Summer of '76 (29 page)

Kitty squeals as she spots them. ‘
One named Peter – one named Paul!
’ She points up at their dangling legs, clapping her hands. ‘Come down, Marty! Time to go home.’

Martin waves at her, and when Luke turns to face him he sees eyes full of tears.

‘Are you boys fit to go?’ Mum asks. ‘Simon’s dropping Nanna back at ours so she can check on the casserole. It’s beef, Martin – your favourite.’

‘Are you OK?’ Luke whispers.

Martin rubs the bridge of his nose, taking a long breath. ‘I’m fine,’ he says, and he gestures towards the trunk for Luke to begin their descent.

‘Hope you can get down from there,’ Dad calls up, ‘because I’m not sure I’m up to tree-climbing these days.’

At the bottom, Mum links an arm through Martin’s and together with Kitty leads the way through the dappled woods, with Luke and Dad at the rear. They arrive at the car, parked alone in a small sunny patch to the side of the crematorium. Kitty and Martin squeeze into the back seat, Kitty yelping as he squishes her face with his gangly elbow.

‘Mum?’ Luke says, hesitating before he climbs in beside them. ‘I was just wondering…’

From the other side of the car Dad folds his arms on to the roof, listening intently.

‘I was just wondering if you’d ever thought of taking in a lodger?’ He indicates towards the back seat of the car. ‘I mean, my room’s going to be empty – and I think he needs family around him at the moment.’

Mum and Dad exchange the briefest of glances, before Mum turns to kiss Luke on the cheek with a small nod. He wedges himself into the tight back seat alongside Kitty and Martin, and the five of them head off home along the winding roads to Sandown.

At midday the following Sunday, Dad arrives home with Nanna in the car, having fetched her from Wootton Creek for Luke’s leaving lunch. Luke meets them on the driveway, taking Nanna’s arm as she hobbles up the front doorstep, where Martin is waiting just inside the door.

‘Marty, my love,’ she says, dropping Luke’s arm and reaching up for Martin.

He stoops awkwardly, and she takes his face in her hands to regard him sternly before kissing his pale forehead. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, son. You’ve got us now.’ She releases his head and continues to limp along the hall and out
through the open doors to the garden, where Mum is setting out the long table.

Together, they sit in the gentle sunshine, enjoying the warm breeze that ripples through the leaves of the weeping willow, Dad at one end of the table, Nanna at the other, with Mum, Kitty, Luke and Martin on either side.
Young Americans
plays from the record player in the living room, a leaving gift from Martin to Luke, his own copy to take with him to his new digs. ‘So you don’t have to keep pinching mine,’ Martin said this morning, as he handed it to him with a bashful smile. They eat and talk at ease, the natural rhythm of the family guiding the conversation, any silences comfortable; the laughter abundant. Simon has gone now, moved into the box-room of one of the teachers from school, a hard-drinking bachelor from the maths department. Dad reckons he’ll be lucky to keep his job, if the authorities get wind of those photographs. ‘We’ll just have to hope for the best, my friend,’ Dad told him, as they stood on the doorstep and waved him off yesterday. ‘Business as usual,’ Simon replied, and he kissed Mum, and then Kitty, before shaking Luke by the hand and driving off in his car with a cheery toot-toot.

Now, Luke watches Martin across the table, as he chats quietly with Kitty, patiently listening to the trivia of her little world, nodding and contributing in the right places. Luke thinks about the enormity of Martin’s trauma, and wonders whether he’d have coped so well himself; whether he’d have been as strong.

‘We’ll take Kitty to Blackgang Chine, won’t we, Luke?’ Martin asks, loosely waving a hand to catch his attention. ‘Next time you’re back over? I’ve been telling her all about Nurseryland.’

Luke smiles, fighting the lump that threatens to rise in his throat. ‘Yeah, of course we will, mate. And they’ve got dinosaurs, Kitty, and Cowboys and Indians. You’ll love it.’

Delighted, Kitty thumps the table with the flats of her hands, knocking a few loose streamers from the table, so
that they flutter and trail across the lawn in the breeze. As it’s a double celebration, Kitty has insisted on balloons, and they’re tied everywhere – on fence posts and branches, window hinges and bucket handles – where they bob brightly in the light wind.

‘So, tomorrow’s the big day, son?’ Dad says as Mum starts to clear away the lunch plates. He opens three beer bottles and hands them down to the lads and Nanna, opening a fourth one for himself and raising it ceremoniously.

‘Yep, the big adventure,’ Luke replies, the reality of it suddenly upon him.

Mum puckers her chin sadly. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says, picking up Nanna’s plate and resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer some of my wine, Nan?’ she asks.

