The Steep Approach to Garbadale (9 page)

Alban wondered if she knew how ridiculously, ferally attractive she looked. Was the girl flirting with him? He didn’t know. He and his pals had talked about flirting and fancying and how you could tell whether a girl liked you or not and whether she wanted to do it, but for all their boasting and pretended certainty, it was still a madly confusing area. The stuff you saw on films and TV didn’t really seem like it was in the real world, and porn was useless. He hadn’t seen much porn, but he was damn sure the way to instant sexual success wasn’t becoming a plumber or a pool technician. He had no idea. Maybe she was just teasing him because he’d upset her somehow earlier that morning.

Anyway, she was still his cousin. His pals had discussed this, too, after Plink had fallen totally if briefly in lust with one of his cousins, and it wasn’t supposed to be illegal or anything, but it was definitely frowned on, discouraged, the stuff of jokes and adults going,
Diddleing ding ding ding
ding
ding ding
, which was something called
Duelling Banjos
, from an old film, and seemingly terribly witty.

Once they’d done the cutlery, Sophie announced she was going to the kitchen for a big bucket of water just off the boil, and started hobbling in that direction. He dashed after her and volunteered to do the carrying.

They put the bucket of hot water on the sideboard, on top of some old newspapers. She showed him how to hold the crystal and glasses in the rising steam, before giving them a polish.

‘That’s a handy tip,’ he said. ‘Who taught you that?’

‘Old waitressing trick.’

‘Ah hah.’

‘Sorry if I was a bit, you know,’ she said, glancing. ‘This morning.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said. Probably a bit too quickly, he realised. God it was hard getting this stuff right!

‘Just annoyed at myself for falling.’

‘That’s okay. Sorry you got hurt.’

‘Me too. Wasn’t my fault, you know.’

‘No?’

‘No. Scrabbles decided to take a short cut, then changed her mind.’

‘Really.’

‘Soon as I get this knee working properly . . .’ she said.

‘Yes?’ he asked, grinning, sensing he was being used as a straight man.

‘I’m going to kick that bloody horse.’

‘Well, give her one for me,’ he said, then quickly added, ‘Just kidding.’

‘Yah,’ she said, ‘me too.’

They polished some more glasses, presenting them to the silently rising steam until they went cloudy with the moisture, and then smoothing them over with the cotton cloths. Songbirds sounded in the gardens beyond the opened windows, and a magpie gave its sharp, coughy call.

He looked at her. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said.

She made a
tsk
noise. ‘Does anyone ever say “No” to that sort of question?’ she said, shaking her head. The ponytail flicked back and forth. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘How come your dad got custody of you?’

‘Oh, as opposed to my natural mum.’ She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Just unlucky I guess.’

‘No, come on.’

Sophie put her hand to her mouth, rubbing at the little dimple between her top lip and the base of her nose, as though making sure her brace was still in there. She shrugged. ‘Well, June - my real mother; you know, biologically - she was a bit wild. That’s the family line, anyway. Apparently she ran off with another man. Spanish guy. Madrid. Not Tajo, the one she’s with now; another one. Actually Tajo’s quite nice. Very good-looking, very Spanish. He’s an artist. Very
hairy
though. He’s quite a bit younger than her. She calls him “dishy”. Honestly.’ Sophie tutted and shook her head at such a lack of sophistication. ‘Actually they’re thinking about getting married.’

‘So you’ve got two mothers as well.’

‘Hah?’

‘Same as me. I’ve got my real mother, the one that died, and Leah, Mum.’

Sophie looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm. Yah. I suppose.’

They went on with the preparations.

 
‘Young lady, you are
not
sitting down to dinner dressed like that,’ Uncle James told his daughter. ‘Not in my house.’

Sophie was wearing white heels, sparkly leggings and another T-shirt with a print of Michelangelo’s David on the front. She looked down at it. Alban, who’d been out doing a bit of edging round one of the terraces and not realised how late it was getting, was stuck behind Uncle James, who was filling the bottom of the staircase as he looked up at his daughter. Alban really needed to get washed and changed - the house was full of the smell of food and he could hear conversations and smell cigarette smoke coming from the lounge - but he didn’t feel he could just brush past Uncle James.

