Daddy nods, distracted.
“Well, I love it,” says Billy.
“Well, thank you!” says Mummy.
“Good,” says Daddy. “Now that’s settled, let’s retire to the lounge for a brandy, shall we?”
Mummy gives the log fire a poke and puts on more wood. I feel the glow of the flames on my red wine cheeks, and I’m gripped by a nostalgic sense of being home. Daddy has taken the armchair opposite me, and he winks, indicating for Billy to sit on the sofa next to me. Mummy perches on the arm of Daddy’s chair.
“Well, you’re certainly a handsome couple. That’s the truth.” Daddy passes Billy a brandy glass. The liquid grips the inside of the glass like oil, and Billy follows Daddy in swilling it about in warming movements.
“I’d like one,” I say.
Mummy raises her eyebrows at me.
“Just a small one,” I add.
“Get her a glass then.” He nudges Mummy with his elbow. She comes back with two, and joins us in the drink.
After a while, silence descends upon the room. It’s time. My stomach lurches when Billy presses my foot with the toe of his shoe. He takes my hand. Mummy stiffens. Daddy continues to daydream into the fireplace.
“Mr Murray,” Billy starts.
Mummy gives Daddy a little push.
“Mm?” he says.
“Mr Murray, we’re here for a reason. I want to ask permission to marry your daughter.”
Mummy gasps.
“Whatever for?” bellows Daddy, as if it’s a joke. “You’re too bloody young!”
“We love each other,” I say. It comes out like a whine.
“Of course you do. You’re young! She’s still a bloody teenager, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m not a child!” I shout, sounding like one, and rising to my feet. Billy holds on to my fingers, and stands up beside me.
We look at each other with panicked eyes.
Billy turns back to them, now at his full stature, broad and tall. “Mr Murray, we’ll do it anyway. We just want your blessing. I love your daughter.”
Mummy brings her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, God!” she sobs. “You’re pregnant!”
The tears come now. Not mine, but hers. I don’t deny it, but instead find my fingers cradling the tiny swell of my belly. My mother crumbles into my father’s arms, and sobs hard into his shoulder. They are so complete, so utterly united, that there’s no way in. There’s just no space.
Daddy looks up at me with soft, bruised eyes. “You’d better go,” he says, mildly, and he buries his face in her hair.
Jake, New Year 1985
Upstairs the Snog Room is in darkness, except for the light from the street lamps pouring through the curtainless windows. I see the shadow of Shona still at the door, and then the sound of the lock slotting shut. She walks towards me until I can see her clearly in the lamp light. She’s not pretty – not even a bit. She would’ve chosen one of those other, older boys, if they’d been interested, but in the end she chose me. I hear the fizz of the ring pull from one of my nicked lagers, and Shona takes a swig and hands it to me. My hands are clammy. Hopefully, she’ll just want to talk, maybe kiss a bit. Maybe she’ll be my girlfriend.
“What d’you wanna do?” she asks, and already she’s pulling off her tights.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, come on, you dweeb,” she slurs, hiccuping at the same time, and laughing. “Let’s just mess about a bit. How far have you gone before?”
I just gape at her.
“OK. Nod if you’ve done them. Kissing?”
I nod.
“Tongues?”
“Yeah.”
“Tits?”
Someone tries the handle from out in the hallway, and my heart jolts.
“Shouldn’t we …?” I try saying.
“Oh, sod ’em. Fingering?” She smirks. “OK. Take that as a no then. Wanna?”
I can feel a vein throbbing in my forehead, and my legs are shaking. Shona unbuttons her cardigan, and hoiks up her white bra, revealing her small white breasts.
“Here,” she says, settling on to the carpet and patting the floor in front of her. “No one’s gonna see us. It’ll be our secret. OK? Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
I nod, and kneel on the floor in front of her. Her little tits are squished into a funny shape where the bra’s pressing down on them.
“Lick them if you like,” she says, staring me straight in the eye.
I do as she says, mechanically, like I’m licking an ice cream to stop it dripping down the sides of a cone. After a minute, she shoves my head off her with a huff, and stretches back putting one bare leg on either side of where I’m kneeling.
