‘Jenny, what did you mean, how Pete treated Celia?’
Her hands stop, for a moment. ‘The same way he treats Alex, I imagine. He’s a bully, always wants his own way. Doesn’t like to be crossed. But like a lot of bullies he can be nice too, which is how he draws them in to begin with.’ She squeezes suntan oil onto her belly and rubs it in, then asks me to do her back. Her skin is smooth and warm. ‘You know, Alex is way too young to be with him.’
‘I know. But there’s nothing I can do, and believe me I’ve tried. She won’t go home.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who could help? Grandparents?’
‘Her mum’s parents are both dead. I don’t know about her stepfather’s, but as he’s the problem…’ I finish Jenny’s back and she offers me the bottle. Squeezing some into one hand, I begin with my shoulders. ‘I’ve even offered for her to come and live at ours but she just wants to stay in London.’ I daub lotion onto my legs. ‘I’m not sure I’d even want that now. Things have changed between us.’ I glance at Jenny, wondering how much I can say, picturing the red mark on Alex’s face. ‘But I do worry, about what Pete’s doing to her.’
Jenny gives a little sigh. ‘You’re a good friend, Beth. Sometimes friends have to make tough decisions.’ I know what she’s saying, and stare out to sea, biting my lip. ‘Anyway, Celia saw sense in the end,’ Jenny says then, encouragingly. ‘Let’s hope Alex will.’
‘Celia got ill. She’s anorexic.’
‘Yes, I know. But she was before. That’s how Pete likes his women.’
‘What, thin?’
She laughs. ‘No. Vulnerable.’
I don’t like that word; it makes me think of soft, bruised fruit.
Looking over to the ice-cream kiosk, I see that Michael and Fitz are just being served. I hand Jenny her Ambre Solaire and lie back down, my eyes squeezed tight against the sun. In my head now are two trains of thought, running parallel. First that Fitz was right about the house in Empire Road being claustrophobic; down here in Wales I can breathe. It would be nice to have a bit more of that. And second, I’m beginning to worry that Alex might deliberately stay away until I’ve gone back to Sheffield. Okay, I think, so what if Fitz and I go back to London later than planned?
‘Jenny?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘If it were possible, if I could, would you let us stay a few more days?’
She looks puzzled. ‘Well, yeah, it wouldn’t be a problem for us, but…’
As the others draw near I put one finger to my lips and change the subject. But later, as we leave the beach, I spot a phone-box.
‘Wait, I won’t be long.’ I sprint over before Fitz can ask anything and before I lose my nerve. The phone-box is hot and stuffy, smells of chips and suntan oil. I dial home and my mother picks up. As soon as she says hello I tell her that we’re all planning to stay another week in Minehead, that we’re about to book and is that all right?
‘Well, I don’t know,’ my mother begins, clearly not happy. ‘Have you got enough money for this, Beth?’
‘Yes, yes, fine. I had loads saved up from work. And I had money left over from my birthday.’
‘I thought you were saving up for a new record player. And what about the coach on Saturday?’
‘We can transfer the tickets, they told us. And we’re getting discount for a second week.’ Oh, the lies I can produce, once I get going. ‘Hilary — wait for me!’ I call out of the phone-box and almost burst out laughing at Fitz’s baffled face outside.
There’s a long pause while my mother relays this all back to my father. I hear him say, well, if they’re having fun why not, and then my mother’s voice saying, I suppose so, and then, to me,
‘And Hilary and Rachel are both staying?’
‘Yes, of course, all of us.’ I pray she won’t run into them in town. ‘Someone wants to use the phone-box, Mum. I’ll ring again in a few days. Bye!’
As I put the receiver down Fitz pulls the door open. ‘What have you done?’
‘Come on. I’ll tell you.’ I link my arm in his and pull him along, up the hill to the van.
*
It’s been so hot that we sit outside all evening. Michael and Fitz drag a table and chairs out and Jenny cooks a chicken that a neighbouring smallholder gave her, in return for the promise of some hay from the back field. She cooks it with wine and tarragon, home-grown potatoes and carrots, and it’s delicious, washed down with a bottle of wine that I’d bought on the way home from the beach. I still have some money left; at least that part of what I told my mother is true.
My plan is to stay here until early next week, then to go back to London for a few more days. Fitz is amazed and keeps asking if it will be all right.
