“I wonder what happened with Rachel,” I say, to myself as much as Billy.
Billy holds my hand. The sun bathes the grass in a milky light which ripples like the tide. The light is cast this way and that, making my eyes squint against the glare.
“You know what you need,” says Billy, dropping the hamper at his feet. He starts to growl, low and teasing, then grabs me round the waist. “You know, don’t you?”
“Billy! No!” I scream, and he drops me to the ground and tickles me rampantly, until my legs buckle and I’m merciless beneath his grip. I can’t breathe now, and I lash out at him violently, until he falls away from me laughing like Sid James.
“Bastard!” I laugh, pushing him away with my toe.
“Whoa!” he yells, grabbing me to him in a bear hug, and we roll down the hill together as one being, bumping and crunching over thistles and snails, seeing the hill spiral by in a blur of sunshine. When we slow to a stop, we don’t pull away. We remain in each other’s arms, our eyes just inches apart, our hearts beating downwards towards calm.
“You’ll see her again one day,” says Billy, and he kisses my forehead and closes his eyes.
Jake, May 1985
Dad’s making chicken curry, and the whole house smells of heat and spice.
“You go up and have a good soak in the bath, love, and I’ll get on with the rice.” He kisses Mum on the forehead, and pats her bum lightly as she walks away.
“Billy!” she whispers to him, trying not to smile, nodding her head in our direction.
Andy smirks behind his hand, and I pretend to be watching Kung Fu on TV.
“Ah, Glasshopper!” says Andy, slicing the air with martial arts hands.
“Ah, Master Po!” I say back to him, doing a karate kick in his direction.
He dodges, sniggering. “Velly good, Glasshopper. Velly good!”
“You doing poppadoms, Dad?” I call into the kitchen when Mum’s gone.
“D’accord,” he says, in a crap French accent. He’s been listening to these French learning tapes lately, so he’s constantly showing off by dropping words into conversation. We haven’t got a clue what he’s on about most of the time.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I call back to him.
He gives me the thumbs up through the steam in the kitchen. He’s whistling away, wiping his hands on his apron, tasting the curry every now and then, before adding a pinch of this, a shake of that. The kitchen looks like a bombsite, with pots and pans piled up on all the surfaces. I turn back to the TV and see that Andy’s watching Dad in the kitchen too.
“Dad?” Andy calls over. Dad looks up. “Dad, are you and Mum back together then?” Andy’s grinning, because he knows it’s a dodgy question.
Dad pauses over the pan, his wooden spoon in mid-air. He turns to Andy. “We’ll see, son. We’ll see.”
Andy does a tiny air punch, where Dad can’t see it. “Skill,” he says. By rights, I should punch him, but I keep it to myself and concentrate hard on the telly, trying not to smile out loud.
Aphrodite was the most beautiful goddess of all, and when she wore her golden, jewelled girdle, no one could resist her beauty. Her son was Eros, and together they would fire their arrows of passion at everyone, melting their hearts with love.
Miss Terry is wearing a gold tank-top today, in keeping with the story. She paces about the classroom using a wooden ruler as an imaginary bow and arrow.
“In Greek mythology, the arrow is too often the messenger of death. But not here – how beautiful! Imagine an arrow, with the power to intoxicate and captivate its victims. With love!” Miss Terry brings her fist to her chest, and raises the back of her other hand to her perfect forehead. With a sigh, she opens her eyes, claps her hands together and says, “Thank you class! See you next week!”
There’s a little cheer, and everyone bundles for the door.
“Good work, Jake,” Miss Terry says to me, touching my shoulder as I leave the classroom. “I still haven’t decided which Greek character you are, so I think we’ll call you Pan for now: son of Hermes.” She smiles her mysterious smile, and turns back to tidying up her desk. “But I think I’m going to have to change it as I get to know you better. I’m not certain that Pan’s quite right for you.”
Pan. Pan: son of Hermes. It’s got a ring to it. But I’m not sure it’s right for me either.
When I finish my paper round one Saturday, Mr Horrocks asks me to stay behind. He’s stacking headache tablets on the top shelf behind the counter.
