by Tim Pears
They all met up for lunch together around Jack’s pick-up, on spread-out tartan blankets: butter melted and ran, Margaret knocked over her cider, Edward and Thomas argued over the last of Sarah’s chocolate brownies, Hilary distanced herself and Joanna from the family group and a couple of young men invited them to the beer tent. James watched, squinting from the sun, and resolved to buy himself a pair of dark glasses.
In the afternoon the roped-off space in the middle of the field was used for sports of all kinds – humans first and then animals. James drifted around on his own, observing. He watched the two boys fall over each other in the children’s three-legged race and Joanna and Hilary go tumbling in the sack race. He watched Jack fumble with the veterans’ egg-and-spoon and Margaret win the women’s tossing the hay bale, planting her feet apart, swinging the long fork up and then flicking it with a grunt to send the bale soaring over the bar.
James was surprised by how content he was, how little he missed being there on the track inside the ropes, running, stretching, gasping. The boy who’d run and yammered had changed into a quiet observer; he’d moved from the centre to the outside; and right now he didn’t seem to mind.
James swayed drifting through the crowded field, his ears filled with ponies’ hooves thundering and their riders’ hard breathing as they veered around the racetrack, his nose filled with the smell of grease and hot metal and burning coal from the traction engines displayed in a corner. But most of all he saw: he forgot his limp and his shyness and became a pair of roving eyes.
‘I am a camera,’ James said to himself, seeking out moments and framing them in his imagination: a line of men pissing behind a screen of canvas; a dark, gypsy-looking man mocking a squat stallholder until they traded blows, the gypsy laughing even as their fists were flailing; three judges tasting sips of someone’s carrot whisky, the competitors eyeing them with the same fearful resentment as the mortals did the gods of Mount Olympus in a film he’d once seen, their entire fates in their hands.
It’s time to take pictures of people, James decided.
They drove home hot and listless, the car smelling of beer and damp, sour clothes. James was squeezed in the back seat between Margaret, dozing, and Hilary staring blankly at passing cars and rushing hedges. Joanna drove, and beside her Sarah cradled in her lap a pile of blue and red and yellow rosettes to add to her collection in the dining-room.
They persuaded Margaret to lie down on the sofa in the kitchen, and while James for once helped the girls with the chores Sarah prepared a barbecue in her back garden. She cooked enough baked potatoes and skewered kebabs for twice as many people, so they all ate more than they needed to, and then sat in the warm dark, gazing at the rising moon, replete and supine. Eventually Sarah started clearing away, refusing all offers of help. Then Margaret stood up and said:
‘Well. That’s the end of another summer. You’ve been good girls, you two. And it’s been nice having you around too, young man.’
Hilary soon followed them off to bed, yawning. James’ and Joanna’s hands reached tentatively into the dark between them. They pulled each other up and went without a word to the hay loft. There they kissed for a long time; when they paused they caressed each other’s faces, necks, his stomach, her breasts.
‘You’re a good kisser, James,’ Joanna told him.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He thought it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. Emboldened, he almost asked her if he was the very best of all the men she’d kissed, but decided not to push his luck. He wanted to compliment her too. Possibilities skipped through his mind: I’m in love with your breasts, Joanna, your flesh is edible, I could become a cannibal, you’re like milk, you make me feel like I’m drowning. None of them sounded right.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he whispered. Joanna took her clothes off and James took off his, releasing his eager erection into the open air, but he knew it was safe this time, his body was restraining itself.
They kissed again, calmly, their hands exploring the strange terrains of the other’s body. Joanna smelled of milk and beer and mushrooms. She opened and took him, and he realized he was drowning, and he collapsed across her, shuddering with relief and happiness as he lost what was left of his virginity.
The next morning James said goodbye to Joanna, before Margaret and Sarah drove her and Hilary home. They kissed and hugged and swapped addresses.
‘I’ll write,’ Joanna told him.
‘I’ll phone,’ he told her, knowing that neither would keep their word.
Instead James telephoned Lewis, to see if he could come and pick him up from the farm. He had too much stuff to carry on the bus, but he also wanted to see Lewis again.
‘I can’t wait to see you, Lew!’ James told him.
‘There’s no need to shout, Jay,’ Lewis said.
‘I’m not shouting!’ James replied.
James took a last walk around the farm, smiling. ‘Time to go back to town,’ he told himself. He breathed the country air deep into his lungs; he felt hollow, and elated.
* * *
Once they got out of the lane and onto the main road Lewis drove his father’s car so much over the speed limit that the chassis shook and the engine moaned and his hands on the steering wheel reverberated like an old drunkard’s.
‘Bloody thing won’t go any faster,’ he apologized. ‘I can’t wait to get my own wheels, Jay.’
That was about all Lewis said for the rest of the journey because he was unable to interrupt his friend, who to his surprise had shed his whispering reticence, and proceeded to regale Lewis with an account of what he’d been doing in an entirely new voice: James hadn’t spoken above a whisper for years, so that Lewis now had the impression that James’ voice had belatedly broken at the age of eighteen.
