by Emlyn Rees
‘The trick is to get a good run at it,’ instructs Fred, pointing to the steep bank the other side.
‘It won’t work.’ I laugh. ‘The stepping stones have gone and look how muddy it is.’
‘Stand back, stand back,’ Fred says, handing me the tin. He looks at Joe. ‘I’ve done this a thousand times before. Watch and learn …’
He pretends to spit on his hands before rubbing them together. Joe giggles.
In a second, Fred runs down the bank, into the stream, his foot sinking with a squelch into the mud at the bottom. With a huge effort, he pulls his foot out and heads up the bank, but his momentum has gone and he loses his footing, laughing as he lands spreadeagled on the slope. He slides back down into the stream, as Joe and I fall about with laughter. ‘Very funny,’ says Fred, smiling as he flicks off mud from his fingers. He stands in the stream and looks at us. He’s soaked through and runs his hand over his hair, leaving a large dollop of mud.
With a giant whoopee, Joe makes a run for it, trying to jump over the stream and up the bank the other side, but Fred catches him with a growl, and in a second the two of them have toppled over and are rolling around in the stream chucking water at each other.
I hold the tin against my stomach, laughing as I watch them horsing around. Joe’s soaked, but I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I saw him being so uninhibited and as I watch Fred and him lunging at each other, I look up at the sky through the trees and smell the cool air, hearing nothing but the birds and shouts of delight. I want to hold on to this moment for ever.
When we finally get into my parents’ garden, Joe and Fred are both out of breath. I unlock the door and make them take their shoes off. They both stand on the doorstep looking naughty, shivering pathetically as they clasp their hands in front of them, like extras from Oliver Twist.
‘I’ll get you some dry things,’ I say, smiling. ‘Stay there! Both of you.’
I come back down bearing towels and some old clothes of mine for Joe. ‘These are all I could find for you,’ I tell Fred, holding up a pair of my dad’s old pyjamas and a brown cardigan with leather pads at the elbows. Joe giggles as Fred pulls a face and takes them from me.
‘Serves you right, Fred Roper.’ I laugh. ‘Strip off and I’ll put your clothes in the machine.’
‘What here? Now?’ asks Fred.
‘I’ll turn my back,’ I tease. I catch Joe looking between Fred and me. He’s smiling and I turn to him to cover my embarrassment. ‘And you too. Come on. Get those things off.’
Joe looks bashful and I relent.
‘OK, OK, you big pair of girls.’
I turn away back into the kitchen and leave them to it. But I do look. I watch out of the kitchen window as Fred takes off his T-shirt, feeling my abdomen tense as I see his chest and the way his stomach creases as he bends over. I turn away, biting my lips together as I get some newspaper from the utility room and cover the kitchen table, before placing the tin on it.
Fred and Joe eventually come through the back door.
‘Sexy,’ I tease, looking Fred up and down, as he hands me his clothes. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but actually he does look sexy, even with mud smeared on his face.
‘Come on, Fred, open the tin,’ says Joe, sitting up at the table.
‘You’ll need this.’ I pull open the kitchen drawer and hand Fred a screwdriver.
I pick up Joe’s clothes, walk into the utility room and open the washing machine. I throw them in, then check the washing instructions on the labels on Fred’s clothes, feeling strangely exhilarated as I hold his designer T-shirt for a second. Knowing that I’m out of sight, I pull it to my face, breathing in his scent.
‘Mickey?’ calls Fred.
Flustered, I hurry back to the table.
Fred has already levered the screwdriver under the lid. He looks between Joe and me. ‘OK. One … two –’
‘Go on, go on,’ urges Joe, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
Fred puts his hand on top of the tin, teasing him. ‘I don’t know if I can be bothered,’ he says, puffing out his cheeks.
Joe bangs his hand on the table. ‘Fred!’
Fred slides the tin towards him. ‘You do it.’
He sits back, looking at me, as Joe stands up and pulls up the lid of the tin. It feels exciting watching, as if Joe is our child and he’s opening a Christmas present.
‘Er!’ he exclaims. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, pulling out a soggy packet.
