by Robert Ward
He lay it along the foot of the bed. She had already thrown hers onto a chair. They blew blue smoke into the beams of light cast through the blinds, sharing a coral shell ashtray placed between them on the bed.
Elizabeth’s room was quite large and rectangular, the length of one of the longer walls having a double set of sash-windows admitting plenty of light. This she controlled with the blinds. The wallpaper was the colour of a russet-coloured apple, and the carpet was of speckled red and black. Her wardrobe and dressing table were walnut-panelled and a little naturally fatigued with age. Books and CDs and DVDs lay about the room and filled many shelves surrounding the TV and laptop and stereo. There were also ragged teddy bears and stuffed furry animals and broken dolls here and there as though they had been discarded long ago and left where they lay. On the wall opposite the bed was a print of The Blind Girl by Millais.
“It’s my birthday next week,” Elizabeth said, stubbing out her cigarette.
“Fifteen, like me,” Richard said.
“Yes, what’s it like, being fifteen?”
“Doesn’t feel any different.”
“No, I thought it mightn’t.”
“Are you getting anything?”
“A present you mean? Nothing special I don’t think. I mean, fifteen doesn’t really count, does it? Sixteen does, I suppose. You can smoke and live where you like, and have sex and leave school and stuff. Then there’s eighteen, when you can do whatever you like. But fifteen, it’s like the last year of being only half a person.”
“Then there’s twenty one,” Richard said, turning his head on the pillow to look at her.
“What?”
“Twenty one,” Richard repeated.
“Twenty one doesn’t count any more, stupid. It doesn’t mean anything. Only working class people still celebrate twenty one. They have such difficulty in adapting to things.”
“God, you’re such an awful snob,” Richard said, annoyed and pressing too hard on his cigarette stub and burning his finger.
“I’m merely trying to educate you, dear. I know you can’t help your humble background, but do please make an effort.”
Richard turned his gaze to the ceiling again and didn’t speak.
“Oh now don’t sulk, you know I’m only teasing,” she said, turning to him. “Come on, Rich. You’re my bestest pal in the whole wide world.”
She tickled his ribs and then lay on top of him. He turned away as she tried to kiss him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. You know I know your deepest secret fear.”
“No you don’t,” he said.
She pushed herself away from him, supporting her weight on her palms.
“Oh Rich, now you’re just being a bore.”
“Sorry”, he said.
She smiled at him and ruffled his short blonde hair.
“Do you want to pet my bare bum?” she asked, lying close to him and speaking into his ear. “I know you like to. I’ll just slip my skirt off and pull my knickers down.”
“No thanks,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You know I’d love to… really. But I just don’t want to now. I mean I do… but… no. I’m just not in the mood.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “You’ll regret it one day though, you know? Not doing it this one time, I mean. Because no matter how many times you do, this’ll be the one time when you didn’t, and there’s only a finite number of times you can feel me. We’ll be dead forever.”
He turned onto his side and put his arms around her. Her dark brown hair was fine and thick and shiny and her eyes were a deep rich blue. He gazed into them and kissed her.
“I do love you, Liz.”
“I know. And I love you… Rich?”
“What?”
“I’m lying on the ashtray.”
The afternoon turned into evening as they lay together half asleep. Elizabeth listened to the ticking of the clock and thought about putting some music on or perhaps the television but she was too comfortable to move. Richard had his hand on the curve of her hip and had his eyes closed. He raised his head suddenly and patted her.
“I’d better be going,” he said.
“Oh no, don’t go, Rich. Stay for dinner. I know, we’ll take a picnic to the summerhouse in the park and watch the Sun go down.”
“But I’m expected home. I’m late already,” Richard said, looking at his watch.
“Don’t be such a bore. They know where you are. Anyway, you can phone can’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Come on then. I’ll get changed and then you can help me make the sandwiches.”
She took off her school uniform and slipped on a light, yellow dress. Richard put his maroon blazer back on.
“Dad, we’re going to the park for a picnic,” she shouted into the drawing room on her way to the kitchen.
“A picnic?” he said, getting up from his armchair and following her. “It’s a bit late for a picnic isn’t it? Wouldn’t you rather go for a pizza or a burger or something?”
“What? And sit with all those pimply youths? No thanks.”
He held out a twenty pound note to her and she took it from him quickly.
“Thanks, Father, dear. I’ll take it in case we change our minds.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He was very tall.
“And don’t be too late. Remember, it’s school tomorrow.”
“Oh God, Dad. You sound like something out of an American sitcom.”
Richard joined her in the kitchen.
“Have you phoned?” she asked, making chicken sandwiches.
“Yes.”
“There, I told you it’d be all right. You worry too much. Your parents are ace.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just that I don’t feel… as confident as you… about things.”
“Oh shut up, and get a couple of bottles of wine out of the fridge and put them in the cool-bag.”