“So, you’ll be fourteen next week, Jake?”
“Yep. Fourteen. Four-teen.”
Mr Horrocks beckons me to pass up more of the aspirin packets.
“So, I guess you’ll be looking for a proper Saturday job, then?” He carries on stacking, not looking at me.
“Well, yeah, I s’pose so,” I say. “I’m saving up for a midi system.”
“And what’s a midi system when it’s at home?”
“You know. Like a stacking record player, with cassette deck and amp and stuff. I did have over fifty quid, but—” I trail off.
“So, how’d you like to work here on Saturdays? It won’t be dull, Jake. Something different every day. Some of the time, you’ll be serving in the shop, but I’ve got other jobs I’d like you to do when it’s quiet. Like the stockroom needs a damn good clear out, and the back wall could do with a lick of paint. You any good with a paintbrush, son?”
I shrug at him, imagining how it would be to have a regular job.
“And the pay’s not bad. More than the paper round. You’d be able to give that up if you wanted, and still be better off.”
“It’d be brilliant, Mr Horrocks,” I say.
He climbs down from his stepladder and offers me his hand. “Best we shake on it, son. Good lad.”
He goes to the till and pulls out my paper round money, and slips it into my hand along with a bar of Fruit ’n’ Nut.
“Now then,” he says as we walk towards the shop door, his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me about this Andy of yours. Think he’d be any good on the paper round? Looks like I’ve got a vacancy to fill.”
“Seen anything of Stu lately?” Mum asks Dad one night when he’s over again. He seems to be round most nights nowadays.
“Nah, not since that Gypsy came on the scene,” he replies, as he peels a potato over the pedal bin. “And even when I do see him, he’s all gooey-eyed, so there’s no getting any sense out of him.”
“Huh,” huffs Mum. She’s got her back to him as she washes up at the sink. Her new haircut skims the back of her neck, all shiny and healthy looking, and it sways heavily when she talks. Mum calls it a “Mary Quant” cut. “She’s a slippery one, that Gypsy. I really thought we were friends, until she said that about Matthew. That – that was low.”
Dad nods, carrying on with his peeling. “She always was a bit of a spoilt one, though, even when you were at college.”
“But not like that, Bill.”
“She’s just a user, I guess. She’s not really into Stu, you can tell – it’s just a place for her to stay. I bet she’s spent bloody years bed-hopping around the place, looking for new ways to live rent-free. Pretty smart if you ask me.”
“Don’t be such a chauvinist, Bill. If it was a man you wouldn’t think anything of it, but when it’s a woman, well, somehow it’s different.”
Dad looks up at Mum and shakes his head.
“She’s a slapper, Mary. And she’s no friend of yours, that’s for sure. You haven’t got a clue, have you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mum says, pulling her rubber gloves off and dropping them on the side, looking annoyed.
Dad lowers his voice, leans in towards Mum. “She came on to me as soon as you were in the Isle of Wight. I knocked her back; and she moved straight on to Stu. She didn’t even pause for breath. And she never gets her money out when he’s around. He pays for everything.”
Mum leans against the sink watching Dad finish th
e spuds. Her face is blank.
“You know what, Bill? I want my head examining. Why can’t I see these things coming, for God’s sake? ‘Soul mates’, she called us. She said we were like sisters. And then she goes and tries it on with you the minute I’m out of sight. She fancied you like mad the first time she saw you, at college.”
Dad laughs like he’s quite pleased. “Did she?” He puts the last of the potatoes into the saucepan. “Well, you’re best rid of her, aren’t you, love? Anyway, she’s not my type,” he adds. “Bloody hippy!”
Mum laughs and flicks him with the tea towel, till he grabs her and steals a kiss on the lips. They wrestle like the teenagers you get mooning about down the park after school.
“What’s for supper, Mum?” I shout over the back of my armchair, pretending I haven’t been spying.
