Honest

by Ava Bloomfield

  Moments after he left, Diane was barging in the bedroom with a plastic blue laundry basket, her heavenly black hair tied up in a long ponytail. Diane was something like a quarter Moroccan, which meant she had the milky, light brown skin like Peter’s, but she had the flowing black locks of whichever grandparent she took after. She had deep brown eyes and didn’t look much older than her thirties, if that.

  I hated Diane.

  Only because she loved Peter, and I mean really loved him — babied him, even. She had to have an emergency hysterectomy after Peter was born so he was basically her little angel, her one and only child.

  Well, he was my one and only too.

  Her scouse accent didn’t remotely match her looks, even less so than Dennis’ did. I was always shocked to hear it coming from her plump lips, especially since Peter had the local accent. Dennis and Diane had moved to Mevagissey when she was pregnant with Peter because of some history back at home that Pete didn’t know much about, and Diane had decided that they needed to make a new life for themselves in the country.

  Diane got a job as a bank clerk and, once her colleagues heard her down–to–earth accent, she soon fitted right in. Dennis had a harder time of it, but he found a place at the camp and stayed there.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry — I’m not interrupting, I swear, I’ve just come for the washin’,’ she said, brushing by me to get to the pile of laundry at the end of his bed.

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah, just passing through, whatever,’ said Peter, absent—mindedly plucking a few strings. I could see the adoration in his eyes when he looked at Diane, and it made my heart clench up. There were only two abnormal things about Pete, and that was his unstoppable good nature and his eternal love for his mother. I guessed the two went hand in hand, not that I’d ever know. As far as I was concerned, I’d never had a mother.

  I always thought their good relationship is what made him such a cheerful kind of guy. The kind of guy who would look after the weird London girl, stuffing her face with cake on the bathroom floor, even when his mate couldn’t stand her.

  ‘Come on, you know I’m not trying to cramp your style,’ she said, piling the clothes into the basket.

  ‘Is that why you’re getting my dirty washing now while Ell’s here? Jesus mum it’s embarrassing,’ he said, not looking a bit embarrassed at all.

  I watched the clothes as she picked them up and tossed them in, spying his boxer shorts covered in Marvel characters, and at least two expensive pairs with brand names embroidered on the top. All I could think about was how amazing he must’ve looked wearing them, so I turned my face away quickly before Pete saw.

  But Diane caught me first.

  ‘Hey,’ she whispered over her shoulder while Pete was tuning his Strat. ‘Don’t you be eyeing up my son’s undies.’ She poked me in the shoulder with her long, sharp fingernail.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I said, my face burning.

  ‘Oh yes you were,’ she said, smirking. ‘You’re a bit too young for all that, missy. I’m watching you.’ She smiled, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that she really meant it. She might as well have said you keep your hands off my beautiful baby boy.

  ‘What did she say to you?’ Pete asked when she left, leaving the bedroom door wide open.

  I tried to think of something Diane might say to a girl in, oh, about a hundred year’s time when she was ready to give him up to another woman. ‘She said, ‘you look after my baby boy’.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Peter, laughing into his hands. ‘She is the most embarrassing woman in the world.’

  I looked out of his little window at the mild day outside. ‘Why don’t we get out of here and go up the cliff?’ I said, resting my hand beside his thigh.

  He paused, sensing my hand there. Then he nodded, his beautiful springy hair waving. ‘Yeah, all right then,’ he said softly. I realised he knew exactly what I wanted us to do up there on that windy hill top, all alone, just us. No phone calls, no parents — not even Jimi Hendrix.

  We left the guitar at home where it wouldn’t get bashed about or stolen. When we rounded the corner and got to the road leading towards the harbour, Pete took one of his hands out of his jeans pocket and laced his fingers through mine.

  ‘I’ve missed you, mate,’ he said, looking down at me with his long eyelashes.

  I tried to keep my breathing steady, even though his hand was so warm and soft against mine. It was a Sunday, all the local shops closed. We were totally alone on that little cobbled street.

