After the film, we get fish and chips on the seafront and wander along the promenade until we find a decent bench to sit on.
“Now, that’s a chip,” says Dad, holding up a big, greasy, salty chip, and turning it over in the sunlight. “None of your Wimpy, Burger King crap. Proper chips from a proper chippy.” He stuffs it in his mouth, closes his eyes and looks like he’s in chip heaven.
“Brilliant film, Dad,” I say, chomping on chips and watching the tide roll in and out on the beach. It’s a nice day, and there are lots of families milling about along the sand. I can see one man quite far down with a bucket, digging with a garden fork, while his two kids run about screaming, chucking seaweed at each other.
“What’s he doing, Dad?” asks Andy.
“Rag worms. For fishing. Best bait there is. For sea fishing anyway.”
“Do you know how to fish, then?” I ask. He’s never mentioned it before.
“Used to. Specially when I first moved back to Portsmouth. I used to get out fishing whenever I got the chance. I’d often catch our supper back then. Except when your mum was expecting you lot. Went right off any kind of fish. Said it made her stomach turn.”
“Will you take us?” asks Andy, his face looking all rosy and hopeful. “Fishing?”
“Haven’t got the kit now, son. And anyhow, I wouldn’t want to eat anything that came out of the water these days. You know, pollution and all that.”
We all sit, eating our fish and chips, and staring out to the sparkling sea. The water looks dazzling from here, not polluted. I look over at Andy and he’s in a daydream, popping chips into his mouth mechanically, swinging his legs under the bench. My watch says it’s nearly two o’clock now, so we’ve still got a few hours with Dad.
“What now?” I ask.
“Constitutional walk,” Dad replies, and we ball up our chip papers and head down the steps on to the beach.
Andy runs ahead, and starts poking about in piles of seaweed with a stick. Wherever we go, Andy always finds himself a good poking stick.
“Urghh! Rank!” he howls, flipping over a dead crab. One of the things I love about the beach is that you can yell, and scream, and shout as loud as you like, and no one looks at you funny or tells you not to. And sometimes, you just need to scream.
“So, how’s your mum then, Jakey?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, really good,” I say, truthfully. “She’s been fine now for, well, must be weeks. Well, you know, Andy came back just before half term. So since then.”
“That’s great, son. So what’s she up to today then? Bet she was in bed when you left, wasn’t she?”
“No! That’s the thing. She’s up with us every morning at breakfast. And you know we’ve stopped having school dinners now, so she even helps us with our lunch boxes every day.”
“Why’ve you stopped the school dinners? They’re free, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s embarrassing, Dad. There’s only two of us in my class who has them. No one wants to be a free-school-dinners kid.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, just carries on along the beach with his hands in his jacket pocket.
“And you know we’ve got Gypsy staying with us?”
He wrinkles his eyebrows. “Gypsy?”
“Mum’s old college friend. She says she remembers you. You know – skinny, blonde, bit of a hippy I s’pose.”
Dad looks a bit confused, running his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “You mean she’s staying at your place?”
I nod.
“How long for?”
“Dunno.”
“Well fancy that,” he finally says. “Well, if it’s doing your mum some good, I don’t suppose we can complain, can we?”
“It’s not her that made Mum better, though, is it?” I wouldn’t want him to think that, because it’s not true. “I mean, she was back to normal before Gypsy got there. Although, she has got Mum to give up the fags. She’s always going on about the body being a temple, and Mum seems to be going along with it. The only trouble is, Gypsy cooks crappy food that Mum tries to make us eat. I mean, have you ever heard of chick peas? Or couscous? Bloody hippy food, if you ask me.”
Dad laughs, and clips me round the back of the head. Andy’s down by the water, bent over looking at something.
“Poor bugger’s got my skinny legs,” says Dad, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he looks over at Andy.
“Do I look like you, Dad?” I ask, not looking at him.
He thinks for a minute, before answering. “Not so much, son. I think maybe you’re more like your mum’s side of the family.” He turns to me. “Lucky you, eh? You’re a handsome little feller, Jakey.”
