The Summer of Secrets (25 page)

She turned to see Pippa, tears running down her cheeks.

‘They trod all over my flowers.’ Pippa held them up, wet from the wine, and torn out of shape.

‘Never mind.’ Helen gave her a hug, glad of the distraction. ‘Shall we go and see what’s happening with the food?’

Pippa nodded. They set off towards the gate in time to see a swirl of colour appear around the side of the cottage. It was Alice, wrapped in a glittering, embroidered kaftan. She ran down the path, stopping halfway to spin in slow motion. It didn’t seem to be for admiration. She was absorbed in her dance, her eyes following the swoop of the robe. Helen and Pippa stopped to watch her as she paused, both hands lifted up, and then gathered her hair up from her face, shaking it down behind her shoulders. She took no notice of them. Her attention was directed only at Piet as she drifted down towards the boat.

‘Am I too late? Have I missed all the fun?’

Helen sat with her back against the garden wall, watching the spiral of smoke from the bonfire as it coiled up into the air. The moment of the bottle breaking and the cheers and excitement felt distant, far longer than a couple of hours. The sky wasn’t quite dark, but lemon-yellow was spreading up into a pale-blue which, by the time it reached the eastern half, became a clear sapphire. There was one star, a faint, steady glimmer at the top of the treeline. She fixed her eyes on it, letting the figures grouped around the fire blur away into her peripheral vision. The canal felt distant as well, kept away by the bulk of the cottages. She thought of the boat, bobbing in solitary abandonment as they celebrated back here. Though celebrating wasn’t really the right word. The party, so long anticipated and promising so much, had turned into an flat anti-climax. Victoria had vanished straight after the launch, presumably with Moira, and Helen was pretty sure nobody cared whether she herself was there or not. The star wavered, and she dug the heels of her hands into the ground, concentrating on the sharpness of the stones as they pressed into her skin. She heard the sound of the back door opening, then approaching footsteps. but she kept her eyes fixed on the point of light in the sky until the very last minute.

‘You’re very contemplative.’ Seth was standing over her, holding a glass in each hand. ‘I thought you might like one of these.’

He held one of the glasses out to her, then lowered himself down as well.

‘Cheers.’ He held his glass out to her. ‘Here’s to the rest of time.’

Helen touched her glass to his, and took a sip.

‘Mmm, that’s lovely.’ The first taste was sour, but it left a trail of burning sweetness down through her throat and chest. ‘What is it?’

‘That would be telling.’ He leaned a closer. ‘I call it the Jazz.’ His voice lowered and he started to sing, ‘Take a spot, cool and hot …’ He drank from his glass, leaned his head back, and half closed his eyes. Helen realized he was not quite sober. She took a swallow of her own drink. Their arms were almost touching.

‘So, Helen, with the face full of secrets, what are you thinking about?’ He gazed into her eyes for a second, before letting his head roll back to centre again. ‘Hey, hey, Helen, what’s the matter with you?’ He crooned the snatch of song in a low voice, playing the tune on an imaginary guitar. ‘Hey, hey, Helen, don’t you know what to do?’

His face was so beautiful. She wanted to lean closer and kiss him. Maybe she should tell him that. She took another mouthful of her drink.

‘I was thinking about the stars.’ She waved upwards. ‘They might all have exploded already. We think we can see them when it’s nothing but the light they left behind.’

‘Better wish on one then, before it’s gone. More than one.’ She felt Seth’s hair touching her face. ‘What would you wish for? Where do you want to go?’

The stars seemed to be pulsing and, for a second, it felt as if her blood was pulsing in time. The world felt as big as the sky, and she saw herself flying through it.

‘Everywhere!’ She laughed, her hand brushing the side of his leg. ‘As long as it isn’t here.’

‘Getting away, huh?’ He was silent for a long moment, as if that was all he had to say. ‘Getting away.’ He hummed a couple of bars, a tune she recognized but couldn’t place. ‘However far you travel, it’s only ever you that goes along.’

And then he was leaning down, his breath stirring the hairs by her ear, his mouth brushing against her cheek as she turned in response. It was more awkward than she expected, the roughness of his skin catching her, their noses bumping, his teeth hard against her tongue. And it was over so fast.