“Won’t your dad mind?”
“There you go again.”
At the entrance to the park were tall iron gates, long ago painted dark red and at their sides were sandstone pillars mounted by much weathered lions. A thick stone wall separated the park from a narrow verge and the often busy roadside. Elizabeth walked in front, swinging the wicker picnic basket, on top of which she had placed a folded blue and white checked tablecloth.
“Come on, slowcoach,” she said, turning her head as she walked.
“What’s the hurry?” he asked, strolling behind her with the bag with the bottles of wine in it slung over his shoulder. “I thought you were supposed to be the laid back one. I’m the neurotic, remember?”
“I hate dawdlers. It’s their lack of purpose. Existence has a meaning, I think. You are here for a reason. Now come along.”
“Liz.”
“What?”
“Don’t be such an old grumpy-boots.”
“You think this is grumpy?”
“Yes, you’re always beastly to me. Sometimes a fellow might think that you didn’t like him at all.”
Elizabeth swatted at a white butterfly.
“Now stop that snivelling at once,” she said. “Any more of that and I’ll make you lie naked in a nettle patch. Is that understood?”
She stood with her free hand fisted on her hip glaring at him.
“But you’d think that after a fellow had shared his tuck with another fellow, they might, well, be pals I suppose?”
“What rot. Now come along. Look, it’s going to rain.”
The clouds had darkened again and the light of the summer evening was beginning to fade, and the air had cooled.
“Whose stupid idea was it to come to the park, anyway?” she asked as they quickened their step.
“Er, actually, I think it was yours old chap,” he said, trying to stutter.
She gave him another glare and then a smile. They had reached the summerhouse.
/> The park was actually quite small. The enclosed part that is, as to the north, beyond the stone wall there was a common and then farmland stretching away into the distance. The park’s main feature however, the boating-lake, was very pretty with its island and with woodland gently descending to its shore. There was even a little river running out of it through a series of picturesque miniature weirs and narrow falls. All manufactured, it seemed, but there may once have been a natural lake and stream.
The summerhouse itself was white and round, with wooden pillars and an ornamental roof and a picket fence around it that came to about waist height. There were six wooden benches forming an inner circle, five of which had a lake view as the summerhouse was almost surrounded by the water, being built on a little promontory, accessible by a narrow wooden walkway.
Elizabeth and Richard seemed to have the park to themselves, except for a few people walking dogs in the distance, and they sat on a bench overlooking the lake, to the west, and opened the picnic basket.
They ate their chicken sandwiches and drank cold liebfraumilch from plastic cups.
“I should have put a cardigan on,” Elizabeth said, “It’s getting chilly.”
“It isn’t chilly,” said Richard. “I think it’s still quite warm.”
“My arms are cold.”
Richard didn’t say anything.
“If you were any sort of a gentleman you’d give me your blazer.”
“You hate wearing uniforms,” he said. “You said it is a denial of the freedom of the individual. You said it somehow makes you less human. You said it is a form of control by those in authority. You said uniforms categorise and stereotype a person. You said a school uniform is no more and no less than a prison uniform and that it might as well have little arrows on it. You said…”
“Oh, shut up, you boring bastard and give me the fucking blazer will you!”
“Really Elizabeth, such language.”
They laughed and he put his blazer around her shoulders. It started to rain.
“Open the other bottle,” she said after they had finished eating. “You may cuddle me as a reward for being a very, very good boy.”
“Thank you, Mistress. I am your slave.”
“Alarum, exit stage left.”
“A blasted heath.”
“Exeunt.”
He put his arm around her and she lay her head on his shoulder. They each had a free hand for their wine.
“Rainy,” she said.
“Windy.”
“Fishy lake.”
“Fairies dancing.”
She swung her legs across his lap and kissed him. She tasted the same as he did.
“Love you, Rich.”
“Love you, Liz.”
A flash of lightning crackled on the horizon and they counted together the seconds before the thunder came.
“Four,” they said together.
“That means the eye of the storm is four miles away,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Does a second mean a mile? I don’t believe it. It’s too convenient. It’s probably naught point nine three seven of a mile, or something like that.”
“God, you’re so unromantic,” he said.
“If you’d been brought up in a hovel on the moors with eleven little brothers and sisters to look after and a brute of a father who drank away what little money you earned taking in washing and who buggered you at every opportunity, you’d be unromantic too.”
Richard choked on his wine with laughter and she slapped him on the back.
“Your… imagination,” he said, between breaths. “It’s just wild.”
“Why, Richard. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
They kissed again as the rain came down in torrents and the sky blackened further and the thunder roared even closer. The wind had risen also, and water cascaded down from the roof of the summerhouse.
It was so dark now and the rain so heavy that they could no longer see across to the far side of the lake. The summerhouse, though a little vandalised and missing the odd roof-slat here and there, kept them dry however, and they rather liked huddling together in the storm.
