I dozed in the afternoon, on the bed with the windows open. It was sticky. The curtains barely moved, the sea had flattened, the cliffs were spread with a dead, fat heat. Gulls cried but their voices were swallowed by the fug. I lay naked, flat on my stomach with antiseptic cream on my buttocks, and I breathed slowly. I dribbled lightly on the pillow, and my body gave off a sour smell.
The air crept over my body like greased paper, clinging and sticking to every crack and crevice it could find. It spoke to the backs of my knees and sang to my armpits, and when it moved to my ears it traced their outlines with its fingers. When I moved, the sheet gripped me and would not let go; I left damp patches on it, each one in the shape of a different Mediterranean island. Here was Corsica and here was Ibiza, where my cheek had been was Cyprus, and where my toes had fidgeted from one place to the next was the Cyclades. Crete was one foot and Corfu was another. Each smelt of cotton and sweat, fish, soap and butter. These smells reminded me of when I was a child and I used to carry a filthy comfort rag with me. They drifted with my thoughts, flicking at their edges, tickling my nostrils and then creeping into my head. I felt sapped and weak; I was lying flat, though now and again I thought I was sliding down a long, gentle slope through a swamp, past snapping animals that wouldn’t snap because of the heat. Very quiet and slow slide guitar music echoed in my head, and the sound of a low singing voice floated in the air. I closed my eyes and concentrated on trying to guess the exact combined weight of Estelle’s breasts.
I slept in short bursts, picking up dreams as you would pick up pictures by popping in and out of a row of houses with televisions on. Here’s a scene from a film about monkeys, here’s a scene from an American soap and there’s something about hats and how rhinoceros foreplay lasts a month. Back to the monkeys and then on to a documentary about women in Peru. Then a programme about parents, and how jealous they can be of their children. How they want their children to do well, but they won’t encourage them. How some fathers believe that their sons are for ever twelve years old, they will not let them grow up. Now these people believe that sex is dirty. You ask them why, and they put their fingers to their lips and go ‘Ssh!’ You wonder; how did these people fuck? Did they ever do it in a car, or on a kitchen table, in a garden shrubbery? All the hang-ups one generation passes to another, and how the last two generations have broken the mould. Then, suddenly, back to the monkeys. The monkeys are popular, far more popular than you’d think. They’re fucking in the trees. Then a scene from Endless Summer, another scene from Endless Summer, a Californian wave that breaks as high as the world, rubs the sun and hangs over all the surfers who have ever lived, then back to the monkeys.
Then my eyes were open, my sight was clear, the curtains puffed, the faintest of breezes stabbed the air and pushed through the room. I tilted my head to catch it, and in that atmosphere it was like being touched by a cool hand. The low was filling, the swell was building, the wind was turning to face me. I pulled myself up, lay on my side and drank a glass of water. I got up, put a towel around my waist and stood on the balcony.
The air was still close, as close as it could be without being liquid. When it touched my skin it felt as though it was coating me. I took a deep breath, it was like taking in warm milk. I coughed and my cough melted in front of me, a pair of walkers on the cliff path moved through a dull haze. They were talking to each other; the sound of their voices crept towards me like syrup. I went to the bathroom, had a tepid shower and brushed my teeth.
My mother came to my room. She and Clive had had a wonderful day, she was so happy, and when I saw her that happy, I was happy too. We were both happy, the room was our happy place, and we had a cup of tea to celebrate. The air smelt of roses and cream, and bells sounded in it. ‘Whatever you want, Mother, is what I want. It makes me want you more than ever, but I don’t want that to make you sad. Let it make you happier. You’re getting a life, I’m getting you. It’s going to be OK.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ said Mother. Her eyes were wild with joy, almost dangerous.
‘And how’s Clive?’
She blushed. When her cheeks pink, she looks ten years younger. The colour runs on to her nose and it begins to glow like a traffic light. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t think a man his size could be so gentle, but he is. Have you seen his fingers?’
‘I noticed them.’
‘Every time I touch them I think about the lives he’s saved with them.’ She smiled to herself, for him, then at me. ‘He does so much good in the world.’
‘I know.’
‘And he’s so funny. He makes me laugh all the time.’
‘Great.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Mother,’ I said, and I hugged her. ‘He’s all I hoped he’d be. I’ve seen you together, I’m not stupid.’
She cupped my chin. ‘I know that.’
‘It’s a shame we couldn’t have had longer together now; I wish you’d told me where you were earlier, but I know why you wanted to do it like this. All the birds with one stone, that sort of thing.’
‘The times I thought...’
‘No,’ I said, ‘really. I know.’
‘Do you?’
I held the silence for a moment, gave it a book to read, walked it to Thurso and back, gave my mother’s eyes the definite fix, and said, ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re coming down to dinner tonight? We’re going to have a bottle of champagne.’