‘The thing about women, Lew, is that you never really know what they’re thinking. But that’s OK, you see, that’s the whole fun of it, you’ll find out, mate. Anyway, Joanna’s friend, the other girl, was called Hilary. She was probably more your type, I mean she was pretty cool, you know, she wasn’t friendly at all. This one day she was driving the tractor over to the orchard, right, and …’
Lewis hardly took in a word of what James was saying. He wasn’t listening. He was waiting for James to talk about what had happened at home. And gradually it dawned on him that James didn’t know what had happened.
‘How long have you been out here?’ Lewis managed to interject. ‘Has anyone rung you?’
‘No,’ said James, and he resumed his prattle.
Lewis realized that he had to explain, he had to prepare James for what he’d find. James, however, showed no interest in what had been going on in his absence, rambling on instead with the story of how he’d spent his summer which, if Lewis had been listening, would have certainly bored him into falling asleep at the wheel: deprived by his shyness of practice in telling a story, James now included every extraneous detail, failed to exaggerate when necessary, and laughed out loud at the bits that were least funny, deaf, or oblivious, to Lewis’s silence.
When they joined the ring road, Lewis eased his foot off the accelerator pedal to give James time to shut up, to ask how his family were keeping. As they circled the town, however, Lewis had to accept that his nice, troubled childhood playmate had grown up and been transformed by one brief summer into a self-important bore.
‘I took fifteen rolls of film of the pigs, can you believe that? They’re Margaret’s favourite animals, and I wanted to do her a favour. You know what she says? “A cat looks down on you, a dog looks—”’
‘James!’ Lewis interrupted. ‘Listen, James, there’s things I ought to tell you, things have happened while you were away. In your house. In your family.’
‘Save it, Lewis,’ James told him. ‘I want to surprise them. I don’t want to spoil my surprise. Anyway,’ he resumed, ‘I think I’ll come with you to the Cave on Friday. Now I know how to handle myself, see—’
‘James!’ Lewis tried again. ‘Yo
u don’t understand, you dumbo, something’s happened, I ought to tell you.’
‘Has someone died?’
‘No.’
‘So relax, Lew. Don’t worry, man. I don’t want to hear it. It’s just great to see you again. I can’t wait to show you a photograph of Joanna. I mean, I’ve got to print them first, right, then I’ll give you a call.’
At which point Lewis gave up. He drove round the roundabout and off the ring road onto London Road, and cruised slowly along it towards the white house on the hill.
‘Drop me outside, Lew,’ James told him. ‘I want to walk up the drive.’
James pulled his rucksack out of the back seat and set off, jeans and T-shirt and torn jacket flapping around his skinny, limping frame. Lewis watched him go.
I’ve failed you, you dumb prick, Lewis thought to himself. I’m stronger than you, you obstinate idiot, he said in his head. I should have made you listen. He put the car into gear and pulled away.
Don’t ever let that happen again, Lewis chastised himself, little realizing then that the same challenge would one day arise again, nor imagining how much harder it would be.
There was no one outside and all was quiet as James approached the house. His footsteps led him straight round to the back door. As he opened it he understood where he was going: he wanted, most of all, to see Laura.
Something was missing. As well as no sound, there was no smell either, of Edna’s food in the ovens wafting through the back corridor from the kitchen, the enticing smells of pastry and herbs, spices and meat slowly stewing, smells softly sighing: ‘Supper’s nearly ready.’
But James didn’t pause. He went straight to Laura’s room, thinking as he approached it, She probably won’t be here, she’ll probably be with Alice somewhere, upstairs, outside, not here. He knocked on her bedroom door and, without waiting for a reply, turned the handle and stepped inside. Laura was sitting at her small table by the window, staring out, her back to James. His heart ballooned in his chest and into his mouth and he felt glad and anxious.
‘Laura,’ he said in his new voice. ‘Hi. It’s me.’
She turned slowly. James awaited the sight of her almond eyes, her pretty face, her indulgent smile, with two tiny dimples at the top of her cheekbones.
She turned slowly, and as she turned a wave of nausea and disbelief rose through James, draining the blood from his legs and his head all at once, collecting it in his throat. He slumped back as he saw …
She turned slowly. Laura’s face was blue, black, purple; disfigured, misshapen, one eye closed, puffy, the other barely open, just her pupil and a bit of bloodshot white exposed; her cheeks were swollen, and her lips too, and her nose was bent, broken.
James staggered backwards, unable to breathe, and floundered as if through water along the corridor.
He lurched through the kitchen, knocking over a chair and an empty pan that clanged on the tiles.
He stumped up the stairs like a zombie to the third floor and swayed along the corridor to Robert’s room past the old nursery, at the far end. He threw the door open and there Robert sat cross-legged on the floor, a record-player in a hundred pieces on newspaper pages spread around him. James flung himself on his brother, who was taken by surprise and was unable to defend himself. James grasped Robert by the throat with both hands and collapsed astride him, pinning his arms with his knees. Despite his superior strength there was nothing Robert could do, overpowered by James’ fury, as James squeezed his brother’s throat with all his might.
