Boys and Girls (35 page)

‘It's about a man who wants to take on a challenge. A challenge, yes. And not just something that would challenge him personally, no, but something that would astonish the
world. Something that had never been attempted before, let alone accomplished. And I thought: swimming.'

‘I might just have put a touch too much water in this … it might have been a splash too far. Have a taste, and top it up if you think so. Did I miss something there, Alan? Lord knows it would hardly surprise me. Did you say – swimming …?'

‘I did, yes. Don't know what put it into my head. I'm no sort of swimmer at all – flounder around like a turtle. Maybe what put it into my head. Or it could have been – you know, listening to the sea, cosying up to the sand. On my own private beach. Which now, thanks to you, my dear Blackie, would I think put even Bournemouth to shame.'

‘My great pleasure, Alan. If nothing else is remembered of me, then at least let it be said that I was the instigator of the best and largest private indoor beach in the whole wide world. Well – at least in Richmond, anyway. Oh yes and by the way – that seat I told you about, old boy – coming next week. Tuesday, I think.'

‘Oh really? Oh God how marvellous. I can't tell you how
grateful
 … it was really a kind thought. Really thoughtful.'

‘I think the chappie was pleased to have someone take it off his hands, quite frankly. Not much of a market for a lifeguard's seat up a flight of steps, shouldn't have thought. Said it came from Miami. Probably balls. And there's the loudhailer thing there as well. You know – thing they shout through.'

‘I can't wait. What a finishing touch. And I'm pleased that you come in there now, you know. Wouldn't let anyone else even near the place, goes without saying. Because that was the only thing wrong, really: got a bit lonely. You want to, don't you, discuss the fading light, the receding horizon. Share a pot of whelks. So I think – yeah, it must have been all of that, put
it into my mind. The swimming. God Blackie though – you must think I'm an absolute
child
with all this seaside stuff …'

‘Oh I
do
, Alan – I
do
. And I mean that in the best and kindest way. We're all of us boys and girls, whatever our ages. Or the best people are, anyway. And us in particular, the male of the species – we never grow up, I'm delighted to say. And women, you know – they say that of us in pity, amused contempt. But they are just the same. They just don't laugh so much. But all of us, don't we? We surround ourselves with toys. Either the toys we remember, in a more sophisticated version, or else the toys we never had but always yearned for. With you, it's the seaside. Me? A lift. A huge garden. Thousands of books. All toys, aren't they? Playthings that bring us delight. And what of women, with all their coloured handbags and pretty little bottles of scent and so on. The bloody shoes. Naughty chocolates. Saucy clothes, if you're lucky. Toys: fripperies. And nothing wrong with that. And you know what else I think? I think that sometimes, just occasionally, we catch a glimpse of someone that we truly believe to be a
real
adult, a proper grown-up person. The genuine, as it were, um – article. People used to think that of
me
, for God's sake, and I don't have to tell you how very wrongheaded that was. Grief. And we subtly ape him, this paragon of maturity, in the hope that no one will twig that we're really just kids, dressing up and mouthing the words of manhood. But in truth, everyone – everyone is just looking over their shoulder, checking that they at least
appear
as adult as the fellow behind. But no. It's just a front that some become more used to than others, and hence can render the more convincing. But at base, we never change. Boys and girls, that's all we are. Boys and Girls. And what could be better? You see? Anyway. Seem to have got off
the … got off the … what is it we were on actually, Alan? Talking about.'

‘Um, let me see. Touch more Scotch? Good man. Um, let me see. Fruit, flowers, turn off the gas … oh yes: swimming. My non-book. Swimming. I got to thinking of those people who do the Channel, don't know why. You know – cover themselves in something unspeakable and thrash off to France. Pointless, I agree – particularly now there's the Eurostar. But they do it, don't they, because it's a challenge. Well I looked it all up on the thing. You know – internet. Amazed. I was totally amazed. I was looking for some method, some angle – some sort of twist that had never been tried. Well I tell you, Blackie – there isn't one. People have done it both ways, without a break. Three ways, one fool. Backstroke. Married couple holding hands. Kids have done it, with the deranged and driven parents in a boat alongside. Even ancient old bloody wrecks have done it, I couldn't believe it: ninety, one of them was. In fact it's so damn common that the ferry lanes, they must be choked with them, all these deluded morons, gangs of them, dog-paddling to France and back, for no bloody reason on earth. So – no good to me. No sort of challenge at all. But I was keen to stick with the swimming idea, can't really tell you why, and so I got to thinking well right then, OK then, what has never been done before? And then I got it.'

