Islands: A page turning story of love, secrets and regrets

by Gwyn GB

  It isn’t easy to wriggle through the throng of sweaty bodies to the tiny dance floor which is sticky underfoot and so cramped you can barely sway let alone let rip and become a dancing queen. Nonetheless they start a dance, of sorts, and Katherine notices although Anne is beginning to cheer up, she’s still not on top form.

  Weeks of anticipation and exam revision mean there’s going to be no stopping Katherine from enjoying herself tonight. She carries on regardless, eyes sweeping the whole room, searching for Darren or Mark - hoping the latter might be a cure for Anne’s blues.

  Three dances later and they’re already flagging in the heat. Some boy, quite tall, a couple of years older than Katherine, and not bad looking for that matter, asks her for a dance. He looks like a cross between the guy who plays Starsky and David Essex. She says no. He’s decidedly sweaty, probably just a tourist, and besides she’s saving herself for Darren - the only man in her heart. The boy looks dejected for a few minutes, then two records later she spots him smoochy dancing with another girl. Katherine’s a little miffed he’d gotten over her so quickly but his behaviour reinforces her suspicion he’s just here on holiday.

  Katherine’s getting really thirsty and so motions to Anne she needs a drink. They begin their battle to the bar, dodging the hard core dancers, heading towards the white light. It’s then she sees them. Mark first, then Darren. The pair of them together, standing looking at the dance floor. They’ve probably been watching them all this time. Her heart does a triple somersault.

  Darren looks as fabulous as always. He’s a well-built lad, product of a farming upbringing. He’s got a short sleeved T shirt on which accentuates his shoulders and biceps, plus a pair of stone coloured trousers which only just seem to contain his muscular legs and arse. She can’t believe their luck. The two of them stood together. She alters their course slightly and charts a path that will take them right past the boys. Just to be inches from them, breathe the same air as them, is going to be exciting enough.

  Then it gets better. As they draw level Darren splits away from Mark and leans over touching Katherine’s arm. An electric tingle screams its way to her core.

  His voice is in her ear, ‘Do you two want a drink?’

  There’s no hesitation, she’s lived this moment a thousand times already in her dreams. She knows exactly what to say. ‘Yes thanks, that would be great. I’ll have a Martini and lemonade please. Anne what would you like?’

  Anne has a look of utter shock on her face. Katherine hopes hers isn’t recording what she’s thinking quite so graphically. ‘Same thanks,’ Anne blurts out.

  Darren says something to Mark, they exchange a few words glancing over at the girls, and then Mark turns and walks to the bar. Anne and Katherine exchange a wide-eyed look of amazement with each other before moving into the spot he’s vacated to avoid other people pushing past.

  Darren attempts some conversation, ‘Haven’t seen you in here before?’ Katherine thinks he says, but talking isn’t really working, she can barely hear him, and her throat, which would have preferred a glass of water to a Martini, is so dry she can barely shout above the noise for him to hear. On the plus side it means he has to lean in right up close to her, their cheeks occasionally brushing against each other, the feeling of her soft skin against his adolescent stubble making her heart beat even faster.

  Mercifully for Anne and the art of conversation, Mark returns quite quickly with the drinks, putting them into their hands and simultaneously grabbing Anne’s free one with the mimed suggestion they all go outside to cool off. Katherine would have walked through fire if Darren suggested it. She isn’t sure if Anne has cheered up, but she seems as willing as she is to go along with the new turn of events and Katherine is as sure as hell going to enjoy every minute.

  The bouncer isn’t happy about them leaving. ‘You’re either inside the club or out,’ he says, but it doesn’t deter them. They are however, not allowed to take their glasses outside, and so the four of them are forced to down the ice cold drinks in one go. After the bite of the cold on the roof of her mouth, the warm rush of alcohol quickly goes to Katherine’s head. The combination of heat, dehydration, and the thrill of the moment creates a light-headed floaty sort of feeling she’s unfamiliar with. She follows Darren, his rough hand clasping hers, as he leads her to the beach.