I run off and grab a big bit of seaweed, chasing Andy down the beach. He’s faster than me, and I see him stoop to gather up a huge bundle with a mad wide-eyed look on his face. He holds it high, then drapes it over his shoulders and across his head, and starts walking towards me in a staggering zombie walk.
“Creature – from – the – black – lagoon …” he says in a monster voice, still stumbling towards me, with his arms stretched out in front.
I weave about the beach, windmilling my arms, yelling and screaming like I’m terrified. Dad’s laughing, and I run behind him, holding on to his jacket.
“Save me, Dad, it’s – it’s – hideous!”
Andy can’t keep a straight face now, and we all end up laughing as he peels off the seaweed, and he realises that it’s left a slimy film all over his hair and coat.
“Bog creature,” I shout at him, laughing at the state he’s in. Trouble with Andy is he just doesn’t know when to stop. He’ll never get that stink out of his jacket.
When we get back to Dad’s place, we pop in to use the loo, and he says he’ll walk us back home.
“Give me a chance to say hello to Gypsy, and have a cuppa,” he says.
“Oooh-oooh, Gypsy,” says Andy in a girly voice, and he pinches out his T-shirt for titties and wiggles about the room like a little prat. “Hellooo, Jakeeeey. Would you like a mung bean?” He gets up close to me. “Or maybe a little kissy-wissy?”
He closes his eyes and puckers up. Dad’s grinning. And then I punch him, Andy, right on the ear, hard, and he’s lying on the floor, rocking about and holding on to his red hot ear, and Dad’s just staring at me like I’m a lunatic.
“Let’s go, you two,” he says, and we’re out the door, Andy trying to kick at me as we go.
When we get home, we find a note from Mum in the kitchen, saying that they’ve gone out for the day to deliver a food parcel to one of Gypsy’s friends at Greenham Common. They’ll be back late.
Dad shakes his head as he reads it. “Bloody ’ell, it must be worse than I thought,” he says.
“How will they get there?” I ask. I’ve seen Greenham Common on the news, and I figure it must be miles away.
“God only knows, Jakey. They’re probably bloody hitching or something.”
“But we’re supposed to be going to the Isle of Wight tomorrow afternoon. Will she be back by then?” Andy looks really worried.
“No idea,” Dad answers, not really looking at Andy, who is close to tears now. Dad’s busy opening cupboard doors, checking if there’s anything to eat. “Right, Jake, there’s eggs and bread on the side, and plenty of cereals. And half a pint of milk. Will you be able to knock up a bit of supper for the two of you?”
Andy’s gone into the front room now, and I can see the back of his head from where I’m standing by the sink.
“Sure,” I say. “What about that cup of tea, Dad? I’ll make it.”
But Dad hasn’t even taken his coat off. “Better not, son. I’ve got things to get on with. Give us a call in the morning if your mum’s not back.”
He gives me a quick hug, and leans over the back of the sofa to kiss Andy on the top of the head.
“Be good,” he says, and the door closes, and he’s gone.
Mary, November 1973
When the first
starlings float towards me they’re like little murmurs, whispered memories I can’t quite grasp. As I stand at the end of the pier, I see something alarming in them, a reminder of a forgotten anxiety, rumbling under the skin, never making itself fully visible. Initially, there are just a few; little soot motes drifting this way and that on the still air. They bomb towards me before being sucked upwards again by some unseen nozzle. It spits them out on the other side of the pier and they disappear from my view. The children are nearby, still sitting on the little wooden bench outside the Brighton Rock pier kiosk, their two ruddy faces zipped into padded green anoraks. They wait expectantly, hoping for candy floss if they’re good. The starlings whoosh overhead, the cloud now growing so that they become a thunder of thoughts and wing beats. Up, across, down, swoop. The November sun is turning red behind the old West Pier. Its Victorian facade crumbles in the orange-red glow, and when I squint I can see a legion of starlings taking flight from its hollow eyes, like a plague of locusts. “Mummy,” I hear. My breath pulls in sharply as the palpating throng rushes past me like a wave. Other pier visitors gasp and whoop as the starlings perform their aerial display, first for the spectators on the west side, then across to the audience on the east. I feel the sun bouncing off my eyes, and the cool breeze slipping across my seadamp face. I cast my hat aside and shake out my long hair. Like Botticelli’s Venus. The spray from the sea is working up now, and when I lean over the rails quite far the waves flop and lollop around the posts of the pier as if Poseidon himself is stirring within his watery realm. “Mummy,” he whines again. Who is this? Who is this? As I run across the decking I can still see the movement of water through the gaps in the wood, and it makes me giddy and drunk. The starlings are now so dense in number that the black cloud is unyielding in its mass, flexing in and out like a lung, pulsating across the sky. Can I hear its heartbeat, for it surely only has one? There! Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum. My name is legion, for we are many. I stare at the crimson sea, cradling my swollen hard belly, concentrating.