‘Champagne?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Dinner was a celebration, led by Clive. I was the maid of honour, best man and I felt like the vicar for a bit, but that soon passed. The other diners were the congregation, and Estelle’s mother and father were the bell-ringers, the outside caterers and a sour old couple who stood at the gate muttering ‘don’t think they’ll last long’. When you look at some people, and then you look at their parents, sometimes it’s hard to believe. On my way to the dining room, I passed Estelle, who told me to ‘watch my arse’. I told her that there wasn’t much left of my arse to watch. When I looked at her I got the buzz at the root, I got creeping in the palms of my hands, and it was difficult to keep my hands off. I pinched her waist as I left her, I smiled at her mother in the dining room, who said, ‘Will you be sitting at Mr Nobert’s table?’
‘You bet,’ I said.
Clive stood up when he saw me, Mother kissed my cheek, I sat down carefully, and a glass of champagne was poured. I watched the bubbles foam and settle, then Clive said, ‘Here’s to us,’ and he raised his glass.
‘Surf’s up,’ I said.
‘Cheers,’ said Mother, and after she’d leant across and patted my shoulder, we drank together.
It was hot in the dining room. A faint smell of sweat mingled with the wafts of meat and vegetables from the kitchen; men sat in shirt-sleeves with their jackets hanging on the backs of their chairs, while their women shone and cast anxious, happy or lost looks around the room. Estelle’s mother slammed my starter down in front of me. I thanked her, she didn’t say a thing, I grinned at Clive. ‘Something you said,’ he said, ‘or did?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, and I finished my first glass of champagne. He poured another and said, ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ and held his glass up.
Champagne’s a good buzz. It breaks into the glass like a fairy’s wave, it sprays your face with a mist of bubbles, people in the dining room who aren’t drinking it look towards you and wonder what’s up. The starter was a slice of melon with a cherry on it. The cherry sat there like a big nipple. When I picked it up and popped it in my mouth, I swilled it around my mouth, stuck the tip of my tongue into the hole where the stone had been, forced my tongue through and split the fruit in two. Mother watched me and said, ‘Still playing with your food?’
I swallowed. ‘Yup,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t Susan tell you off?’
‘I’m too old to tell off,’ I said.
Clive laughed. Other diners steadied their glasses and looked at him. ‘Old age pension next, is it?’
‘You know what I mean,’ I said.
When Clive ate, he cut his food into little pieces, popped them into his mouth quickly, and chewed slowly. When he did things he did them with careful thought. He knew his talents and he knew his limits. He sipped his champagne, and watched our glasses. When they were half full, he refilled them and caught Estelle’s mother’s eyes. He pointed to the bottle and raised his eyebrows. She nodded, and two minutes later came with another bottle.
There was a feeling between Clive and Mother you could touch, and I had to drink two glasses to kill the idea that I was gate-crashing something. Whenever their eyes met, you heard the messages they were passing. There was electricity in the air, and moisture. Light and dampness, a dull ache in my buttocks, the main course was a choice of fish or chicken.
I don’t eat fish. Any creature that can get around without legs is alright with me; also, I’m afraid I might sweat a fishy smell in the sea, and they’ll know what I’ve been doing. In Hastings, there’s a man who owns a tropical-fish shop. I was in there once, and he was eating chips out of the paper. A customer came in and said, ‘You’re not eating...’ and the customer mouthed ‘... fish and chips?’ The shopkeeper shook his head and said, ‘Never in front of the stock.’ Fish have brains the size of beans, but why should they have anything bigger? They don’t have much to think about, but what they do think about is important. Keep the scales shiny, don’t envy, don’t overeat. The stars cannot be torn down because there are no stars, the gills go without thinking. Only two South American countries do not have borders with Brazil. What are they? Fish’s brains are not full of useless information. How do I know that? Clive said something to Mother, and she said, ‘No, that’s poppycock.’
I said, ‘Do you know what poppycock means?’
‘No, dear,’ she said. She squinted at me. My glass was full again.
‘It’s from the Dutch,’ I said. ‘Pappekak.’
‘And what does that mean?’
I looked at my food. I had chicken, roast potatoes, carrots and peas. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she said, knowingly.
‘Ecuador and Chile,’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ecuador and Chile are the only South American countries that don’t have borders with...’
‘Brazil,’ said Clive.
‘Correct!’ I said, and I patted his shoulder.
‘I was there last year,’ he said. ‘It’s an incredible place.’
‘Is that where you built the hospital?’ said Mother.
He laughed again. ‘I didn’t build it! I was helping to set up a unit, that’s all.’
‘You’re too modest.’
‘Modesty’s got nothing to do with it.’
Mother turned to me and said, ‘Listen to him.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he said.
I smiled, but didn’t say anything. I was feeling strange now, overcome and pissed. When I chewed my food, I seemed to chew for ever, my buttocks throbbed gently, the smells in the dining room could have drowned a bat. Estelle’s mother threw the odd glance in our direction; our eyes met twice, and both times I felt the hairs on the back of my neck go up. I could tell what she thought, and see the size of her warnings. I imagined her wrestling boars in mud, and I imagined her fighting bears in the forest. She was big and she was efficient. The chicken was well-cooked, the potatoes had crunchy bits on them. The champagne was so good that after four glasses I was ready to take all my clothes off and pretend I was a teapot. ‘So!’ Clive said suddenly, ‘Here’s to us!’ He raised his glass and beamed at Mother. They’d been talking about something, I don’t remember what. Mother picked up her glass and said ‘Us,’ and chinked with his. They both looked at me, then at my glass. I looked at my glass, then at them, then I picked up my glass and chinked too. ‘To us!’ I shouted, and I laughed. ‘A happy conclusion. Happiness all round.’