‘Ah.’ Fred sighs, taking the packet from him by its corner. ‘That, Joe, is our space dust.’
I lean forward. ‘What else is in there?’
Joe pulls out two crumpled one-pound notes. ‘What are these?’ He flattens them out on the table.
‘Old pound notes. They were worth a fortune,’ says Fred.
‘We were going to try and buy tickets for the circus.’ I pick one of them up, amazed by the vivid greenness of the paper and how young the queen looks. ‘Do you remember?’
‘What was the name of that magician from the big house on the way to Bowley?’ Fred laughs, clicking his fingers, as he tries to remember.
‘Andy … Andy Buckley!’ he says in unison with me. ‘My God! Do you remember, Mickey?’
Of course I remember. As Joe unloads the tin, pulling out our cards, gun caps, bubble gum, cigarettes, old notes, keys, plastic skips, Fred’s penknife and magnifying glass, and various pilfered miniature bottles of Grant’s whisky and Gordon’s gin, it’s like unloading a time capsule.
The last item out is a pair of sunglasses. I see Fred’s face change as Joe holds them up.
He pulls the stems apart and puts them on. The glasses are far too big and slip down his nose. ‘Whose are these?’ he asks.
‘They belonged to my father,’ Fred says slowly.
Joe, picking up on Fred’s tone, takes them off and hands them over guiltily. ‘Oh,’ he says.
Fred holds the glasses in his hand for a second, looking at the lenses. ‘These were the magic glasses he gave me. To keep the baddies away.’
I glance up at Fred, feeling an overwhelming urge to hug him.
‘What was your dad like?’ asks Joe, but I can tell Fred doesn’t want to answer.
‘Sadly, Fred’s dad died before his time,’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ says Joe, staring at Fred.
Breaking the moment, I look down at the items on the table. ‘Quite a stash, eh?’ I raise my eyebrows at Joe, but he obviously doesn’t agree.
‘Is that it?’ he asks, picking up the empty tin and looking inside.
‘What do you mean, “is that it?”,’ Fred says, resuming his jolly mood. He puts the glasses to one side, then picks up his old penknife and feels the blade with his thumb and forefinger. ‘This is our youth we’re talking about.’
I look at the items spread before us and I can see that Joe has a point. I want to weep for the innocence we had then, the happy times all these things represent. But more than that, I want to weep because I’m seeing Fred being Fred, my Fred, the Fred I used to know.
‘What shall we do with it now?’ asks Joe.
Fred shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You can have this, if you like.’ He gives Joe the penknife.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’d forgotten about it anyway.’ Fred is watching Joe with the knife.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Joe. ‘Just because you’d forgotten about it, it doesn’t stop it belonging to you.’
I smile at Fred and he grins back.
‘I know,’ says Joe suddenly. ‘We should bury more treasure that we can dig up one day.’
And as Joe and Fred discuss the millennium capsule that they buried at Joe’s old school, all I can think is that if I had something to keep safe it would be today.
At Joe’s insistence, with little resistance from either Fred or me, Fred stays for dinner. Between us we cook up a mountain of sausages and mash, and I open a bottle of wine. As darkness falls, I put Fred’s and Joe’s clothes
on the radiator and dig out the candle set I gave Mum last Christmas. Before long the kitchen windows have steamed up and everything is cosy as Fred and I reminisce about our childhood, remembering all our friends from Rushton Primary and reliving our old adventures.
Eventually, Joe starts yawning. I chuckle, reaching out to touch his face. ‘Come on, you. Time for bed.’
‘Do I have to?’ he moans, not wanting to miss out.
‘Yes,’ I insist. ‘Now off you go. I haven’t made up the bed in my old room yet, so go into Grandma’s room. OK?’
Reluctantly, he agrees. He kisses me on the cheek and then stands by Fred’s chair.
Fred punches him playfully on the shoulder. ‘See you, then,’ he says. Joe punches him back and there’s a pause. I can tell he wants to know when he’s going to see Fred again, or whether he’ll be here in the morning. I know what Joe’s like for trying to pin things down and I will him not to say anything. I can’t think about the next five minutes, let alone the next five hours. But then Joe darts forward and kisses Fred on the cheek, before running out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Fred gazes after him and then looks at the table. There’s silence for a moment. After being so intimate and playing happy families all day, I feel nervous. I don’t want to break the spell. Not yet, anyway. ‘Cigarette?’ I ask and Fred nods.
