by Tim Orchard
Dick pointed. “See that stand of trees? That’s our house, just behind. I’ve got like a granny flat at the back. Well, it ain’t actually a granny flat, my dad had it built for my grandad.” A couple of little jiggy movements and a half laugh gave Dick’s soft heart away. His grandad was a man more cantankerous than his own father, but still, he missed him, missed sitting with him as a little chavvy, listening to him curse and remember the first war. Dick shrugged. “Don’t worry, he’s been dead for years. Anyway, you can come and use the toilet and shower there any time you like, door’s never locked.” He smiled. “We don’t really bother with locking doors much on Stickle.”
Amber looked to the trees—it was about seventy yards—she could manage that even if she was desperate. The thought of her dad slid through her mind. “What about thieves?”
Again, Dick shrugged. “Everybody kind of knows each other here. I’ll go and get you some water.”
At the house Dick found his father crashed out on the couch, where he usually was about that time of day, enjoying a snoozette. Henry’s jacket was hung on the back of the door and Dick took the keys to the Land Rover from a pocket. Had his dad been awake, Dick would have asked, but often, the less Henry knew the better. Snooze on.
Dick threw several sacks of logs, a box of fire lighters, milk and tea, bread, sausages, and two full five-gallon plastic containers of water into the vehicle. While he loaded up, he thought about Petal again—how could he not? They had been together about a year, and a year was a long time, and away from Amber now, a little bit of guilt made the blood rise in his face. He wondered what he was doing and what would happen if Petal found out—she had a temper. He also knew he wasn’t going to stop. He wanted to be near Amber, regardless of Petal. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what was going to happen next. It excited and worried him. He waited for something out there in the universe to alter his trajectory, to say, Look, this is wrong, but nothing happened. He peered all around at his home, the farm, the sky and trees and everything that made up his world and his understanding of it, and they were all Amber. The sense of guilt left him. He climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine.
Anyway, Dick knew it wasn’t all down to him. Ever since he’d talked to her about moving to London, it was like Petal’s attitude had cooled. He could feel it, feel the difference even if he didn’t really know exactly what the difference was. He knew she didn’t want to leave the island; it was one of those things between them. She said this, he said that. Nothing got resolved. And it wasn’t just about London. Even though Petal tried to hide it, he could see the way she’d changed toward Si. The looks she gave him. The touches. The way she’d gone off with him in the tractor when they took the dope off the beach. He couldn’t figure it out, and now, he wasn’t sure he cared.
Back at the tent Dick built a fire. It wasn’t cold, they didn’t need it, but somehow camping is always better with a fire. As he pulled it together, he checked Amber again about how she’d ended up on Stickle. Amber told half-truths. She was there on her bike. She’d come across on the ferry. She’d found the island by accident. She’d run away from school. Her dad was angry at her. She looked sad, and for Dick, at that time, it was enough. He wasn’t thinking about the big picture. He watched Amber whenever he could, and Amber caught his eye when she could and, all smiles, checked him out. They couldn’t help themselves. They liked each other. It was there in the air. They held back, neither wanting to ruin something that had hardly started. Each wondering, Is it? Shall I? The very air about them was fraught with a longing neither would know actually existed until the moment it was proven—but moments slide, and suddenly Dick remembered his father and jumped up. “Better get the Land Rover back or my old man will go nuts!”
Amber was surprised. “Really?”
Dick nodded. “You know what parents are like!”
When he was gone, she looked about. There was nobody and nothing. She was going to spend the night in a field with sheep. Were sheep like wild animals? What did they eat? Did they hunt in packs? Oh yes, she knew what fathers were like and she knew they had to be manipulated if possible, and she wondered then about Carter and who was manipulating who and what she was doing in the middle of a field on her own. He must have known there was nothing here. Like nothing. No wonder Simp had got her the tent and stuff. In case of emergency. Something was going on with her dad, more than she’d been told. Then, there always was. What he’d wanted—find the grass and tell me where it is—sounded simple enough. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Simp was right, it was very pretty here, but the countryside really wasn’t her thing. She’d read Cold Comfort Farm at school the year before, and her idea of the countryside was a little confused. And Dick? He was good-looking but he was a country boy. Did she need a clettering stick? Would he bring her vole skins and call her his little mommet? When Dick arrived back on his bike with a flagon of cider, most of her fears were neutralized. She left the flashlight in the tent.
