The Shell House Page 5

  ‘Oh, you’re so uncool! Lorrie’s mum let her do it! It’s my body, isn’t it? I’m not asking for you to pay for me to get it done! Why do I have to be the only one with parents who treat me like I’m six years old?’

  ‘You are not going to mutilate yourself,’ said their father. ‘You’re too young, and besides it looks tarty.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t! What do you know?’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Greg said. He went to the fridge for a Coke.

  She turned on him. ‘Who asked you, gimpfeatures?’

  ‘Katy, for goodness’ sake!’ Their mother was boxing up a cake, tying it with shiny ribbon and running the blade of her scissors down the ribbon-ends to make them spring into curls. ‘If you can’t speak nicely to anyone, go to bed! And try to wake up in a better mood tomorrow. I think we’ve exhausted the subject. We’ve said no and that’s it.’

  Katy started banging about in the cupboard. She reached for a packet of biscuits, took one out and ate it, scattering crumbs. ‘Why aren’t there any chocolate digestives left? I bet Greg the Gannet’s scoffed the lot. Anyway, you’ve got pierced ears, Mum, so how can you talk?’

  ‘Tell you what, Katy, why don’t you get your lips stapled together?’ Greg suggested pleasantly.

  Katy flounced out. ‘I’m going to phone Lorrie. I need to talk to someone intelligent.’

  Their mother put the cake-box to one side and took the wire tray to the sink. ‘Oh, dear. Teenagers!’ She looked at her husband. ‘What did we do to produce such a monster of ingratitude?’

  ‘It’s just a phase,’ said Greg’s dad, flicking through the local free paper.

  ‘Lucky you’ve got me,’ Greg remarked. ‘Always charming, witty and sociable.’

  ‘You had your moments,’ said his mum. ‘Still do, sometimes. How about making us all some coffee, love?’

  Greg filled the kettle, thinking about Jordan’s sister. What if it had been Katy rushed to hospital? Right now, he’d most likely think bloody good job — she was such a pain. But she was still his sister, and he’d have to forgive her for being as obnoxious as she liked if she had something awful like kidney failure. The threat of serious illness hanging over his family was hard to imagine—they were never ill, any of them, apart from ordinary coughs and colds. Really, when you thought of all the things that could go wrong, it was amazing that most people’s bodies were in perfect working order. He saw Jordan’s sister as a pale, sickly creature in St Ursula’s uniform (unsettling, as he thought of St Ursula’s as a posh school for daughters of the wealthy); then he pictured Jordan powering through the water, his shoulders gleaming. Michelle had drawn the short straw in that family, then.

  ‘Doing anything this weekend?’ he asked Jordan on Friday.

  ‘Inter-club swimming Saturday night, at Chelmsford. Apart from that it’s all family stuff. My grandparents are coming over to see Michelle—she should be coming home on Sunday. You?’

  ‘Working Saturday. Nothing much else.’

  It was Bonnie’s birthday on Saturday, and she and friends were going to the Forest Tavern. Greg had been about to ask Jordan if he wanted to go—partly through curiosity about how things might shape up with Madeleine—but now thought better of it. Jordan gave the impression of having a full and well-organized life; even the hospital crisis had been swiftly assimilated, without fuss. On his return to school, he had answered Greg’s questions without appearing keen to discuss the subject at length.

  Greg ended up going to a party with Gizzard. He hadn’t meant to, but the doorbell rang just as he was getting ready to go to the Tavern. Gizzard, gelled and grinning, was on the front doorstep.

  ‘Hi, fleapit. Come to whisk you away from this humdrum life to a night of wine, women and song.’

  ‘I can’t sing.’

  ‘OK, wine and women, then. Two out of three’ll have to do. Your charabanc awaits.’

  ‘My what?’

  Gizzard waved an expansive hand, gesturing towards the road outside; Greg saw a Mini parked under the street-lamp.

  ‘Shel’s just passed her driving test. We’re going out to celebrate, round a mate’s house. Thought we’d take you along. You allowed out? We’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.’