At the edge of her vision, the bonfire caught a fresh piece of wood, and a flame shot up, its brightness making the rest of the garden seem dark. Seth lifted his head.

‘We seem to have empty glasses.’

She couldn’t collect herself enough to say anything back. He smiled down, and raised his hand as if he was about to run it down her arm. She was gazing at him with her mouth half open when he stood up. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said.

She lost track of the time as she waited, listening as the low acoustic swell drifted across from the speaker, sending her into a dream. Flames from the fire leapt out, forked ribbons detaching themselves in glorious, momentary separation from the glowing centre, before they were sucked back into the heat. She held her glass by the rim between finger and thumb, letting it swing beneath her hand. There was a change, something missing, but it was a while before she realized that the music had stopped and the only sound was the hiss of the needle at the end of the disc. Seth had been gone for a long time. A dark shape came around the edge of the fire, and her heartbeat accelerated, but it was only Piet. He disappeared around the corner of the house, and a second later another record started to play.

‘Helen, what are you doing all by yourself?’ Piet was back on the path, one hand up against the wall, a mazy smile on his face. ‘Come and join us.’

He held out his hand to pull her up, and the movement made her head spin. Piet was laughing, and she joined in: it was funny to be standing up, why hadn’t she noticed before? Piet’s hand was large, folding itself right around her fingers. She could feel his calloused skin rubbing the underside of her fingers. For a second she was leaning against him, feeling his chest rise and fall, then he led her across to the fire

Her dad was there, sitting on a chair with a bottle of beer resting between his knees. He seemed to be asleep. Alice reclined on a pile of cushions, the embroidery on her kaftan shimmering in the firelight.

‘Sit down, sit down.’ Piet pushed her down towards the cushions; it was further than she thought and she fell against Alice as she landed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ The fire was brighter on this side, and the cushions were soft. She closed her eyes, but it made her head spin. When she opened them, Alice was replying.

‘S’all right, don’t you worry.’ Alice didn’t seem to be talking to her; her head was tipped back, and she was staring at the flames. She made a noise in her throat as if her voice was stuck. She coughed and tried again, and Helen realized she was humming along with the music, her voice hoarse and slightly off-key. She stopped, and turned to Helen, holding out her cigarette. With one eye on her dad, Helen took it. It was like the one she’d had by the canal with Victoria, except now she knew that the sweet, thick smell was marijuana, and it felt like a coming of age to be sitting here as a member of the group. She drew in, and the smoke coiled up through her head and down her spine, and the flames jumping up from the fire seemed to swell and then contract. The guitar sound rose up, as if it was taking off with the line of orange sparks, and voices pushed together in aching harmony, reaching their climax and spreading out with the heat before running down in a cascade of notes. She had heard Seth practising that very sequence, over and over, never quite managing it.

Where was Seth, anyway? With an effort, she lifted her head to look around. Piet was standing by the fire, his long legs outlined by the glow. Further round, the twins were squatting with their heads together, whispering some top-secret plan. Then Will grabbed a stick from the edge of the fire and waved it over his head, leaving a trail like a bonfire night sparkler. Pippa squealed and ran as he swooped it towards her, and they both disappeared into the darkness. Her father gave a snort and lifted his head as if wondering where he was, before lifting his beer to his mouth.

Alice reached across and took the cigarette from Helen’s fingers. A voice was saying something, but Helen couldn’t place where it was coming from so she swatted it away.

‘Come here.’ Victoria was right behind her, holding a bottle in one hand and beckoning with the other. ‘Come and see.’

It was complicated, trying to stand up; the cushions seemed to be under her feet whichever way she tried to go. Victoria grabbed at her arm, and Helen felt her head start to balance. She blinked, trying to focus on Victoria’s face.

‘Where have you been?’ The afternoon felt like another lifetime, and that was so sad, so incredibly sad. ‘You’ve been gone for ages.’

‘I’ve been talking to Moira.’ Victoria held the bottle in her hand towards Helen. ‘Do you want some?’ She didn’t seem steady on her feet, either.

Helen took a swallow, the alcohol hitting the back of her throat and doubling her over in a fit of coughing.

