Summer of '76 (4 page)

‘Bloody hell,’ Luke mutters as he scans the mess.

Dropping back from the window, he turns his face to the sky as another cluster of gulls passes over, screeching and cawing until they’re far from view. As he turns to leave, he catches the opening whirr of saws in the still air, drifting over from the back of the house where he knows Mr Brazier keeps his workshop.

‘Martin?’ Luke calls out, pushing back the high grass and nettles that obscure the path along the side of the house. ‘Mart?’

The long grasses grow sparser as he reaches the rear of the red brick building, where he comes out on to a large lawn. The workshop sits at the far end of the garden, a huge wooden construction, built across the full width of the plot. It stands with its double doors wide open, the noise of circular saws buzzing and shrieking from within. A wrecked bike lies abandoned at the edge of the path: Martin’s old bicycle, the one he’d once used to pedal all over the island with Luke, back in their primary years. Now, it looks tiny, insignificant; a rusting relic from the scrap yard.

Luke reaches the opening to the workshop and leans in. Martin and his dad are at the bench, both of them wearing protective goggles and canvas aprons, bent over their work in concentration. The machine grinds to a halt and the two men look up, alerted by Luke’s thin shadow stretching out across the sunlit concrete.

‘What the –’ growls Mr Brazier, snapping the goggles up and over his head. A cloud of sawdust lifts and floats around his face, catching like gold in the streaks of light from the glass panels above. His greying hair stands in an angry peak at the crown. ‘Who the bloody hell invited you in?’ he shouts.

‘There was no answer at the front door, so I –’

Martin’s dad flings down the goggles and strides towards Luke with such pace that he’s sure he’s going to hit him. Luke’s fists ball up instinctively. Martin catches his father by the arm as he passes; he swings round to face his son, shaking his hand off violently.

‘It’s
Luke
, Dad,’ Martin says, shrinking back, rubbing his dusty hands on the front of his apron. ‘It’s just Luke.’ He must be six inches taller than his father, and yet he looks so small beside him.

Mr Brazier’s face is stony grey. He glares at Luke accusingly, before lumbering back to his work, pausing to point his finger at Martin. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool, son.’

Martin returns to the bench, his long arms hanging limp. The swirling motes ripple in the light, circling Mr Brazier as he indicates towards a screwdriver, which Martin passes to him.

‘What d’you want, Luke?’ he barks over his shoulder. ‘We’re working.’

Martin picks up a pencil, which he nervously twirls between his fingers. There’s black paint smudged along the crooked lines of his nose, and something in his expression reminds Luke of the day when he broke it, tripping and smashing his face into the gritty surface of the playground as he fumbled to catch the ball that Len had lobbed over from the field. They were still friends back then, and Len had sprinted over to help, pushing his grubby handkerchief beneath Luke’s nostrils to stem the blood flow as they guided him inside to find the school nurse.

Luke takes a single step forward, halting as he notices his shadow shift over the rippled floor. ‘Well, it’s just, you know it’s Martin’s eighteenth today?’

Mr Brazier’s brow crinkles, and he makes a small grunting sound.

‘Well, it’s my mum, really. She wanted to know if he could come to ours for lunch.’

Martin taps his Adam’s apple once with the pencil, avoiding eye contact with Luke.

‘Did she?’ Mr Brazier mutters. He reaches across the bench and picks up a tape measure, drawing it out and along the edges of a completed picture frame. ‘Thinks he’s a bit of
a charity case, does she?’ He hooks one finger through the corner of the frame and lets it swing, turning to look at Luke for his answer.

‘No!’ Luke answers. ‘No. We just thought, you know –’

‘What? That he wouldn’t have anything better to do on his birthday?’

‘No, but –’

Mr Brazier pulls on his leather gloves and waves Luke away. Martin shakes his head at Luke, a tiny movement, before reaching for his own goggles and fixing them over his face. He turns his back to Luke as the machinery screams into action again.

Luke’s skin feels hot and clammy beneath his black T-shirt and he pushes away the hair that sticks to his forehead, as the heat of the sun’s rays scorches the skin of his legs through the open doorway.

‘She said to ask you too,’ he shouts over the noise. It’s a lie and he instantly regrets saying it.

Martin’s dad utters a harsh cough of a laugh, and he shuts off the machine. ‘Really?’ He faces Martin, who’s gripping a strip of pine between both hands. ‘So, what d’you think of that, son?’

