I followed his gaze. As we got closer to the fire, I saw Babs – oh, and Celia, too, good. Amongst the milieu of almost exclusively young people who were swaying laconically to the music, Babs and Celia, ciggies aloft, were very definitely boogying on down with gusto around imaginary handbags. Singing along at the tops of their voices to whatever song they were thrilled enough to recognize, all angst between the two of them clearly forgotten, they turned their faces up to the sky and foghorned the chorus to ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ out into the night.
‘Shit-faced,’ observed Ted.
‘Oh, completely.’
‘And the rest are my lot, of course,’ he added, glancing around. ‘Who will be in a similar state, but far more used to it.’
I made a considering face. ‘Babs has had a bit of practice.’
‘True.’
We were nearly upon them now. The bass note from the speakers throbbed in my ears. Young girls in tiny shorts and cropped tops flirted and half danced in boys’ faces. I could feel the drink-fuelled electricity from here: the snap and crackle of impending sex.
‘Darlings!’ Babs suddenly spotted us. She threw up her hands and ran to meet us. Celia saw us and followed. ‘Isn’t this fun? It’s years since we’ve done this – remember how we used to, Flora?’
‘I do.’
It brought a bit of a lump to my throat, actually, albeit recalling a very different sort of party. Usually my father would light the fire, but always in a pit, surrounded by rocks, well supervised and military in fashion. We children would eat baked potatoes cooked in tin foil from it and poke them with sticks. Mum and Iris would fry sausages on a primus stove and a local boy, Gideon, would play the guitar – Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen – and we’d all sing along. This was a very different sort of event. Not louche or out of hand, though, by any means, I thought, as I saw a group of students sitting in a huddle having an earnest discussion. Another group, all girls, were in a circle, singing along softly together. As Ted had observed, there was certainly more decorum amongst this age group than our peers. Two rather pretty blonde girls suddenly spied their professor. They leaped up to dash barefoot across the sand to lead him, protesting, by the arm, to their little singing coterie.
Babs’ face was instantly in mine. Her eyes were bloodshot and her breath billowed like a furnace.
‘Well?’ she hissed.
‘Well what?’
‘Are you having a lovely time?’
‘Very pleasant, thank you, Babs.’ I stepped backwards to escape the fumes.
‘Very pleasant? Very pleasssant!’ she slurred. ‘You’re not at a garden party! You’ve got to fuck him, hasn’t she, Celia?’ She turned to her new best friend. Celia was somewhat insensible, though. She swayed, mute and glassy-eyed, beside her. I hoped she wasn’t going to puke. Babs took her arm and shook some life into her.
‘Tell her, Cele!’ she insisted.
Celia could barely talk. She tried to focus on my face. Remember who I was, maybe. She opened her mouth to speak. Shut it again. Finally she made contact with her vocal cords.
‘Fuck him,’ she agreed loudly.
‘Because if you don’t,’ Babs swayed back into my face again, and then out. She staggered a bit. ‘Someone else will!’ Widening her eyes for dramatic emphasis, she swung her arms about extravagantly, magnanimously including all comers. Then her chin disappeared into her neck as she regarded me disapprovingly. I hoped that was the end of it, because one thing is absolutely certain: you cannot argue with a drunk. When pitted against any sober individual they have complete autonomy. It was just crucial these two particular inebriates were not overheard. Celia was taking a breath and looking as if she was gearing up for a very loud second wind.
‘What you’ve got to do is fu—’
‘Shall we sit over here?’ I interrupted urgently. ‘Look! Let’s join in.’ Seizing both their arms I led them firmly to some students, admittedly of the intense, male variety which wasn’t ideal, but well away from Ted. A glance at the girl group told me he was already looking around for me. Once located, he gestured with a long arm for me to join him.
I held up my fingers. ‘Five minutes,’ I mouthed. Then I rolled my eyes at my two companions, indicating I was chaperoning. He grinned, nodded and went back to the young.
‘Why here?’ Babs was wailing, more at home amongst the dancers than this earnest, cross-legged group of boys. I made them collapse – not difficult. ‘Why not over there with—’
‘No, because here,’ I improvised urgently, ‘is much better.’
