Winterton Blue (15 page)

At secondary school, they were separated into different streams; Wayne would get easily bored, his mother said, but Lewis would get on well enough if left to his own devices. Which is how Wayne eventually came to be in Carl Finn's class, sinking like a stone to the bottom. Remedial, they called it, although, if anything, the boys in the group were too forward, too full of everything. Lewis wasn't surprised that Wayne knew Miss Hepple's first name. He wouldn't have been surprised if Wayne had tried it on with her; he'd certainly got more than his fair share of girlfriends. At fourteen, Lewis hadn't kissed anyone.

It took him two months before he got up enough courage to stay behind at break-time and ask if he could help her tidy up. It had been snowing; out in the playground, the boys would be having fights. Wayne had spent that morning assembly passing notes, trying to organize a battle with some other lads in Lewis's stream: he'd written Snobs v Sharks on the sheet, and you were supposed to sign up. Carl Finn and Sam Robson had put their names underneath Wayne's, but Lewis was happy to have a reason not to take part. Sam was alright, he thought, but he'd already had enough of Carl, and his effect on Wayne. He didn't like the way the two of them egged each other on. Wayne could find trouble in an empty room; he didn't need Carl to encourage him.

Miss Hepple showed Lewis how to pile all the colour palettes into the sink, running the tap until they sank. Some of the paint hadn't been mixed properly, and pockets of powder bloomed to the surface. The water swirled green and blue and red, black spiralling through yellow. He put his hand in and pulled it out again immediately; it was freezing cold.

Just rinse them, she said, You don't want to be stuck in here all break-time.

She leaned over him to dig out a block of soap from a cardboard box on the windowsill. Her smell was sweet and bitter, like biting into orange peel. It made Lewis's tongue tingle.

And don't forget to wash your hands afterwards, she said, her face so close to his, he could see the pores of her skin.

Later, when he looked at his arm, trying not to think about the cane coming down on his palm, he saw, running from wrist to elbow, the marks of a rainbow.

It was Wayne's idea of a joke. Lewis found him at the edge of the playground, with Carl and Sam. They had their jumpers pulled halfway up, and were carrying something in the folds.

What's going on? He shouted, chasing Wayne's back. His damp hands were stinging in the air, the knuckles bright red. His brother was laughing and out of breath. Over-exciting himself, his mother would say, if she could see him. He followed them round the corner, and understood what they'd been doing. On the car park adjoining the football pitch was Miss Hepple's 2CV. The car park itself had been cleared of snow, but it didn't stop the boys finding some: the driver's seat was full of it. They'd undone the poppers on the flap, and had been piling it in through the sun-roof.

We're going to fill it up, c'mon! shouted Wayne.

She'll shit herself when she sees it, said Carl, piling more snow into the gap.

Whose is it? Asked Lewis, although he already knew. There was a hot feeling in his chest.

Come
on
, said Wayne, You're such a chicken!

As he flashed a look at him, Lewis saw his eyes, sharp as the sun on the snow, shining too bright, and knew what was going to happen. In a slow second, Wayne paused, looked troubled, as if he'd got something stuck at the back of his neck, had been hooked on an invisible line. He let his hands drop, jerked once sideways, then sank to the ground. Lewis was ready for this. He cleared a space around his brother and let
him make his own particular shape in the snow. Carl stood still, amazed at the sight unfolding, but Sam had run for help. He came back with the teacher on duty.

It was Wayne's idea of a joke, but it was Lewis who paid the price, standing with Carl and Sam in the headmaster's office. He had only ever seen the headmaster on stage in assembly, or the back of him as he disappeared into his office. Everyone feared him, because of the rumours of his time spent as a governor of a Borstal, but it was common knowledge that no one got caned any more. Now he was close-up, Lewis could see he was shorter than he looked on the stage, with a pink face and a rill of shimmering sweat along his hairline. He gave them a lecture, and as the three boys began to relax, he searched in a cupboard behind his desk, and pulled out a thin strip of wood.

