Everlasting Lane

by Andrew Lovett

  ‘Who’s the lad?’ he asked, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Why you daft old soak,’ said his wife, picking a ham sandwich from the pile and folding it between her shiny lips, ‘it’s Peter. From Mel’s class. Remember?’ And then again, ‘Remember?’ like a sandwich with double filling.

  Mr Finch’s hooded eyes blinked for a moment before: ‘Oh, aye,’ they were suddenly lit from within. He tapped his pipe on the tabletop. ‘This is the lad, is ’e? The one you saw? Peter, is it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said his wife, sandwich churning inside her cheek. ‘Mel’s sweet on him.’

  I glanced at Melanie who broke from a delicate corner of cheese and tomato to smile, her sweet lips quivering by the warmth of the stove.

  ‘D’you know, girls,’ said Mrs Finch, addressing the whole table, ‘not so long ago I thought I saw an old friend of mine—Karen Goodwin, as was—not so long ago out of school but when I spoke to her … Well, she walked on as if she didn’t know me at all. Now why would she do that?’ Her big eyes were like keys unlocking all my secrets. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘I must’ve been mistaken, I’m sure.’

  ‘As I say,’ said Mr Finch with a gravelly groan, ‘best go see her ‘stead of sitting up here chundering on.’

  ‘No!’ declared Melanie’s mum. ‘No!’ dabbing the corners of her breadcrumb lips with a napkin. And then, huffing softly: ‘She knows where to find me.’

  Mr Finch shook his head, a slow swaying movement like a cathedral bell. ‘Pride,’ he muttered, and a crooked smile slyly split the top of his face from the bottom. ‘Pride comes afore a—’

  ‘Pride, is it?’ cried his wife slapping the table. ‘Am I too proud now? Too proud to crawl? Aye, and suppose I am. Too proud to beg? What of it? Why, you …’ She turned her eyes from his slopey grin. ‘It’s like … It’s like … It’s like that Anna-Marie. That’s exactly what it’s like.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Her husband scanned the group. ‘Is she here? Annie, you here?’

  ‘Anna-Marie and Peter had to go and see Mrs Carpenter today,’ chirped Melanie. ‘Didn’t you, Peter? What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I squeaked.

  ‘No!’ cried Mrs Finch as if her husband were stupid; and loud enough to get the attention of everyone at the table. ‘Course she’s not here, you daft so-and-so. After what happened? You’ll be wanting that head of yours examined, m’love. Turning up here at all hours as if she could make herself a new life just by talking about it. You know, rub it out and start over.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first to try, mind,’ said Mr Finch solemnly.

  ‘She took that funny turn, don’t you remember? Anna-Marie I mean.’

  ‘Course I remember,’ murmured Mr Finch.

  ‘Now, girls,’ Mrs Finch said, ‘this isn’t for your ears so …’ and she flapped her hands for them to look away before turning back to her husband. ‘It’s Anna-Marie I’m talking about,’ she hissed, slapping Mr Finch’s shoulder, her voice really no quieter than before. ‘You remember. Well, I say funny turn. It made us laugh.’

  ‘Made you laugh.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mrs Finch. The party guests chewed in silence, ears twitching like radar. ‘At first. Scrawny little creature she was, sat at table, right here, stomping her feet, refusing to go, saying how she was Mel’s best friend. But after a while … Well,’ she turned to share her story with her daughter’s friends, ‘it was scary. She wants me to be her mummy, she says, and Ben here to be her daddy and she wants to—’

  ‘Hush now,’ muttered Mr Finch, striking a match, eyes glancing at Melanie’s guests.

  ‘Well, all I’m saying is maybe it’s not just her dad they should’ve locked—’

  ‘Hush now!’ His voice was firm. He pressed the lighted match to the barrel of his pipe. ‘No need for that.’

  ‘Well, all I’m saying is stay away when you’re not wanted.’ Mrs Finch curled another sandwich into her mouth although her lips were tight and wiry. ‘Peter!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Why, you haven’t touched a crumb.’