  They kick off their shoes the second their feet touch sand, relishing squishing the tiny cool grains through their toes, digging in deeper to find the fresh damp sand beneath. The tide is out; the calm sea waves barely audible in the distance. Jersey’s massive tidal reach means the sea line is now hundreds of yards away from where it had been just six hours before and only the occasional splosh, as a wave catches another awkwardly, makes its way up the beach and through the throbbing competition of the disco.

  The boys lead them along, Corbiere lighthouse direction, past shadowy humps of other giggling chatting groups littering the sands, the odd wisp of smoke rising up. They continue towards the edge of the teenage tide where dark shapes of couples lie prone together, no words rising from their entwined forms.

  Finally, it is relatively quiet except for the thump, thump of the disco along the beach. The four of them drop down onto the sand, separating slightly into two couples, beginning an awkward teenage courtship. Katherine is still feeling a little woozy from the Martini so she isn’t surprised when Mark informs them it was a double. Anne and she giggle awkwardly, swapping silly comments between each other for support. As the darkness begins to melt their shyness, the conversations become more personal and their voices drop to whispers.

  ‘You’re at La Vielle Farm aren’t you?’ questions Darren. Katherine nods. ‘Thought so, seen you round there a few times, I sometimes go over with dad to the Binets. You go to St Helier Girls don’t you?’

  She nods again. ‘Well I did,’ she quickly qualifies, ‘we’ve just finished our exams. You work for your dad now right?’

  It’s Darren’s turn to nod. There’s silence for a few moments and she becomes aware of his breathing whilst her mind struggles to concentrate and find something else to say.

  ‘I like your top,’ he says awkwardly, nodding at her blouse which she’d agonised so long over wearing.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mumbles. Then inspiration hits. ‘You must have had a tough time of it this year, what with the drought,’ she tries, and hits on a good topic.

  ‘Yeah, it’s bloody awful. Nothing’s been growing, fields are dust. Had a Centenier round this week cos Dad’s been damming one of the streams.’

  ‘Yeah I heard the Honorary Police are cracking down,’ Katherine adds. Mr Binet had been talking to her mother just a few days ago.

  ‘Made Dad unblock it, said he’d be fined heavy otherwise,’ Darren looks off in the distance dejectedly. She tries to bring him back.

  ‘Should have been good for your strawberries though, all this sun?’

  ‘You’re kidding right? No. They ripened too quick, had to chuck a whole load away, and they’re too small, not enough water. We’ll make a big loss on those too.’ They both sigh and look out towards the nothingness of the sea. She’s beginning to wish she hadn’t brought the subject up, it’s depressed him.

  Above them the sky is marbled black and grey, and the white segment of moon hangs admiring its reflection in the water. Katherine is aware Anne and Mark seem to have moved further into the shadows. She tries not to let that, and the thought of what could be about to happen, panic her and searches her mind again for something to fill the silence. She isn’t being very imaginative. All she can think of besides him, is the drought and the hot summer - mind you that’s all anyone’s been talking about lately.

  ‘Why don’t you cuddle up to me?’ he suggests, his voice softening. He shuffles up closer to her and puts his arm around her shoulder.

  She is in a state of excited tension, sitting stiffly, not sure what to do next and too nervous to take a guess. Her body feels like the string on a bow pulled and ready to fire. He kisses her gen
tly on the cheek and her left hand which has been hovering, comes to rest on his thigh. It is solid beneath her fingertips. Alcohol rushes to her head, and blood to other parts of her body she’s not been fully aware of before. She turns to say something, yet another inane comment about the drought, but he catches her unawares placing his mouth over hers so only a little squeak comes out. He kisses her softly at first, testing. Then when he finds her willing, takes her head in his hands and kisses long and hard; thrusting his tongue into her mouth, touching hers with his, searching, caressing. Inside of her a whirlwind is building.

  He gently pulls her down onto the sand so they are lying facing each other. As she falls back her hand slips down from its safe spot on his leg and brushes past his crotch. She nearly gasps as she feels the hard shape in his trousers. It’s her first encounter with an erection and its presence is both threatening and exciting.

