The Last Summer of Us (15 page)

His fingers, wrapped around the wire handle of the shopping basket he's carrying, look so much thinner now than they do when they're pointing out the mistakes in equations. They're bone wrapped in thin skin, speckled with scars and long-faded freckles. And that's as if the basket he's carrying wasn't sad enough already: one onion, a half-loaf of sliced bread, a pint of milk, three apples, two chicken breasts…

We always took the piss out of Loopy Lewis because we couldn't imagine him having a life outside school. Now I can see he really doesn't, it's not funny any more. It's sad. It's so, so sad. He's just a lonely man, trying his best to get a bunch of kids who don't really want to be there to pay attention and get them through their exams as best as he can…and then he has to do the same thing the next year, and the next, and the next.

“I just saw you, and I thought I'd say hi.” My voice sounds weak, even to me. I smile anyway. I mean it, which surprises me.

“Well, that's very nice of you,” he says in a tone I've never heard him use before. It's a non-teacher voice…something your neighbour would use when you've dropped off a parcel you took in for them. Not at all what I've come to expect from him. He pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother…” He lowers his voice, and there it is. The pity stare.

Mr Lewis is giving
me
the pity stare.

“Thanks.”

And just like that, Funeral Limpet is back: the one who nods and is sensible and sombre and makes tea for police officers when they're standing on the upstairs landing and tries to help the funeral director sort out the flowers. She would never climb out of a car sunroof just because it was too hot inside. She would never try and drive her best friend's car. She would never wonder what the skin just above Jared's collarbone would smell like, up close…of smoke, or sweat, or sunshine…

Mr Lewis is saying something to me, only his words are coming out all wrong. Or maybe I'm hearing them all wrong – and he's suddenly narrowing his eyes at me and there's a hot flush creeping up my face from my chin to my eyebrows and is it warm in here all of a sudden or is it just me?

I pull myself together and his voice fades back in. He's trying to be kind – he's saying all the things you say to a kid whose mother just died and who the whole town's whispering about. And then, I realize, he actually means them. All the things he's saying, all the words – he
means
them.

He's one of the only people who has, and I can barely stop myself from hugging him.

I admit, this is not how I saw this going.

He looks over my shoulder, past me, to the end of the aisle. The smallest of smiles flickers across his features. “It would appear that the other Musketeers are waiting for you.”

Wait. What?

That's not possible. It's just not. The Three Musketeers joke is a private one; one which has never even been outside my head, let alone been handed in to my physics teacher (who is probably the closest thing to a nemesis I'm ever going to get – would that make him Rochefort or the Cardinal…?).

He sees my shock. I think he probably enjoys it, because he chuckles and peers over his glasses one more time and says, “You aren't the only one looking out at the world, you know. And you certainly aren't the only one who notices what book someone is carrying when they walk into a classroom. Particularly not when it's as well-read as your copy.”

And quite suddenly, he pats my arm – hesitant, but friendly – then he wanders off, leaving me staring after him and wondering whether my physics teacher is, in fact, psychic.

I've never liked the feel of sand in between my toes. Maybe it's because, when I was little, most of the time said sand was estuary sand from Llansteffan or Pembrey. Muddy and damp, it clots between your toes and clings to them and refuses to come off. I've always wondered what it must be like to walk along one of those tropical beaches where the sand is as white as bone; fine enough to flow like water if you scoop it up into the palm of your hand and let it fall. And where there are coconut trees. I don't even like coconuts, but they feel like they're an integral part of the picture, so…

We aren't likely to find many beaches matching that description around here and especially given the time we have is only “
A couple of nights, maybe…
” But this beach, this
particular
beach, is a good enough substitute. Well. It's a beach and the sand's not too muddy. So I'll make an exception and take off my shoes as soon as we're off the concrete slipway and onto the sand. Behind us, there are a couple of pubs, a tiny post office and the smallest souvenir shop you've ever seen – all of which are doing a roaring trade in (respectively) cold beer, postcards with dolphins on and inflatable dolphins. The pub nearest to the ramp is called – no prizes for guessing – The Dolphin.