  Greg didn’t realize till he reached the car that there were two girls inside—he’d forgotten about Gizzard’s attempt to set him up. Sherry/Cherie, in the driving-seat, was small and elfin, with a pert face and hair in short black spikes; the one in the back was all legs and breasts and sparkly hair. The Mini was a two-door, and he struggled past the forward-tilted front seat to squeeze in next to her.

  ‘You don’t know Tanya, do you?’ Gizzard said, getting into the passenger seat.

  ‘Not yet,’ said the sparkly girl; she made a pretence of moving away, but they were both tall and the back seat was cramped, and Greg was very conscious of her thigh against his. She leaned forward between the two front seats as Sherry/Cherie drove away, continuing a muttered conversation that ended in peals of laughter from both girls; her long hair brushed Greg’s arm, and he smelled musky perfume. She obviously thought she was sultry.

  No, she was sultry. At the party—it was at the house of someone called Jazz, but Greg never did work out who Jazz was, nor even whether Jazz was male or female—she attached herself to him as if he were her project for the evening. Not knowing anyone, he didn’t mind that at all; being with such a striking girl meant he didn’t need to feel self-conscious, the way he sometimes did at parties. She’d seen him at the pool, she told him. She stood so close that he could see right down between her breasts; her musky scent filled his head. She wore a skimpy black top that ended well above her navel, which was pierced with a silver ring and stud. ‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, looking in fascination at the punctured flesh, thinking of Katy. ‘Yeah, like hell,’ Tanya said. ‘Worth it though, wasn’t it?’ ‘My dad thinks it looks tarty,’ he told her. Her eyes stared at him, round and astonished. ‘Your dad thinks I’m a tart? Do I know him?’ Greg explained about Katy; she laughed. ‘I like this sparkly stuff,’ he said, touching; she’d put it round her eyes as well as on her hair. It made her dark hair looked spangled with raindrops.

  They shared a bag of tortilla chips. He downed his beer, drank another, and another, and began to feel pleasantly vague. Tanya pressed herself against him and in a drunken sway he found that they were kissing. Her hands were twining round him, fingers pushing down inside the back of his jeans. There was something teasing in the way she looked at him: as if she were testing him, pushing to see how far he’d go. The room was smoky and hot and loud and he could hardly breathe. Her tongue was in his mouth; he could taste garlic. The thrum of the music sounded in his ears with a hypnotic beat.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Tanya whispered, and nipped the lobe of his ear with sharp teeth. ‘Jazz won’t mind.’

  She took his hand, pulling him through the crowded room. They’d reached the stairs before the thought reached his fuddled brain: Christ, was she intending to do it, right now, this minute? My first time, he thought, in a kind of delirium; at the house of someone called Jazz, on a bed piled with coats, with a girl called Tanya with spangles in her hair. It would be a triumph, an achievement, something to tell Gizzard about . . .

  If he could do it. He felt as if his groin was on fire, but mixed up with it was sick panic—he had to get out, away from Tanya, away from this houseful of smoke and noise. He balked at the bottom of the stairs, resisting her grip on his hand. Tanya, already on the second stair, lurched back.

  ‘What’s up?’ Her face loomed close to his; he saw spiky mascara and the gleaming white of her eye.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Her hand was snaking down his body, flattening against the fly of his jeans, stopping there. ‘I wouldn’t call this nothing.’

  ‘You can’t be serious—’

  ‘Who said anything about serious? I feel like it, that’s all. And don’t tell me you don’t!’

  Her hand conti
nued to move against him, fingertips pressing, exploring—he closed his eyes, then opened them again and pushed her hand away. ‘Leave off!’ There were two people sitting at the top of the stairs, more voices on the upstairs landing.

  ‘Oh, come on, Greg!’ she said into the dip at the base of his throat. ‘Don’t wind me up. You fancy me, don’t you?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ he answered evasively.

  She nuzzled his neck. ‘You scared or something? Don’t tell me you’ve never done it? You’ll be safe with me, I promise—’

  He edged away. ‘Course I have,’ he lied.

  ‘What, then?’

  He gazed at a painting on the wall behind her, an elegant print of a tulip, black-framed. How could he explain? And who was she anyway? Someone he’d only just met. He didn’t owe her anything.