Nan wrinkles her nose and taps her beer bottle. ‘This’ll do nicely, love. Not so keen on the fancy stuff; gives me gut rot.’

Mum briefly disappears into the kitchen, returning with a big dish of shop-bought Swiss roll and custard, Luke’s favourite childhood pudding. As she serves up, he reaches across the table to take the bowl from her hands, noticing the tears in her eyes.

‘
Mum
. I’ll be back all the time. It’s only Brighton – it’s no distance at all.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Ignore me. I’m just being a big baby. Thank goodness we’ll still have Martin to keep us company. You can keep us up to date on what Luke’s up to, Martin. He’s bound to tell you more than he will us!’

Martin looks into his bowl bashfully, unable to disguise his gladness. He picks up his spoon, and takes a large mouthful of pudding before looking up again.

‘I think we should get a picture,’ Dad announces, breaking into the hush that has fallen over the table. ‘Capture the moment for posterity. What d’you think, Martin?’

As Martin fetches his camera from the kitchen, Dad pulls up a trestle to set it up on, and directs everyone to move in
and huddle around Nanna for a group shot. Kitty clambers up over Martin’s shoulders, to cling like a tree frog about his neck, where she squeals and wriggles as they wait for the camera to be ready.

They’re interrupted by the bellowing voice from next door’s garden. ‘Afternoon!’

Dad puts the camera down, and they all turn towards Mike Michaels, who’s resting his pasty forearms on the fence that separates the two gardens. After a second, he’s joined by Diana, looking radiant in her oversized white sunhat.

‘Afternoon, Mike,’ Dad replies, friendly but reserved. ‘Diana. Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Superb,’ Mike agrees, his greedy gaze roaming over the lunch table, taking in the balloons and streamers that adorn the garden. ‘Are we missing out on a party?’ he says, clapping his hands together loudly.

Luke hasn’t seen Diana since their night together, and he can hardly bring himself to look at her as the fleeting recollection of her skin on his slides across his memory. He fiddles with the edge of the tablecloth, before setting himself to the job of clearing away the pudding bowls.

‘It’s Luke’s last day,’ Dad replies. ‘He’s off to college tomorrow.’

‘Oh, that’s marvellous!’ Diana calls over, forcing Luke to stop what he’s doing and look up. She holds on to the top of her hat to prevent the wind from snatching it away. ‘You must be so excited, Luke?’

‘I am,’ he says, turning to face her, attempting a natural smile. He knows he should be ashamed of their night together, yet right now, gazing across the garden fence into her cat-like eyes, he feels only pride. Diana blinks at him once, so kindly and with such warmth that he knows all is well, that she wishes him only good things. ‘What about Tom?’ he asks. ‘Has he gone back to London?’

‘Bet he was
itching
to get back,’ Nanna giggles, nudging Luke’s leg.

‘Last week,’ Mike replies, momentarily distracted by a streamer that flutters on the fence post by his face. He bats it away with the back of his hand. ‘Anyway! You know how we love a party, Richard. Aren’t you going to ask us over?’

An embarrassing interval passes as Mum and Dad lock eyes, each waiting for the other to answer. ‘Well, you know –’ Dad stammers.

‘No,’ Nanna interjects from her seat at the head of the table, reaching up to take Luke’s hand. ‘Sorry, love. It’s strictly family today.’

Dad looks relieved and he shrugs at Mike apologetically. ‘Another time?’ he says.

Mike balks, his puffy chin pulling back. ‘Why’s he there, then?’ He nods accusingly at Martin. ‘
He’s
not family.’

Martin sits motionless, his gaze fixed on the camera, as if he’s still waiting for the button to go off.

Nanna bangs her hand on the table. ‘He bloody well is!’ she says, loud enough to alarm Kitty, who drops down from Martin’s back. Kitty looks furious.

‘He’s
not
,’ Mike replies, as if the subject’s up for debate.

‘
Mike
,’ Diana hisses, now out of sight.

‘Yes, he is,’ Mum says, and she rests her hands on Martin’s shoulders. ‘He’s moved into Luke’s room. He absolutely
is
one of the family, Mike. Aren’t you, Martin?’

Martin bobs his head once, his expression still blank.

On the other side of the fence, Mike scowls, his knuckles still gripping the top of the panel. Dad runs his hands through his hair and sighs, exasperated, shaking his head as he meets Luke’s eyes, and takes his wallet from his back pocket. Leisurely, he walks towards the fence and stands before Mike, where he opens up his wallet and hands him the photograph. Mike’s brows rise in disgust as he takes in his own naked form, and he looks up at Dad with a confused little shake of his head.