“I don’t suppose we’ll see the Sun go down now,” Elizabeth said, pulling Richard’s blazer closer around her.
“We’ll have to imagine one,” he said.
“More wine, please,” she said. “We might as well finish it.”
They did finish it and they felt rather drunk, but pleasantly so.
“Oh, look,” Elizabeth said, pointing to one of the pillars near the bench. “Kelly-Marie Smith loves Darren Stubbs, and there’s a little heart with an arrow through it. Aah, isn’t that nice? Though, shouldn’t it be carved in an oak tree rather than written in marker-pen? Any why the surnames? Most odd.”
“Should we write our names?” Richard asked.
“My God, Rich. You’re such a peasant. How could you possibly think of doing something so naff? I mean, it’s hardly the same as Mary Wollstonecraft loves Percy Bysshe now, is it? I mean… this isn’t the Villa Diodati, now is it? Polidori?”
Richard gave her his hangdog expression, pretending to be upset and humiliated, knowing that she knew he was pretending. She looked at him, smiled, and then laughed.
“You got me that time, didn’t you, you dirty dog you? What made me think of them anyway? I suppose it’s the storm. And is this really a summerhouse? I mean, everyone calls it the summerhouse, but is it one, really? Like the ones people used to have in the grounds of their houses? This looks like a miniature pavilion, where bands play for people sitting on rows of chairs and eating ice cream.”
“Liz.”
“What?”
“You’re babbling.”
“I like to babble. Babel… the tower of. Nebuchadnezzar. Was it Nebuchadnezzar? And he sayeth unto them. What was it that he sayeth unto them? And was it before or after he smote the Amorites? I wonder if they were great lovers? The Amorites?”
She lay across him with the back of her head resting on his chest so that she could look straight up at him. She giggled and blew a raspberry at him.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” he said.
“But that’s why you love me, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“You know, your eyes are the colour of caramel? Actually I think I probably will go bonkers one day. Will you come and visit me in the asylum? I probably won’t recognise you. But please come all the same. I’ll probably just sit in a hard-backed chair staring out of the window. I imagine it’ll be a genteel sort of an asylum with an understanding and indulgent staff.”
He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her forehead.
He loved her in a way he couldn’t yet explain to himself. She was the most interesting and lovely person he had met in his short life and he had a primitive notion that she would remain so for the rest of it. He knew however that she was travelling too fast for him and that his time with her was precious. It was not death that would separate them, as she had said on the bed in her room, but their lives.
“Do you ever feel lonely, Liz?” he heard himself say as he gently stroked her face.
She turned her head slightly to look at him.
“Yes, of course,” she said, turning away again. “Why did you ask that?”
“Because you’re so different to everyone else. All the other kids, I mean. You seem… older.”
“That’s because I’ve been here many times before.”
“Reincarnation, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I never know when you’re kidding or not,” he said. “Do you really believe in that?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Liz.”
“Don’t be so serious. I wish we had some more wine. Light us a fag, Rich.”
“They’re in my blazer pocket.”
“Oh right,” she said and felt for them. “These are the last two. We’ll get some more on the way back.”
“The wine’s made me sleepy now,” she said, flicking the stub of her cigarette out over the picket fence. “Why do I always finish my cigarette before you do?”
“Because you suck on it like a joint,” he said.
“I like to get a full nicotine rush and to feel the hot smoke blackening my lungs.”
“You’ll get sick and die.”
“Nonsense. We’re immortal. You know, we should really run out into the rain and shout and dance.”
“Do you want to?”
“I’m not sure. I like lying here with you.”
“Why did you say we should?” he asked.
“Becuase it would be romantic. Why?”
“I just wanted to know why you said should instead of saying that you wanted to.”
“My, we are being analytical, aren’t we.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Liz. I just want to know how you think.”
She looked into his eyes and placed her palm on his cheek and then kissed him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe you were getting close to something. Maybe not.”
She sat up straight next to him still with his blazer around her shoulders and ran her fingers through her dark hair. He leaned forward and rested his chin on the heels of his hands with the points of his elbows on his knees.
“Shall we go back now?” he asked.
“Don’t say that, Rich,” she said. “I hate things coming to an end. No matter what. Why did you have to say that? Why is it always me who wants to stay and do more and more?”
“I’m just not like you, Liz. Like you said, I worry. I’m not free like you are.”
“Tell me what you mean,” she said. “Really, Rich. Please tell me.”
He thought for a moment, not really knowing what to say and worrying that he might say something that wasn’t true or might hurt her or might put him in a bad light in her eyes or damage their friendship or make her hate him. All of this he thought without understanding his feelings, and still without knowing what to say.
“I’m not like you, because I’m me,” he finally said, knowing that his answer was totally inadequate for both of them.