‘Oh, sorry, Pops,’ Sophie said as she looked back up from the black and white image. She snapped her fingers. ‘You wouldn’t recognise this. It’s called art.’

‘It’s a full-frontal male nude and I for one refuse to sit looking at
that
at the dinner table,’ her father told her. ‘Now get changed. That is not suitable, and you know it.’

Sophie looked down at her father, seeming not to see Alban standing behind. ‘James,’ she said, ‘I really hope right now you’re secretly thinking, “Oh my God, I’m sounding like my father.”’

‘Don’t tell me what to think, young lady.’

‘Oh, that’s just one-way traffic, is it?’

‘And stop trying to be clever.’

She went, ‘Ah!’ and bent forwards as though hit in the solar plexus. ‘Well, so much for that expensive education you’re always—’

‘Go up to your room and change at once,’ he told her.

Sophie looked over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Hey, Alban.’ She turned on her heel. ‘Whatever you say, Father dear.’

Uncle James turned and saw Alban. Uncle James wore a suit and an expression of some frustration. He looked quite red in the face. He smelled of smoke. ‘Alban,’ he said, standing aside. ‘My God, you’re filthy! Well, come on, come on. Get a move on. We haven’t got all night.’

Alban bounded up the stairs two and then three at a time.

 
Later, he knew the precise moment when he fell in love with her. It was the day his parents would be departing for Richmond and leaving him behind at Lydcombe for the rest of the summer. A bunch of them - some of Sophie’s friends plus Alban - had been down to Lynton, a few miles along the coast in Devon. One of the boys’ dads had a speedboat there and took them out a handful at a time for a buzz around the bay, up to Foreland Point or out west to Woody Bay and Highveer Point. He’d been doing this the last few years and always flung the boat about and tried to get everybody soaked and the girls screaming.

Alban had gone out on one of the runs but hadn’t really enjoyed it as much as he’d hoped. The guy at the controls was a git, he thought, just showing off in his wraparound sunglasses and his ridiculous stripy T-shirt, trying too hard to get everybody drenched (the sea was calm save for a long, lazy swell and he had to circle and seek out his own wake to find any suitable waves) and not even a very good boat handler, either, Alban suspected, probably putting them all at risk. The guy made everybody else wear life vests, though he didn’t wear one himself.

Also, the girls sounded vacuous, the way they screamed so easily. Alban felt sadly disappointed in them, though he didn’t really know any of them. He’d noticed that Sophie went back to saying ‘yah’ a lot when she was around these people. Her dentist had replaced her earlier cemented-in braces with a set she could take out, and she had removed them today.

Alban didn’t go on either of the speedboat runs that Sophie took - he stayed in the quayside café, reading
L’Étranger
in French, for next year’s class, very slowly, being made occasional fun of, but ignoring it - but he’d have put money on Sophie going all girlie, too, and screaming like a banshee every time the boat slammed off a wave or the least little bit of spray splashed any of them in the face.

The moment hit him as they got back to the house, picked up from Lynton and delivered home by Aunt Clara. His dad was crossing the hall carrying some bags as they came in through the front door, laughing and joking, Sophie leading the way.

‘So, Sophie,’ Andy asked her, ‘did you enjoy the speedboat?’

‘Yes I did!’

‘Did you get awfully wet?’

‘Blimey, Uncle, I didn’t enjoy it that much.’

 
He is collecting her, scooping up the crumbs that fall from her mouth, clutching at them, cradling them, holding them up to look at them, minutely inspecting them, treasuring them, putting them into wildly ornate frames of desire and hope, encapsulating them in precious metal boxes and cabinets studded with jewels like some mouldering flake of bone declared a Catholic relic; something to be venerated, worshipped through its association, its alleged provenance.

The first is not something she said, just something he associates with her. He remembers a line - it’s from a play, he thinks, maybe one by Shakespeare, from school (he wishes now he’d paid more attention in that particular lesson). It goes, ‘Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz.’ That’s it. That’s all. It’s nothing really, just sounds, but it has become like a precious incantation for him, a sort of mantra.