  Darren runs his hands down her back, every movement sending her skin into raptures. He is kissing her again. Sensual, passionate, wanting.

  Then it happens.

  7

  March 2008, London

  A week after the letter arrived, Katherine sits in the departure lounge at Gatwick airport watching the multi-coloured, multi-national waves of people swelling and subsiding as they drift from the flight information screen to Duty Free, from snack bars to sunglasses kiosk; until they all eventually slip away to a boarding gate somewhere and the promise of a new destination. Usually she likes that about airports: the constant flow of anticipation, whether a holiday, seeing old friends, or just the welcome familiarity of returning home. Right now though Katherine feels adrift in a world turned hostile.

  She may have left Jersey but it has always been her rock. Brush away the tax haven tarnish and find the real Jersey underneath and whether she admits it or not, she’s been secretly proud of her home island: its beauty, independence and history. Now every time she hears Jersey mentioned everyone tuts and shakes their heads, ‘Terrible news,’ or ‘Not so perfect after all.’

  The week’s papers have brought yet more revelations about the abuse at the children’s home. Katherine feels her island’s shame and expects to return to a Jersey under siege.

  When it’s her turn to make the journey to the departure gate she quietly stands in line before handing over her boarding pass. She sees the security photograph come up on the screen - a middle aged woman, moderately attractive but nothing special. The kind of middle aged woman who can just blend into a crowd, become virtually invisible in a sea of people: mousy hair that was once blond, skin that’s lost the glow of youth, eyes reflecting weariness, not life. She takes back her boarding card and disappears into the waiting lounge.

  Britain can look so pleasant from the skies. As the plane rises up into the air over Gatwick, she looks down on a spread of mosaic fields, different shapes, and different hues of green. You can see where big business farms, large chunks of land given over to one colour. Nearer to the towns are smaller fields adorned with the wooden shapes of Jesus’s birth - home to the tiny insect sized horses which dot the landscape. Row upon row of houses interspersed by the odd park, or the prosperous ascent of office blocks in the town centre. You can’t see the graffiti or the rubbish in the streets. You can’t smell the fumes from the ever pumping artery of a motorway or hear its incessant drone, it’s a sanitised view of Britain.

  Up into the clouds for what feels like only a few minutes, on top of the world, nothing between her and the sun. No other life forms, a space where anything seems possible, and nothing seems possible.

  The captain announces the descent to Jersey.

  Back through endless white, the stuff of dreams and songs, until suddenly there is the sea; clear aqua green and blue, sparkling in the sunlight, broken only by the odd fluorescent buoy held to its surface by a rope, heralding the approach to land and a return to man’s domain. There’s no sign of waves, the movement amid the calm water only betrayed by a white tail reaching out from behind the buoys. Then beautiful sandy beaches stretching out as far as the eye can see, lined by the green of fields marking the sea’s boundary. A giant fertile granite rock rising out of the ocean.

  Beneath Katherine is a perfect miniature world. Tiny little granite houses with manicured gardens and glinting blue swimming pools. A farm laid out neatly with Lilliputian animals and tractors in its fields. Then it all rushes towards her, swelling in size, and the huge sandy expanse of St Ouen’s beach comes into view. As the plane carries on towards the runway Katherine’s mind goes back to that night at the Sands nightclub, as it has so many times in the years since. She can still remember the emotions, even the sounds and smells. As the tyres bump down onto the tarmac and the pilot switches the engines into counter thrust, she’s back there again - wondering what she could have done differently.

  8

  June 1976, Jersey

  Darren’s passion is thrilling every molecule of Katherine’s body. Their kissing has grown more urgent and he’s moved closer still to her now, her body magnetised by his; the pair of them entwining each other as though trying to weld into one. This, thinks Katherine, is what making love must be.

  Then suddenly from behind comes a slap, followed by an indignant ‘Fuck!’ from Mark Vibert as Anne’s shadowy figure scrambles off, running away up the beach.

  ‘Anne!’ Katherine shouts after her, but she’s gone.