‘You did? You got it? What's the time …?'

‘I did, I did. Why? Expecting someone?'

‘Well just Susie, you know. Getting a bit hungry. What, though? What did you get, Alan?'

‘Get? What are you talking about? It's early, actually …'

‘Oh Jesus Christ – you're getting to be as bad as me. You said you got it. What did you get?'

‘I did? Oh yes I
did
 – of course I did. Yes yes – the great challenge, the mountain to conquer. Not a great image in context, but there. Yes, Blackie – I got it: the
Atlantic
 …'

Black sipped whisky before he spoke. Lit a cigarette.

‘Atlantic. I see. Yes. That would be the ocean, would it, that the
QE2
and so on take, um – what is it? Six days and nights to, er … That the Atlantic you mean?'

Alan sighed and drank a bit.

‘Well yeah. You see the point. Why it didn't – progress, really. The idea. The book. Oh well. Ah …! Was that the …? That was the door, wasn't it? Think she's back. Right, then – let's get on with things, shall we? Yeh – I'm pretty hungry too, now I come to think of it. Pasta'll take no time. Heat on under the sauce, I think. Bung in the pork and so on. Gone quiet. That
was
the door, wasn't it …?'

‘You're asking me?'

‘Sure it was … She's not coming in though, is she? Oh Christ – you don't suppose she's stamped upstairs, do you, this fine and cherished wife of ours, for not so much a wash and brush-up as to indulge in one of her serious sulks? Hell for us if she has. Broods for ever about whatever atom of nonsense she has this time magnified into a meteor of life-threatening proportion – and then it is us, my friend, who will be called upon to withstand the barrage of unremitting missiles which in a just world – that airy-fairy mythical planet – would be directed elsewhere. Why don't you go and have a shufti, Blackie? See how the land lies.'

‘Well without wishing to too much rely upon the repartee of the playground, Alan – why don't
you
?'

‘Couldn't possibly. Were I to present myself before her, naked and unashamed, as it were, then I and I alone would
be bearing the whole brunt of her latest antagonism. And – as I see you are beginning to assimilate, dear Blackie, by your deft, nay, very adroit evasion – no one else's antagonisms have brunts so whole as hers. We could send in Amanda. White flag – rifle cocked. Where is Amanda?'

‘I'll just refresh your glass, shall I Alan? Going to have to get in another case of this, I think. She was mumbling about prep, or some such.'

‘Prep. Oh yes – prep. We spend the whole of our lives engaged in that, don't we really? Prep. Preparation for something or other, which never seems quite to arrive. Like an eternal advent calendar, where you never ever get to open the twenty-fourth door. Better not tell Amanda any of that, though. It would only depress her.'

And then Alan and Black locked glances as the unmistakable pitch of shrill and female altercation recoiled from the walls above and filtered down the staircase. The unspoken consensus was to now lie low, then – clink glasses and wait for the bullets to cease their flying, the dust to settle, the air to clear (Black turned the gas off under the sauce). And overlaying this muted caterwaul – rising and falling, but always embittered – Alan, at least, heard reasonably clearly the smashing of something glass into splintered and resounding spangles, and he had no wish to know that this had come about as a result of Susan's very wildest gesticulation, an outflung arm, the cuboid amethyst on her ring finger catching the large and pearlescent globe light just by the plasma TV screen in the draped and candlelit, chill-out and deeply private area of Amanda's room.

‘I can't believe you just
did
that!' Amanda was screaming, clutching her hair at the roots in both of her bunched-up
hands, as if to keep it in or rip it out. ‘That was so my favourite
lamp
 …!'

‘Oh Christ and Jesus keep to the
point
, Amanda!' Susan was raving – pacing around in tight and seething circles, revolving swiftly, retracing again her hot and angry circuit. ‘It's a
lamp
. It's a
lamp
. It's just a bloody
lamp
! We can always get a new
lamp
, can't we? But what about
you
? You have destroyed yourself – and all for the most ridiculous and impudent little
shit
it has ever been my displeasure to encounter!'

