by Neil Cross
When Kenny was eight years old, his teacher sat him and Callie Barton together on a field trip to Glastonbury. The other kids laughed at Callie for being Happy Drummond’s boyfriend and having to hold his hand when they crossed the road.
But from that day, Callie Barton was Kenny’s best friend.
She didn’t speak to him very often and never played with him at lunchtime; mostly, she played elastics with Judith and Isabel and Alison.
But she’d look at him sometimes, across the desks. And when Kenny looked back she’d smile, sweetly and secretly.
*
In the school year that began September 1979, Kenny was nearly ten.
He entered Room 5 to discover their new teacher, Miss Pippenger, had her own way of arranging a classroom.
Near the back, under the big windows, she had positioned three desks, making a kind of square. Around this square would sit six of the cleverest kids. It was because they could be relied on to work quietly; the noisy kids would be kept at front.
Miss Pippenger sat Kenny Drummond and Callie Barton next to each other – so close, Kenny could smell the Vosene in her hair.
They didn’t really speak, but sometimes from the corner of his eye Kenny spied her skinny white wrist with its delicate blue veins, and her skinny right hand with its pointy little knuckles, clasped round an HB pencil, chewed at the top. She’d be writing her name at the top of the page, or the date. Writing words, numbers. Sometimes there would be flowers in the margins; sea-horses, ponies, arcs of glitter, rainbows.
At the end of the fourth week, Callie Barton got stuck on a piece of long division: 435 ÷ 25.
Kenny became aware of her anxious stillness, the pressure of the unmoving Staedtler pencil making a dint in the page of her exercise book.
Kenny took a deep breath, gathering the courage he knew was inside him, and leaned in close. They were almost ear to ear. Without speaking, he pushed his exercise book near enough for her to copy. He could hear her breathing as she concentrated.
She whispered: ‘Thank you.’
Then she hooked her ankle round his.
Kenny peeped sideways. She was concentrating on her exercise book as if nothing was different.
After lunch, she sat down and hooked her ankle round his again.
She didn’t say a word or look at him. Kenny had never been so happy.
On Valentine’s day, Callie Barton received four cards. She giggled and huddled with her friends.
Kenny had made her a card. He’d painted sunflowers and roses in a green vase and composed a six-line poem. But he never sent the card; it was still under his bed.
When Izzy made a joke about one of Callie’s cards being from stinky old Happy Drummond, Callie said: ‘Just shut up and leave him alone.’
They teased her for it, for being nice about Happy Drummond, for being in love with him, for wanting to marry him - and for weeks their derision compelled her to pass over Kenny as if he wasn’t there.
But even that didn’t stop her secretly crossing ankles with him under the desk, glancing at him sometimes through the corner of her eye, sharing her spelling workbook.
Miss Pippenger would also be their teacher in the final year of junior school. Kenny had the summer holidays of 1980 to reflect on the time he had left at Callie Barton’s side.
Time was a dirty river, it carried things away. Next year, he and Callie Barton would no longer be big kids in a little school; they’d be little kids in a big school; wearing navy-blue blazers with badges on the breast pocket.
Kenny was attuned to the nature of endings. Childhood was a permanent ache of nostalgia, of perpetual loss and transformation.
He’d learned to sip at moments like they were Ribena, to savour them.
On the first morning of the new term, he walked to school with his scuffed satchel on his back. He walked slowly – knowing this was the last morning of its kind there would ever be.
He passed through the school gates and saw the same faces, all of them subtly altered - different haircuts, different clothes. Some kids had grown up or out; their feet had swollen and elongated; their hands had widened, their necks were long and gangling. Some had longer hair, some had cut it short; some wore new trainers, Puma and Adidas, or they wore new button badges on their Harringtons: The Jam, Madness, the Selecter.
Callie Barton wasn’t in the playground.
Callie wasn’t there when the bell went, and Callie wasn’t there when Kenny filed inside the waxy, feet-smelling school building.
And Callie wasn’t sitting at their shared desk; Gary Bishop had been moved up there instead. He’d got some new glasses over the holidays, and short hair that wasn’t quite a crew cut.
Seeing Gary Bishop in Callie Barton’s chair made Kenny want to vomit, but he said nothing, set down his satchel, said hello and stared at Miss Pippenger.
He didn’t know Miss Pippenger was calling the register until she’d spoken his name for a third time – Kenneth Drummond? – and the class, those familiar faces changing shape all around him, began to laugh.
Kenny’s heart was laid waste. He found consolation only in the stories by which Aled had educated him – stories that took place in enchanted castles east of the sun and west of the moon; tales of Grail
Knights, farm-boy heroes who were brave and pure, lost princesses who slept an enchanted sleep for a hundred years, until a chaste kiss awoke them.
They were stories of imprisonment and transformation – of men into beasts and beasts into men. All that remained constant was youth and beauty and love.
Because of these stories – and because of Aled’s noble, shattered heart – Kenny knew about love. Love turned farm boys into kings; love conquered ogres and dragons.
Stored in his heart like a seed, it could only send out roots and grow old and strong. But to speak it would break the spell, crack the glass, see it wither and die.