  And then Mr Finch’s finger was waggling at me, his face cracking with his big, broken-toothed grin. ‘Look at him! Look at him!’ he cried. ‘He’s sat there staring like the Scarecrow Man.’ Mrs Finch flinched and her frown curled into a question mark. ‘Aye,’ said her husband with a nod, ‘top field, up by Suicide Tree.’

  ‘Makes my skin crawl,’ muttered Melanie’s mother with a shudder. ‘Gives me the shimmies.’

  Mr Finch picked up his shotgun and took aim, firing two imaginary shots—K’bm! K’bm!—in the direction of his wife’s fat bottom. He leant forward and pinched the flesh of her arm ’til it trembled. ‘Oh, he’s harmless enough.’

  The table fell into a rowdy clutter of chattering and clattering as plate after plate was cleared and teeth chomped and chewed, and cheeks bulged with handful after handful of sweet and savoury. Hands, mouths and stomachs were all stuffed to bursting until completely satisfied.

  ‘Melanie,’ asked Michelle Carr, ‘did Anna-Marie really used to be your best friend?’ She asked it in a sing-songy kind of nasty way.

  Melanie blushed and Mrs Finch asked sternly, ‘What of it, young lady?’ her spine straight and prickly. ‘Friends come and go, don’t they, Peter?’

  ‘They’ll be wanting their cake,’ growled Mr Finch, bitter smoke billowing from between his teeth.

  With much scraping of chairs and, ‘Scuse me, m’loves,’ Mrs Finch left the table and made her way to the pantry door, returning a moment later carrying the cake to the table like it was a Persian prince with a crown of candles, ten candles, placed evenly around the edge. Mr Finch produced a taper, burning bright, and took it to them one by one. The individual flames flickered and, once all were lit, a golden glow bathed Melanie’s face.

  Everybody sang.

  Melanie blew and the flames went out one by one. Mrs Finch wielded a knife as long as her arm and sliced chunks from the cake, leaving the mark of her meaty prints on each piece. Her red lips sucked the crumbs from her fingers as she wiped the blade clean on the corner of her apron. Mr Finch stood and bent low to his daughter and kissed her on the throat just below her jaw: a daddy’s kiss full of sweat, stubble, love and bad breath.

  ‘Speaking of friends,’ said Mrs Finch, smiling slyly, ‘I think Peter might know another old friend of yours, Mel.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, you was very young. You used to call him Pinky-Perky-Peter.’

  Melanie frowned but then her eyes caught sparks and glowed like the tobacco in her father’s pipe. She smiled. ‘Pinky-Perky-Peter,’ she said as if repeating a dream. And then she turned those sparkling eyes to mine.

  ‘A little tyke he was,’ said Mrs Finch with a chuckle. ‘Always up to no good.’

  ‘Seems lad’s picking up bit of colour,’ remarked Mr Finch his expression unchanging.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘It’ll be all that party food.’

  ‘Look at him,’ went on Melanie’s father with a dry laugh, his long fingers snapping in my face. ‘Look at him. He’s away with faeries. His mother’ll think you’ve not been feeding him.’

  ‘Lives with his aunt, they say. Isn’t that right, Peter?’ and then under her breath, ‘supposedly.’

  ‘Good Lord, woman!’ barked Mr Finch like an angry tractor. ‘Go and see her, I say!’ He rapped his pipe three times on the table. ‘Or ask her blasted mother what happened!’

  The audience fell silent, their eyes startled wide reflecting the flickering candles.

  Mrs Finch’s finger tucked a loose curl back behind her ears. Her eyes toyed with me. ‘She says she’ll never tell.’

  23

  ‘Now,’ cried Mrs Finch, raising her voice and poking as big a chunk of cake as would fit into her fat face, ‘it’s time for Hide and Seek!’ She clapped like a performing seal and everybody leapt to their feet.

  As Rebecca Blackett, Charlotte’s twin, counted from one to ten I slipped through the door and out into the farmyard whilst everybody
else squealed and went in search of nooks and cubby-holes, wardrobes and shadows.

  ‘Here I come, ready or not.’