They rinsed out the enameled mugs and filled them with cider. There was no mention of mommets. They drank. They refilled their mugs. They talked about music and Dick said that punk would never die and Amber told him it was already dead. It was a haircut. Dick talked about the Clash, and Amber explained she wasn’t talking about the music, she was talking about fashion and style and what was happening now. From that moment on, Dick didn’t just like her, he loved her. She talked his language. New ways of looking, small clubs and bands he’d never heard of—it was a high just talking to her.
When Amber asked about his dad, he stopped himself from getting a moan in and said, “We don’t really get on. What about you and your dad? What does he do then?”
From where she was sprawled, Amber reached out, picked up a log and pitched it onto the fire. Sparks flew. Amber shrugged and almost smiled. A bit of her wanted to tell him exactly why she was here but another bit said no. One thing her father had always impressed on her was to never tell anyone more than they needed to know. Casually, she said, “Oh, Daddy? This and that, import-export, you know, that type of thing.” Wanting to move on, she asked, “Have you lived here all your life?”
Dick wanted to say no, to tell her he’d traveled halfway around the world, but he knew instinctively that kind of bullshit wouldn’t wash, and anyway, he didn’t want to lie, he wanted Amber to—well, he didn’t quite know what. “Right, yeh, but I been around, London, Manchester, seeing bands and stuff. I’m leaving here anyway. Going to move to London. I got ideas.” Dick didn’t know how he was going to manage to leave or exactly what his ideas were. In his dreams, he saw himself in a club where it was all happening and it was all his doing. It was a dream.
Amber widened her eyes. She had ideas too. “What are you going to do?”
Dick wasn’t used to being asked what he was going to do. Mostly his dad shouted at him, but he usually did what he wanted to do and his dad got over it, eventually, and Petal usually told him what she wanted and what she was going to do, and all he had to do was agree. Other times, with other people, he went with the flow because nothing mattered much. Amber was looking at him over the rim of her mug. Her eyes were black and shiny. There was a thin silver ring on one of the fingers holding the mug. It had a tiny heart on it with a red stone in the center. He wanted to reach out and touch it. Touch her. He didn’t, couldn’t. His head was filled with ideas, with possibilities. Perhaps she would touch him, perhaps somehow money would come his way.
The bales of grass came into his head. Not everybody wanted the same thing, did they? Although he’d been there on the beach from the start and helped all the way, no one was listening to what Dick wanted. The rest of them would scrape and claw to save the ferry, but he wished there could be something, some little bit, for him. Defying this cold hard fact, he said, “Well, I don’t really want to talk about it, but there’s a bit of money coming my way, maybe.”
Burnished by the light of the slowly sinking sun, Dick looked really good to Am
ber. She drank cider and said, softly, “From your dad?”
Dick hunched his shoulders and shook his head. “No. I won’t get anything from him unless I stay and work the farm, or unless he dies.”
Family blackmail. Emotional tethering. Amber understood all about that. It was both her parents’ forte. You be good, you do this or that, and we’ll give you this. That was why she wanted her own money and to be able to get on with her own life. “Do you believe him?” Dick shrugged, she sniggered and said, wickedly, “Is he likely to die soon?”
The mouthful of cider shot halfway down Dick’s throat and back up his nose, and he was spluttering and laughing and coughing all at the same time. When he could, he said, “Have you seen my dad? He ain’t about to die any time soon.” He shook his head. “He’s built like a brick shithouse.”