  He moved towards the door. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, right?’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Her face hardened. ‘Stuff you! Go home to Mummy then. Loser!’

  He nodded towards the jewel in her navel. ‘In case you’re interested, it does look tarty. Suits you.’

  Her eyes narrowed and her mouth started to open; he saw her preparing a retort. Then the door to the main room opened and three people spilled out. In the confusion, Greg slipped out of the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

  He stood on the doorstep, breathing deeply. He heard the bass thud from the stereo, laughter and a girl’s voice shrieking from inside. The air was cool against his face. It was dark, but a smudge of moon showed edges of heaped cloud. He stood there biting his lip, ashamed and angry—angry with Tanya, angry with himself. Gizzard would hear all about this, with embellishments. They’d be talking about him, laughing, Gizzard and the two girls.

  He could go back into the party and pretend to enjoy himself; maybe find some other girl, show that poser Tanya where she could get off. He needn’t ring the doorbell and stand there like a nerd; he could go round to the open back door and just reappear, get himself another lager, find Gizzard and make the whole thing into a joke. He got as far as the side gate, saw the lighted kitchen window running with condensation, and an exhalation of fag-smoke from the extractor fan.

  No. He’d had enough.

  He walked away from the house. On the way, in the back of the Mini, he’d taken little notice of where they were going. He turned right, found himself in a culde-sac, and tried the other direction, at last reaching a road he recognized. The solitude, the silence broken only by occasional traffic, were like gifts he hadn’t deserved. His head cleared and became his own again. If he’d had his bike, he’d have gone to the Tavern after all; he considered hitching a lift, decided he couldn’t be bothered, and walked home.

  His parents were watching a film; his mum looked at the mantelpiece clock in surprise. ‘You’re not very late! Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ Greg said. He went straight up to his room and turned on his stereo.

  Caryatid

  Greg’s photograph (colour): the female caryatid figure on one of the garden summerhouses at Graveney Hall. From ground level, a pillar of stone rises in an angular, widening co fin-shape, becoming the top half of a girl or woman. A draped cloth falls in folds around her waist; above she is naked, with graceful, muscular arms and small rounded breasts. In her arms she holds a garland of vines and fruit. The sunlight throws strong shadows on her face, exaggerating the classical repose of her features. On her forehead there is a medallion or brooch, from which the folds of stone fabric fall away like hair. Above her head, the stone becomes pillar again, rising to a decorative beaded edging, surmounted by balustrades. Moss or lichen gives a greenish shading. Ivy has found a roothold in the stone, and twines live and green around her head.

  When he woke up, the sun was shining through his curtain and his mouth tasted of garlic. Remembering the party, he groaned and rolled over; then, giving up the attempt to fall back into sleep, he shoved off the duvet and went into the bathroom to shower, washing last night away. He gargled with his mother’s mint stuff and cleaned his teeth, then stuck out his tongue to inspect it.

  Dad would be up before long, getting ready for golf; his mother usually had a Sunday lie-in, and Katy rarely surfaced before eleven. Quietly Greg let himself out of the house, and got his bike from the garage.

  The cool air revived him like a plunge into the swimming pool. He felt free, full of energy, cycling fast till he was clear of the town and heading towards the fringes of the forest. There had been a heavy dew, and the grass beside the road was shining, webbed with fine threads. It was very still, the zizz of his tyres almost the only sound.

  On its ridge in hazy sunlight Graveney Hall was the ghost of itself, like the setting for a gothic film. Except that in the film it would be deserted, approached on horseback through swirling mists, whereas in fact there were a number of cars already parked along its frontage. They were keen, those volunteers. On the way here Greg had passed only a few dog-walkers, one jogger and a couple of kids delivering Sunday papers, but this lot had already clocked in. Parking his bike, he kept a wary lookout for anyone with shorts and a beard. He shouldered his rucksack and slung his camera case round his neck with the aim of appearing to be on a photographic assignment, in case anyone invited him to join in the back-breaking fun.