“It’s important,” I’d told him, as he whispered to me down the telephone. “Your grandsons want to meet you.” Daddy sounded choked, quiet. “Your mother can’t know,” he said. And we agreed: 1.00 p.m. Brighton station. I wrote it in my calendar. I wouldn’t have got it wrong. He was meant to take us for lunch in The Lanes, but when he didn’t arrive the three of us ate chips on the pebbles instead. The boys liked that, as they chased off the seagulls and ate from sheets of newspaper. When Matthew put his arms round my neck, I told him the sunlight was making my eyes water.
The starling cloud draws in its greatest breath, rising to stellar heights, and in one vast exhalation it dives beneath the pier and vanishes. Now, the twittering drowns out all sound and I drop to my knees to press my eye against the gap in the planks. It’s so dark beneath the pier that all I can make out is the occasional blur of movement amidst the incessant chatter, chatter, chatter. Then, bam! They’re in the air again, in a balloon of dark fog, coursing towards the West Pier until their vapour trail disappears altogether. The rich sun runs across the vivid horizon, blood-like and fluid. When I turn to look at the children, my heart is beating in my ears and my skin throbs. They’re fidgeting on the bench and the rest of the pier is empty.
“Did you see?” I shout to them. “Did you see it?”
But they just rub their eyes and start crying. I look back for the starlings but they’re gone. The pier is in darkness now, the last of the sun eclipsed from view. As I walk towards the pier exit, the two boys follow, sniffling into their gloves.
“How long?” the older one asks, his hand finding mine.
Perhaps Daddy got the dates wrong, perhaps he’ll be waiting for me at Brighton station next Friday, and I won’t be there. His grandchild turns inside my womb, and I steady myself on the metal railing, looking out into the sea. As the waves gather momentum, I imagine the weightlessness of the ocean. I lean out, over the barrier, and see the girl there, waxen and still as she floats in the brine, hair shrouding her face in a death mask. Her blue frock ripples on the water, as the moon reflects in the red ribbon which trails from her frozen fingers. She ebbs and flows in the water below, way, way down, beneath the pier.
“Mummy,” a voice tugs at me. “Mummy.”
“The train,” I tell them. “We’ll be late for the train.” And we run and stumble towards the Queen’s Road, the band of muscles tightening around my pregnant belly with each heavy step.
We stand in the vast Victorian station and I scan the busy platforms, searching for his familiar face. The station clock reads seven o’clock, and I know Daddy’s not coming.
Jake, April 1985
At about two o’clock the next afternoon, Mum and Gypsy bundle through the front door, out of breath and laughing. They almost seem surprised to see us there. Their hair is all over the place and they’ve got a layer of dust over their clothes. They look really pleased with themselves; happy and pink-cheeked, like they’ve got back from some brilliant adventure. Mum comes to kiss me, but I step back.
“The ferry goes in an hour,” I say, nodding over to Andy. He’s got his knees pulled up against him to hide his face, which is red from crying. “I’ve packed mine and Andy’s bags, but I don’t know if we’ll make it by the time you’ve done yours.”
Mum looks over at Gypsy, who’s filling the kettle in the kitchen, listening to everything.
“Jakey, sorry, darling. We had trouble getting back, that’s all. Don’t you worry about the ferry. I’ll pack now, and we can get a later one. They go every half an hour, and they said you can transfer your tickets easily when I bought them.”