  ‘Mate? Is that all you call me? Anyway, we’ve been phoning and doing the video thing,’ I said, keeping my voice from shaking. ‘It’s not like we haven’t stayed in touch.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Peter. ‘But it isn’t the same as having you here.’ He squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back.

  I smiled, looking down at the floor, watching my feet in their flats and his in their Converse walking at alternate paces. ‘I know. I have missed you a lot too.’ I admitted, trying to keep calm. Of course, I’d wanted nothing else for months and months, and he’d been all I ever thought about — but I couldn’t tell him that.

  Peter slowed and so I slowed with him. He walked me toward a closed shop doorway and stood in front of me, so close I could smell the scent on his clothes. ‘I was gonna wait until we got to the cliff top.’

  My heart did a slow and forceful thud, thud, thud. I knew what was coming, I just knew it. I waited a couple of seconds, then slowly lifted my head up and looked at him.

  He placed one hand on my neck, making me shudder, then placed the other on my cheek and pulled me in for a kiss. Unlike last time, when he pulled his lips away, he dove back in again, with a little more pressure, parting them just slightly to let his tongue touch mine. Soon our lips were moist but we didn’t stop, we just kept going, breathing between kisses, wrapping our arms around each other, completely lost from the world.

  My body had never reacted the way it did that day, that moment. Of course, I’d experienced...things of that nature, but they were nothing at all like this, not even close.

  I’d never realised just how wrong those experiences were until I felt it with Peter, because it was all just so right, and so soft, and so loving, and all mine. I knew that it was only when you found something right, you realised what had been so, so wrong before.

  His hand rubbed my neck and pressed my face close to his. Without thinking about it, my hands sought warmth under his T–shirt where I felt his abdomen, his slim tummy and the little trail of hair leading down from his belly button. That’s when his hand moved, over my shoulder and down my arm and onto my waist, feeling every part of me like it was precious.

  ‘Oi, Pete,’ Came a voice, startling us apart. We stiffened, afraid of being caught. But for what, I’d wondered? What in the world could be wrong about what had just happened? I was still recovering, panting silently, when I saw who was standing on the other side of the pavement.

  Tall, gangly, acne–ridden. It was David. ‘Your dad said you were in the middle of something.’

  Pete laughed it off, but both of us could tell that David wasn’t in the mood for laughing. ‘Yeah, mate, I’m sorry about that. I was busy.’

  ‘With her?’

  I waggled my fingers at him. ‘Yes, me,’ I said. Like hell was I going to let David ruin this for me, I thought.

  ‘Shut up, I wasn’t talking to you. So is this what it’s gonna be like for the next three months, is it?’

  ‘Oh come on, Dave, don’t be like that.’ Pete pocketed his hands, his expression sad and deflated. ‘We can do something later on, it’s just Ell’s—’

  ‘All he ever talks about is you,’ said David, cutting him off. He looked at me with his thin face, eyes full of hatred. ‘I bet you’re proud of that, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, tugging Pete’s hand from his pocket and grasping it in mine. ‘I am, actually. If you don’t like it, then tough.’

  ‘Ell’,’ Pete looked at me and squeezed my hand. ‘Just leave i
t to me okay?’

  ‘Don’t be nice to her! God, Pete, this is embarrassing mate. What are you doing getting all sloppy with her? It’s disgusting.’

  I scoffed. ‘Only because you wish he was doing it with you. Am I right?’

  Peter snorted laughter, but when he saw the darkening expression on David’s face, he stopped. ‘Oh come on, mate, she’s just joking. Don’t get angry about it. I was going to ring you back.’

  ‘What, are you saying I’m a queer?’ he said, eyes dead on me.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Why else would you get your knickers in a twist about it?’

  He took two steps forward, his eyes unblinking. ‘You’re the one who gets her knickers in a twist by the looks of it, slut.’

  I gasped. ‘How dare—’

  Peter let go of my hand and stood in front of me, blocking me from David’s view. ‘Take that back,’ he said, his voice low and steady.