‘Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz.’ He’s been whispering it to himself for the last few nights as he’s started to fall for her, lying in bed in the darkness, repeating it over and over, as if it’s a spell, as though it might magically bring her to him, cause her to blur and shimmer into existence like she’d been beamed up or something. ‘Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz. Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz. Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz . . .’

The rest have accumulated, the rest are all her own. He can still hear her say, ‘They’ve all bloody gone!’, still remember, with extraordinary precision, the exact tone and syllabic weighting of her voice when she said, ‘Fell off me ’oss, guv’, still replay in his head - every subtle nuance of pitch and timing and pronunciation captured as though on the most perfectly faithful recording mechanism ever invented - ‘Blimey, Uncle, I didn’t enjoy it that much.’

That last one is the jewel of jewels, the star of the cast. The quickness of it, the easy confidence, the sheer unashamed sexuality it revealed! (His dad had looked at her, not getting it for a moment. When he did, Andy had made a single explosive noise halfway between a laugh and an embarrassed cough. Then he’d grinned, gone slightly red and busied himself with packing the car. A couple of Sophie’s girlfriends had squealed, one slapping her on the arm. Sophie had just kept on going across the hall, unconcerned, red hair undulating as she skipped to the stairs; la la la.)

He’d got it instantly, might even have been on the brink of saying something himself if she hadn’t (the influence of his pal Plink, perhaps, seeing a sexual reference in everything. Or just rampant hormones). He stood and watched her go, her pals streaming around him, a huge smile forming on his face, something between admiration and adoration growing and blossoming inside him.

That night, thinking of her just a couple of rooms away, only three or so walls between them, he replays that phrase in his head time and time again, like a record, like a single you’ve just fallen in love with and need to listen to again as soon as you get to the end of it, hearing her voice, seeing captured images of her in his head - in the horse-riding outfit, in her shorts and blouse, in her leggings, in her jeans, red hair tumbling. He masturbates three times before he falls asleep, exhausting himself, hurting himself, having to use one cold, damp paper hanky twice, pumping no more than a dribble of thin water the last time before finally slipping into a feverish, troubled sleep where he still hears her silky voice, still sees her walk effortlessly, hips swaying, through the hazy sunlit gardens or swinging in slo-mo across the gleaming, polished wood of the hall.

 
‘Well I don’t think they’re insipid. In fact, I think they’re very sipid indeed.’

He could hear the tone of slightly hurt indignation in her voice, and began to smile so broadly he felt he had to turn away from her in case she was further insulted by his reaction. Then a moment later he realised it might have been deliberate - been wit, in fact, not a childish mistake.

He cleared his throat, turned back, studying Sophie’s face. Very hard to tell. ‘Sipid?’ he asked, trying to sound grown up and knowing and like somebody from a film or something. They’d been talking about what bands they were into, and she liked - predictably, he felt - rather vacuous poppy, singly kind of stuff - just whatever was in the charts, basically. He was more into albums and artists like Bowie and bands like Talking Heads and Prefab Sprout and so on, though he had eclectic tastes; the next album he was going to buy was
Red Roses for Me
, by the Pogues, from last year (apparently their full name was something quite filthy in Gaelic, at least according to Plink). They had a new album out in a month or two, as well. He’d really been into U2 for a while there, but they were starting to look a bit too commercial after Live Aid.

Sophie wore brown hiking boots, black leggings and the Michelangelo David T-shirt Uncle James had objected to a week or so earlier. She’d sewn a little leaf made from some green material over the statue’s genitals, which was just the perfect thing to do, because it at once removed the excuse her father had for telling her to take the T-shirt off, while at the same time acting as a constant reminder to him how ridiculous he was being. It had become her favourite piece of clothing, prioritised to the extent that she would take it out of the just-washed pile and iron it herself - a rare distinction. Alban had noticed that Uncle James’s face reliably turned one to two shades of red darker every time he was confronted with the article of clothing, which was, of course, often.

‘What’s wrong with “sipid”?’ she asked.

‘You sure that’s a word?’

‘You sure it’s not?’

‘I’m not claiming it isn’t.’

‘Then why are you mentioning it?’

‘I’m just curious.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re just weird.’