Writing On the Wall Read online

  I never know when she’s serious. Would she really do a bunk and take Darryl? I didn’t believe it, but with her you never know.

  When we’d finished wandering about it was seven o’clock. The three boys’d crawled into their tents for a kip – one boy, one tent. Karen was off somewhere. Michael was sitting outside his tent reading his guide-book. Con and me went and sat next to him.

  “Where we going tomorrow?” I asked.

  He showed me a fold-out map and pointed. “We’ll head for Rotterdam.”

  “Kev wants to go to Amsterdam.”

  Michael shrugged. “Can’t stop him. He’ll be knackered if he tries it by bike.”

  “He says we’ll take a train.” I slipped the “we” in kind of mumbly, but he heard.

  “You’re not going, are you?”

  Now I shrugged, not looking at him. He didn’t talk for a bit, but finally he said, “I told your dad I’d look out for you. I can’t if you take off.”

  “She can if she likes,” said Con.

  “Of course she can,” said Michael. “She’s not paralysed.”

  I changed the subject because I didn’t know myself if I wanted to or not. “What we going to do tonight?”

  “I thought, a campfire. I got us some Dutch sausages and lager.”

  That perked us up. Took both our minds off leaving the group.

  Trouble with campfires in Zeeland is, there’s not enough wood. Still, we found the odd crate and that, and a place where it looked like there’d been a fire before, and as soon as twilight came we lit it.

  Right away every other camper in the place rushed towards us, and soon you’d have thought you were at a boy scouts’ jamboree. People from all over the place were sitting round our bit of a fire – Germany, France, Belgium, you name it. The “camp commandant” as they called him came belting over to complain, but Michael took him aside and next thing you know he was sitting down with us sucking beer from a can and even joining in the sing-song that some of the Dutch kids started up.

  They’re dead organised, those Dutch. Two of them went round collecting up what everybody had to eat and giving it out again so in the end we got bits and bites of food from all over the blooming continent – all kinds of sausages (none as good as Dad’s Polish ones, but some weren’t bad), buns and rolls and sweet biscuits and some of that Swiss chocolate, and sauerkraut. And loads of different kinds of cheese. We threw in some of our Mars bars which the Dutch boy carefully cut up so everyone got about one crumb – honest, talk about the loaves and fishes!

  Somehow we all filled up. Then the drinks went round. Beer, lager, fizzy drinks, and some wine. I never tasted wine before – didn’t like it much. The Dutch boys nearly finished us off when we were all calling out our national toasts. Like, the French said, “Bon santé!” and we said, “Cheers!” But then when it was the Dutch kids’ turn, they all shouted something that sounded like “UP YOUR GAZOONTHITE!” They couldn’t understand what we were laughing about.

  Even after all that, those Dutch kids hadn’t had enough of organising us. Next thing was, all the groups from the different countries had to sing a song or do something to entertain the rest. Right off, guitars came out and an accordion. My heart sank a bit. What could any of us do? Not one of us played the guitar. As for singing. . . . Well, I suppose we could sing a bit like anyone else, but not good enough for a public performance. Me, I’d have died sooner.

  While two French boys were doing a fantastic clown’s act, good enough for New Faces any day, Michael was looking round at all of us, his eyebrows asking, “Can anybody fly the flag for Britain?” The boys pretended not to notice. Karen and me put our heads down on our knees. Con didn’t say anything.

  I leant over to her. “Can you sing or something?” I whispered.

  “Course I can sing, who can’t?” she said.

  “You better then, ’cause none of us can.”

  She looked straight at Michael and said, “I will if you will.”

  He looked back at her. He smiled into her eyes. First time I noticed what a sweet smile he’d got, like Robert Redford’s. “Okay,” he said. “You first. Mine goes on all night.”

  So when the Dutch boys shouted across the fire, like TV announcers, “Now it is the turn of Great Britain!” we all boosted Con onto her feet. Everyone clapped and cheered her on. When Michael smiled at her, I’d wished I was in her shoes. Now I’d rather have sunk through the ground. The firelight shone on her face and about thirty pairs of eyes were glued to her, and there came this silence, waiting. But she didn’t care. She didn’t even giggle or anything. She just opened her mouth and sang.