Martin doesn’t respond. He stares blankly at the strip of wood, as if he’s stopped breathing. Outside the wide opening to the workshop, house sparrows chirp and batter about in the dusty patch of earth.

Luke walks away. ‘Sorry,’ he says, raising his hand
half-heartedly
as he reaches the fullness of sunshine beyond the entrance. The sparrows scatter and take flight. ‘Happy birthday, mate.’

He kicks his way back through the weeds at the side of the house, cursing the nettles as they sting the soft skin behind his knees; cursing Martin’s dad. He pushes open the broken gate, jamming it back into place and clicking the latch as he goes. ‘
Fucker
,’ he mutters as he rounds the corner at the top of the road where he left his scooter.

To his surprise, Martin appears, benign and lanky, wheeling his scooter through a concealed hole in the hedge, shaking the wood shavings from his hair.

‘How’d you get there?’

‘Back gate,’ Martin replies. ‘We never use the front these days. Too overgrown.’ He guides his scooter off the kerb.

Luke stares at him, baffled.

‘He said I can come,’ Martin says.

‘Your dad?’

‘Yeah. He said I could have the day off. As it’s my birthday.’

Luke wrinkles his nose as he fastens his chinstrap. ‘That’s big of him.’

Martin shrugs.

‘So, what did he get you? For your eighteenth?’

‘This!’ Martin holds up a ten-pound note. ‘Just now. Told me to get myself a few drinks or something. But I’m going to save it towards my camera. Good, huh?’

Luke shakes his head. ‘He gave it to you just now?’

Martin looks blank.

‘You’re joking, mate. He’d forgotten?’

The whirr of saws floats up and over the hedges from Mr Brazier’s workshop, and Martin glances in the direction of the noise.

‘Not really. Well, kind of, but he remembered in the end, didn’t he?’

Luke slaps him on the arm and does his best to smile. ‘Yeah. Of course. He remembered in the end.’ He watches as his best friend clambers on to his scooter and starts up the engine.

Martin rubs his hands together, and grins through his helmet visor. ‘So, what’s for lunch?’

It’s warm enough to eat outside, so Mum sets out the long bench in the garden, covering it with two mismatched tablecloths, clipped together with pegs. She’s wearing an
ankle-length
dress, in a turquoise and pink floral design, like the flowers that hang from the baskets at the front of the house. Kitty follows her round, placing knives and forks where Mum points, counting loudly as she goes, while Luke and Martin sit with Dad in the deckchairs beside the willow tree, drinking cold beers and watching the birthday table take shape.

‘’
Appy Birthday to Yoooou
,’ Kitty sings, spinning in clumsy circles, making Martin laugh as she stumbles about.

Luke stretches his arms over his head and snaps his fingers. ‘Here, Kitty, come and sing Martin his birthday song. Remember, the one we talked about earlier?’

She skips once, then runs across the lawn, darting beneath the branches of the weeping willow and through the teatowel entrance to her clothes-horse den. Martin sits forward in his seat, ducking his head to see where she’s gone.

‘Wait,’ says Luke. ‘She’s got it all worked out, mate. Special birthday song, just for you –’

The teatowels flap as Kitty pokes her head out. ‘’Troduce me, Lu-lu!’

Luke pushes himself up from his seat and stands at the edge of the willow branches. He makes a trumpet of his hands. ‘Ta-da-da-dahhh! I’m pleased to present, for your ears only… the mar-vel-lous, mechanical Kitty! And today, she’ll be singing Martin’s all-time favourite song –’ He laughs. ‘“Fernando”!’

Martin shakes his head as Kitty twirls into the centre of the garden, trailing a fluffy mohair scarf, to the light applause of the gathered family. She raises a dramatically cupped hand against her ear. ‘
Can you hear the drums, Banando
?’

Luke presses the beer bottle to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

‘
They were shiny there for you an’ me, flibberdee
–’ She sings and sways across the lawn, filling the lyrical gaps with confident lah-lah-lahs, making up the actions as she goes along, creating balletic arcs with her arms and legs. ‘
Something in the hair and light – stars and bright, Banando
!’

Mum watches from the table, paused in her duties, clapping in time as Dad hums along, conducting with his forefingers.

‘
Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah – same again! Ohhh yes, my friend
–’ She roly-polys three times across the garden and lands in front of the seated men, until finally she reaches her crescendo and jumps to her feet with outstretched arms. ‘
Banando
!’