‘No, no, quiet!’ Victoria was making exaggerated shushing gestures with her hands and trying not to laugh. ‘You’ve got to be quiet,’ she added, in a loud whisper.

She took hold of Helen’s arm again, pulling her down towards the bottom of the garden.

‘I was talking to Moira, and we ran out of vodka.’ She was still whispering, the words interspersed with giggles. ‘So I went and got this,’ she waved the bottle, ‘and when I got back …’ She stopped, pushing Helen forward. They were at the clump of overgrown blackcurrant bushes that straggled across the corner, hiding the concrete footings of the old shed. It seemed like years since she’d been there with Victoria, talking about petrol bombs. The idea of the petrol bombs reminded her of something, something she was supposed to do. But Victoria was shaking her arm, distracting her. There was something on the ground. She put a hand out to hold on to Victoria, because her head was feeling light and she needed to balance before she could focus. The moon was flat and dead after the flickering red of the fire, but it was enough light to see by. It was what she was trying to see that didn’t make any sense.

The first thing she recognized for certain was a leg. She gazed at it. Why was it there? A joke, of course. Victoria had set it up to freak her out. Helen slumped in relief. Then leg slid away, and she felt her mouth open in shock. Something clamped itself over her mouth, blocking off the sound. She fought it, trying to get away. It was going to drag her down there, pull off her legs, her arms, and throw them on the ground. Victoria’s voice wavered by her ear, but it was competing with the thump of blood as she struggled to breathe.

‘Sshh! Don’t let them know we’re here. Where’s a camera when you need one?’

What did she mean? Helen felt reaction shiver down her spine at the very same moment that the scene in front of her swam into order. There was the leg, yes, but also arms and hair and a spine curving up as the bodies tumbled over and one half detached itself in a triumphant arch. It was Seth and Moira, entwined and grappling, their clothes scattered all around.

The café is crowded now, complimentary wine on offer at the counter. The smell of something spicy reminds me I haven’t had anything to eat today, but at the same time my stomach tells me it wants no food. I don’t think I can do this. I make for the door, but at the moment I reach it there’s a coordinated surge towards the stairs. It’s easier to go along than fight.

Those of us on the upward path squeeze to one side and come to a halt as a chattering group make their way down. The man in front of me lets his hand rest on his companion’s tightly skirted behind. They are discussing Derrida and his influence on modern art, and are in no hurry. There’s a wound-up spring in my abdomen, and coloured lights are playing at the edge of my vision. The smell of the clashing fragrances from so many warm bodies is making me feel nauseous. I pinch hard at the skin on my thigh and the feeling retreats as I step on to the landing and walk past the vanishing children and the door which leads in to the chair.

The next room has a series of photographs arranged along one wall. They are mounted in identical frames. There is a shot of a head in each, manipulated to be of an identical size, but the prints themselves vary wildly in colour and tone and age. There’s no way Victoria could have taken them all, because the first two at least must be from a time well before Victoria was behind a camera. The card at the side confirms this.

Not many photographs of my mother remained from my childhood. Of those that did, I was struck by those taken from recurring angles, and I began to consciously replicate those poses.

They are all of Alice, and frame her head and shoulders. In the first, we can see her face. She is young and ecstatically gorgeous, with perfect skin, her hair curving around the fingers that are cupping the back of her head. She is looking over her shoulder, laughing, alive in a way that I never saw. I think of Alice the muse, captivating her artist, the Alice from the oil painting above the sofa. I try to remember seeing Victoria with a camera, but it’s not, I realize, something I have ever associated with her. Why has this not struck me before?

The next four shots show the back of her head. In each, the head is captured at the same angle. I walk along, trying to spot the moment that Victoria became the person behind the camera. The hair loses its glowing young shine, the length goes up and down, becoming coarser, changing colour. I know with a jolt that the second one is of the Alice I knew. The recognition is deep and immediate. She’s wearing her embroidered kaftan and looking out across a landscape I would surely know if the edges of the frame extended a fraction further. It gives me a sense of dislocation, standing here and seeing this image as a random spectator, knowing I might have been there when it was taken, may even be there, in the unseen edges of the subject’s view.