‘I didn’t want to do this, Mike. But quite honestly, you’re a bully. Martin here – you know what he’s been through
lately, and still you treat him like this. He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be, Mike, and, while I’m giving you this photo here, to do with as you wish – put it up on your mantelpiece if you like – I just want you to know: we’ve still got the negatives.’

Mike backs away from the fence, his livid red face disappearing from view, before the sound of his back door slamming puts a final close to the conversation.

As the rest of the family return to position for the photograph, Luke catches Dad’s arm and holds him back.

‘Are you alright, Luke?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine.’ Luke looks across the lawn towards the party table, where the rest of the family are busy trying to work out the best arrangement for the photograph. ‘Only – there’s just one more thing I wanted to ask you, Dad, about all that party business.’

Dad rests his hand on the fence top, the breeze rippling through his hair. ‘Go ahead, son. I promised you, didn’t I? No more secrets.’

Luke clears his throat.

‘So – when Mum went off with Simon at that first party – who did you end up with?’

Dad looks shocked at first, before his mouth breaks into a reluctant smile. He shakes his head and starts to laugh. ‘
Shit
.’

‘What?’ Luke asks, starting to laugh himself. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Was it Marie?’

Dad pinches at his bottom lip, as if weighing up whether to tell him or not. ‘No – it wasn’t Marie, son,’ he finally says, his eyes welling up as his chest rises and falls between embarrassed groans.

‘So
who
, then?’ Luke demands through a bemused grin. ‘You said it yourself.
No more secrets
.’

Dad clamps his hands over his face and hangs his head in shame, speaking through the muffle of his fingers. ‘It was – it was Sara Newbury.’

Luke shakes his head in disbelief, as the laughter rolls up through his ribs. ‘Oh, man, talk about the short straw,’ he gasps, reaching out to prod his dad, who’s running a finger beneath his lashes to wipe away the tears. ‘Oh,
man
,’ he repeats. ‘Tell you what, if this doesn’t cheer Martin up, I don’t know what will.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Dad growls, putting a hand on the back of Luke’s neck and pulling him in for a rough hug. ‘Now, what about this photo we’re trying to take?’

The two men jog across the dried grass, where Luke takes his assigned place between Martin and Nanna. Kitty clambers back up over Martin’s shoulders, while Dad slips an arm about Mum’s waist, sucking in his stomach muscles as the camera timer counts down for the family portrait. ‘OK, everyone, after three. Three – two –’

A pair of swallows flies over the garden, arcing through the air.

‘
One
!’

Luke and Martin turn their faces towards the birds, a shared thought, locked in time as the shutter comes down and the moment is captured.

The characters and events in this novel are all inventions. Yet the places – the beaches, hilltops, towns and villages of the inimitable Isle of Wight – all exist as inspirations to
Summer of
’76
, as do certain facts of local and national history.

I couldn’t have written this book without the help I received from a number of people. My sincere thanks to:

My readers – for your kind words, your generous reviews and for coming back for more – thank you.

The magnificent team at Myriad Editions. Thanks to Candida Lacey, Corinne Pearlman, Emma Dowson, Linda McQueen and Holly Ainley – with a special mention to my editor Vicky Blunden, whose literary skills and sharp insight are second to none. To my agent, Kate Shaw, thank you for your boundless support and encouragement – it’s really good to know you’re there.

My writer friends, in particular Jane Rusbridge, Gabrielle Kimm, Jane Osis and Juliet West. Heartfelt thanks for your good company, conversation and laughter.

The Met Office Library and Archive – for providing superbly detailed weather information from the 1970s, an element that formed the backbone of this book from the first word.

Wightlink ferry company, for their generous sponsorship granting me regular passage to the Isle of Wight, without which this novel might not exist. And for hosting my Solent book signings – my favourite gigs of the year.

I’m indebted to the many island folk I’ve met over the years: the staff, captains and crew of Wightlink ferry company – and their passengers – for their endlessly fascinating stories;
DJ Dave Cannon for his first-hand knowledge of the
Ryde Queen
nightclub; the fishermen at Medina Quay for their recollections of teen spirit ’76; Paul Armfield at Waterstones in Newport for his solid support since the start; the authors of Wootton Bridge Historical, whose website has been a great source of information, inspiration and enjoyment. Thank you all for generously sharing your memories and history of island life in the 1970s. Despite all this first-class input, inaccuracies relating to the island may still exist, and I claim them as mine alone. Perhaps we might put them down to artistic licence.

Much love to Colin, Alice and Samson, and all my family and friends for their encouragement, kindness and patience – you know who you are.

And finally, thank you to David Bowie, for
Young Americans
.