Andy is looking at me hopefully, and Mum is looking at me softly. And Gypsy, she’s looking at me like a bloody cuckoo that won’t get out of our nest.
“I’ll go and do it now. Watch me,” Mum says as she hurries to the doorway. “I’m up the stairs,” she shouts as she goes. “I’m in the bedroom,” her voice getting further away. “I’m opening the travel bag …”
“Alright, I get it,” I yell back, and I see Andy quietly smiling into his knees.
“Cup of tea, boys?” asks Gypsy, handing us both a mug, flashing her silly white teeth. Her hard nipples push out through her thin white T-shirt. Brazen, I think. It’s a good word.
“Have you got any kids of your own, Gypsy?” I ask, politely, coldly.
Her smile drops away like a stone. “No, I haven’t, Jakey. I guess I’m just not the mumsy type.”
She wiggles back into the kitchen, and leans up against the sink where she can see me, one leg crossed over the other. I can’t be sure what it is I see in her eyes as she peers at me over the top of her mug. But I don’t think it’s friendly, whatever it is.
“I’ll be off in the next couple of days,” Gypsy tells Mum, throwing her eyes my way as they hug goodbye. “Things to do. The Cause needs as much help as it can get,” she says, tapping the CND badge pinned to her T-shirt.
“Well, stay as long as you like, and just post the key back through the letter box when you leave. And keep in touch! Promise me? It’s been wonderful seeing you again – really, Gypsy.”
Dad arrives to help load the bags into the boot of his car, and we leave Gypsy waving at us from our front door.
“She looks well,” says Dad as we turn out of our street.
Mum nods, staring at the road ahead. “She’s been good company. A breath of fresh air.”
I turn to Andy and roll my eyes, but he’s too busy picking a scab off his knee to take much notice. Griffin looks up at me from the footwell with his big brown eyes, and then scrabbles up and settles on my lap, smelling all doggy and warm.
Just as we pull into the ferry terminal, the first spots of April rain hit the windscreen.
“Typical,” Mum says.
At Manningly, everything is just how we left it. Griffin and Ellie-dog sniff each other warily at first, and then they’re off, rolling about play fighting and wagging their tails like it’s a competition.
; George’s still not back from his friend’s house, so I sit in the kitchen reading a book as Rachel and Mum get the supper sorted.
“I haven’t touched a drop for six weeks,” Mum tells Rachel when she offers her a glass of wine.
“Six weeks?” Aunt Rachel looks amazed. “Are you on a health kick or something?” She runs Mum a tumbler of water.
“No, no. Well, yes kind of,” answers Mum. “I just decided to take better care of myself, I suppose. And, my God! I feel so much better for it. My skin’s glowing, my hair’s glossy, I’ve got so much more energy. Rachel, you wouldn’t believe the difference. At the moment, I don’t think I could ever go back to it. It’s like being born again!”
“Well, good for you, Mary. I have to say, I can’t do without my medicinal glass of wine in the evening. Just the one, unless we’ve got company. Somehow, it separates the evening from the rest of the day. Anyway, cheers, and well done you!” Aunt Rachel raises her wine glass and clinks it against Mum’s water tumbler.
“It’s good to be here,” says Mum.
“Good to have you here,” says Aunt Rachel.
The supper smells delicious. Beef stew with dumplings and mash. I wander over to the pan and have a good sniff, giving it a stir.
“Got a couple of those in specially for you, Jake, darling,” says Aunt Rachel as I ogle the blackcurrant cheesecake defrosting on the side. She comes over and hugs me, as Mum looks on smiling. “I’m so lucky you came and found us again, Mary. You and your lovely boys.” She kisses me on the top of my head, then goes back to stirring the stew.
“I wish we could live here, Mum,” I say, when Aunt Rachel leaves the room to bang the gong.
“Oh, you don’t really mean that, Jakey,” she says, smiling at me gently, her hand resting around the glass tumbler on the table in front of her.
I look at my feet, crushing a clod of dried mud with my bare toe. “I do,” I say, but too quietly for her to really hear.
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