Kenny’s love for Callie Barton was to him the most solemn and sacred of all things. And so he never spoke of it. But he thought of her often – this little girl who showed him compassion, then silently withdrew from his world.
Kenny looked at the class photograph for a long time. Then he slipped it back into the envelope and returned it to the empty portfolio drawer.
He went to his laptop and, with a fluttering stomach and a dryness in his mouth, searched on Friends Reunited and Facebook and everywhere else he could think of, looking for a mention of Callie Barton.
He searched and searched. But she wasn’t there.
8
It almost sounded like Pat Maxwell had been expecting Kenny to call; she knew it was him at once. ‘Well, hello there, Rembrandt.’
Hearing her fag-raddled voice, Kenny was struck by vivid nostalgia. He asked if he could pop round and see her.
She told him she’d moved years ago, not long after retiring.
Time. It just went.
Now Kenny was standing outside a mobile home – a big doublewidth caravan on Worlebury Hill, overlooking Weston-super-Mare.
It was an old holiday let – a little dilapidated; the colour of clotted cream, with coffee-coloured trim - that stood permanently moored on a grassy flat, hedged in by rowan and crab apple. It had a good view of Weston – the long, empty crescent of muddy beach.
He stood on the step, unsure of mobile home etiquette, until Pat tugged the door open.
Kenny was disconcerted to see she’d become an old woman in gardening clothes and a cardigan that drooped at her hips like a dewlap.
Her stern haircut was blunt across the brow, streaked with white. But still, that copper’s scowl.
She said, ‘Come in. I’ll do us a brew’, and he followed her. Inside, it was orange and caramel. There was a portable TV, a litter tray, not much else. It smelled of gas and cats.
Pat stood in the kitchenette and made them a cup of milky tea, pale as a winter dawn. Cats curled tight to her ankles and calves, and then to Kenny’s.
He said, ‘So how’ve you been?’
>
‘Oh, y’know. Life of Riley.’
He saw in her face that she was happy here but embarrassed to admit it. People sometimes didn’t like to admit to being happy because what made them happy wasn’t grandeur and passion; it wasn’t love and sex and money, but simple things that others might not understand – a small garden, a ready supply of cigarettes, a cup of good tea, model trains in the attic, afternoon trips to empty cinemas.
Kenny said, ‘So, what’ve you been up to?’
‘What do you think? I sit round on my arse all day. Bit of weeding, read the papers. Crafty fag. If that’s all right.’
He knew not to blink as she assessed his response. He and Pat had the same skills, the same talent for faces. Right now she was reading him, weighing his intentions.
She said: ‘So how’s the painting?’
‘It’s a living.’
‘It’s a gift from God. You look after it. I heard your Mary got married again.’
‘She’s happy.’
‘For the best, then.’
‘For the best.’
Sipping tea, he followed her outside. They stood on the long grass, insulated by the hedges from the hillside road.
Pat said: ‘So what do you want?’
‘To find someone.’
‘Don’t we all.’
He let that hang in the air until she said: ‘Find who?’
‘A girl. From my school. My junior school.’
‘Because . . .?’
‘She was nice to me. When I was a kid. She was the only one that was. I want to tell her – well, that I never forgot.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you do something kind, you should know that it mattered.’
‘Then look on the whatsit, internet. Google her. That’s what they all do.’
‘I tried that.’
‘Well, it’s easy enough to find someone that’s not trying to hide. You got details?’
‘I know the street she lived on. Her surname. Year of birth. Stuff like that.’
‘Then you could do it yourself. Give me a pen. I’ll write down what to do.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Then hire someone. I can give you a name. Get you a rate.’
‘I’d really like you to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s private.’
He held her gaze.
‘She’ll be married,’ said Pat. ‘Or divorced. She’ll have kids. She’ll be dyeing her hair because she’s going grey. She’ll have varicose veins and her tits will be round her ankles. Whoever she is, she’s not that little girl any more. She’s what that little girl turned into.’ Her face relaxed and she said, ‘When I was ten, I studied ballet.’
She gestured at her body – potato shaped, thick-ankled. Kenny grinned politely.
She told him: ‘I can’t find that girl for you. She’s gone.’
‘I know that.’
‘Then what’s the point? You’re young. Things like this, dreams of dead days, it’s an old man’s game. Leave it be.’
‘I’m dying.’
In the silence that followed, she searched his face. At length, she sighed. ‘Cancer, is it?’
‘In the brain.’
‘How long they give you?’
‘A few weeks.’
She was the first person he’d told. It had sounded strange, coming out of his mouth – but it hadn’t sounded momentous, either, or even that important.
‘Well, it’s a shame. You’re a very nice man.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And it’ll be my pleasure to help you.’
He fumbled and blushed. ‘How much do you think . . .?’
‘Just give me a painting. One of your favourites – a nice landscape or something. A sunset. Something to hang on my wall. Who knows, it might be worth something – when you’re gone.’
They laughed.
She took his phone number, his street address, his email address. Then she wrote down all the details he had to give her.