Lewis worried about Wayne, who had been taken to the sick-bay, and then driven home. Counting the strokes—one, two, waiting for three—he hoped their mother would be back from work. He wondered if Wayne would tell her what had happened. Lewis's palm was turning pink now from the thin whip of the wood. At three strokes, he wondered if anyone had removed the snow from the inside of the car, or whether it would be slowly turning to liquid, soaking into the fabric of the seat, dripping into the footwell. He wondered whether Miss Hepple would ever trust him again.

You can put your hand away now, the headmaster said to Lewis, Unless you'd like another three?

Lewis looked up and saw that the caning was finished.

What do you say? This to Carl.

Thank you, sir.

The headmaster repeated the question to Sam, who also thanked him, and then to Lewis, who said nothing.

The two other boys, holding their left hands in their right as if to press the pain away, were staring at him as if he too were about to fall down in a fit. He hadn't felt the caning at all, but here was the proof, coming up red across the centre
of his palm, blue-edged along the thin web of skin between finger and thumb.

What do you say? The headmaster repeated.

Lewis couldn't trust his mouth.

He says, thank you, sir, said Sam, shooting a glance at Lewis, He's lost his voice, sir.

The headmaster turned on Sam in a swift rage.

Are you trying? To be funny?

Sam, brave despite the threat, shook his head.

No, sir! It was the shouting, sir. He was shouting for help. For his brother.

The three of them marched back down the stairs in silence. It was Sam who broke it.

He would've done you again, he said, He's a sadist.

Lewis nodded. He wanted to say something to Sam, to thank him, but knew better than to do it in front of Carl, who was walking between them, breathing heavily through his mouth. His skin looked green in the ceiling lights of the corridor, the muscles in his face working as if he were chewing gum. Finally, he spoke.

Tell your fucking spaz of a brother he's in deep shit, he said, raising his palm to emphasize the point, Tell him he owes me.

Anna paces the car park. She counts forty-two steps to the door of the Little Chef, and turns about; thirty more steps take her to the massive grey dump-bins pushed against the fence, another fifty-one back to the car. It's a blustery morning; the wind carries intermittent sheets of rain. Squall, her mother called it, when she said goodbye to Anna this morning.

You'll need a mac if you're going out in that squall, she shouted, Shall I lend you mine?

Her mother was standing at the top step, hanging on to the edge of the door. She was wearing a moth-eaten towelling robe, and her hair was stuck up from her pink scalp in wayward tufts. Her bare feet looked blue.

Go on in, mum, it's freezing, she called back, You've got no slippers on!

As she made to drive off, Anna felt a flare of embarrassment: she was back at her first day at secondary school, and there was her mother, standing at a different door on a busy street, shouting, Mind the road, Anna, watch out for the traffic.

The same cry again today:

Watch out for the traffic, that A11's a bloody death-trap!

Except back then, her mother wouldn't be seen in public without full make-up on. Over twenty-five years later, and now even her bare feet are acceptable.

There are four cars parked near the entrance, but none of them belongs to Brendan. As soon as she arrived, Anna went inside to make sure he hadn't got there before her. She stood at the Please Wait to Be Seated stand and craned her head over the banquettes. Two family groups sat at either end of the room, as distant from each other as physically possible. A lone diner watched a television high overhead in the far corner. Outside again, Anna went across to the petrol station and bought ten cigarettes and a box of matches. She sat on a low wall and lit one, pulling her mother's coat round her, scraping her feet along the mud slick at the side of the verge, waiting.

She's still trying to smoke it when Brendan arrives, screeching to a halt in the middle of the car park and jumping out of the car. He fetches a large bag from the boot, which he slings over his shoulder. As he approaches her, laughing, he pretends to fall over with the weight of it. When he reaches Anna, he pulls her close into his body. From a distance, they could be taken for lovers. She presses her face against his shoulder; he smells of warmth and the city. She wants to stay right there as she is, breathing him in, but he pushes her backwards and holds her at arm's length.

You look great, he says, That sea air's doing you good.

Whether it's his jovial tone, or the fact of seeing him, Anna can't tell: it's too late to stop the tears. He wraps an arm round her and guides her towards the entrance. His pace matches hers exactly.

Nice raincoat, he says, as they take a window-seat, Is that what passes for fashion, then, in Yarmouth?

