too, and I can make them out below, pointing and staring at the air display, way up above. Mum looks tiny in the huge dip of land. The flock cartwheels and loops, swooping high and bombing low, black as night against the deepening pink of the gigantic sky. It seems to throb like a heart.
“Starlings,” says George, as we sit on the bench with our faces to the sky. He’s taken the lid off a mince pie, scooping out the filling with his finger.
Below us, on the wide grassy plain of Tennyson Down, Mum has dropped to her knees, with her face in her hands. She hugs the ground as Aunt Rachel reaches down to her uncertainly.
“There’ll be sparrowhawks around before you know it,” says George, still looking at the sky, “picking them off, one by one. A starling cloud’s like a moving banquet for a sparrowhawk. Or a peregrine.”
“Got a fag?” I ask him, and we disappear around the other side of the cross where Mum can’t be seen.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” he says, lighting up.
“Oh, yeah,” I lie, puffing away in the cold shadow of Tennyson’s monument. I nod my head in the direction of our mums. “She doesn’t like it much, but you know, if it’s OK for her to do it, it’s OK for me. Know what I mean?”
“Too right, J. Too right,” he says, waving his fag in the air. “Solidarity, comrade.”
Katy and Andy have already run further on, throwing sticks for Ellie. Darkness seems to be coming down fast now, the red behind us deeper and lower than before. I grind the stinking half-finished stub into the stone paving with my heel. My head feels light and a bit queasy. When I spy round the other side of the cross, I see them walking back up the hill towards us, Rachel’s arm around Mum’s shoulders, Mum nodding, blowing her nose into a hankie. Aunt Rachel spots me, puts up her gloved hand, turns it into a thumbs up.
“J! Over here!” shouts George from behind me. He’s tearing down the hill on the other side, making wings from his jacket like me and Andy used to do when we were little kids. “Geronimo!” he yells, hurtling downhill. Andy and Katy are screaming away from him, with Ellie leaping about, in and out of their legs, joining in with her barks.
“Geronimo!” I answer, and we’re flying like starlings, bombing, whooping, looping, free.
Mary, December 1966
The first time I see him, he’s standing in the kitchen window of my student halls and I know he will be my one great love. I want to ask him his surname, to know if it suits me. Somehow, I recognise his steady brown eyes, his slow smile, his broad hands with their deep set nail-beds. He’s replacing a broken pane of glass, and he’s framed in the high window, looking down at me, a tape measure gripped in his tanned fist, a stub of pencil between his teeth. The rich, red sun throbs through the buildings beyond the window, casting him in dark relief.
“Oh!” is all I can say to him, as he looks down on me, barely moving.
“Milk and one sugar,” he says, his slow grin emerging. And he turns back to the window and presses putty into the wooden frame edges.
I fill the kettle and place it on the hob to boil, casting careful glances at the side of his face. He works steadily, confidently.
“I’ll leave your tea on the side,” I say, loitering by the kitchen door.
“Thanks, darlin’,” he calls over his shoulder. I leave the room quietly; wanting to flee, desperate to stay.
Here on Frith Street the Christmas lights are twinkling under a haze of December evening mist. If I squint, the passers-by blur in pretty flashes, like oil on canvas. Oils and a loose arm. I arrive at the corner, at 7.30 sharp, and quickly hide my London street map so Billy won’t see it. After a few minutes, he strolls towards me, radiant in the lamplight. His arms hang casual in his pockets, his loose curls skimming the shoulders of his tan jacket, his eyes holding me steady. I can hardly bear the weight of my attraction to him.
“You came then,” he teases. “Not so contrary after all.”
I blink at him.
“You know – Mary, Mary.”
I smile into the pavement. “Actually, I am,” I respond, arching my eyebrows, suddenly bold.
And he likes it. He lights a cigarette, drapes his arm across my shoulder and leads me along Frith Street, past the bars and restaurants bubbling with activity.
Café Emm has a Latino spirit, with a lone acoustic guitar playing out from a darkened corner, and attentive young foreign students carrying plates in and out. The tables are placed intimately close to each other, each with a low candle lamp and a crisp red tablecloth. A fug of smoke hangs across the room, sexy and white.
