Summer of '76 (26 page)

‘The world’s gone mad,’ Dad says, taking a sip from his wine glass. ‘It’s like Bedlam out there.’

So it’s a surprise when the day’s news ends on a
light-hearted
report from Notting Hill, depicting the preparations for the bank holiday carnival and predictions that it will pass
off peacefully this year. Yet something in the joyous scenes of costume-making and steel drum rehearsals unsettles Luke as he leaves the room and heads for bed. All night long, an imperceptible anxiety tugs at his drifting mind, merging with half-seen visions of Diana, disturbing his humid sleep like an unfinished dream, where the ending is just a whisper away.

Luke’s final shift starts at nine, and he arrives early to stop off at the managers’ office and settle his final wages. There’s a thick cloak of pressure in the atmosphere; overhead, the sun shines brightly on the mainland side of the island, but back towards the west the sky darkens, growing pewter-like in colour.

As he approaches the office he’s drawn to turn his face towards the swoop and fall of the swallows that dance high above the building, dipping low to feed on the flying ants that swarm in the angry sky. At the foot of the wooden steps, he discovers the source of the ants: a desiccated mound of soil that erupts from the dusty earth, spewing winged insects like a nightmarish volcano.

He knocks on the office door and enters to find Suzy and Philip both on duty, wrestling for space behind the small desk, where they push papers about and count out event tickets.

‘Sorry about the last couple of days,’ Luke says when they look up. He shifts his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other. ‘I had gastroenteritis or something. Horrible.’

Suzy wrinkles her chin critically. ‘Couldn’t have been worse timing, Luke. You know it’s the busiest weekend of the season? We’ve been run off our feet.’

‘Yeah, like I say, sorry.’

She swipes the perspiration from her upper lip, and ignores him. ‘God, it’s muggy.’

Philip rocks back in his chair and smiles at Luke, screwing his face up at the back of Suzy’s head. ‘Ignore her, mate. She’s in a bit of a huff, that’s all.’

‘Sod off, Phil,’ she says, continuing to count tickets.

‘That Tom fella has copped off with Samantha, hasn’t he? I think Suzy was a bit keen on him, weren’t you, Suze?’

‘No,’ she replies through gritted teeth. ‘Why would I bother with an idiot like him?’

Philip nods vigorously, rubbing his chin in a show of disbelief.

‘So, they’re going out together?’ Luke asks, casually. ‘I had heard something, but I wasn’t sure.’

‘Suzy gave them an official warning yesterday, didn’t you, Suze?’ Philip pats her on the back.

‘Yup.’ She looks at Luke, straightening up and tapping her pen in the palm of her hand. ‘Caught them snogging outside the ballroom – they were on duty. We can’t have that. Not on duty.’

‘You wouldn’t do anything like that, would you, Suze?
Not on duty
.’ Philip laughs raucously, pushing his chair back and walking round to the front of the desk. ‘What a bloody hoot,’ he says, and he runs his finger down the rota chart and locates Luke’s name. ‘Here you are – Luke Wolff – you’re over on the far chalets for the first couple of hours, then pool duty after lunch.’ He returns to the desk drawer, where he picks out the relevant room keys and hands them to Luke. ‘You’re with Gay Gordon.’

‘So, are Tom and Samantha both working today?’ Luke asks.

‘Tom is,’ Philip says, returning to the desk. ‘He was in here about ten minutes ago. He doesn’t start till nine. I think he said he was going to have a swim first – you’ll probably find him over at the pool.’

Luke pushes the keys into his pocket and jogs down the wooden steps, out along the dirt path to the pool, swatting the insects away as he goes. He slowly edges around the side of the changing rooms, until he can see Tom, who’s doing lengths, alone. Luke waits until Tom starts another length away from him, before quietly making his way along the side
of the pool and in through the entrance to the men’s changing room. Swiftly he reaches into his duffel bag to bring out the envelope of dried rosehip powder that Nanna handed him this morning on his way to work. He hurries to coat the inside of Tom’s underpants and T-shirt with the fine powder, before edging out of the changing rooms and dropping back down on to the path, unnoticed.

The morning passes quickly, as Luke and Gordon move from chalet to chalet, by now having got their cleaning routine together finely tuned, with Gordon concentrating on the bathrooms while Luke sweeps out the bedrooms and changes the sheets and towels.