“Fish fingers and mash. It’ll be half an hour yet, Jake. Have an apple if you’re hungry.” She folds up the tea towel and hangs it off the front of the oven. “You know, Billy, Gypsy’s not even her real name. It’s Jennifer. She thought Gypsy was more bohemian or something. At college, she hated it if anyone used her real name.”
“Like I said,” laughs Dad, “well rid.”
Mary, June 1977
The street party runs in an L shape, all the way from the Royal Oak to the top of our road. The sun is up early, and it seems everyone is out, carrying tables and chairs and bowls of food from the different corners of the neighbourhood. The church has donated all the plastic furniture from the Village Hall, and the pub has dragged out the heavy wooden tables and stools. Mothers and friends rush in and out of houses to fetch extra tablecloths and more sandwiches. The children run wild, excited and boisterous. Apart from Andy, who’s close at my heels, I haven’t seen the boys for over an hour.
“Don’t worry, love. I expect they’re with my two,” says Sandy, as I look for them. “You look nice, love,” she says, between drags on her cigarette.
I smooth my hands over the front of my new white flares, pleased she noticed.
The roads are blocked off so no cars can drive up and down, which creates a kind of reckless abandon in even the smallest children. Andy spots another three year old rolling in the dust, and he throws himself down too. He’s wearing his best trousers and shirt.
At midday, Eric the Landlord brings out his heavy bell, the one he uses to call time. He stands at the corner of the street, at the angle of the L, and rings it enthusiastically. All the children know that this is the sign to sit down to eat, and they come roaring down the streets and alleyways, whooping into their chairs, jostling for the best seats. Andy grabs my leg at the noise, and then squeals happily. I manage to find Jake at the other end of the table, with Sandy’s older kids.
“Can I pop Andy in next to you, Jakey? Mummy’s got to do the orange squash for everyone.”
Jake nods and smiles. Both of his top teeth have fallen out over the past few weeks, and he looks like a rascal. I ruffle his hair and he helps Andy to pull his chair up to the table. Andy picks up a smiley face biscuit and presses it against Jake’s forehead. Jake laughs and squeezes Andy’s chubby cheeks between the palms of his hands.
“Boo-boo,” he says, and then turns back to his plate.
I pick up a jug of squash and start at one end of the table, pouring half a cupful into the little white cups dotted along in neat rows. Way down at the other end of the table, Eric’s thrown open the windows and doors of the pub, and the tinny sound of music drifts in the air. It sounds like Abba. A line of happy children stretches from me to the corner of the street. So many happy faces. When the drink runs out, I pick up another jug further down the table. A few minutes after all the other children have sat down, Matthew appears with a friend, looking flushed and sniggering. I don’t even want to ask him what he’s been up to. He looks more like Billy with every passing day. Billy’s in the pub with Pete, having a pint, rewarding themselves for lugging the furniture about. He said he’ll come and help after a bit of a sit down. We’ll see. Matthew and his pal are roaming around the table picking off the best cakes and biscuits. Sit down, I signal to him with a flick of my hand. He smiles through a mouthful of chocolate roll, then shoves in a bit more before sliding into the seat opposite Jake and Andy.
Sandy calls to me from across the table. She’s been doing the drinks from the other end. “We need refills, love. Can you get them from your house as it’s closest?”
I gather the bottles of squash and empty jugs and jog along to the house. This end of the street is deserted. The quiet is unsettling. As I push open the front door, it catches on the afternoon post piled on the doormat. I put the jugs and bottles down in the kitchen, then pick up the letters. Two of them are for Billy, and the third is a small handwritten parcel, the size of a paperback. The postcode is Brighton, and Mother’s handwriting in unmistakable. I feel the blood drain from my face. My hands are trembling as I pull the contents from the packet.
Ten years of unopened birthday cards and letters spill across the kitchen worktop. There’s no covering note, no explanation. The shock washes over me like ice. Mechanically, I fill the squash jugs, my heart slowing to a buzz. I lean against the sink, groaning with loss; she has closed all the doors. I know now that this isn’t just another of her episodes, one that she’ll simply snap out of. The four jugs sit side by side in my dreary kitchen, facing me like sentries.