We huddle up together on the back doorstep and it feels like we’re teenagers again. We smoke in silence for ages, contemplating the bright canopy of stars above us.
‘I’ve had such a great day,’ says Fred softly.
‘You were brilliant with Joe,’ I say, meaning it. ‘You know, you’d be a great father –’ I stop myself and fold my arms. That sounded dreadful and there’s an awkward pause. ‘I mean … one day … you and …’ I trail off, stubbing my cigarette out, angry for making such a blunder, not wanting to say her name.
We’re silent for a while and as much as I love talking about the past, the present has to overtake sooner or later. I steel myself to ask the questions I need to ask. Eventually I pluck up the courage to speak. ‘She doesn’t know you’re here, does she? Rebecca, I mean?’ I ask quietly.
Fred exhales and flicks his cigarette down the drain. ‘No.’ He sighs. ‘No, of course she doesn’t. She’s down in Brighton on her hen weekend.’
There’s no apology in his voice and as he turns to face me I know, finally, that this is about me.
‘I had to come,’ he says and I nod.
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘I thought it would be scary being here, but there are so many happy memories.’ Fred sighs deeply and looks up at the sky. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. ‘I remember what it was like to spy on you from my bedroom window.’
‘I used to spy on you. It was the other way round.’
‘No, actually.’ He chuckles. ‘I caught you undressing once.’
‘Oh, that. I know.’ I grin back smugly.
Fred shifts on the doorstep to face me. ‘You know?’
‘Christmas nineteen eighty-four. The night before the disco at the Memorial Hall. I did it on purpose … actually.’
Fred looks shocked for a moment, then puts his head back and roars with laughter. ‘Oh, Mickey,’ he says eventually and sighs. ‘We were going to go on holiday, weren’t we?’
‘There were lots of things we nearly did …’
My sentence hangs between us in the night air. I’ve brought up our past, right up to now, this moment, and Fred knows it. It could be for a second or a year that we stare at each other. However long it is, it’s enough time to know that whatever we started all those years ago isn’t finished. Not by a long way.
The world seems to go silent and it’s as if I’m melting into Fred’s gaze. Without even knowing it, I’m leaning in towards him.
At the last moment I panic, quickly jerking back and breaking eye contact. Startled, I look down into my lap, fiddling with the edge of my cardigan. What am I doing? What am I –
I don’t have time to think any more. In a split second Fred grasps me hard behind my neck and pulls me towards him. I don’t even have time to see his face before our lips crash together in a kiss so out of control that it’s almost violent.
Gasping for breath, I grab his face, our mouths clashing with insatiable hunger, our bodies pressed together so tightly it’s as if they’re magnetised. I can feel my blood rushing through me, my heart pounding with exquisite relief. It feels as though I’ve been let out of captivity and I’m being me again for the first time in years. Fred pushes out my hairband and runs his fingers through my hair, setting it free. I slide my hands up inside his pyjama top, feeling the bare skin of his back, wanting him so much it’s hurting. It’s only then that I realise I’m shaking uncontrollably.
Fred pulls away and cups my cheeks in his hands. He leans his forehead against mine. ‘Are you cold?’ he whispers.
‘No.’ I giggle. ‘Just –’
But I can’t say what it is, or describe the excitement I’m feeling and Fred doesn’t need an answer. He finds my lips again, locking his to mine as he pulls me up, holding me tight as we push through the back door and stumble towards the table. Still kissing me, he lays me down and I pull him on top of me. I grab his hair as we cling to each other and it’s as if there’s only us in the whole universe. I pull up my legs, sliding them up his body as we grind against each other and I’m gasping, kissing him deeply, and all I can think about is that I’ve been storing this up for nearly half my life and it feels like such a huge relief. As I feel his hands slide against my skin, I want him, more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone.