‘You are really pushing your luck with your parents,’ he says. ‘If they try to get hold of you and you aren’t where you said…’
‘They’d only do that if there was an emergency,’ I say, aiming to believe it; the rush of excitement has receded, leaving me wondering if I have actually stretched their faith in me too far. ‘They won’t be worried. They think I’m with Rachel and Hilary. They think we’re all having a great time at Butlins.’ I shrug. ‘It’s fine.’
‘What do you think, Jenny?’
Jenny looks over at me, and I see concern in her eyes. ‘I think that once you start lying it’s hard to know where to stop. And sometimes to remember why you started.’
Their phone begins to ring. Michael goes inside saying, ‘That’ll be Jim, about the fishing trip.’
I fiddle with a loose thread on my sleeve, sensing Jenny’s gaze on me. But she drops the subject and begins to talk about her and Michael’s long-term plans. These include sheep, pigs and children.
‘In that order?’ Fitz asks.
‘Well, we said no babies until the house is finished and the land is ready.’ She laughs. ‘But you know plans. They don’t always work out.’
It takes a few moments to sink in. ‘You’re pregnant?’ Fitz says.
‘Yep. You’re the first to know. Apart from Michael, of course!’
‘Amazing!’
We’ve just begun the congratulations when Michael comes back, his face solemn. Ignoring all the excitement, he looks straight at me.
‘It’s Alex. She wants to talk to you.’
‘Alex?’ I turn to Fitz, who’s staring up at Michael. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve just spoken to Pete but he wouldn’t say where they were. He was very evasive. She’s waiting, Beth.’
I rush in then, thinking of phone-boxes and money running out, but I needn’t have worried. They’re staying in a friend’s house, she says, using their phone.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘Of course. How about you?’
‘Yes. Fine. How did you know we were here?’
‘Celia told Pete. He went back to the house for something. We know it got trashed.’ She hesitates. ‘Must have been scary.’
‘A bit. We weren’t there at the time. Is Celia all right? They haven’t been back?’
‘No. They got what they wanted the first time.’
I’m staring out of the window, watching Michael explaining something to the others, their faces all intent. Then Alex’s words sink in. I turn away and flop down onto the battered old settee.
‘But Celia said they didn’t find anything.’
‘She thought they hadn’t. Looks like they fooled her.’
‘What did they take? Money?’
‘No. Weed.’ Again, a hesitation. ‘If it was them.’
‘What do you mean, “if it was them”?’ There’s a long silence. ‘Alex, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Still she doesn’t answer and I think I hear a voice, Pete’s voice, in the background. ‘Alex, I can’t believe this. You’re accusing me and Fitz of taking Pete’s stash of weed? Why the hell would we do that? Do you think we’d want to risk being caught with it? Do you think we’d even touch his stuff, steal from him?’
‘No, no, not that.’ Her voice changes as she tries to placate me. ‘We thought you could have been looking after it, you know, taken it somewhere safe.’
‘Alex, we didn’t know where it was. We didn’t know it was there. Why would we?’
Why would we want to help Pete out? I could add, but I don’t believe her anyway. Clearly they think we’ve taken it to sell, laying the blame on whoever broke in.
‘So…’ she begins, and again I hear a voice, prompting her, ‘you haven’t got it?’
‘No,’ I say bitterly. ‘We haven’t got it.’
Alex lets it go then, asks me what we’ve been doing and if we’re having a good time, but I’m so angry I’m hardly able to speak. Finally she says she’ll see me back in London, and I mutter, ‘Yes, see you.’
As I put the phone down I notice Fitz in the doorway.
‘Were you listening?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘They think we stole Pete’s weed. I can’t believe they thought that.’
He shrugs. ‘They’re desperate.’
*
I feel sorry for Jenny, her news being overshadowed by an inquest on the phone-call, and make sure later to ask her all about the pregnancy. She’s only two months gone and wasn’t going to tell anyone until the third month was up.
‘Things can go wrong,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to jinx it. But since you’re here…’ She shrugs. ‘It’s nice to share it with someone.’
Michael goes and finds a bottle of elderflower wine that they made last summer, the last bottle. Outside it’s growing cool but none of us want to go in. We wrap ourselves in jackets and blankets, gaze up at the stars and listen to the soft rustle of trees in the breeze. We drink to Jenny and Michael and the baby. They’re both excited about the idea of being parents, despite the change in plans.
‘It just means everything will happen more slowly than we thought,’ Michael says, with his arm round Jenny. ‘But that’s okay. We’re not going anywhere.’