“Push up my skirt,” she tells me. I do it. “Like my knickers?” she asks. They’re black and lacy. I nod. “Take them off, then,” she says.
For a few seconds, I just stare at the triangle of black fabric, afraid to move. She grabs my hand and pushes it down there. My feet start tingling where I’ve been kneeling back on them, and I have to change position before I can fumble about for the sides of her knickers and pull them off her. They snag and catch on her cold feet as I finally get them down. I look at her black eyes in the light, and she seems to be mocking me, daring me on.
“How old are you?” I ask her, trying to change the subject.
“Fifteen,” she says.
“Me too,” I say, and I settle back down cross-legged in front of her. She passes me the lager and I stare at the can, glad of the distraction. Kronenbourg. Kro – nen – bourg. Like burger. Like Cro-magnon.
“Cro-magnon. What’s that mean?” I ask her. “I know I’ve heard it before.”
She props herself back on her elbows, and flops her knees out, showing herself to me in the bright lamp light. My heart’s going again. I look at my watch. Shona nudges me with her toe, and I glance up to catch a brief glimpse of her, down there. The hair is light brown and wispy, so different to her backcombed scare-hair.
“Touch it, then,” she says. She swigs back another gulp of lager and wipes her lip on the back of her hand. “It won’t bite.”
I stroke the hair, like a pet, in downward movements. It’s soft, but coarse all at once. A bit like a guinea pig or something.
“You got a boyfriend?” I ask.
“Carry on, you plank,” she says, pushing herself up against my hand.
I gulp back another slug of lager. My head spins a little, and I carry on with the stroky movement like she wants me to. But then, with a huff, Shona sits up, grasps my hand and guides my finger inside her, right inside her, pushing against the resistance of skin, until it hits a wall of moisture, so unbearably soft and smooth that I start to think about how it would feel to climb on top of her, climb right in until there’s nothing left of me at all. All gone. I freeze, uncertain what to do next, and then I realise that I’m just kneeling in front of her, motionless, like that little Dutch boy with his finger stuck in the dyke.
“Enough,” she says, and she pushes me off.
We’re back in the music room when Sandy shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “Kids! Come on down! It’s five to midnight – we want you all down here!”
When she hears Sandy shouting up, Shona looks at me and tuts. “You can go if you want, but I’m staying here. It makes me wanna puke all that Auld Lang Syne stuff. I might have a smoke, actually.”
Andy sticks his head round the door, beckoning me down, excited. All the other kids get to their feet and make their way out, trying to still look cool. I look back at Shona to make sure she hasn’t changed her mind, but she won’t meet my eye.
Downstairs it’s all hectic, with husbands and wives milling around to find each other, and little kids shouting out for their mums and dads. Me and Andy are looking about for our own mum. I don’t want to show it, but I do want to find her. For Andy’s sake, really. The kitchen is empty now as everyone squashes into the living room in their little huddles. Mum was in the living room earlier but she’
s not there now. If I could spot Stu, I could ask him if he’s seen her.
Andy’s out in the garden, shouting, “Mum! Mum! It’s nearly time!”
I’m up the stairs, checking all the rooms, even Sandy and Pete’s, and they’re all empty. Even the music room where Shona was is empty now. I meet Andy in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, and he shakes his head. We’ve looked everywhere.
We stand in the doorway of the living room as Sandy turns down the music, and motions for everyone to calm down.
“Together! FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!” The room explodes with party poppers and cracker horns and streamers and everyone is kissing and hugging and jumping up and down and laughing.
Mary, February 1968
I haven’t seen Rachel since I collected the rest of my things from home. On that last afternoon, Mummy had taken to her bed, and Daddy was out at a client meeting. The house pulsated with emptiness. My eight month belly pressed defiantly against Billy’s Aran sweater; the only thing that would fit me. Rachel followed me around our room, silently passing me items to pack. I felt like the older sister, as she struggled for words. She’d hugged me, and then Billy, at Brighton station before we disappeared along the tracks towards Portsmouth.