  She still had her way-out look, even in her cycling gear. Instead of blue jeans she’d got baggy Annie-Hall trousers – black of course – with her wet-look jacket over them, loads of badges and that, and she’d dyed her hair fresh just before she came and even bleached a stripe down the middle of it. So naturally she had to sing a punk song, even though it sounded a bit thin with no backing.

  We don’t want to make the grade.

  When you make the grade you feel afraid.

  And you look back down at your pals below.

  And you just don’t want to know.

  We don’t want to make it to the top.

  When you get to the top you got to stop.

  And when you stop at the very top

  You stamp on the hands below.

  I didn’t like it much. And I thought Con didn’t either. She was singing it to fit her image, but it didn’t fit the place or the mood. So when they clapped her she said, “Now I’ll sing a different kind.” And she stood still (she’d been shaking around before, real Bette Midler stuff) and sang an old Beatles number off a reissue. I only vaguely knew it, but there was a Belgian there with a guitar and he started to back her. All the songs and acts so far had been loud or funny or punk, and then came Con’s second song, and it was a real contrast.

  The words were so bloody sad! That poor old priest that nobody ever came to his church except when they were buried. . . . I was crying almost. And what a voice! We never knew she could sing like that. We were all giving each other looks. Darryl’s mouth hung open, staring up at her.

  When she finished she just sat down again, cool as you like. There was a pause, then everyone started clapping and cheering, and I wished I was her again, or just me with some talent.

  Then it was Michael’s turn.

  You couldn’t say he wasn’t nervous – he was. When it came to it he tried to cop out, but everyone sort of got under him and shoved him on to his legs. He said, “I hope most of you speak English because I’m going to say a long poem.” They all gave a cheer and he took a deep breath, and was off.

  Long! I’m telling you! It must’ve been about fifteen verses. It was the one about the little boy called Peter that stuck his finger in the leak in the dyke. Only it turned out to be his whole hand. It was still pretty far fetched and it didn’t half go on, but somehow it was good. The bit I liked best was when this Peter first heard the trickle of water coming through the leak. Later – much later – I got Michael to write that verse down for me.

  But hark! through the noise of waters

  Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;

  And the child’s face pales with terror,

  And his blossoms drop to the ground.

  He is up the bank in a moment,

  And, stealing through the sand,

  He sees a stream not yet so large

  As his slender, childish hand.

  ’Tis a leak in the dyke! He is but a boy,

  Unused to fearful scenes,

  But young as he is, he has learned to know

  The fearful thing that means.

  A leak in the dyke! The stoutest heart

  Grows faint that cry to hear,

  And the bravest man in all the land

  Turns white with mortal fear.

  For he knows the smallest leak may grow

  To flood in a single night;

>   And he knows the strength of the cruel sea

  When loosed in its angry might.

  Well. Maybe it’s a load of rubbish. I don’t know anything about poetry. But I like it. I liked the way Michael said it and the way they all listened. And they all clapped their heads off at the end, so I wasn’t the only one.

  9 · Darryl

  There was a good bit of mucking about, about the tents, before we all settled down. Because if you work it out, seven people into four tents won’t go, I mean not if three of the people are girls.

  In the end it was me and Connie in one, Kev and Cliff in one, Michael and Darryl in one – and poor old Karen all on her lonesome in the other. At least, she was all on her lonesome to begin with. Her tent was next to ours and there was a good bit of giggling and scrunching around in the middle of the night, but Con didn’t say anything and neither did I. It wasn’t Kev I could hear whispering and scuffling in there and that was all I was worried about.

  Packing up next morning was a dead bore. Rolling the tents up tight enough to squeeze back into the tiny little duffle-bag things took hours and we got fed up and narky. Michael was ever so patient, showing us what he called short-cuts to doing things, and managing to organise us without us minding. Karen actually cooked the breakfast. It was only hot hard-boiled eggs but she did it. You’d have thought it was a four-course meal the way she went on about it. She never cooks at home. Her mum won’t let her, she’s so cack-handed.

  We set off latish, but it didn’t matter. We’d just begun to realise time didn’t mean a thing to us any more. No more alarm clocks to wake us up for school, nobody telling us to get a move on or we’d be late . . . no more horrible buzzers to make us change classes, or bangs on the bathroom door, or a big sister telling us it was her turn for the mirror. And nobody nagging us to do chores or homework, or yelling that the dinner was going cold. We were on our own.