Amanda – caught at the start of a putative howl – just stopped right there and gaped at her.

‘Now just sit down, Amanda, and be calm. We have to
arrange
things.'

‘
What
—? Now look – just like wait a minute, you! What do you mean –
encounter
? What are you talking about –
encounter
? You don't mean you—!'

‘Sit down, Amanda. Be calm.'

‘Fuck off! I don't want to sit down.
You
be calm. Don't tell
me
to be bloody calm.
You
be calm. Look at you – you've so like just smashed up the place.'

‘That was an accident.'

‘Yeh? Well so was what I did. You know? And just never mind that. What I want to know is—!'

‘My accident was a
lamp
. A
lamp
, Amanda. It's just a bloody
lamp
We can always get a—!'

‘Yeh yeh bloody
yeh
. You've done all this, haven't you? Said all that. Just tell me what you mean by whatever you fucking said about
encounter
, or whatever you said. You—!'

‘Enough swearing now, Amanda. Just sit down.'

‘Listen, you! I just so can't, like –
believe
this …! I don't
want
to sit down. Just
tell
me, can't you? What you're saying. What
you mean. Are you telling me you've gone and
talked
to him? You can't of. Not possible. You're lying. You don't even know his—!'

‘Yes – oh yes Amanda, I do. I do know his name. I know the ghastly house he lives in, and I know the equally ghastly and dirty little garage where the shitty little shit has a so-called job. I know everything, Amanda – of course I do. I
always
do. You, I thought, were aware of that. I told you I would not rest.'

‘
God
 …!'

‘Yes well. He may or may not help you now. But I will. I am determined. I am your mother. I wasn't going to … confront him, do anything. I was going to keep quiet. But when you told me you were – oh God, I can't bear to even
think
it …'

‘But I'm not! I'm not!'

‘When you told me you were …
pregnant
, well that just—!'

‘I'm not! You listening to me, or what? I'm not. I'm not I'm not I'm not!'

‘Bit too late for lies now, isn't it Amanda?'

‘Oh God … I'm
not
, I tell you. I just … and anyway – I don't believe you. I don't believe you, what you said. You just said all that to, I don't know – frighten me or something. Well it doesn't work. Or to stop me like seeing him, or something. Well that won't work either. You don't know the first thing about him. You're just a liar.'

‘Oh yes? Then how did I know he worked in a garage?'

And Amanda was struck by the question. As well, Susan was reflecting bitterly – as well she bloody might be. Because it wasn't that the seeking out and tracking down of this young little bastard had been that much of an effort … the intimidation of children, after all – when was that ever a challenge? But there was disgust along the way, and
many were the times she had been touched by the shiver of humiliation (for she had later determined that the finger of shame, it was icy at first, then soon scalding, and the same for evermore). Why had she been reduced to hunting out this gormless little friend of hers, Tara – a monosyllabic mutant, is how she had come across to Susan, and who, as little girls always do, initially protested her puzzlement at the questions, her ignorance of the answers. Cajoling and money had failed to work, much to Susan's surprise, and so she was forced to resort to inventing (and on the spur of the moment, too) a series of articles she had just been commissioned to write for the local paper – truthful and amusing profiles of residents in the area such as, ooh – I don't know … your father the conjuror, say. The entertainer, yes? And his wife and child. Mm … poor little thing, I almost felt sorry for her. Anyway – that got me the name, at least, as well as the whereabouts of a newsagent and a coffee shop, and also the fact that the shit, he worked in a garage – and what had I expected? A member of the Cabinet? Captain of Industry? The Secretary General of the United Nations? That he worked at all was something of a surprise; I had fully been prepared for a long-limbed, smug and stupid idler on the dole – though having seen the state of the garage (there aren't that many left any more – it didn't take too long) and not just the garage, but the grease on the boy's hands as he wiped them with a rag, the caked-on grime of his oversized overalls … idleness might almost have been preferable; he might then at least have been clean. He wasn't really smug – just vain and hopeful, as young men will be, and not so much stupid as careless, really, and apparently disconnected. His limbs, though – they were long and lean. That one could see, even with the overalls.