  It was twilight and I breathed deep, the air wet and spicy with dung. I looked around for a secure hiding place: the best hiding place. You see, I didn’t want to be found. By which I mean I didn’t even want to be sought. I wanted to disappear altogether.

  Beside a paddock in which Melanie’s pony, Goldilocks, grey in the sooty fading light, trotted back and forth with a pleasing clippertyclop, I found some bales of hay and drew myself into as tight a space as I could manage, my nose tickling. I held my breath.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’

  It was Melanie. She squashed in beside me, so that together we filled just as small a space as I had on my own. She smelt flowery, her hair in my face making my nose twitch even more, her soft hand slipping into mine. Her head turned slightly so that her velvety pink lips touched mine. To the side Goldilocks’ droppings were shovelled into a single wet pile. I could hear Melanie breathing through her nose, and taste sweet and savoury on her breath.

  ‘Pinky-Perky-Peter,’ she sighed.

  I could hear where flies had buried their eggs with a pl-pl-pl-plpl in the mountain of dung, and sense their wriggling white babies burrowing towards the centre of the heap. Melanie’s little tongue was in my mouth like a strawberry.

  And then, ‘Peter.’

  Melanie’s lips parted from mine with a syrupy slurp.

  Anna-Marie was stood before us, her face pale like the rising moon. I wriggled free of Melanie’s arms and struggled to my feet. Even in the twilight I could see something new in Anna-Marie’s face, something I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Nice tie,’ she said looking at my school uniform. ‘I didn’t know it was fancy dress,’ but there was no feeling in the way she said it.

  I don’t know if Melanie called out or if somebody else saw what had happened but before long everybody had gathered to stare at Anna-Marie in the farmyard. They were just like a jury on that show Crown Court which is always on when you’re off school with a tummy bug, all scowling before they even knew what she was supposed to have done, but Anna-Marie didn’t move or speak.

  At the centre of the mob Mrs Finch’s face steamed with anger as Melanie wept into her chest. ‘You’re a ghoul,’ she wailed at the visitor. ‘You’re not welcome ’ere. ’Ow many times …?’ Melanie’s friends swarmed about her, patting her back and condemning the criminal with poisonous gasps. Their feet stomped with outrage; their eyes shone with delight.

  Mr Finch emerged from the farmhouse and the group separated to let him through. ‘Go easy on the lass,’ he said. This is what daddies do, I thought. He approached Anna-Marie and laid his hand, as big as a field, on her shoulder. ‘She’s done no wrong.’ Sometimes we all need a daddy just to sort things out.

  ‘No wrong?’ spluttered his wife. ‘No wrong? I can’t believe my … This is your daughter, you old fool, sobbing in my arms.’

  Anna-Marie tilted and rested her head against the man’s chest. He touched her hair gently. ‘You’d best be gone, m’love,’ he whispered, his voice soft as earth. Their eyes met for a moment before Anna-Marie turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ exclaimed Mrs Finch.

  ‘Are you her friend, lad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at me with sad eyes. ‘Aye, then,’ he said, ‘you’d best go with her, eh?’

  And I knew he was right. I’d deserted her once, I couldn’t do it again.

  It was properly dark by the time I reached Everlasting Lane. I saw Anna-Marie waiting for me beneath the glow of a lamppost at the top of the path that led down towards the river, but again she turned into darkness as soon as I drew close. I followed the rustle of her feet through the undergrowth.

  By the time I found her she was stood on the riverbank, her sandals and socks had been removed and lay beside the cold, dark water. She told me to sit down and had me tug off my own socks and shoes and roll up the bottoms of my trousers. I couldn’t believe how freezing the water was. The only light was provided by the moon, so silver it was almost blue.

  I was just beginning to wonder where I’d left my school bag when Anna-Marie said, ‘How was the party?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Anna-Marie shrugged. ‘Oh, Peter, do you think nothing ever happened before you came here? It’s her birthday. She always has a party. I went once. How’s her dad?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You know, once when I was there they let me ride on the pony. Goldilocks. It was great.’