  ‘Hello! Greg, isn’t it?’ Someone was calling from behind a Volvo hatchback. He looked round and saw the woman with the bandanna over her hair—a red one today. She came over, smiling broadly. She had gappy teeth and a sunburned face and a posh voice. ‘You’re becoming quite a regular! We’ll be glad of your help, I can tell you.’

  He indicated his camera. ‘No, I’m taking photos.’

  ‘Oh. Well, good—we need lots of those for our exhibition. Are you looking for Faith?’

  ‘Not really.’ He’d had enough of being pushed and pulled around by girls.

  The woman took no notice. ‘She’s around somewhere—comes every Sunday, rain or shine. Off on her own most of the time. Well, I must get on. See you at coffee! Don’t forget—in the Coach House, eleven sharp. Lovely to see you again.’

  You’d think she was his auntie. He wouldn’t mind coffee, though, having left home without breakfast. She strode back to her car, collected a big chill-bag and walked off, waving.

  He wondered if he ought to tell someone about those yobby boys. First, he walked across to the corner of wall where they’d left their rubbish. This area didn’t seem to be visited by the volunteers, whose efforts were concentrated on clearing the house floor and laying their track and working lower down the gardens, but Greg saw immediately that the boys had been back. There was an addition to the acid-green spray-paint: GREG H IS A TOSSPOT. His fists clenched. And they’d lit another fire: he saw fresh ashes in the burned circle, and the blackened remains of sticks and fag-ends.

  That settled it—it must be that boy Dean from school, the one who’d brought the note for Jordan. What was it? Yes, Dean Brampton. Ignorant little yob! Why should he have it in for me? Greg wondered. Irritation prickled him: everyone seemed to be getting at him. But if they came here regularly, he’d catch them sooner or later. Then he’d show that arrogant little oik and his friends what they could do with their spray-paint.

  He crossed the garden, skirting bandanna woman and her group, who were only a couple of metres farther along their track than when he’d left them last week. Recognizing Faith’s father among them, he accelerated his pace, swinging to their left. The woman’s imperious voice carried across the grass: ‘No, he’s taking photographs today.’ His role seemed to have become semi-official. Walking slowly through the wet grass of the orchard, he picked up a windfall apple and took a bite, then winced at its sourness and chucked it away. He was making his way to the lake, along to where Faith’s log path made its secret descent through the shrubby thickets, when he saw her by the edge of the wood, her back to him. She was picking blackberries, dropping them into a blue plastic carrier bag; she wore jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt. Whil
e he wondered whether to speak to her or cut down to the lake on his own, she turned and saw him.

  ‘Hello!’ She didn’t seem at all surprised. ‘I hoped you’d come.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ He walked slowly towards her. ‘What, after last week? Handing me over to your dad, then clearing off?’

  She laughed. She had white, even teeth and an infectious laugh; annoyed with her though he was, he couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Dad kept going on about you all week—how good to have young people involved, how hard you’d worked, all that sort of thing.’ She stooped to wipe juice-stained hands on the grass; the silver cross swung forward on its chain as she crouched.

  ‘Why did you go along with him when he thought you knew me?’

  Faith smiled. ‘Easier than saying you were some trespasser who crept up on me down by the lake.’

  ‘I didn’t creep! And how come you don’t get roped in to the slave labour? I don’t see you sweating and straining.’

  ‘I am helping, though!’ Faith looked affronted. ‘Mum makes blackberry pies and jam to sell at the open day. It all helps make money. Look! There’s hundreds here—great big juicy ones. You can help if you like.’

  ‘Well, OK.’ He came closer to the mound of brambles, seeing the thorny stems heavy with clusters of blackberries, plump and glossy, and the drapery of spider-webs spangled with dew.

  ‘We can get loads.’ Faith pulled another plastic bag from her jeans pocket. ‘Look out for maggots. I’ve seen one or two.’

  ‘Does your mum work here as well, then?’

  ‘Mm, every week—she’s tidying up in the Coach House.’

  The berries were asking to be picked, coming away easily from their stems; it was satisfying, dropping the warm fruit into his bag, feeling it gradually sag with their weight. He ate while he picked, feeling the sharp sweetness on his tongue and the fibrous pippiness.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he explained to Faith.