Now, as I wait by the swings, I rock the pram to keep Matthew asleep. The morning sun is kind, thawing my icy breath. I spot Rachel at the other end of the park, a willowy figure turning on to the wide green in her red hat and gloves. She looks around, before marching purposefully towards the children’s playground where I’m waiting. Halfway across the green she sees me, raising her two gloved hands, before breaking into a jog. I abandon the pram and run to meet her, swooped up in her familiar embrace.
“I’ve missed you!” she cries, brushing aside a stray tear.
I kiss her cheek and take her hand, not wanting to let go.
“Where is he then?” she asks, dragging me towards Matthew’s pram. She leans in, cautiously, her hand rising to her mouth. “Oh! Oh, Mary. He’s divine!”
Matthew’s still sleeping, and his soft blond curls are coming through around his perfect ears.
“He’s like Billy,” I tell her. “Billy was blond. As a child.”
We stand quietly for a moment, both gazing at the sleeping baby.
“So,” Rachel says, patting her hands together in a muffled clap, “where can I buy you a hot chocolate around here?”
Edna’s Café is along the harbour front, and Billy always says it’s the best café in Southsea. Rachel orders two hot chocolates and two Chelsea buns.
“I only drink hot chocolate when I’m with you,” I say, breathing in the sweet steamy aroma.
Rachel bites a large corner off her bun. “Mmm. I was starving.”
I unwind my bun from the outside, popping it in my mouth piece by piece, working towards the doughy centre.
Rachel laughs. “God, you always ate them like that! No wonder your food always lasted longer than mine. Old gutsy here.” She pats her stomach, and pours extra sugar into her mug, scattering grains across the table.
She’s still thin as a bean. She smiles at me around bulging mouthfuls.
“How’s Robert?” I ask. She’d never eat like that in front of him.
“He’s fine. Anyway, what I want to hear about is Billy’s family. What’s it like living with them? I bet they love you! And that gorgeous baby.”
I bring my mug to my mouth and meet her eyes over the rim.
“Oh, God! Are they awful? What’s his mother like?” She stares at me expectantly.
“She’s alright,” I shrug. “They’re not like our family, but it’s not so bad. It’s got to be hard having to adjust to a stranger moving in with a new baby. She’s OK.” I twirl my wedding band on my finger, watching the light catch its edges.
“I wish you’d asked me,” Rachel says quietly. “I could have been your bridesmaid. Weren’t you lonely, with just the two of you?”
I gather the spilt sugar into a neat pile beside my plate. “It was fine. Nice, even. No fuss. No guests to worry about. No speeches. We had a picnic on a Thames riverboat after the ceremony. It was romantic.”
Rachel runs her forefinger through my sugar pile with a cheeky smirk.
“I’ve written to Daddy a few times,” I say, “but he’s not replied once.”
Rachel stares into her mug of chocolate.
“I love Billy so much, Rach. If only Mummy could see that, maybe she’d come round?”
Rachel looks out of the window, dotting patterns in the steam with her finger. “She won’t even talk about you, Mary. It’s her old convent schooling, probably. And Billy is a lovely man. You’re lucky to have found him, Mary. Forget Mum for now. She’ll relent, and then she’ll regret this. So. When are you moving into your own place? I can visit you every month then. I could even babysit. Billy wouldn’t mind, would he?”
“No, he likes you. We’d both love it.”
Matthew stirs in his blankets.
“He’s three months old now,” I tell her. “Want to hold him?”
Rachel takes him from me, and cradles him tenderly. He gazes up at her, his brown eyes searching hers. He smiles, and gurgles, stretching out his chubby legs and fists in delight.
“Oh, Mary,” says Rachel.
After Rachel has gone, I wander around the town, enjoying the sun on my skin. The seagulls are restless today, screeching and squawking overhead. Matthew smiles at me from time to time, before sleeping again. The fresh air’s good for him. When I arrive home, the net curtains twitch as I turn my key in the lock.
Jean is icy. “I take it you had your dinner out?” she says, busying away into the back kitchen where her lunch plate sits besides the sink.