  ‘Melanie loves me,’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘She loves everybody for a while. Without wanting to spit in your cornflakes, she was in love with Tommie for six weeks when she could barely stand to look at him. Melanie’s problem,’ she said, ‘is she’s not prepared to forsake a little love.’

  ‘What happened?’ I meant about Mrs Carpenter and that.

  Anna-Marie told me to swirl my foot in the water. I could hear her sucking in her cheeks and turned to see her biting her lower lip, frowning at the stars.

  ‘What was your dad like?’ she said.

  Black shapes swooped back and forth in the field before us. The bells of the church began to sound the hour. They seemed to go on and on.

  I cleared my throat. I told her that he was tall, that sometimes he was a bit tubby in the tummy; that he had a moustache except when he didn’t. I told her that he’d worked for someone but I didn’t know who or what he did. I told her that he’d been in the war and that sometimes he could be noisy and funny and at other times he would be quiet and—

  ‘No, Peter. I mean, what was he like?’

  When I had chicken pox once the spots were so scratchy I couldn’t sleep and lay in bed, crying. My dad sat with me and told me a story about a man who shot his own foot off thinking it was the hand of a ghost. That was a bit scary, so then he told me a funny story from the war about a chicken and a German soldier. Then he told me not to worry about sleeping. He said, ‘Sometimes you only think you’re awake when in fact you’re dreaming,’ but he stayed with me, dabbing ointment on my spots, until I drifted out of this world into another.

  Anna-Marie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is kind,’ and then she was silent again.

  I turned again to face her. I couldn’t really see her face, just the sparkle of her tears. ‘What about your dad?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said, so I turned around again. ‘What about your mum?’ she said. ‘Do you love her?’

  It was strange to hear her say ‘mum’ like that, but I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You love her better since you came here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was funny because I didn’t really know what she meant. I mean about whether I loved her—my mum—more since I’d come to Amberley. I was confused. But then I realised that Anna-Marie knew that Kat was my mother. And then I realised that she’d always known; I mean nearly as long as I had. And that was all right. I didn’t mind her knowing, but—

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, Peter,’ she sighed, ‘it’s as plain as that stubby, fat thing in the middle of your face.’

  ‘Don’t tell Tommie,’ I said.

  ‘Tommie?’ She laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? His brain can barely contain the football results without dribbling down the sides. But,’ she said, ‘what was she like before? Kat I mean. Your mum.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I was too embarrassed to say anything else, you see, because the really funny thing was that I’d kind of forgotten. I mean that Kat was my mum. I don’t really know why. I guess I’d just kind of wanted to forget. It’s like I said before, sometimes pretending is better than when things were real.

  ‘My mother,’ said Anna-Marie making the word sound inedible, ‘is a nightmare. A complete nightmare.’ She began to copy her mother’s gloomy voice: ‘ “Anna-Marie, do this. Anna
-Marie, do that. Tidy this, clean that, polish this, scrub that.” Frankly, my mother is a pain in the … backside.’

  And then I suddenly realised why, well, why she wasn’t sitting down.

  But, ‘What about your dad?’ I said.

  ‘Melanie’s dad was always nice to me,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘He used to show me how to milk the cows and things like that. I didn’t even want to go home sometimes.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  I turned my head to see Anna-Marie gazing deep down into the muddy water in search of a lost ring, seeing the shine but not the ring itself. She told me to swirl my foot again and for a moment the water cleared. I looked up. Her eyes were filled with tears. A shiver passed from the river and twinkled its way up my spine.

  ‘The problem with you, Peter,’ she said, ‘is that sometimes you’re watching Blue Peter when everybody else is watching Magpie.’

  ‘What?’ I didn’t really know what she meant.

  And then she said,

  ‘Alice

  Daughter, sister, mother, friend

  Child of the pure unclouded brow

  And dreaming eyes of wonder!

  Though time be fleet, and I and thou

  Are half a life asunder.

  R.I.P.’

  speaking slowly, from memory, as if she was carving the words with her voice.

  They were the words from the gravestone. Alice’s gravestone. I could remember nearly all of them myself even though I’d only seen them for a second.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.

  ‘I … You said you didn’t want to know.’