  ‘What’s all that about?’ Mark says, standing up and holding his hands out in embarrassment. ‘Prick teaser,’ he suddenly yells after Anne, more aggressive now he realises they are staring at him in shock. ‘I don’t know what her problem is. I didn’t do anything,’ he qualifies to them.

  Katherine rises to Anne’s defence. ‘You must have done something to upset her,’ she finds confidence in her concern.

  ‘I did nothing for fuck’s sake,’ he almost shouts back, ‘we’re getting all cosy, she’s kissing me and then slap. I get it across the face. There’s something wrong with that girl.’

  ‘I’d better go after her,’ Katherine turns to Darren.

  ‘Aw come on, she’ll be fine. Stay here, I bet she’ll be back in a few minutes. Mark can go look for her, can’t you Mark?’ but Mark only grunts back reluctantly.

  Katherine isn’t so stupid as to think he actually wants to go after Anne. She hesitates, her mind cart wheeling options and possible scenarios. She’s been waiting for this moment, to be alone with Darren for forever, she doesn’t want to go...but... it’s no use, the moment has gone. At least for now.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ she says to Darren as she stands, picking up Anne’s discarded sandals and handbag as well as her own. She pauses, waiting for Darren to say he’ll call her, that he’s had a lovely time and why don’t they do it again... something. Surely after kissing her like that he’ll want to meet up. He must like her a lot. She waits for him to ask for her phone number, for a tender goodbye.

  ‘OK, see you then,’ is all she gets. As she heads off into the darkness after Anne she turns round and sees the pair of them walking back towards the club, without so much as a backward glance.

  It’s not surprising she’s really annoyed with Anne. She’s completely ruined everything. All this time Katherine’s spent waiting to get a chance like this with Darren and Anne goes and throws some stupid tantrum. She’d been in a grump right from the start. She of all people knows how much Katherine likes Darren. Is she completely and utterly selfish or what?

  Stomping in sand isn’t easy, but Katherine manages it. A part of her thinks it’s very unlike Anne to behave like this, especially as she’s supposed to like Mark too, so maybe something is up, maybe he really did do something to upset her. It’s this last thought that keeps her walking.

  There is a huge expanse of beach for her to search, Anne could be anywhere; she might even have disappeared up a slipway, or the steps that lead up to the Five Mile Road.

  ‘Anne, Anne, it’s me. Where are you?’ she stomps on, swearing as she stubs her toe on a large stone an
d occasionally looking behind; just in case Darren and Mark have had a change of heart and are coming to help. The beach is empty.

  After what seems like forever in the darkness, she finds her. Katherine had nearly walked past but she hears a snuffle and sees a huddled shape sitting in the corner of one of the old gun emplacements. Anne’s definitely crying so despite her own disappointment Katherine errs on the side of sympathy.

  ‘What’s the matter? What happened? What did he do to you?’ the dark shape simply sniffles back. ‘Look...do you want me to call your parents?’ Katherine continues.

  ‘No,’ says Anne forcefully. She leans forward out of the shadows, her face illuminated by the light from the pub up on the road above. She looks unusually pale and her cheeks are wet. There are dark circles under her eyes accentuated by the road top lighting. ‘No, you mustn’t. You mustn’t say anything to them. I’ll be fine.’

  Katherine isn’t convinced. ‘I thought you really liked Mark?’ she offers, tempted to add, like I like Darren, but thinks better of it.

  ‘I thought I did,’ is all Anne replies. The silence yawns between them. ‘He started to grope me. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘Grope you? What did he do, did he force himself on you?’ More silence, ‘Anne did he?’

  ‘Sort of...Yeah...’ is all she mumbles.

  Katherine isn’t quite sure what ‘groping’ entails, but it’s obviously serious enough to upset Anne quite badly. She’s also not sure what to do next. ‘Maybe we should tell the police then?’ she offers.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Anne snaps back, ‘They’ll just say it’s my fault for being on the beach with him, that I let him. It’ll be my word against his. Or they’ll call me a silly little girl who’s making things up.’