“Oh, I hope you didn’t cook for me, Mum,” I say, unwrapping Matthew from his blankets.
“Hmmph,” she replies.
“Did you cook?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. There are no pots and pans out, just the bread board and knife on the side.
“Or did you have a sandwich?”
No answer.
“I hope it was just a sandwich, because then there’s no harm done, is there?”
Jean shoots me an indignant expression, before running a sinkful of foamy suds. “Well. I’ll just wash up, shall I?” she says briskly, and she turns her back on me.
I push the pram into the back courtyard, and take Matthew upstairs to our bedroom at the back of the house. It’s about three o’clock, so Billy will be home in just over two hours. Plumping up the pillows, I settle on the bed to feed Matthew. I can’t do it downstairs because Jean finds it distasteful. He’s a good baby. He feeds from each breast, before dropping off, gently snoring. His soft, clear cheeks contrast against the dark rose of my nipple. I wonder how it would be to sleep so soundly, with no distractions or anxieties to trespass on one’s peace. I don’t remember a time like that. Even my memories of childhood appear now as a backwards extension of adulthood. I lift Matthew’s gently snoring weight on to the bed beside me and pick up my book, Wide Sargasso Sea. Within minutes my eyes droop and I sleep, dreaming of Rachel and me running along Hove seafront, trailing our hair ribbons in the breeze.
When Billy comes in, he wakes me and Matthew, who starts crying. Billy drops his wallet and keys on to the window sill.
“Billy!” I say, startled. I swing my legs off the bed to greet him.
His hair is beyond his shoulders, and still retains a golden hint of summer in its curling ends.
“How was work?”
Matthew cries harder, now thrashing the bed with his hands and feet, his face perfectly crimson.
“Fine,” says Billy. “I’ve just seen Mum. What’s up?” His face is steely.
“Nothing’s up,” I answer, attempting a kiss.
He eases me back. “She says you’re being a madam.”
“I went out for a walk!” I shout, picking up Matthew to comfort him. “She had a go at me for not coming home for lunch. Sorry, I mean dinner. Which was a sandwich, by t
he way.”
Billy glares at me. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. I’m going for a pint.”
Matthew has stopped crying now, and nestles into my neck, red-faced and breathy. I sit on the edge of the bed, and nod to Billy to sit beside me.
“Billy. How long do we have to stay here? Jean can’t stand the sight of me. And we need our own space.” I look at Matthew in my arms. “He’ll need his own room soon. It’s not the same with a baby in the room at night time.”
Billy sits beside me and takes my hand. We face the window, which looks out over the grey courtyard and on to row after row of terraced housing. The nights are drawing in now, and the sky is growing grey.
“Six months,” he says. “Give it six months and we’ll have enough to get started in our own place. I don’t get paid London rates now, but we’ll get there, darling.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and his strong arm eases round to pull me in.
“We’re a family, Mary. You, me and Matthew.” He strokes Matthew’s cheek where it rests on my chest. “But that includes Mum for the next few months. We can’t do this without her.”
I nod, kissing the top of my baby’s soft head. “I know.”
Billy gently caresses my neck, supporting the weight of my tired head in his one wide hand. He kisses me full on the mouth; a deep, muscular embrace. My heart thrills, just as it did when we first met. Matthew squawks between us.
Billy picks up his wallet and stands in the doorway. “I’ll be back before we eat,” he says, and the bedroom door closes behind him.
Jake, February 1985
Since the Christmas holidays, I’ve been doing extra for Mr Horrocks. I can’t work in the shop till I’m fourteen, but on Saturdays he gets me to stock the shelves after closing time so he can go up to Mrs Horrocks and get her tea. They’ve got a little Yorkie dog called Griffin, and they pay me to walk him after school every day. When he hears me coming in the back entrance of the shop to fetch him, he jumps up and licks between my fingers, wanting his ears scratched. He’s got this really smooth, wide little tongue, not like the huge slobbery ones you get on big dogs. When he gets really excited he chews at my wrist with his tiny teeth, but he never hurts me, always knows when to stop. It’s a doddle taking him out, and I can hardly believe that I actually get paid for it.
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