  I heard David laugh. I couldn’t see him, but I could imagine his face — sneering, ugly, smug. That was him all over. He wasn’t growing up all handsome like Pete was; he was gangly and spotty and all out of proportion, and he knew it.

  ‘I’m not taking that back, it’s true. She’s a dirty little slut and that’s why you’re all over her. She’s easy.’

  Peter leapt and sprinted across the road at David, taking him down in one slam. I screamed, cupping my hands over my mouth. David fought back but he was no match for Peter, and even though he kicked and scrabbled about the ground, Peter had him.

  He swung his arm back and thumped him in the face, then in the ribs, before turning him on his stomach and hitting him repeatedly in the back. All the while he was gritting his teeth, rage in his eyes, pinning him down with all his weight.

  It was only when David started whimpering, and I could make out the words, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ that Peter stopped hitting and got up. He grabbed David’s wrist and pulled him up on his feet, his nose and lip bloodied, hunched over in defeat.

  He looked at me, shaking all over, his eyes glaring out from the blood smeared around his face. ‘I fucking hate you,’ he said to me, almost squealing it, before he staggered away down the road.

  Peter was breathing heavily through his nose, pacing the street, his fists clenched. When he calmed down enough to take me by the arm and carry on with me toward the cliffs, I saw him wipe a couple of stray tears from his eyes.

  ‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ I said, bewildered, watching his angered face as we walked. So much for his unstoppable good nature. I’d never felt so alive before, watching Peter defend me like that, using all his...power. He was just fourteen and yet to me he looked fully grown, much stronger than he’d been just a year ago. He was like a man already.

  ‘My dad teaches me,’ he said, his voice still thick with anger. ‘I’ll go to his house in a couple days when it’s all cooled off. I won’t let him talk to you that way.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The summer I turned fifteen, Peter and I had our one year anniversary, even though we’d never really described each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. We knew what we were, but the time away was too painful to make it official.

  We spent the day on the cliffs like usual, lying down on the grass, kissing, keeping it private from our families. I was especially grateful that dad never knew how...far we were going, for obvious reasons. He wouldn’t have liked it at all. Neither would Diane, though I had the feeling that Dennis might understand. I’d always had the feeling that he’d been a lot like Peter when he was fifteen.

  On the cliff we were far away from everyone, and nothing level with the harbour mattered to us while we were up there, practically amongst the clouds. We kissed and held each other for hours, sometimes the whole day, and I’d go home at night and dream of us doing it all again and so much more.

  In mid August, Peter’s family threw a bonfire night to celebrate Dennis’ 50th birthday.

  It was to be, at first, the most wonderful night of my life so far. Later, it was to become the worst, most excruciating time of my entire life.

  The guests had gathered in Dennis and Diane’s back garden, scattered about over their lawn while dad, Dennis and some of their campsite co–workers built up the fire inside the old oil drum. Peter was sixteen already, so Diane let him have a couple of drinks, and even though I wasn’t old enough Pete slipped me some vodka in my diet Coke. Pretty soon the popping fire seemed so much brighter, and when Diane wasn’t around I sat on Pete’s lap and entwined my arms around his neck.

  It was a beautiful clear night, the stars illuminated by the bonfire and the sky like a sheet of dark velvet. Dennis, dad and their work mates were swallowing can after can of lager while Diane ferried food to and from the garden table for their friends. She was far too busy to notice us.

  Pete leaned in and shouted to me over the music. When I couldn’t hear him, he pressed his mouth against me and spoke directly into my ear, his mouth tickling. ‘I said Dave isn’t coming.’

  ‘Oh how awful,’ I said back, practically shouting in his face. Diane had put on some awful Best of Whitney Huston album and the noise was so loud I could barely think straight, let alone have a normal conversation with Peter.

  ‘He says he doesn’t feel comfortable about me and you,’ Peter shouted.

  ‘Who cares?’ I said back, running my fingers through the coarse dark curls at the nape of his neck.