As Kenny walked back to the car, he could feel her in the doorway, watching him, cats coiling round her ankles.
He felt good, as if he had finally embarked on a long journey.
9
The next day, Pat drove to Bristol and met Paul Sugar in a café off the Gloucester Road.
She’d known Paul since he was fresh out of Hendon Police College. In those days, he’d looked like Nazi propaganda – broad shouldered, blue-eyed, blond haired.
As a police officer, Paul never came across a backhander that wasn’t worth pocketing or a blow job that wasn’t worth having. He’d lasted five years and was fortunate, in the end, to avoid prison.
Now he was forty-four, a mastiff of a man. The same bright blue eyes lost in a grossly wattled face; his little remaining blond hair cropped and baby-soft. His shoulders were not just broad but huge. He wore a three-button suit and an open-necked shirt; his heavy belly strained against it.
As he moved his hands with considered delicacy, opening sachets of sugar, pouring them into his coffee, Pat could hear the gentle wheeze of his breathing.
Paul was a private detective, marital and corporate work mostly.
Pat said, ‘It’s a day’s work, tops.’
Paul licked crumbs from his fingers: ‘You’ve got name, DOB, last known address?’
She gave him the piece of paper.
Paul scanned it. ‘To you, that’ll be seven hundred.’
‘I didn’t ask for a vial of George Clooney’s semen. This is kids’ stuff.’
‘Then do it yourself.’
‘I’m too tired. My knees hurt. There’s gardening to do and Countdown to watch. All you have to do is find this woman, tell me where she lives, who she married. Get a trainee to do it.’
‘The trainee left. Call it five hundred, cash.’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Two-fifty.’
‘Fine. Two-fifty.’
‘Payment up front.’
‘Up my arse. Two hundred and fifty quid when you deliver.’
She left Paul to his latte and drove up Stapleton Road. She parked, then walked to Hartledge & Kassel.
These days, an ugly metal grille was fixed to the windows and on display were beige Dell computers and inline skates and stereos and wristwatches – but it was the same old pawn broker and the bell still tinkled when Pat went inside.
She didn’t recognize the balding young man behind the glass counter, so she said, ‘Hello. Are you a Hartledge or a Kassel?’
He looked up from his newspaper, blinking. ‘A Kassel, for my sins. Dave.’
Having decided Pat was neither a gangster nor from the Inland Revenue, Dave Kassel extended a hand. Pat shook it, saying: ‘I knew your Dad. Harry.’
‘Harry was my granddad.’
‘Was he really?’
She tutted. Then she began to pat down her pockets. ‘I used to be a copper. I’d come in here when I was a nipper in uniform. Your dad – your granddad – he always had the kettle on. Lovely old chap.’
‘He helped a bit, did he? With your inquiries and that?’
‘He shared a bit of tittle-tattle now and again. Small-talk, over a cuppa.’
They shared a complicit look.
‘Different days,’ said Pat. ‘Dead days, long gone.’
From her pocket she removed a thin gold ring. She’d been twentyone when her Aunt Ettie left it to her. But in the end, it was only a thing – and really, who had use for things?
She held it up so the cider-coloured sun glinted from it. ‘How much for this, then?’
Dave Kassel examined it with quick fingers and a skilled eye.
Pat said: ‘Don’t piss me around now. I need two hundred and fifty quid. The ring’s Victorian. If it ends up going to auction, God forbid, you’ll get twice that.’
Dave Kassel hesitated. Then he laid aside the loupe that had been halfway to his
eye; a nice bit of theatre.
He gave Pat a stiff, almost clerical bow. ‘Two fifty it is.’ He went rummaging for the receipt book.
‘Actually,’ Pat said, ‘make it two seventy-five.’
She might as well treat herself to fish and chips on the way home, perhaps a nice bottle of something.
She’d sit on the step, the cats around her. She’d watch the sun go down and she’d raise a glass to long lost, dizzy-in-love, never forgotten Auntie Ettie, wherever she might be.
10
Stever believed that everyone should be allowed one perfect summer. His had been the summer of 1989, the year he and Kenny began faking crop circles.
The designs were simple at first. Giggling and shushing each other in the darkness, they flattened the grain clockwise using a plank and a nylon tow-rope that had been secured to the ground with a tent peg.
They’d drink cider, smoke a few spliffs and almost piss themselves laughing. They’d watch the sunrise, then catch an hour’s sleep in the back of Kenny’s Combi.
It was also the summer that Kenny met Mary – which meant it was the summer Stever met Mary, too. He was smitten more or less at first sight, spellbound by her Louise Brooks haircut, her pale skin, her green eyes, her Marlboro Reds and Chuck Taylors.
Soon, she was conspiring with them to compose ever more elaborate crop circle designs – petal formations, interlocking Koch fractals, the Eye of Horus.
That summer – and for more than one summer after that – it seemed to Stever that every song ever written had been written about her.
That had been the year they all turned twenty. Which is what Stever was thinking about when he fired up Google Mail and wrote:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: WHERE’S EE TO THEN?
Kenny My Babber