Afterwards, they were too frightened to contemplate what would have happened if Simon hadn’t been in the old nursery with two of his girlfriends: whether James would have strangled his own brother to death. The three of them pulled him off, but it took all of their strength: James was groaning as he throttled Robert, in a state of rage beyond appeal other than that of greater brute force. With Simon wrenching James’ neck they finally prised his arms loose and dragged him backwards, grunting, out of the room, leaving Robert barely conscious, gasping, on the floor.
Next door, James gradually calmed down. Simon dismissed the girls and made him drink a glass of wine.
‘I’ve seen what that fucker did,’ James spluttered.
‘It wasn’t him, James, he didn’t do it,’ Simon told him. ‘Easy, James, take it easy.’ He sat and held his shoulders to soothe him, gave him a tissue to blow his nose.
‘That bastard!’ James cried.
‘He didn’t do it,’ Simon repeated.
‘Of course he did.’
‘No,’ Simon declared. ‘It was Stanley. It was her father, James.’ He paused, poured more wine. ‘Listen, I’d better tell you about it.’
So Simon explained: Laura had got pregnant; she’d told Edna, who’d told Stanley. Stanley had beaten her. Not just because she’d got pregnant, but because of who it was she’d let herself get pregnant by. He’d just blown a fuse, Simon said, ‘Like you just did,’ he added. James listened with his head in his hands, his heart thudding. ‘So who made her pregnant?’ he asked, finally, knowing the answer.
‘Well, Robert, of course,’ Simon told him. ‘Who else?’
She’d had an abortion three days ago. The worst thing about it, though, was Edna: she’d had a heart attack and though she wasn’t in any danger, she was still in hospital.
James stood up. ‘I’m going out,’ he told Simon. As he turned to leave the room Robert appeared in the doorway. He didn’t look at James but addressed Simon:
‘If that crazy cunt ever tries anything like that again,’ he said, ‘I’ll kill him.’
James pushed past him down the stairs and out of the house.
He caught a bus across town, to the cinema. He bought a ticket for a film that was halfway through and crept into the darkness. When the film was over he stumbled out to the foyer and joined the next queue, bought another ticket and watched the same film again. Then he went outside to the back of the line standing in the rain for the late-night film and sat through that one as well. The smell of wet, warm clothes and alcoholic breath lulled him. James was absorbed by the film: it engrossed his mind entirely. At the same time it passed through him, undigested, unremembered, the images and sounds sliding over his eyes and ears like water. In the middle of whatever the film was he fell asleep, and proceeded to dream his recurring dream for the first time in many months.
People were dancing in a white marquee, disco dancing, the music pumping dense and rhythmic and unbelievably loud. Lights – blue red green – flashed and splashed around the crowded tent. People were all dancing differently, doing their own thing, as if they all heard different music. Zoe was hopping, springing from one foot to another; James himself had no sense of rhythm, he knew he was jerking around but he didn’t mind, he was grinning and drenched in sweat; Alice danced with her eyes closed, in a world of her own. Lewis was at the mixing desk. Children kicked balloons. Laura was dancing with her back to James. She was lovely to watch, her hips and shoulders in tune to the music, as if the music were improvised, fitting itself to her movement.
Then the lights changed to a strobe effect, people became isolated, clockwork mannequins. Laura’s white dress was luminously purple. James tried to move around her, to get in front of her, but he couldn’t because she moved in sync with him – as if she had eyes in the back of her head – keeping her back to him always, her face from him. He kept on moving in an arc around her as he danced, and the tent strobed, and she kept moving her face away from him as she danced in violet isolation.
The strobe stopped and the purple light turned red, only James was no longer in the marquee, he was up in his darkroom. In the infrared glow he was staring at a white piece of paper in the developing tray. Gradually grey appeared in or through the white, as if through snow; shapes grew; the image appeared to be struggling to come through, only disconnected parts of it did – a head, an arm, hands, feet; parts of people or a person. Until James realized it was not the image itself but rather his mind that was struggling, t
o make sense of it, and all of a sudden it did make sense: a child, a young girl, was running towards him, and she was wearing a white dress that, all told, took up over half of the frame. He looked at her face: it was both familiar and unfamiliar. Was it Laura? And was she laughing or was that panic in her face? But he couldn’t make up his mind, because the image just carried on developing, fading into black.
James woke up with a jerk as seats around him flipped back: credits were rolling, people were leaving. He sensed he’d been slobbering and wiped his chin. The auditorium emptied; the film finished and the lights came up. The last spectators stirred themselves and left. A breath of silence filled the cinema.
James was immobile. He heard doors swing open, and a voice: ‘We’re closing up now.’ It was cheerful. ‘It’s time to go home.’ The voice was Zoe’s. There was a pause.
‘James!’ The sound of her footsteps and jangling bracelets. ‘James, you devil!’ Her footsteps shuffling between the seats towards him. ‘You’re home, you sly mole, creeping in here without saying hello. What are you thinking of?’
She was standing beside him now, above him. He didn’t look at her. And then her voice, serious: ‘Come with me, James,’ and her hand taking his.
She took him upstairs to her flat above the cinema and ran a deep, hot bath, infused with geranium oil. She came into the bathroom unabashed with an armful of her father Harold’s clothes.