Yes. This is where you come if you like dolphins. To my left you'll note the board advertising the “dolphin watching” boat trips into the bay. To my right? The bay. Featuring a complete and total lack of dolphins.

I know.

Luckily, I can take or leave the dolphins.

“I hate sand,” says Steffan. He's already managed to stick his foot into some kind of mini-dune, so his shoe's full of it. He kicks his lower leg out with every step, trying to shake it all out – but the only thing he seems to be doing is making himself look like an idiot.

Even more so than usual.

Of course, Jared's trailing behind, and I know even without checking exactly how he looks. Because it's how he always looks. Movie-star Jared, weighed down by the consequences of someone else's actions. If his dad hadn't gone to prison, hadn't mucked everything up, would Jared be different? Would he be like Simon and Rhodri and all the other boyos round here who think they're something special? Or would he still be…Jared? Would he still be the one who hangs back, who keeps quiet until he has something to say? Is it the weight that makes him who he is, who he will be? Is he his father's son in that, at least?

And if he is – if he was shaped by his father's actions – what does that mean for me? What am I? What will I be, years down the line?

“Are we there yet?” Bloody Steffan.

“Oh, come on. At least let's get round the cliff into the bay…”

“What for? It's still all just sand, isn't it?”

“I get it. You're not a fan.”

Part of it is him sulking because he's had to leave the violin in the car. Even he's not daft enough to bring it out here – but he's paranoid that someone'll steal the Rust Bucket and take his baby with it. I've pointed out that there is no reason, godly or ungodly, why
anyone
in their right minds would want to steal that car, but he's still not happy. He wants to sit where he can see the parking bay by the sea wall where we've left it (although how he thinks this will make any difference at all, other than his potentially being able to wave goodbye to his car and his beloved violin – not to mention my phone, which is buried somewhere under all the crap in the back – as they drive off up the hill, I don't know…).

He can sit there if he wants. I want to be around the cliff, in the bay, where there's nothing but the rocks behind me, the sea before me, the sand below me and the sky above me.

And these two. Obviously.

Mostly because between them, they're carrying my picnic…

“Here,” I say.

Steffan immediately drops the carrier bags he's holding. “About bloody time. You know if the tide comes in, we're screwed?”

“Tide, schmide.” I have one of the sleeping bags tucked under my arm. Of course it's not mine – I'm not that daft. It's Steffan's. He just doesn't realize that. The sea's about as far out as it could possibly be – not only do we have hours before it comes anywhere near cutting us off in the bay, we'll see it coming in plenty of time. It's not like we're pitching camp, is it? I shake out the sleeping bag and plonk myself down on top of it before Steffan (who's now eyeing it suspiciously) has a chance to object.

Jared sets his bags down a little more carefully than Steffan and looks around. He's measuring the place, weighing it as though this is the first time he's ever been here. The sun catches his hair, turning it through shades of russet and gold as he moves his head this way and that, looking first up at the cliffs and the rocks behind us and then back out to sea.

“You've been here before, right?” I ask. After all, it was
his
suggestion, wasn't it?

He shrugs. “Not for a long time. Not since I was a kid.” He looks like he's about to say something else, but there's a rustling sound and his face suddenly lights up. Steffan's found the sausage rolls. The pair of them are lost to me, instantly.

It's funny, because although Jared perked up the moment he realized food was happening, I'm sure that what I saw just before – just for a second – was a flash of the real him. Not the front, not the mask he puts on for everyone, including us. I saw
Jared
under there.

“You're thinking,” says Steffan between mouthfuls, peering at Jared. There are pastry crumbs
everywhere
. And not a sausage roll to be seen. A whole variety of snack foods are in serious danger of becoming extinct before my very eyes. And before I have a chance to eat any of them.