In bed that night I hold Fitz close. I’m in a strange mood and feel somehow thin-skinned, jumpy, as though all my emotions lie just under the surface. My mind skitters around and light on one thought after another. I’m still angry with Alex but somehow sorry for her too, having to do Pete’s dirty work; I’m deeply envious of Michael and Jenny and the life they’ve got here; and I’m filled with pessimism about the future, my future, not seeing how any of this can work out for me and not finding anything of value in what I wanted before.
Fitz is quiet. He hasn’t said much about the phone-call. I ask him what he’s thinking.
‘All sorts,’ he replies.
‘Go on.’
‘Okay. But you might not like it. First off I’m thinking how much I’d like to put my fist in Pete’s face. Secondly, I’m thinking when does a promise to a friend not count, like, when they’re not safe any more?’ My stomach tightens as the second person that day seems to suggest I do something about Alex. ‘And third, I’m worried about all the shit you’re going to be in — if everything gets found out.’
I swear he nearly says ‘when’, not ‘if’. I remember his words the day I came back to London — that he was as guilty as me — and think he must be contemplating his own head on the block.
‘Fitz,’ I say, seriously, ‘if you want me to go home I’ll get a train tomorrow. We can call it a day now and just stay friends, or something. We could write to each other, and then maybe in a year’s time, wherever I am, we could see each other again. If you still wanted to.’
He raises his head off the pillow to look at me. In the half-light from the window I can just make out his features, the twist of his lips as he begins to smile.
‘You don’t mean that!’
I uncross my fingers. ‘Of course I don’t mean it! But I had to say it. I know you stand to be in trouble too.’
He traces my lips with one finger. ‘Don’t worry. There won’t be any trouble.’
27
th
August, 1977
I’m in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch when I hear a car come jolting down the track. On a particularly stubborn bit the car stalls, and takes two or three attempts to restart. It isn’t Michael. I know the sound of the camper van by now, and anyway he’s off fishing, not back till tomorrow, Sunday.
Jenny and Fitz are in the vegetable garden at the back, picking beans and apples. I can see and hear them from where I stand, by the brand-new worktop under the kitchen window. I like listening to them chatting, on and off. I can’t make out what they’re saying, just the rhythm of Fitz’s soft lilt against Jenny’s precise tones. As the car nears the house I sense Jenny break off in mid-sentence, listening. She calls something to Fitz and I look up, see her walk down the path that leads to the front of the house. Fitz carries on with his apple picking, reaching up to the higher branches now. His hair has lightened with all the sun; it curls into his neck in fair, wispy strands. He wears an old T-shirt, shrunk and faded from black to grey. His shoulder blades show through the thin cotton and he looks somehow undefended. As soon as I have this thought I can’t decide what I mean, but it stays with me.
The car draws to a halt. There’s a long gap where I expect to hear voices, greetings, Jenny’s loud ‘Hi!’ to whoever has turned up. Fitz catches the silence too; I see him half turn, stop reaching for the apples. I go out to the small porch at the front of the house, still clutching the butter knife. The porch has a stable door and the top half is open; I see an old, beaten-up saloon car on the yard but sunlight reflecting off the windscreen prevents me from seeing who’s inside. Jenny stands quite still with her back to me, looking to where the driver’s door has opened and a figure emerges.
Pete. I say the name under my breath and it sounds like a curse. And Alex — that blur in the passenger seat must be her. My insides knot. Fitz appears round the side of the house, sees who it is and stops abruptly. I undo the latch and step out of the porch and Fitz turns his eyes away from the car towards me, the shock still in them.
‘What are they doing here?’ I mutter.
‘I don’t know. Shit, I don’t know.’
Pete advances a few steps. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘what a very domestic scene.’
Jenny has a basket of runner beans slung over one arm and there’s me, butter knife in hand. Jenny speaks first. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Yes. We were sort of passing.’
Alex gets out of the car then and smiles warily, thumbs hooked in her jacket pockets. ‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes on me.
If they looked an odd couple before they are even more so here on the farm. Pete’s hair seems suddenly so long after a few days of not seeing him. It’s newly washed, and fly-away strands catch the sun, the colour bleached out of them. He’s wearing a sleeveless vest and jeans, with leather and beads round his neck and wrists. The vest gives him a look of being taller and skinnier than ever. Next to him Alex is diminutive, in skinny black jeans and a T-shirt that clings to her small breasts, her hair in bunches and backcombed on top. With her exaggerated eyes, all mascara and eyeliner, she looks like a little punk doll. I step forward a little, to see her better. There’s only a faint shadow where the bruise had been.