‘Why?’ Babs pouted like a two-year-old. She made to get up again but her legs were weak. I pulled her down.
‘Because here …’ I glanced around for inspiration, desperate for some extraordinary washed up sea urchin with which to distract these petulant toddlers. Unfortunately, Babs had spotted something far more fascinating. It was long, fat and white and burning between the fingers of the boy sitting beside her. He took a drag and the paper glowed brightly in the night sky. She stared, hypnotized.
‘Drugs!’ she breathed in wonder.
Celia came back from the dead and followed her eyes. ‘Weed,’ she informed her gravely.
The boy overheard and turned. He smiled. Offered it to her. Celia took it, and old hippy that she once was, took a professional drag. She paused, and then took another, before passing it to Babs. Oh dear. I was reasonably sure she didn’t indulge, but on the other hand, who knew? She lived by the sea, drank like a fish, and it seemed that when Roger wasn’t available she went out with younger men. Plus she was about sixteen at heart, so for all I knew, she was off her head every night.
Something about the way she handled the joint, though, not with trepidation, but with fascination: and her childish excitement – sniffing it first – made me feel this was surely a baptism by spliffy fire. She raised it to her lips and took a drag. But it was a small, experimental one. Then, she frowned, as clearly nothing appeared to be happening. She took a much bigger drag, right down to her pink canvas shoes, then let it out. Her eyes widened as she waited for the psychedelic dawn to come up, for Woodstock, for the Beach Boys, for flowers to appear miraculously in her hair. When they didn’t, she raised it eagerly again, but I was too quick for her.
‘My turn,’ I told her firmly. I whipped it from her fingers. ‘You’ve had your go.’
For some reason I’d rather missed the stage of my life when I should have been entertaining this hobby. I’d been too busy, in a respectable, good-girl way, either riding my pony and painting seascapes, or getting married and having a baby. And despite having been an art student in groovy Glasgow and seeing a fair bit of life, I’d lived with similarly well-brought-up girls who, likewise, didn’t indulge. Well, there was always a first time. And frankly, I’d always slightly regretted my well-spent youth. I took a small drag, but as I did, Babs and Celia watched intently. I’d hoped Celia might have collapsed by now. Died, even. I had no choice but to take another one.
‘And again,’ said Celia sternly.
‘I’ve had two.’
‘That first one didn’t count.’
‘It’s not an exam,’ I snapped, glaring at her. Nevertheless, I went back for more. Rather defiantly, I took an absolutely humungous inhalation this time.
A vast snake, a python of smoke indeed, swirled luxuriantly down and around my lungs. It filled them completely, finding its way into all manner of nooks and crannies I didn’t know existed: it was like a Victorian pea-souper, swooping low and triumphantly, claiming the entire geography, transforming the landscape. Such a novel, and not entirely unpleasant experience was it, that I delayed exhaling and held it down. Well done me. Meanwhile, I cannily passed it, without looking at the recipient, keeping my eyes firmly on Babs for signs of grabbing, to the next lucky customer.
‘Somehow I had you down for a cocktails-at-six girl,’ said an amused voice in my ear. Ted was crouched beside me and had relieved me of the joint. He took a drag, then passed it on. ‘Things are looki
ng up.’
I stared, horrified. ‘Oh – no, no, they’re really not,’ I said, aghast. ‘I don’t, actually. I just did it because—’
‘She does,’ Babs interjected firmly. Her head lurched drunkenly between the two of us. ‘She does everything. She does drugs, she does sex, she does—’
‘Rock and roll!’ I said desperately. Getting to my feet, I dragged Ted, who luckily had only been crouching, up with me. ‘Come on,’ I said, holding firmly on to his arm. ‘Let’s go. Over there, where the music is.’
Ted, looking totally bemused, nevertheless allowed himself to be led to where the dancing was certainly more concentrated. It was quite some distance, beside some makeshift speakers, on the other side of the camp fire, well away from Babs and Celia. As we joined the throng and swayed along to Coldplay, I saw some of his students on the sandy dance floor nudge each other delightedly. They danced up close to us, grinning, mobbing him up. He grinned sheepishly back. After a bit he leaned in.
‘Not sure I’m quite drunk enough for this!’ he confided loudly, above the din.