A man in a suit on the opposite table turns his head from the television screen to examine Anna. When she stares back at him, he smiles and looks away.

It's my mum's, she says, feeling the tears falling again.

If I'd known I was going to get this sort of reception, I wouldn't have bothered coming, says Brendan, I usually make women laugh. Not cry.

I'm sorry to drag you up here, she says, pulling a paper napkin from the dispenser and blowing into it, But I couldn't face the whole trip down there and then the whole trip back again.

That's plain enough, he says, keeping his eyes on her, I'm surprised you got this far. What's happened?

Anna tilts her face to the window, thinking of an answer. It's fogged with steam, and someone has wiped a circle in the centre, which is re-misting; the cars on the forecourt look as if they're melting. She would like to give Brendan an explanation, a dramatic tale, but she can find nothing.

Is it your mother? he asks, Is she worse?

No. She's fine. She's fit as a fucking flea, actually, she says, so loudly that the waitress approaching them with the menus turns on her heel and walks quickly away again. Anna and Brendan look at each other, shamefaced.

That's it, y'know, B, it's so tedious being with them, with their singing and cavorting and the way they

Finish each other's sentences.

Exactly, she says, smiling with relief.

Brendan holds his hand up to stop her, leaves the table, and finds the waitress. Anna can't hear what he's saying, but she lip-reads an apology, and some extensive flirting behaviour that she's seen many times before.

It's what parents are for, though. To drive you mad, he says, carrying on exactly where they left off, You can't stand being with them for a minute, but you love them to bits from afar.

I don't love Cabbage to bits, she says.

You what? asks Brendan, giving her his full attention.

That's what my mother calls him, says Anna, Your famous Vernon Savoy. She calls him Cabbage.

Brendan mock-swoons.

She is actually perfect, your mother. So how come she's let you out? I don't see any ball and chain.

She's a sweetie, really, says Anna, Bad-tempered, foulmouthed, scheming—but still my mother. But she has her ways, Brendan. These chains are invisible.

Anna crosses her wrists on the table to show Brendan her imaginary shackles. He wraps his hands around hers and pulls her close.

I brought your stuff. Well, most of it. What I could track down.

He rummages on the floor beneath him and pulls up the bag, lifting it for Anna to take.

All there, I think. I had a hell of a job finding your passport. Under that bed, he says, pointing a warning finger at Anna, Are unknown terrors.

Did you pack my bathers?

Bathers! What are you like? Your
swimsuit
and flip-flops and beach towel and that rag you describe as a sun-dress—Brendan closes his eyes in distaste—Are all there.

Anna opens the bag and looks through it, pulling out a length of tie-dyed silk.

This isn't mine, she says.

It is now. It's a present. Call me psychic, but I thought you might just be going on a beach holiday. And that's a sarong. It's what normal people wear on the beach.
Not
a fleece.

Well, here, she says, rummaging in her pocket and drawing out the pack of cigarettes, I didn't get you anything. But you could have these?

Ahh, nearly new, says Brendan, And my second favourite brand. Thank you. So, what's the destination?

We're going, she says, To Crete. But what if it's cold? I'll need my fleece.

Does it get very cold, then, in Crete? In October? And who's we?

Me and my mother. And unless I can stop him, Vernon frigging Cabbage.

At the mention of his name, her mouth turns down again. She hangs her head, staring into the depths of her bag.

I can't go if Vernon goes, Brendan. I swear, I'll do something . . . irrational.

That'll be a first, he says, Not like you to do something irrational. Remember Joseph? Did he have two wives, or three? Now he
was
a bad choice. And that one with the piercings and all the cats?

Anna shudders.

Don't remind me. And my mother keeps banging on about me not having a boyfriend. If she only knew.

Brendan straightens an imaginary tie.

I could be your boyfriend, he says, Just say the word.

Anna isn't listening. She's gone back to a year ago, to a flat stinking of antiseptic and a bedful of cat hair. There was more cat hair on the furniture and on her clothes; slippery boluses of grey matter on the worktops or behind the curtains, and wherever she trod, sharp granules of cat litter. Roman, as he called himself, was tattooed and idle, and stuck all over with ornate pieces of bright metal. A new piercing every week.