Ah, but to answer that question we must go back in time — back to May, and to Whitsun.
2
‘IT’S A FAMILY reunion, as well as a wedding. You know, Dawnie, I’m going to change subjects. I can’t stand German.’
‘… Des, at this do, are they all going to be bent?’
‘No,’ he said with some show of indignation. ‘Mm. Well … No. Not quite. Uncle Paul’s straight. Uncle Stuart’s straight. But yeah. I suppose they’re all up to something or other. The men anyway. They’re all doing a bit of this and a bit of that.’
‘And the bother with Marlon?’
‘It’s sorted out. I told you. Uncle Li’s best man. He’s best man.’
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Kiss.’
Des was almost eighteen and a half; he stood just over six foot tall; his face had lengthened and narrowed, but he still had a smile whose hooded brightness of eye made others smile. And here on his arm was Dawn Sheringham — her slender shape in the white print dress, her dandelion hair.
‘Mum says you’re too thin.’
‘Well she’s right. It’s the late hours. And the customers.’
‘Mm. It’s Goodcars. And it’s all my fault.’
‘It’s nothing, Dawnie. Everyone our age worries about money.’
Money had certainly become very tight — what with Lionel being so often away. Lionel was currently at large, but when he was away Des got no weekly tenners (for doing all the housework), no chicken tikkas or rogan joshes, no KFCs. And no rent (he was obliged to apply to the Assistance). He also had to feed Joel and Jon: when he was away, Lionel’s only contribution to their upkeep was the odd pint of Tabasco and the odd plastic bagful of Special Brews that Cynthia sometimes hauled round. More pressingly and mysteriously, there was Dawn’s credit card and the logarithmic debt now clinging to it. Six nights a week, therefore, from seven to midnight (and all day Sunday), Des minicabbed for Goodcars. Goodcars, their poster said: You Drink, We Drive …
‘I never liked Marlon,’ he went on. ‘His nickname’s Rhett Butler. And he’s handsome. But there’s something … There’s a phrase in that book of short stories. It really sums him up. Uh, a vague velvety vileness. That’s Marlon.’
‘And they used to be such great mates, him and Lionel. Since they were little.’
‘Oh, yeah. They were like twin brothers.’
‘Until Gina.’
‘Mm. Then it was all off.’
‘That can happen.’
At King’s Cross they changed from the Piccadilly line to the Metropolitan. They continued west, holding hands, with books on their laps. Dawn was reading Jessie Hunter. Des was reading Emile Durkheim.
He said, ‘Modern History. Or Sociology. Criminology.’
‘Des, they don’t like it if you change. And it costs. Means you do another year.’
‘Not necessarily. And lots of people change … I can’t stand German.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Well. Okay. In French, Wednesday is mercredi. In Spanish, it’s miércoles. In Italian, it’s mercoledi. And in German, it’s Mittwoch! Mid-week. What kind of language do you call that?’
Holding hands. Books on their laps. Kisses. Civilisation, thought Des Pepperdine.
It was to be a Whitsun wedding. People got married at Whitsun — the maypole, the fertility rites of spring. Whitsun: white Sunday. And today was Whitsun Eve. Des stretched and loosened his shoulders. It was Saturday: meaning Dawn would be spending the night. And no minicabbing till Sunday.
‘Young women dancing round the maypole,’ he said. ‘Is that the origin of pole dancing?’
‘Yeah, but nowadays you get lessons in it. Empowerment.’
Suddenly the train unsheathed itself from the black tunnel and soared out into the light of the May noon. And the weather — the air — was so fresh and bright, so swift and busy. Dawn said,
‘Look, Des.’ She meant Metroland. The orderly villas, the innocent back gardens, all aflutter in the swerving wind. ‘I once came this way at night,’ she said. ‘And you look and you think, Every light out there stands for something. A hope. An ambition …’
The carriage was thinning out, and their kisses were growing more frequent, and lasting longer … Dear Daphne, he said to himself. How are things? Me, I’m still having an affair with an older woman — I’m eighteen, and she’s twenty! And it’s not even an affair — not yet! I’ve been with Dawn for fourteen months, but we’re slightly holding back — on the physical side. You see, Daph, Dawn’s ‘unawakened’. And we want to be ‘ready’. I’m ready. She says she’s nearly ready. And the foreplay’s out of this world. But there’s a real problem with her parents. Her mum, Prunella, is a darling, but her dad, Horace, is a right old —
‘Des? What was that fight they had? That garage meet.’
‘Well hang on. It’ll sound a bit … See, Uncle Li reckoned Marlon finked on him. Got him jugged — to put him out of the frame with Gina. But why would he? Gina only went with Uncle Li to make Marlon jealous. Nah. He just cooked that up, Uncle Li. To soothe his own pride.’
‘His pride? This is over my head, this is. This is Criminology.’
‘To soothe his own pride. And to give him someone to hurt when he got out. So they had the garage meet. Bare-knuckle. Stripped to the waist. With a paying audience.’ It must have been like the Lady Godiva — but all-male. ‘Lasted an hour.’
‘Who won?’
‘Uncle Li. On a technicality. He was in hospital for a week. But Marlon was in hospital for a month. I heard they were still going at it in the ambulance.’
‘Bit stupid, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But now it’s all patched up.’
‘Supposedly. Daggers drawn, but they buried the hatchet.’
‘Smoked the pipe of peace.’
‘They had a rendezvous. All very stiff to start with. Then they shook on it. Then they hugged. All weepy. And the next thing you know — Uncle Li’s agreed to be best man!’
Dawn said, ‘Then why’re you so worried about it all?’
‘I’m not!’ he said, and kissed her. ‘It’s just that … Burying the hatchet — I can’t see him doing that, Uncle Li. That’s not his way.’
‘Look outside. Oh Des,’ she said, and kissed him back. ‘Des, imagine we were getting married today.’
‘Yeah. Imagine. And jetting off to Malta for our honeymoon.’
‘… You know those candles Mum gave us? I’ll make a cottage pie when we get back. Let’s have dinner by candlelight. And let’s go mad and get a little packet of vin de table.’
Three pound ninety-five! he thought.
With a stern look she kissed him again, on the lips, the cheeks, the brow, the eyes … ‘Tonight,’ she said. ‘Tonight. I’m ready. I’m ready, Desmond my love.’
His head lolled on to her shoulder, and he gasped and smiled and closed his eyes.
‘Yeah, that’s it, darling. Have a little drowse. That’s it. Lie down. There. On my lap. There you are. There.’
He closed his eyes and was immediately encircled by the familiar moods and memories that came to him whenever he neared sleep — the time he touched tongues after Sunday school with the girl in the white beret, the time Cilla cut her hand on the prised lid of the tin of soup (her fingers under the cold tap with their gaping mouths of red and white), the time he stole that fiver from Uncle George and made himself sick on sherbet lemons, the ruby wine and his fairy grandmother in her pink babydoll, the sticky sweets and sticky drinks, and the lord of his world of half-dreams, a hooded shape (always one size bigger than expected, broader, deeper), and the panting dogs …