I wasn’t entirely sure I was either, but Babs and Celia – I glanced over my shoulder – had at least stayed put, so needs must. I grinned and nodded as if I couldn’t really hear him. We swayed along to another number, and then actually, suddenly, as if by magic, I was drunk enough. I began to feel most peculiar, in fact. Remarkably mellow and – yes, graceful. I waved my arms high in the air, swaying along. Ted looked amused and I hoped it wasn’t because I was displaying too much bingo wing, but no, he must surely see that what I was actually doing was reaching for the stars, which I grasped, and which then turned to sparkling gems in my hands. I stared at them in wonder. I really was up there, with Lucy, in the sky with diamonds, how extraordinary. And it was slanting slightly, the sky, which made grasping that much easier. I leaped about like a gazelle, seizing sparklers, in fact … golly, I was a gazelle, I realized, as my legs grew long and bony, with hocks and hooves. I stood still.
‘Look!’ I implored Ted, tugging his arm as he danced. ‘Look at my legs!’
He gazed down, surprised. ‘Very nice.’
‘But I’m an animal – can’t you see? In fact …’ I gazed down incredulously. ‘I’m an impala,’ I told him importantly.
Ted laughed softly. He took my arm. ‘So you are. But I’ve obviously had less impala puff than you, which puts me at something of a disadvantage. Why don’t we retire to that quiet spot yonder by the rocks, where the youth have conveniently left a bottle of plonk and some cups, and see if I can catch up?’
It seemed a reasonable enough suggestion under the circumstances and he led me away. But I had to trot, obviously, because I had hooves. And shake my head. As I settled down beside him on the vast sandy plains of the Maasai Mara, folding my long back legs beneath me, I gazed about admiringly. Ted was pouring me a plastic cup of wine.
‘Won’t they mind?’ I asked, some clarity briefly returning as I took it.
‘Mind? God, they take enough drinks off me, fucking students.’
‘Fucking students,’ I repeated slowly, consideringly. I enjoyed the sound of it. ‘I don’t swear enough, Ted. I’d like to do it more.’
He laughed. ‘You are away.’
‘No, but seriously. I will. You’d like my friend Shona, she swears a lot.’
‘I don’t think I do, that much!’ he protested.
‘No, but still, you’d like her. Works for the BBC.’
‘So you said.’
‘Big microphone. Furry one. Big job. Tiny girl. Like these. These tiny grains of sand.’ I gazed in wonder as I took a handful and let the grains pour through my fingers. ‘Look! Look at all the little animals! Crabs, beetles – turtles!’ I showed him a miniature turtle on the palm of my hand in fascination.
He laughed. ‘Come on. Time to get you back, I think.’
I gazed at him, at his handsome, smiling, slightly craggy, good-natured face. ‘Not until I’ve kissed you,’ I informed him gravely. I took his face in both my hands, brought it towards me, and kissed him, very seriously, and very thoroughly, on the lips. Actually, not kissed, snogged.
‘There,’ I said when I’d finished. I returned his surprised face to its rightful position. ‘That’s better. I thought it would be a good idea earlier, in the restaurant, and it was.’
He threw back his head and roared. ‘Well, I certainly found it more than just A Good Idea. But to be continued, I feel, at a later date. Let’s get you home.’ He got up and helped me to my feet, which were wobbly and not quite so gazelle-like now.
‘Oi – Ted! You bastard – our fucking bottle!’
A few outraged students ran across from the dance floor and swarmed around Ted. He laughed and held up his hands.
‘Literally, barely had a sip. But frankly, if I’d known it was yours, Shaun Casey, I’d have finished it. I’ve kept you in beer for three years!’
More jokey banter ensued as they pooh-poohed this notion, and reclaimed their bottle, with much discussion about who drank more, the professor or his students. Then a girl approached, one of the two pretty blonde ones who had originally rushed up to drag Ted away, and she said something sharper to Ted, something cutting. A couple of the boys had to calm her, tell her to pipe down, but I didn’t really take much notice because I was somewhat distracted. As Ted broke off from them and came back towards me, I was staring away into the distance.