‘We’re a bit of a dream-team, you and me,’ Gordon says with a little flick of his duster.

Luke curls his lip. ‘Don’t go getting any funny ideas.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Gordon replies, puffing out his chest. ‘You’re not my type.’

Luke laughs, pausing to lean on his broom handle. ‘D’you know, for a while, I was
actually
worried that you and Samantha might get it together?’

Gordon carries the bucket through the chalet and places it on the front step. He rests his hand on the doorframe. ‘Is that really so hard to believe? I mean, look at me!’ He holds his arms out wide, and makes a sweeping gesture down his body.

‘Don’t you get any bother? About being queer?’

‘Do you really have to use that expression?’ Gordon asks, indicating for Luke to follow him outside as he locks up the room.

‘Well, what expression should I use? I’ve never been friends with a poofter before.’

Gordon yelps with laughter, picking up his bucket and trailing along the path beside Luke. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to find
poofter
offensive too. Anyway, in answer to your question, yes, I get all sorts of bother. More bother than I could even begin to tell you.’

‘Then why d’you make it so obvious, if it attracts trouble?’

‘Why hide it?’ Gordon replies, serious for once. ‘I could go through my whole life pretending to be “normal” like generations of men before me. And for what? For everyone else’s peace of mind, not my own. What’s the point in a life half lived, Lukester? I’d rather take what comes to me. And if people give me a hard time, well, I’ll just rub their bread rolls in my armpit and be done with it.’

The leaden sky looks set for early evening in autumn, yet the warmth in the air is growing ever more oppressive. Luke turns to look at Gordon, with his underdeveloped body and baby hair and strange little knobbly hands, and is struck by a profound surge of affection.

‘It’ll be good to stay in touch when we’re both in Brighton,’ he says. He unlocks the door to the final chalet, stepping aside to let Gordon pass through.

‘You’ll never shake me off now,’ Gordon replies, flicking at the windowsill on his way through to the bathroom. ‘I’ll be round annoying you every five minutes.
That’s
a promise.’

After a few minutes, Gordon leans out of the bathroom to dump the towels in a pile on the floor, clicking his fingers to get Luke’s attention.

‘I have to say you’re in surprisingly good spirits, Lukester. All things considered.’

Luke opens up the bedroom window to let the stale air out. ‘Am I?’

‘And you know,
he’s
dropped right off my Christmas card list.’

‘Who – Tom?’ Luke wipes his forearm across his forehead and starts to strip off the bed sheets.

‘Who else?’ Gordon adds, meaningfully. He returns to the bathroom, whistling cheerfully.

Luke balls up the sheets and throws them on to the pile, before starting on the second bed.

‘So, I guess it’ll be a bit awkward, won’t it?’ Gordon continues, sticking his head out of the bathroom again. ‘Next time you bump into him and Sam?’

‘We’ll see,’ Luke replies. He thinks about the fact that he’s just slept with Tom’s stepmum, and for a brief moment considers telling Gordon, just to see his reaction. He straightens up to chuck a dirty pillowcase at Gordon’s head, laughing hard as it flops over his face. ‘Now stop asking me questions and get on with your job, you big nancy.’

At lunchtime they line up in the dining hall for lamb stroganoff and sticky toffee pudding. The hall is teeming with holidaymakers, all passing through in between swimming and lawn games, some of them looking painfully sunburnt and shiny from too much time spent by the pool. Gordon starts a ‘lobster tally’ on his fingers, pointing out the reddest of the guests as they pass from the top of the queue to find their seats in the hall. By the time Luke and Gordon sit down with their trays, the tally is up to eighteen.

‘He lives next door to you, doesn’t he?’ Gordon asks, setting down his tray opposite Luke’s. ‘Tom?’

‘God, you do go on, Gordon.’

‘It’s good to talk,’ he replies, as he fiddles with the salt cellar, trying to unblock the holes that have become clogged up in the damp heat. ‘It might help you to forgive and forget.’ He smirks to show Luke that he’s joking. ‘So, how will you exact your revenge, Lukey?’

Luke shakes his head, and picks up his cutlery.

Gordon wrings his hands like the Hooded Claw. ‘Well, you must have thought about it? What have you got in mind? Are you going to woo her back? Let down his tyres? Shit on his doorstep?’

‘Nothing so obvious,’ says Luke, smiling secretively as he shovels in a forkful of stroganoff.