  ‘It’s the first time he hasn’t showed up to something,’ said Pete, looking pained. ‘He’s being a real dick about everything.’

  ‘He’s always a dick about everything,’ I said.

  Peter shrugged. ‘It’s hard making time for him when he won’t see us together, you know? I wouldn’t do that to him.’ He took a sip of his drink and swallowed hard, grimacing as if the drink was sour. I knew that wasn’t the reason.

  I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, admiring his thick neck and the tendons in his wrist as he clutched the can. He looked so adult compared to me; so much taller and larger, and he showed no signs of stopping. Sometimes I’d catch Diane looking at Peter the same way, as if she couldn’t quite believe her little boy had grown so large, almost as big as Dennis.

  The looks she gave him weren’t just curious, either. She had a glint in her eye of fear, knowing, I suppose, that in the coming years Peter was going to leave home and make his own way. I liked to dream of us moving to London together permanently, or going on tour together when Peter joined a band.

  Whatever fantasy I had, one thing was certain: Dad wasn’t in any of them. Once I had Peter, I wouldn’t need anybody else. I’d be free of him for good. Diane could look as afraid as she liked, but she couldn’t stop us.

  ‘Thing is, you’re a decent person and he’s a selfish idiot. He’s jealous,’ I said, planting a kiss on Peter’s cheek.

  He smiled, hugging me closer. ‘Course he’s jealous. He’d be a real idiot not to be.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I said. I blushed so hard I was grateful for it being so dark outside, but Peter knew me too well. He stroked my cheek, feeling my hot skin.

  He leaned in closer and said, ‘Let’s go and talk inside, I’m sick of shouting.’

  I nodded and got off his lap. We both glanced over at Diane, who was pre–occupied with her friends from the bank with her back to us, before making our way indoors. Instinctively I went towards Peter’s room upstairs, but when we got to the landing he turned me towards his parents’ room, holding me by the hand.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ he said, turning on the light. The room was decorated to Diane’s tastes with deep purple sheets and matching curtains; a Louis–style purple chair in the corner with a patchwork cushion on the seat. Everything was neat and stylized. None of it spoke a word of Dennis; not unless he liked satin and lace.

  There was just one thing, however. Peter pointed to it, stood in the corner like a shamed dog. ‘Dad’s been playing that guitar since he was seventeen. He bought it with his own money from his fi
rst job.’

  I looked at the red Gibson Les Paul, a little battered and bruised, but still standing. I only knew the type because Peter scoured the internet for hours sometimes, drooling over different guitar bodies and makes. I didn’t understand the significance exactly, but Peter looked so proud to point it out to me that I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. How else could you respond to a guitar when you didn’t know anything about it? I didn’t know the first thing about Les Paul, whoever he was.

  Peter laughed. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to pretend. Dad says he’s going to give it to me one day when he’s too old to play in a band.’

  Dennis’ band was called Sonny and the Rascals and they mostly played covers down the pub; old rock ballads, that kind of thing. ‘I can’t imagine Dennis getting too old to play.’

  ‘Me either,’ said Peter, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. ‘It makes me a bit sad looking at it like that. It’s the only thing dad’s really had for himself and it never did make him famous.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ I said. ‘He’s a really good guitarist. He’s talented like you.’

  Peter snorted. ‘Other way around, you mean.’

  We drifted towards the bed and perched nervously on the edge, both of us seeming very aware of the soft mattress beneath us. I definitely was, I knew that much. I smoothed down the skirt of my black party dress and kicked off my shoes.

  ‘Why did your dad come down here from Liverpool? It’s hardly rock and roll,’ I said, leaning back on my elbows.

  Peter watched the guitar longingly, a sadness in his sea–green eyes. ‘They never really told me, but I think dad got in a bit of trouble with his old crowd around the time mum got pregnant with me. They moved here for my sake.’

  ‘Seems a shame that I’m the one who gets to live in London, doesn’t it?’ I said, making Peter look from the Les Paul to me.