For two blokes who really weren't keen on the idea of a picnic, they're not holding back when it comes to the eating part.

“Just remembering,” says Jared. “Once, when I was about seven, I climbed that. It looks smaller than it used to.” He nods towards the face of the cliff a little way behind us. There are chunks of rock sticking out of it at crazy angles, leading to some kind of shelf halfway up. I can see it reflected in his sunglasses when he turns his head towards me.

“Steff, you've eaten all the sausage rolls. You pig!” I turn over the empty packet for emphasis. Steffan shrugs.

“I regret nothing.” He's already moved on to a packet of breadsticks. And when I say “moved on to”, I mean he's using two of them as drumsticks, hitting the top of a pot of dip.

Jared stands and lopes around the edge of the makeshift picnic blanket towards me, dropping into a crouch by my side. I can feel the heat from his arms on mine, he's that close. I can almost –
almost
– feel the hairs on my forearms rising.

“The last survivor,” he says, holding out his hand.

It's a sausage roll.

The last sausage roll.

I look at it. Then at him.

“You think I can't fend for myself, is that it? Pity food. You're offering me pity food.”

“Pity food's still food. You should take me up on it.”

“Pity. Food.”

“Do you know what I had to risk to get this before he did? Do you know the deep personal sacrifice
I'm
making here?”

“It's a sausage roll, Jared.”

“No. This is not
a
sausage roll. This is the
last
sausage roll.”

Steffan ends it. “For god's sake…” he says and, leaning forward, he grabs the sausage roll in question and shoves it in his mouth.

I stare at him. And then I reach down and grab the first thing I can get my hands on (which happens to be a packet of peanuts) and lob it straight at him. For once, my aim's good and it smacks him right on his nose – and he hurls himself backwards dramatically.

“Oh, come on. That didn't hurt.” I'm not sure whether I'm annoyed or not.

Steffan's still flat on his back, and he's still chewing that bloody pastry, but he answers anyway. “Course not. I'm just shocked you actually managed to hit me.”

Is it wrong to hate your best friend just a little?

They have, predictably, brought a rugby ball with them. I have no idea where they stashed it, because if I'd seen it I would have scowled disapprovingly at it. Our deal was “picnic”, not “pelting up and down the beach showing off”. But Steffan is Steffan and Jared is Jared and you put the two of them in a wide open space for long enough and that's what they'll do.

I don't get it. They're basically just throwing stuff at each other. If they asked me, I'd gladly do that for them. They wouldn't even have to go to the effort of trying to
catch
it…

I'm reasonably sure that at this distance, and from behind my sunglasses, they can't see what I'm looking at.

Or, you know,
who
.

Because suddenly he's like gravity. Something has happened and up is down and inside is outside and I'm relying on him to pull me in. It's not Steffan – Steffan who's been here before and knows the way and so desperately wants to help me. It's Jared, who is just as lost as I am, I suppose.

And maybe that's the thing. Maybe it's
because
Steffan has been through this… I can't help comparing myself to him – did he do this? Did he feel this? Is this right or wrong? How long did it take him to feel like he was himself again…?

He would never tell me how or what I should feel, I know – and I almost feel guilty for thinking it. But I do. I am. I can't stop myself comparing the way I feel to how he must have felt – just like I can't stop comparing the ways our mothers died.

The simple, awful truth of it is that I don't know whether I have the same right to grieve that Steffan did. Do I, when the ways we lost them were so very different?

Steffan has made his peace with it, I think. What happened happened. It was as impossible to know it was coming as it is to predict the path of a shooting star. It was a meteor that blazed through his skies and then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, went dark.

For me, it was like a tidal wave. A hurricane which breached every defence, every wall, every levee I could have built against it. It came from somewhere I thought I knew. The sea around me, something I never gave a second glance, suddenly turned fierce and I didn't see the wall of water coming for me until it was crashing around me, washing away the things I knew and turning the bedrock I stood on into nothing more substantial than sand.