Summer of '76 (3 page)

‘Dillon!’ In the distance, Luke can hear the dog’s owner jogging down the hill to retrieve him. ‘Dill!’

The dog steps over Luke and sits beside him, accepting treats from the woman’s wrinkly brown hand. Luke scrabbles to his feet, brushing himself off and glancing up the hill to see all the residents of the campsite looking in his direction. He tugs at his earlobe.

‘Oh, you are a naughty little dog, aren’t you?’ says the small woman, massaging the beast’s jowls vigorously. She nuzzles his head with her face, and when she looks up Luke recognises her as a local from his part of town. He’s embarrassed to see that, apart from the camera looped around her neck, she’s covered by just a faded navy blue bikini which hangs limply on her bony frame. She looks as if she’s spent her whole life lying in the sun, slowly frazzling away like a raisin.

‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as “little”,’ he says, picking up the water flask knocked from his grasp during the assault.

The woman studies Luke closely, narrowing her eyes. ‘Aren’t you Richard Wolff’s lad?’

Luke blinks, surprised.

‘Hmm, thought so.’

He juggles the flask from one hand to the other. ‘Sorry – I don’t think I know –’

‘No, you wouldn’t. I’ve seen you with your dad in the town a couple of times, but I didn’t like to come over. You look like him.’

There’s an awkward pause. ‘So, how do you know my dad?’ Luke asks, more to fill the gap than out of interest.

‘I met him at one of the McKees’ parties.’

‘Oh, right.’ He glances past her to see if the others are all still watching.

‘That was a few years back now.’ She stares at him as if she’s asked him a question and is waiting for some answer.

‘Oh.’ Luke gives her a polite smile. ‘I’ve heard Mum and Dad talking about the McKees’ parties.’

‘Of course you have.
Everyone
’s heard of the McKees’ parties. I used to be Marie’s yoga teacher,’ she says archly, stretching out her turtley neck and rolling her shoulders, as if to illustrate the point. The slobbering dog pushes his muzzle into the palm of her hand and she looks up at Luke sternly. ‘Not any more.’

Something in her unblinking pale eyes sets his teeth on edge. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get going,’ he says, holding up the flask.

‘Tell your dad you bumped into Sara Newbury. Though of course he might not remember me.’ She tilts her head.

Luke smiles flatly and starts to walk away.

‘How’s your mum?’ she calls after him.

He doesn’t like her tone; he turns briefly to scowl back at her as he continues to walk. She raises her thin eyebrows. ‘Still going to those parties, are they?’

Luke stops, puzzled, and watches as she pulls her chin in primly, hunching down to feed another treat into the dog’s slobbering mouth. Luke can see each gnarly vertebra that runs down her darkly tanned back.

‘You should keep that dog under control,’ he calls over, struggling to restrain his rising irritation. ‘He’s too big to be running about off the lead.’

The woman visibly bristles, her little hands balling into fists at her side. With a flick of her grizzled head she walks away, back up the slope towards her caravan, with the beast trotting obediently at her side.

Fleetingly, Luke’s mind separates from his body. The sky is wide and unending overhead, the light too vivid, this patch of island too small. As the woman finally disappears into her caravan at the top of the field, Luke exhales, at once conscious of his surroundings, and heads for the toilet block, stopping at the standpipe to run his face under the water pipe on the hard-standing. It’s cool and clear down here in the shade of the brick building, and he’s momentarily invisible, concealed by the shadows. He shakes the water from his hands and
massages wet fingers across his scalp before stepping out into the sunlight. Shielding his eyes, he looks back up the hill towards Martin, who’s up on his feet now, keeping watch. The sun illuminates him clearly: his great shadow cast long and thin, his arms limp at his sides, shoulders dipped. Luke can hardly bear the thought of climbing back up the hill in full view of all the other campers, and he’s seized by the urge to run. He could just keep on walking around this building and drop down on to the beach via the coastal path. He could lie back against the pebbles and soak in the rays for a few hours, undisturbed by anyone. He could do it; he could do it right now.

But he won’t. He’ll fill his flask with drinking water and walk back up through the field, avoiding the mocking gaze of the holidaymakers, and he’ll let Martin know he’s alright. Nothing to worry about, mate. Because he is. He’s alright.

Back home on Monday evening, the family sits around the kitchen table for supper, as a light evening breeze blows in through the open back door. Luke sat the first part of his English exam today, and he’s still feeling irritable from two hours spent concentrating on his paper in the heat of the school gym. He studies his parents; they chat comfortably, like normal parents in an average family. His father’s hand slips around his mother’s waist as she stretches over to serve Kitty peas and potatoes. Mum complains about yet another flood from the twin-tub and Dad grumbles that they can’t afford a replacement. He jokes about one of his unbearable colleagues at work; she tells him he shouldn’t be so unkind, but laughs all the same. Luke observes the simple domesticity of it all, knowing he should be grateful for it, but inexplicably resenting them all the same.