Martin puts down his bottle and claps, a slow, happy smile creeping across his face.

‘Yee-hah for Kitty!’ Luke yells.

‘Fank you verry much,’ she says, bowing deeply before sprinting over and launching herself at Martin, where she clings to his neck and presses her face against his.

‘Well done, Kitty!’ Mum calls over on her way back to the kitchen, a bunch of napkins in her hand. Kitty releases Martin, and runs back across the lawn to resume her role as table assistant as Martin settles himself back down into the deckchair.

Dad pats his exposed belly, his eyes firmly closed against the sun. ‘She’s a star, alright.’

‘What d’you think, Mart?’ Luke asks.

Martin doesn’t answer. He’s leaning on to his knees, scrutinising the ground between his feet.

Luke bumps his knee against Martin’s, hoping to elicit a laugh. ‘I know how much you love
Abba
, mate,’ he says.

Martin nods, finally raising his head.

‘Mate?’ Luke says quietly, noticing the moisture in Martin’s eyes.

After a pause, Martin takes a swig of beer and leans back in his deckchair. ‘It was nice. Really nice.’

Luke clinks his bottle against his friend’s. ‘Happy birthday, mate.’

Lunch is a roast, and as usual, it’s late. At two-thirty, Mum calls them all into the kitchen to help ferry the various bowls of vegetables and potatoes outside. She ceremoniously
places a bottle of white wine on the table and hands a corkscrew to Dad.

‘Well, it
is
a special occasion,’ she says, casting a sentimental smile in Martin’s direction. ‘Now, I know we’ve got pork, but I’ve made Yorkshire puddings to go with it as I remember they’re your favourite, Martin, and there’s plenty more gravy if we run out.’

She passes the serving spoon to him, and he helps himself to potatoes. Dad pours the wine, and Martin passes the vegetable bowl back to Mum, fumbling awkwardly as she takes it from him. When she turns away, he stares for a moment at her pretty dress, his gaze lingering on the
halter-neck
behind her wavy French-pleated hair. Luke smirks, and Martin looks away, drowning his food in gravy with unsteady hands.

‘Ahhhhhh,’ says Luke, pointing at Martin’s plate.

‘Bisto!’ Kitty yells.

Martin smiles self-consciously and dips his head to concentrate on his food. A light breeze has picked up through the garden, but the sun remains resolute in the sky, and it feels like the height of summer. They eat, and, as Kitty fills her Yorkshire pudding with all the vegetables she plans not to eat, the lads chat about their plans for the coming months, and Dad keeps the wine flowing.

After Mum has cleared the lunch plates, she returns to the table with a Victoria sponge cake, decorated with white icing, Smarties and eighteen candles. Luke watches her, his view softened by wine, as she looks down at Martin with her pretty smile and kind eyes. His mind drifts back to thoughts of the dog woman at the campsite the previous weekend. Last night, still troubled by it, he’d waited until his mother was out of the room before relaying the whole conversation to Dad.

‘Oh, yes, I remember Sara Newbury, all right,’ Dad told him. ‘She only lives round the corner in Grasslands Avenue, but she keeps a caravan down at Caulks’ Farm
for weekends. I heard that she’d had a bit of a falling out with Marie McKee not so long ago, all over something and nothing. I’m afraid she’s just a lonely little lady with an axe to grind.’

‘Ah, that’s it – Grasslands Avenue. I knew I’d seen her somewhere before – isn’t that the house with all the chihuahuas? Anyway, she was making a big deal about those parties you go to at the McKees,’ Luke said.

‘Well, she would.’ Dad laughed. ‘She’s probably just put out because her invitations stopped coming. Her husband died a couple of years back, and I think she went a bit funny – filling her house up with all those dogs – you know she’s got six? Imagine the smell. It’s no wonder Marie stopped inviting her.’ He picked up his newspaper, folded it down the middle and looked at Luke gravely. ‘Here, you might want to get yourself a rabies vaccination if her flea-bitten dog’s had a go at you – before you start foaming at the mouth.’ He clutched himself at the throat and started gurgling and bulging at the eyes, and Luke laughed too, reassured by his father’s typical response.

Here in the sunny cocoon of the spring garden, Luke pushes it from his mind. Kitty stands on her chair to lead the birthday song, crossly gesturing at Luke to join in, stretching across the table to stick her finger into the icing before Martin blows his candles out.

‘Wish!’ she yelps in Martin’s ear, making him jump.