‘Intriguing,’ Gordon replies. His attention is momentarily diverted, and he rests his fork on the edge of his plate, reaching out to nudge Luke’s arm across the table. ‘Over
there,’ he says, and Luke turns to see Tom standing at the front of the queue, looking pained, an angry red rash having travelled up the side of his face and beneath his carefully messed hair.

‘
Watch
,’ Luke whispers to Gordon, as he attempts to suppress the smile that tugs at the edges of his mouth.

Gordon waves at an irritable-looking Tom, who crosses the hall to sit with them, lowering his head and speaking to Luke as if nothing ever happened, as if everything’s just as it was before.

‘Man,’ he says, leaning in and keeping his voice low, his eyes scanning the room. ‘Man, you should be thanking me for a lucky escape, Luke. I’m not even kidding.’

‘You think?’ Luke asks with a sneer. ‘Why’s that?’

Agitated, Tom looks from Gordon to Luke as his hand dips below the table to scratch at his groin. ‘I think she’s given me something.
Samantha
. My skin’s crawling, man. I think she’s given me the clap.’

On his way home, Luke feels the first drops of rain as he passes through Brading, where several small children jump and scream on the church green, turning their faces skyward to catch the rare nectar on their tongues. All the way back, there are similar glad scenes as locals emerge to watch while the rain grows heavier, bouncing off the parched leaves and soaking into the arid earth of their gardens. For the first time in months, the streets glisten with moisture.

Luke can’t bring himself to go straight home, knowing that they’ll all still be there: Mum, Dad and Simon, all of them smiling hard as they hold their breath, waiting for the next damning photograph to appear. This morning he found Mum in the bathroom, hacking away at the mildewed grout of the bath tiles, her mouth set in a livid line as the hardened filler chipped and flew beneath her chisel. She looked up at him sharply, flashing him the anger that has, for the time being, taken the place of her deep despair.

Luke parks his scooter on the esplanade and wanders down the sand beside the pier, watching the rain as it hits the water beneath the dark sky. The tide is slow, languorous, sucking up hungry great gulps from the shoreline, only to push them gently back in again. The drops are refreshing on Luke’s bare arms, and he inclines his head, pushing his long hair back from his face to feel the cooling trickle of the long-absent moisture. The beach has cleared out entirely; the crowds of sunbathers have gathered up their towels and retreated to the parade in search of ice creams and amusements. Luke turns towards the pier. Drizzles of rainwater spew from its murky railings, forming tiny pools at the footings where it anchors to the shore. A few gulls squawk and peck between the concrete piles, fighting over abandoned sandwiches and taking shelter from the rain.

As Luke watches the birds, a pale face appears from behind one of the struts; it holds his gaze, as if confused, then disappears again. It’s Len.

Without a thought, Luke jogs across the softening sand, his T-shirt now slicked to his body, large drips of water hanging from the hem of his shorts. ‘Len?’ he calls out, as he steps into the gloom beneath the walkway.

Len is sitting with his back against one of the struts, his elbow propped on a large rucksack. He holds out his beer can, flicking his head for Luke to sit with him. Luke rests his palm on the wet pillar, trying to assess the situation, taking in Len’s drawn expression, his unthreatening pose. He reaches for the can, takes a swig and returns it before sitting
cross-legged
against the opposite pillar. ‘Alright?’ he says.

‘You can have a whole one if you want.’ Len passes him an unopened can, avoiding eye contact, pulling his jacket close around his shoulders.

For a short while they drink in silence, listening to the slap and drip of the rain beyond the pier. Len takes a
ready-rolled
reefer from inside his denim jacket and lights up, drawing on it a few times, pausing to look at it closely before
offering it to Luke. He takes it, inhaling a few tokes, as the effects stream through his limbs, to linger about the backs of his knees like a heat haze.

‘Didn’t think you smoked,’ says Len.

Luke concentrates hard on not smiling. ‘That’s good stuff.’

‘Should be. It cost enough.’

Luke takes a few more drags, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, feeling the weight of it pressing in at his ribs. His mind lights on the night Len beat him up, how quickly they’d resorted to childish name-calling, just as they would have done back at primary school. Luke shakes his head. He’d called Len an amoeba. An
amoeba
. He laughs aloud, losing control, sighing between splutters as he stretches across to return the joint. Len scowls at him as if he’s an idiot; Luke holds his palms up, still laughing.