‘Good weekend, Luke?’ Dad asks.

‘Not bad.’

‘Cracking weather for it. You’ve been lucky. How was the tent?’

‘Small.’

Mum touches Luke’s hand lightly; he pulls it away. ‘I still can’t believe you’re old enough to be riding around on a big motorbike like that on your own, Luke.’

‘It’s a 50
CC
, Mum, and it’s a scooter. It’s hardly big.’

‘Alright, Luke,’ Dad says. ‘She’s a mother. It’s natural for her to worry.’

‘I’m not
worried
. Just a bit sad that my little boy’s all grown up.’ She pulls a melancholy face and sprinkles salt over her potatoes. ‘You know we’re going to miss you when you’re gone.’

Luke shakes his head. ‘You make it sound like I’m dying.’

‘Is Lu-lu going to die?’ asks Kitty, her face crumpling up.

‘No!’ says Mum, stifling a laugh with one hand, reaching out to comfort Kitty with the other. ‘Of course not!’

‘Bad luck, Kitty. I’ll still be coming back to tickle you every now and then.’ Kitty smiles broadly, using the diversion to grab a handful of peas and scoot them on to the floor.

‘So, what are you up to over the next week or two? Apart from exams, obviously,’ Mum asks.

‘Dunno. It’s Martin’s eighteenth this weekend. Expect I’ll have to sort out something for him. His dad’s a complete arsehole, so I doubt he’ll have anything arranged.’

‘
Luke
.’

‘
Well
. It’s true. From what Martin says, he’s turning into a bit of a nut job.’

‘Poor boy,’ says Mum, gazing at her plate. ‘You know, I haven’t seen his dad for
years
. He always did keep to himself, even when they first moved here. Remember, Richard? We asked him round for a drink, didn’t we, when the boys started getting friendly at school? We thought he might be glad of it, as he’s on his own. But he didn’t come. Said he had too much work on.’

‘Nut job,’ says Kitty, bashing her spoon on the edge of the table. ‘Nut.
Job
.’

Mum scowls at Luke.

‘Strange man,’ Dad agrees, reaching across the table for the salt. ‘Hardly surprising, though, is it? I’d probably be the same if I didn’t have a wife to sort all those things out.’

‘I think he’s shy,’ says Mum, ‘like Martin. Anyway, we can’t let Martin’s birthday go by without a celebration. Why don’t we have him over for Sunday lunch, Richard? Kitty and I can make him a cake and we’ll sort out a little present or something. What do you think, Luke?’

‘OK,’ Luke says after some thought. ‘Why not?’

Dad mops up the last of his sauce with a hunk of bread. ‘This casserole’s good.’

‘It’s not bad at all, is it?’ Mum replies cheerily. ‘Chicken chasseur. I think I’ve done a rather good job of it. It’s one of Marie’s recipes.’

Luke shrugs. ‘Who’s Marie?’

‘You know, as in John and Marie? She’s a wonderful cook.’

The recollection of the frazzled old dog lady shunts to the front of Luke’s mind. ‘The McKees? Aren’t they the ones who have all the parties?’ He looks up, a forkful of food hovering over his plate.

Mum pauses, just a fraction of a second. ‘That’s right.’ Her voice is light and breezy, like when she’s talking to the postman or the Avon lady. ‘We were there last weekend, remember, when you and Martin were babysitting? What did she cook that night, Richard?’ She turns to Dad, who appears deep in thought as he helps himself to more chicken. ‘Richard?’

A large dollop of thick sauce falls between the serving dish and Dad’s plate. It glistens wetly, and for one collective moment they all stare at it, before the silence is broken by a loud rap on the open door leading out to the back alley.

Kitty waves her spoon in the air as Simon Drake appears in the doorway, a hand loosely hung in his shorts pocket, a lock of golden hair obscuring one eye. ‘Uncle Simon!’

‘Afternoon, Wolffs,’ Simon says, pushing the hair from his face and smiling widely. He indicates for Luke to budge along the bench, and eyes the empty plates with interest.

‘Simon – can I get you a drink, sir?’ Dad springs up to fetch a couple of beers from the fridge, opening the first and handing it across the table. ‘What brings you?’

Mum points to the casserole; Simon nods approvingly, and she fills a plate for him. Kitty clambers out of her seat, padding across the kitchen and out through the back door, the sound of her singing trailing away as she disappears into the garden.