It’s the stairs that give Joe away. Knowing the anatomy of this house like my own body, I hear the middle stair creak and the sound hits me like a bullet. I push Fred away, gulping for air and smoothing down my shirt. ‘Joe?’ I squeak, eyeballing Fred, who blushes, staggering backwards into the chair.
I rush out to the hall and intercept Joe on the bottom stair. I can’t meet his inquisitive stare.
‘Can I have a glass of water?’ he asks.
‘Of course you can,’ I say, suddenly wanting to cry, as reality punches me in the face. ‘I’ll bring it up, OK?’
I shake my head, telling Fred not to speak as I go to the sink and fill up a glass. Like a zombie, I walk upstairs.
Joe’s sitting up in my parents’ bed. I hand the water to him. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘Mum?’ he says, as I’m halfway to the door. ‘Is Fred staying?’
I turn stiffly. ‘I don’t know, darling.’ I feel the wave of passion I felt only moments ago crash and trickle away as I look at his face. ‘I don’t think so.’
Back in the kitchen, Fred’s collected our wineglasses from outside and is filling them up. He looks ridiculous, trying to maintain his dignity in a pair of pyjamas. He hands me my glass. ‘I’m sorry. Christ, Mickey –’
He steps towards me, but I put my hand on his chest. ‘I can’t do this, Fred,’ I say, willing myself not to cry. ‘I want to, but I can’t. I can’t be …’
‘Be what?’ he asks, holding my shoulder.
‘I can’t be some … I don’t know …’ I say shakily, looking at the kitchen floor. ‘You’re getting married next week.’
Fred moves away. ‘I didn’t mean it like that –’
‘Today has just been a nostalgia trip and we got carried away.’ My voice is firm. ‘It’s probably the wine.’ I try to laugh, before taking a glug from the wineglass, but it doesn’t help my bravado. When I look up at Fred, I feel tears stinging the inside of my nose.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he says. ‘You know it’s more than that. I –’
And I don’t know where it comes from, what happens next, because I know that Fred is about to say the words I’ve been desperate to hear. And although inside me there’s a sixteen-year-old girl wanting this romantic moment with every fibre of her being, there’s me here and now, filled with another lifetime of experience. Too much has happened and too
much is at stake. I hold up my hand. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
Fred’s eyebrows knit together. ‘But … but don’t you –’
‘Of course I do.’ I choke. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that we’re not sixteen any more. We hardly know each other now.’
‘But Mickey –’ he begins, but I shake my head desperately.
‘Even if we did see this through, I can’t tell you that just because we’ve met again we’re going to have a happy ending and rush off into the sunset. It would mean starting from scratch and seeing how it goes. Rebecca’s a beautiful girl and she loves you. I can’t tell you to throw away your marriage for something that might not work. I’ve got a family now. There’s Joe … there’s everything.’
I slump down on to a chair, fighting my tears.
‘Can’t we? … I don’t know.’ Fred exhales. He sits down opposite me and shakes his head, reaching out to me across the table with both hands, but I can’t touch him.
‘It’s hopeless. It won’t work … us seeing each other again.’ I swallow hard. I look up at Fred, my eyes brimming with tears. ‘What we had once was real. Let’s not spoil that.’
I was in love. I was more in love than anyone had ever been. But I wasn’t going to tell anyone before I’d told Fred. In the meantime it was the biggest, best, most fabulous secret in the world. A secret that was obviously driving my friends crazy and, as I looked around the expectant faces of Pippa, Lisa and Annabel, sitting in our booth in the new McDonald’s opposite Bowley bus station, I felt infinitely, fantastically superior.
‘So are you, Mickey?’ Lisa repeated.
I shrugged smugly, putting my folders back into my school bag. Every one had been turned into a reminder of Fred. Fr4MM was my favourite so far. It adorned my Geography folder, the letters formed out of a loopy daisy-chain doodle. On the front of my French book, J’AIME FR, this time in pencil with a three-dimensional arrow around it. I’d only gone the whole hog on the inside of my English notebook where it said, in capitals, I LOVE FRED ROPER – a fact that had not escaped Pippa.
‘She is,’ said Pippa. ‘Look at her English book.’