I realized I’d recognized a couple walking away from the fire in the opposite direction: back along the beach towards town, where Ted and I had just come from. The figures had gone now, they’d disappeared around the rocks of the headland. But I was absolutely sure I’d seen Peter and Janey, arm in arm.
17
The following morning, Celia and I both stumbled out of bed at exactly the same time, midday. Passing each other on the landing we staggered to the bathroom where we held a lot of porcelain. Obviously we didn’t speak. Finally we tottered downstairs, still with no words having been exchanged, just the occasional groan, clutching one another. There, at the bottom of the stairs, an extraordinary sight met our eyes. Stopped us in our tremulous tracks. We swayed gently on the Cornish slate floor, in our bare feet, strappy tops and PJ bottoms, surveying the chaotic scene beyond in the kitchen.
‘Dear God,’ Celia finally said, faintly. ‘Have we been burgled?’
Every kitchen drawer was open, every cupboard door flung wide: dirty pans and plates tottered at a precarious, uneasy angle in a pagoda in the sink, and every work surface was covered with empty packets of foodstuffs, mostly of the artery-clogging, fry-able kind.
‘Wait.’ I put an unsteady hand to my head, which was throbbing dully. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’ I tottered to sit on a stool at the bar, clutching the furniture en route. ‘When I got in, you were busy eating your own bodyweight in breakfast fare. There were eggs and sausages and bacon sizzling in every pan.’
‘That’s it,’ she agreed, remembering. She groped her way to sit beside me. ‘And you joined in.’
‘I was starving,’ I told her in surprise. ‘Really ravenous. And I’d been out to dinner.’
‘That’s what happens,’ she told me gravely, ‘when you dabble in illicit substances.’
‘Ah.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ I paused nervously. Some of the highlights of my evening were returning rather too vividly and gloriously. ‘Did … Ted drop me off?’ I hazarded.
‘He did.’
‘And was I … you know … OK?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Define OK.’
‘I mean, did I … you know – comport myself, um, decorously?’
‘I think you made your intentions pretty clear when you invited him for a naked swim.’
I put my head in my hands and moaned low.
‘Oh, don’t worry, he knew you were out of it. He disentangled himself from your clammy clutches and bid us a cheery goodnight.’
‘Right.’ I raised my head. ‘Super cool, then.’
‘Well, not
you.’
‘No. Quite.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry. You’ve lost none of your allure.’ Was there an edge to her voice? I couldn’t tell. ‘He seemed pretty taken with you, if you ask me.’ She heaved a great sigh up from her bare toes.
I regarded her in alarm. ‘Cele, if you’ve changed your—’
‘No. Hundred percent haven’t. Just got a thumping headache.’ She gazed bleakly around the kitchen. ‘Bacon and eggs?’
I gave the greasy mess a considering look. ‘D’you know, weirdly, yes. Should we wash the pans first?’
‘I think that would elevate us from the student gutter to the more mature, scatty artist level.’
We pottered about gingerly, slowly clearing up the kitchen. I turned the radio on very low, but Celia turned it off again.
‘Speaking of which, are we working today?’ I paused at the sink and frowned, up to my elbows in suds. ‘What day is it?’
‘Sunday, so no. Personally I’m going to lie in a darkened room until the gaudiness of last night’s excesses recedes into the very distant past and all memory of—God!’
We both froze. Cringed low as our doorbell rang at full volume. Brrrrrrrrrrrr!! When it finally stopped, I turned, arms still in the water. Celia had her hands over her ears.
We gazed at one another in horror. ‘Did you even know we had one?’ she whispered, removing her hands gingerly from her head. ‘Don’t people down here just push on through?’
‘Shouting coo-ee, yes.’
‘So who is it?’
‘No idea.’
‘Who would do that?’ She looked worried.
‘Don’t know, Cele. Can’t see through doors.’ I removed my hands from the sink and wiped them on a tea towel since she clearly wasn’t going to make a move.
‘We don’t want anyone like that,’ she said petulantly. ‘The police?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ But suddenly I was marching very quickly to that door, Peter springing instantly to mind, together with the usual maternal nightmares to do with teenagers, the sea, copious amounts of alcohol and various notorious horror stories. But something else about Peter and last night, which was coming back to me, made me open the door with even greater alacrity to the morning sunshine.
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