We sit at the back of the restaurant, and Billy offers me a cigarette. I hesitate, and take one. His mouth smirks, just out of one corner. He strikes a match, grins again, sits back.
“So, what are you studying?” he asks me, a
s we wait to be served. Billy slouches back in his chair, one ankle resting on his knee, his arm over the back of the chair. It’s the pose of a Grecian hero at rest.
“Fine art,” I reply, fiddling with the corner of the menu card. “I wanted a more design-based course, but fine art was the only way my parents were going to let me come to St Martin’s.”
He frowns at me.
“They’re old-fashioned. They’d have had me at secretarial school if I’d let them. Like my sister. So fine art it is.”
Billy nods, listening carefully. “First time away from home then?”
“No. Well, yes, kind of. It’s great, though. I love being able to do my own thing. Get in when I want, eat what I want, drink what I want. Actually, it’s bloody marvellous!”
Billy laughs, and I frown at him.
“What?”
“It’s you – I’ve never been out with anyone quite like you before.”
“Like what?” I ask him, feeling annoyed.
“Posh! That’s what it is. You talk like the Queen!”
“Bugger off, I’m not!” He’s making fun of me. I stub my half finished cigarette into the glass ashtray, and flick my long hair over my shoulder, throwing him a withering look.
“See! You even say ‘bugger’ with a posh accent! Oh, that’s brilliant!”
I hate him.
The waiter arrives to take our drinks order.
“What do you drink?” Billy asks, recovering his composure and pulling himself up in his seat. Every question seems loaded with booby traps.
“What wines do you have?” I ask the waiter.
He indicates to the list on the back of the menu. I can feel Billy growing uncomfortable.
I smile at him. “Perhaps you’d like to choose?”
He pauses, staring at the list. “What do you like?” he asks me without lifting his eyes.
“Well, that depends on what we’re eating,” I say, in clearly enunciated syllables. “Tell you what. You choose. Yes, you choose – what we eat, and then which wine to have with it. I know you’ll make a good choice.” I bat my mascara-heavy lashes at him, feeling wicked.
He rubs his chin, leans back in his seat, and looks at me under his dark eyebrows. The waiter shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. The candlelight bounces off the moisture of Billy’s eyes, and he looks like Lucifer himself, ready to devour me whole.
“Fuck it,” he says, his rough accent bared full. “Let’s drink beer. Let’s drink cold beer and eat hot food, and then we’ll drink Mescal. We’ll polish it off with a strong coffee, and then we’ll find something else to drink. You in, posh girl?”
He flashes a full smile at me, his teeth bared white like a wolf, and yes, I nearly cry out, I’m in! I’m in!
Billy’s flat is an unconverted warehouse space in London Bridge. He gets it rent-free whilst he’s working for some Egyptian businessman with properties to maintain. It’s freezing, with bare brick walls and almost no furniture. Except for a huge iron bed, piled with blankets and sheets, that looks out over the street. There’s a stack of books on an orange crate that doubles up as a bedside cabinet.
When I wake in the morning my breath billows out before me like the smoke of the night before. Three trapped starlings circle high above us, twittering and looping together, separated from the rest of their flock. There’s a single broken pane, high, high up in the glass wall of windows, and I will them to make it out into the cold and open air, but they don’t even attempt it. They’re crowd creatures, starlings; they don’t function alone. I feel pity for them; for ever in the need of others. Billy lies on his back, his lips slightly parted, one strong arm hooked over his head in sleep. I wonder, will I be missed? I can see my flatmates gossiping. It’s unlike her, Gypsy will tell them all with a knowing glint in her eye, and later she’ll take pleasure in grilling me for the gruesome details. But still, they’ll all just pack their portfolios, slick on their eyeliner and take themselves to college to swoon over the art technician or dishy Professor Hibbert. The muffled banter and trade from nearby Borough Market floats in through the broken pane; scraping carts, banging metal, gruff male voices. And not a seagull to be heard. Mother would die.
Billy stirs, rolling on to his side to face me, his fingers absently scratching at the dark stubble that’s grown in the night. As I was lying here beside him, in his bed; it grew as we slept. His eyelids roll back, like slow venetian blinds, a smile entering them as he focuses on me, eye to eye.
“Where do you come from, Mary-Mary?” His eyes droop and rise again. His hand brushes a shot of long dark hair from my face.