Amber was laughing, thinking of her own father. “Mine isn’t a brick shithouse, but his friend is!” They laughed again, not really knowing why. Amber said, “My dad’s a bit the same. If I want more than he wants to give me, I have to earn it.” It wasn’t a lie. She was there on the island earning her money, just not right then.
They were quiet, staring at the fire and drinking cider, and when they weren’t looking at the fire, they looked out to sea, and far out, near the horizon, they could see tankers and container ships slowly moving through the busy waters of the Channel. They also looked at the sinking sun and the early-evening sky, and when they weren’t doing that, they were casting sly glances at each other. After a bit, Dick said, “I got other things, you know, fingers in pies and all that.” He wanted to impress her, couldn’t help himself. “Do you smoke? You know, dope?”
Amber gave him a big surprised cat’s smile, and Dick reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a baggie of grass. In her heart Amber hoped it was a bit of home grown or some Jamaican commercial. Even if it was the right stuff, she didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, because her dad sold a lot of grass, and although Carter didn’t know, all through the last eighteen months she’d been selling the same grass to her public school friends. This bit could have arrived here by chance from anywhere, and anyway, there was something about Dick. She felt… mm, and that mm, it was in her stomach, her chest. It felt good.
He wasn’t like the usual guys she ran into. He wasn’t an upper-class oik, buoyed by a trust fund, and he wasn’t a young geezer, all Pringled up, or even one of the pathetic blockheads who wanted to get in with her father, like she was a doorway they could strut through. A bit shy but not too shy, Dick seemed lovely to Amber. She liked the way he looked and she liked the way he moved. He needed a good haircut but that was all. In her best voice, she said, “Crumbs, I didn’t think there would be anything like that down here.”
Happily, Dick said, “You’d be surprised.”
There was nothing between them except space. Dick swallowed. Neither moved. Three feet was three thousand miles, a gulf. They looked at each other.
With a quick shuffle, Amber cut the space between them in two and said, “Can I have a look?” Dick passed her the bag and Amber stuck her nose inside and sniffed. She knew it, same as, and said, “Smells nice and fresh. Where does it come from, do you think?”
Dick wasn’t stupid, merely besotted. “Don’t know really. Colombia, I think.” Amber, the world was Amber.
They sat side by side as the evening sky darkened. They smoked. Amber threw a couple more logs on the fire. When the joint was done they sat quiet until Amber reached out and gently touched the back of Dick’s hand. It was a cattle prod to the heart. They both felt it. Amber left her fingers there for a few moments, linked by an electric current that pulsed in unison with their beating hearts, bang, bang, bang, then Dick took her hand and things happened quickly. Hot kisses. Bits of body touched through pushed-aside clothes. The fumble with belts. Cool grass. Hot ashes. Fire roared in their ears. Buttocks, thighs, chest, breasts, the first rising stars, a snap of moon. All pale. A rogue sheep watching. Laughter.
24
The island was small, and whether they wanted to or what, Petal and Dick usually saw each other at some time most days. They rarely needed to hunt each other out. When evening came without sight or sound of the boy, Petal wondered. Where was he? A day like she’d had! Her mother, her father, John Newman, her father again; cycling halfway around the island helping to get people organized for the meeting Saturday night, which wasn’t easy when you couldn’t tell anyone the actual truth; and taking in all the co-op shit numbed her brain. She needed to talk at somebody. Good or bad, her father wearied her. Made her want to vent. Made her think, even when she didn’t want to think. Where was Dick?
She checked in with Si, but he hadn’t seen Dick either. Si wasn’t worried, easy come, easy —. It was Postmistress P who told Petal about the girl on a motorcycle. So Petal got on her bike one more time and cycled over to Dick’s place. He wasn’t there. She did a quick circuit of the polytunnels and the swath of soft fruit enclosures. A few heads were still about, working, but none had set eyes on Dick since early that morning. For a moment or two, she thought about going to ask Henry but reckoned it would just be wasted energy. She looked aimlessly here and there, wondered about fate and if this was a sign and did it matter even if it was. After nightfall, she cycled back to the farmhouse and to Dick’s flat. All dark, all empty. No motorbike. No Dick.