‘So, Simon – what did Laura have to say when you rolled in drunk the other night?’ Mum gives Simon an annoyed look.

‘I was hardly drunk!’

She looks between the two men and scoffs. ‘You could barely stand up, the pair of you.’

‘Friday night?’ Luke smirks. ‘You must’ve been – I heard one of you kick the milk bottles over. You didn’t stop laughing until Mum came out and told you off.’

‘I did not tell them off!’ Mum says, smoothing her hands over her lap. She turns back to the men. ‘I was worried about you waking the kids up.’

Simon leans over and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Sorry?’ he offers, feigning shame.

She doesn’t look convinced, still scowling hard as she indicates for Luke to fetch Simon a knife and fork from the drawer. ‘Well, I hope Laura gave you an earful when you got home.’

He laughs. ‘Believe me, she did.’

Dad raises his bottle in Simon’s direction, and Mum smiles despite herself.

‘So, how’s the new job going?’ Mum asks, sitting back in her seat. ‘It must be a bit different being in charge, isn’t it? Especially when you’ve got to keep the likes of Richard in line.’

Dad laughs. ‘It’s about time we got some fresh blood at the helm. Shake things up a bit. Simon’s doing a great job.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ says Simon, resting his fork to one side. He nudges Luke and takes a swig from his beer bottle. ‘I reckon your old dad’s just pleased to have his best mate in the headmaster’s seat. He thinks no one will notice how lazy he is, with me there to turn a blind eye.’

‘As if!’ Dad laughs.

Mum clears the plates and places a defrosted Black Forest gâteau on the table, handing Simon the serving knife as she returns to the sink to wash the forks for dessert. ‘Well, I hope you two can learn to pace yourselves a bit better,’ she says without turning round, ‘especially you, with all this responsibility, Simon.’ There’s a loud clatter as she drops the clean cutlery on to the draining board.

Simon slices into the gâteau, moving his head closer to Luke’s as he passes him a plateful. ‘Was she really cross about the other night?’ he whispers.

‘She’ll get over it,’ Luke replies, trying and failing to pick up the dessert with his hands.

Dad scoops a deep curl of cream on to his finger and drops it into his mouth, his eyes following Mum’s backside as she stretches across the table to pass out the clean forks. He runs his hand up over the smooth contours of her tight slacks and gives her bottom a firm pat. ‘Ignore her, Simon,’ he says. ‘She’s just jealous she wasn’t out on the town with us, aren’t you, love?’

Mum pulls her seat up to join them, her eyes moving from one man to the other before her face cracks into a reluctant smile. ‘Yes, of course I am, silly. Now eat your cake!’

The pathway to Martin’s front door is accessed via a small wooden gate the colour of driftwood. The house name, which reads ‘Shingles’, is entirely bleached, leaving only an etched imprint, nailed to the decaying gatepost. Despite their long
friendship Luke has only called on Martin a handful of times over the years, as he knows he’s not entirely welcome.

‘Dad doesn’t like visitors,’ Martin once told him, years ago, after he’d chased down the road to catch up with Luke, who was close to tears because Martin’s dad had just shut the door in his face. He’d only wanted to show off his new roller skates. ‘He just gets funny about strangers knocking on the door,’ he had added for emphasis.

‘But we’ve known each other for ages!’ Luke had replied, angrily swiping at his cheeks with the back of his wrist.

Martin had looked lost, his awkward limbs already too long and gangly for his years. ‘Well, he doesn’t like people,’ he said, and they dropped the subject and headed off towards the seafront to call on Len.

Today is yet another dry, searing day; Luke pushes the gate closed behind him, treading along the narrow path which ruptures with dandelions, limp and broken in the uncommon May heat. Hollyhocks and lupins droop and fall at the path’s edge, evidence of a once pretty cottage garden. Stepping around a rusted lawn roller, he knocks on the front door, suddenly conscious of the garden’s silence in contrast to the sharp gull cries that carry up from the seafront, haunting and clear. He’s nervous that Mr Brazier will answer the door, but he doesn’t really have a choice. He’s been phoning for days without a reply, and his mum really needs to know if Martin’s coming for lunch or not. Yesterday she went out and bought cake ingredients and new candles, saying she’d make it anyway, just in case he does manage to come over. After a minute or so, there’s no answer, and he knocks again, before cupping his eyes to peer into the darkness beyond the salty front windows. The bright sunlight from the back of the house cuts through the lounge, casting deep shadows across the disarray of the room. Newspapers pile up against the leg of a wood-framed sofa, while pots and plates cover the sideboard at the rear of the room.