‘Cheers!’ said Clive.
‘Cheers,’ said Mother. She sipped, put down her glass and took out a handkerchief. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and she dabbed them. ‘I couldn’t cry for years and now look at me. I’m too happy...’
‘Good for you,’ said Clive.
‘You can’t be too happy,’ I said.
Clive smiled.
‘But I feel guilty too,’ she said, and she blew her nose. ‘Why me?’
‘Don’t think like that. Think “why not me?” It’s high time you had your share.’ Clive picked up her hand and kissed it. She sniffed. ‘Crying’s good for you.’
‘Yeah.’ I lifted my glass to her. ‘Cry all you want, Mum,’ I said, and I scratched my nose.
She stared at me for a moment, unblinking, then cried even more, wailing in her seat. Other diners looked up to watch, Clive stood up and held her shoulders. Estelle’s mother came over like a chicken, clucking and flapping around, reassuring other people, poking her face in their food, making her way to our table. She kept her distance, and her hands together. ‘Is madam well?’ she said.
What does it look like? Estelle’s mother had puckered lips and this daft concerned look on her face, and my God I hope this doesn’t get around.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Clive, and he started to lead Mother away.
My food tasted sour.
‘Come along, Di,’ said Clive, and he ushered her out of the dining room and up the stairs with no trouble and no fuss. I stood up to watch them go; when I moved to follow them, Clive turned and waved me back, then gave the thumbs up. So I sat down again, and while the other diners returned to their food, leaning towards their plates and talking about us out of the sides of their mouths, I poured myself another glass of champagne.
When I got back to my room, I was flying. The champagne had taken a very light hold of my legs, and lifted them for me as I walked. It had given my arms a floaty, sinky, floaty feeling, and I could count up to at least six. I prayed for Mother, lay on the bed, took deep breaths, and shut my eyes.
Someone had taken the room next door. I heard them walk from the window to the bed, and then lay down quietly. I was naked, my clothes were in a pile on the floor, the air was suffocating. My skin crept and tingled, and every thought I had flashed through my brain at the speed of light. My mother’s tears. Memories of Supertubes, anticipation of Estelle, the low pressure building and the coming storm. Mr Zog’s Sex Wax. Original. Never spoils. The best for your stick. A variety of flavours, but don’t try to eat it. Estelle knocked, I said, ‘Yeah?’, the bed in the next room creaked, Estelle came in, looked down my body and said ‘Good Evening.’ I stretched and said, ‘When do we dance?’ ‘Now,’ she said, and she kicked her shoes off. They arced across the room and fell down by the windows.
We drank a glass of wine together, she with her clothes on, me naked. ‘Heard there was a fuss in the dining room,’ she said. ‘How is your Mum?’
‘A fuss?’ I said. ‘Is that what it was?’
‘It’s what it was called. My old man reckoned she was having a breakdown.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what the hell does he know?’ I said. ‘I don’t think he was even there.’
‘I think he was...’
‘One of these people who’s an expert at everything, is he?’
‘That’s about it,’ she said, ‘but not as expert as me.’ She laughed at me, and the laugh was exactly like a threat. Not a violent threat, more one loaded with fun.
‘Or me.’
‘You,’ she said, and she dripped some wine into my navel and sucked it out. I tried to unbutton her blouse, but couldn’t. She said, ‘Expert, are you, or just pissed?’ and did it. Then she sat on me. It was all big, big music; I was the mouth and she was the saxophone, and every note I blew echoed in my heart.
That night was slow and sticky. The heat clung and would not let go. We moved carefully, I kept her hands away from my buttocks, and let her do my waist instead. She’s a strong woman, and shifted me around. I let it happen, I listened to the champagne swill backwards and forwards in my stomach, as the alcohol organised a restructuring of my mind and Estelle balanced her nipples on mine. I slapped the sides of her buttocks and watched the flesh ripple towards me. She told me to ‘watch it’, and started up long, soft lunges at me, arching her back and sweeping her hair across my face, then back, lifting her arms above her head, then down again, up again, the bed groaning, the person in the next room opening his windows, stepping on to the balcony and lighting a cigarette. I listened for the sea, but heard nothing. I put my hands on Estelle’s waist. I kneaded her flesh, I leant forward and sucked some of it into my mouth. The person on the balcony creaked the boards, the curtains hung like damp rags. Estelle moaned softly, and I began to gurgle. Our noises harmonised, our flesh slapped together, it stuck and pulled away, sweat dropped from her forehead on to my lips. I licked it, it was fresh and salty, one of her breasts slapped the side of my face, then the other. I closed my eyes and stars burst in my head. Planets were born and then they died, it was death by unusual vegetable, it was a sea of flames. Asbestos surfboards and blisters on the soles of my feet. I had a pain in my head but I loved it; I opened my mouth and filled it with hair. I was awake and I was dreaming, and a piece of my heart grew larger than my life.