Still shaking, I cross the living room and dial Rachel’s number from memory, for the first time in seven years. She answers on the third ring.
“Rachel?” My voice is close to crying.
There’s a moment of silence, before she says, “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number,” and hangs up.
I rush to the sink and vomit, my stomach heaving and hollow.
“Why did you leave me, Rachel?” I cry, as I slip to the kitchen floor. “Why did you leave me?” My sobs come now in lurching great waves, wracking and painful. There’s no one to hear, and I wail and pound the grubby lino with grief.
When Sandy comes, I’ve drunk several tumblers of whisky, to calm my nerves. I’m half asleep when she bangs on the door, and I open it without looking up.
“Mary, love, what happened? It’s an hour since you went off for drinks. Them kids are parched out there!”
I walk carefully into the kitchen so she won’t see I’m wobbly, and turn on the tap to rinse away the sick.
“Ten years,” I say, thrusting the bundle of letters at her chest. I push shut the drinks cabinet above the cooker. Click-clack.
“You’re slurring, love,” Sandy says, her eyes pausing over the empty whisky bottle. She turns the letters over in her hands, frowning as she tries to make sense of them.
“One mistake. And I’m out of their lives for ever. One mistake!”
Sandy shakes her head and embraces me. She rocks me like a child, “Shh, shh, shh, shh,” kissing the top of my head, brushing the hair from my face.
I breathe in her cheap perfume and lean on her heavily. I’m so tired. If I could just sleep, it would all be better.
“You’ve got to make your own family now, Mary, love. And you’ve got your friends. Like me. And Pete. We’re your family.”
I sob against her shoulder. “But it’s not the same, Sandy. It’s not the same.”
It’s not the same.
Jake, May 1985
On my birthday I wake up just after six. The birds at the back of the house are making a racket, and I open up my curtains just enough to get a look without scaring them off. They look like house martins to me. This one bird lands on the wire of the nearby telegraph pole. It turns its head, chirps a bit, then flies quick as a flash back towards the house to disappear near my window. They must be nesting in the roof. The sun’s starting to shine up through the distant silhouettes of houses and buildings, far beyond the yard and alleyway that runs along the back of our place. It looks like it’s going to be a nice day. I crawl back under my warm covers and drift off again, until Andy comes bounding in at seven.
> “Happy birthday to you – Happy birthday to you – Happy birthday dear Ja-ake – Happy birthday to you!” He’s dancing in the doorway, wiggling his hips from side to side with each word and pointing his fingers in the air like guns. He looks like some demented Milky Bar Kid. He runs back out and returns with a boxy-shaped parcel in his hands, wrapped in brown paper, with little dogs hand-drawn all over.
“I made the wrapping paper myself – that’s meant to be Griffin.” He sits on the end of my bed with one knee up, one leg dangling down, waiting for me to unwrap it. “I bought it myself,” he says. “Go on, then!”
It’s a packet of five C90 Memorex blank cassette tapes.
“For when you get your midi system,” says Andy, looking hopeful.
“That’s brilliant,” I say. I’m quite impressed by his excellent choice. “I’ll need loads of these when I get my midi system, won’t I? This’ll get me started though. Might even make you a tape if you’re lucky.”
I can hear kitchen noises downstairs; Mum’s making tea. Andy can see I’m in a good mood, and lies back on the bed with his hands behind his head. I’m propped up on my elbows deciding whether to let him get away with it just this once, when Mum comes in with my tea. She leans over and gives me a kiss, as she puts the mug on my bedside table, along with two envelopes that must’ve come through the post yesterday.
I rip open the first one, which is A4 sized and interesting looking. It’s from George, and it’s a birthday card and a brand new Melody Maker magazine. Inside the card, he’s written ‘Peace, man’ and ‘Power to the MUSIC!’ I feel really bad that I didn’t even send him a card; I mean, his birthday’s on the same day as mine. How hard is that to remember?
The second card is from the Midland bank, who I’ve got a young saver’s account with. It’s got a yellow griffin on the front, and the message inside is printed, not handwritten.
Glasshopper Page 17