I hesitate, closing my eyes to him. “The south,” I say, attempting vagueness in my answer. Here, I can be anybody. Nobody.
“No!” He coughs, the stale tequila suddenly in the room with us. “Whereabouts? I’m a Pompey lad – Portsmouth! Who’d of thought it?” He’s up on one elbow, suddenly alert, excited by the connection.
I roll away to stare at the high ceiling. I don’t want this kind of intimacy. Not this. I want the fuzz of squinted eyes in lamplight.
Billy places his wide thumb across my dry lips, his expression growing troubled as his boyish enthusiasm fades. “You don’t have to tell me, Mary. I don’t need to know anything. I’m not about to scare you off. We’ve got something here.” He trails off, and pulls my body against his.
Jake, New Year 1985
We get back from Aunt Rachel’s the day before New Year’s Eve. Dad’s straight round with our present – a Pompey season ticket.
“Result, eh?” he grins.
He was right, it was well worth the wait. I’m not even that into football, but it’ll be great to go to a live match with Dad some weekends.
“Skill!” says Andy, dodging out of my way the moment he says it. And anyway, I’m that pleased about the ticket, I’m not really bothered about punching him.
“Mum, I’m going round Ronny’s,” Andy gabbles as he grabs his jacket. “To tell him about the season ticket. Man, he’s gonna be green! Pompey!” He slams the front door shut as he goes.
Mum shudders at the sound of it, then starts unpacking stuff from the travel bags that we dumped on the sofa when we got back half an hour ago. Dad stands awkwardly by the door, looking like he’s about to go, but not going.
“What you doing at New Year, then?” he finally asks.
Mum looks up, frowning. “New Year? Um. Don’t know. Why?”
I can’t make out Dad’s face at all. He seems nervy, even shy. He hands her a folded up piece of pink card, covered in little stuck-on gold stars.
“Sandy didn’t know what to do, Mary. Actually, I think she was really embarrassed. Well they’re friends with us both, aren’t they – those things don’t change just because we’re not – you know, together. Anyhow, I told her, don’t you worry about it – invite us both and we’ll sort it out. We’re both grown-ups, aren’t we, love?”
Mum’s turning the invite over in her hand. Dad’s got his hand on the door latch, looking like he wants to bolt out like Andy did a few minutes earlier. Mum passes it to me to read:
Remember the Good Old Days? Let’s twist again!
New Year’s Eve Party
At Sandy & Pete’s
8 till we drop!
(PS kids welcome too)
“Great, see you there, then,” says Mum, smiling kindly. “The kids’ll love it, won’t you, Jakey?”
Dad is scratching his neck, frowning. He’s dead good looking; dark and bright all at once. He’s not like a film star, more like one of the famous footballers you see on telly.
“No, that’s not what I meant, Mary. I meant, we’re both grown-ups – we can decide between us which of us will go, can’t we? I mean, it would be a bit awkward if we’re both there.” His forehead is all knitted up around his heavy eyebrows, and he keeps pulling his bottom lip over his teeth and rubbing his chin.
“Then I’ll go,” says Mum, still smiling.
“But,” starts Dad.
“But
I’m fine about it if you want to go too, Bill. You’re right, we’ve got to be grown-ups about this. And the kids will have a really good time. OK?”
Dad’s flummoxed. “Alright, then. Good. So – I’ll see you all there then.”
I watch him as he walks down the road, looking cool in his leather jacket and jeans.
“I like your new jacket, Dad!” I shout after him before he disappears. He looks over his shoulder and gives me a small wave before he turns the corner at the end of the street.
So, we’re all going to the party together.
Pete and Sandy’s place is a few streets away from our house, so at 8.30 me, Mum and Andy set off to the party. I’ve been going on to Mum about being late for the past half hour, but she says it’s rude to turn up dot on eight, and that we should arrive “fashionably late”. Seems strange to me – why bother saying the party starts at eight if you don’t want them to arrive till half past? We pass the Royal Oak on the way, and I try to get a look in the window to see if Dad’s there, but it’s packed inside and the windows are all steamed up.
“Alright, Stu!” I call over when I spot him going in. He gives me a little salute, as if he’s doffing a cap, then disappears inside the pub.
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