Leaving the bike, Petal walked around to the side of the house and down past the stand of trees. In the moonlight, she could make out the curling smoke of a dying fire and the gray-green hump of a tent. There was a side to Petal that tended to expect the worst in some situations and sometimes it was the worst. A horrible knot of pain began to revolve in her stomach as she made her way down the field—the end to a perfect day. As she got closer, she could hear the low murmur of voices. Soft laughter. Happiness. This wasn’t what she wanted to find. She could guess what he was doing but couldn’t deal with the fact that he could do it to her.
She felt a sudden rage. She wanted to rip the tent to shreds with her bare hands, expose them there in their happiness. Her hands were curled and tense like claws, but her fingernails were bitten down. She wanted to be an animal with talons. Her frustration and anger solidified with the knot in her stomach until she felt nauseated. Acid bile crept up her throat and into her nasal passages. She didn’t want to puke, she didn’t want to cough, she didn’t want to make a noise and be discovered, stupid, outside the tent. Petal held her nose and tried to swallow it down. It was foul! She choked silently and staggered back against the two motorbikes, all neat side by side. The bikes clattered over like dominoes with Petal, like an upturned starfish, on top. There were raised voices, a ruckus in the tent, and a rush for the zipper, but before either managed to extricate themselves, Petal had scrambled back to her feet and was up and off.
From behind a nearby gorse bush, she watched. In a way she couldn’t quite explain, she felt robbed. And crouched in the dark, she was annoyed that she hadn’t thought to kick the bloody motorbikes over on purpose. It was like her rage had been subverted into an accident, a turn of fate. If she had kicked the damn things over, the effect would have been the same, but she would have felt the power of her own actions. She would have been laughing to herself behind the bush instead of cowering. Part of her wanted to reclaim the power she thought she’d lost by jumping up and waving her arms and shouting, but she couldn’t, because that would have been just too stupid. She watched surreptitiously while they righted the bikes and laughed about rogue sheep, and then Dick put a couple of fire lighters into the smoldering ashes and set sticks and logs in a pyramid as the flames grew. She’d seen him do the same thing when they’d camped together. The more she watched the more it hurt. They sat together near the fire wrapped in a sleeping bag. They kissed and cuddled. Who was she? The only thing Petal could conceive of was that she was someone he’d met when he’d gone up to London to visit his long-lost mother. Regardless, Petal hadn’t seen this coming. Not with Dick. She’d always thought she’d be the
one to eventually dump him. When she couldn’t stand watching anymore, Petal crept away.
Unable to face breaking down in front of Julie or spending the night alone in her room wide-awake, staring at the ceiling, Petal headed to the Newmans’. Surprised, and a bit apprehensive, Si welcomed her in and made coffee. Shy, he didn’t ask her much of anything, but he loved it when she touched his arm and asked if she could stay the night. All innocent. Nothing strange. Both Dick and Petal had spent the night there in the past, together and alone. Then it was all mates. The trouble was, in an abstract, subtle way, this time was different.
When the coffee was made, they went up to his room. Si’s bedroom, if you could call it that, was two large rooms knocked together in the upstairs part of the house. It had its own toilet and bath, a mini-kitchen in an alcove, some couches, a TV, a music center, and, behind a kind of half wall, Si’s big bed. His father had a similar kind of space on the ground floor. The huge kitchen was their common ground.
Although he wanted to, Si didn’t throw shapes he listened. A little while ago, D.C. had lent him The Women’s Room and The Female Eunuch. All right, he hadn’t managed to finish all of The Female Eunuch, but both books had forced him to think about stuff that was hard to think about, about how women saw the world. He wanted to be sensitive and not overstep the mark. It was time to practice—it would be good for him.