  While we were riding along, I said to Connie, “Isn’t it great, doing what we want when we want?” and she said, “Yeah, it’s like old Shaughnessy was always going on about, natural rhythms.” Miss Shaughnessy was our science teacher. It was great to feel our natural rhythms could bang on without her in future!

  Michael led the way to a little market. Kev and Cliff bought cans of Coke and as near as they could get to what they ate at home, but I was getting in the mood “to go Dutch”. I watched what Darryl and Michael bought. They were standing by a pushcart that had a barrel on it. Out of this the man took little silver fishes, all dripping water. Someone would buy one and put their head back and gobble it down like a sword swallower and then pull out the skeleton. Michael did it too, but he spat most of it out. Darryl watched carefully and when it was his turn, he did just the same as the locals and afterwards swore it was delicious.

  Me, I went for the fried fillets they served from another stall. No batter on them, it was just strips, but it tasted great – fresh, like the sea smells. I could’ve eaten ten of them. I made do with five.

  Kev came up to me, munching little thin chips.

  “What’s that rubbish you’re eating?”

  “It’s good. Give us a chip.”

  He gave me one, putting it straight in my mouth. Then he looked round a bit to see none of the others was near enough to hear, and said, “Let’s do a bunk.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “We’re heading for Rotterdam, ain’t we? Bet they got trains there for Amsterdam all the time. We could just give Michael the slip in the traffic.”

  I wasn’t keen. I suppose he saw my eyes stray to Michael.

  “You fancy him or something?” he asked me, sharp.

  “Course not!” The idea gave me a jump, somehow. “Why?”

  “You’re always looking at him.”

  “I am not!”

  He put his arm round me. “I don’t want to spend another night like last night,” he said. “Didn’t sleep a wink. At least not till Cliff got out.” He looked at me straight. “You know he had it off with Karen last night.”

  “So he says,” I said.

  “He did. But then anyone can make it with Karen. I’m glad you’re not like her.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was remembering the noises coming from the next tent in the night. Cliff had made it all right, and then gone running off first thing to blab to Kev. It made me sick, to be honest. I mean I’m no prude, at least I try not to be, but if that isn’t private, what is? I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if it’d been me in a tent on my own.

  Of course if it’d been in the middle of a field somewhere, with no others near it, that would’ve been different. Or would it? I wasn’t sure how I’d have felt, to say the true.

  “Listen,” I said. “Why can’t we stick with the others? It’s fun so far.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Kev. “It’s not my idea of fun. I can do without all this fresh-air-and-exercise kick. Me back aches and me lungs is gasping for a breath of petrol fumes. And what’s the opposite of claustrophobia? ’Cause I got it. All this space is giving me the habdabs.”

  “Well, but we’re going to Rotterdam, that’ll be shut-in enough for you. . . .”

  “I’ll tell you where I want to be shut in. In a two-man tent with you.”

  “Can’t put up a tent in a town, stupid. And youth hostels is segregated.”

  He gave me his last chip and lowered his voice a bit more.

  “Listen,” he said. “Darryl ain’t the only one who’s been working. You know when I bunked off school those days? I was doing some odd jobs. Picked up a bit of the needful, more than a bit if you want to know. So you and me, we don’t have to depend on youth hostels, or tents. We could go to a hotel.”

  Would you believe it? A hotel! Just like that!

  “Well, what do you say?”

  “You’re crazy,” I said. But he must’ve seen a bit of me liked the idea (and don’t ask which bit).

  “I’m crazy about you,” he said.

  He’d never said anything like that before. Never looked at me like that before either. We just stood there staring into each other’s eyes. I felt woozy. His eyes were blue with little brown bits like chocolate flakes. He’d filled out a bit lately. His shoulders too. I won’t say I didn’t fancy him because I did. I let myself think about being alone with him in a hotel room, all nice and private and clean, with our own bathroom and the sheets ironed. . . . Turned me on a lot more than thinking about rolling around in a tent, I can tell you. Matter of fact it turned me on a bit too much for comfort. I moved away from him.

  “Where you going?”

  “Back to the others.”

  “Cop-out!”

  “Okay!”

  “So you won’t come?” he asked, following me close, panting down my neck like a bloodhound.

  “I never said that. We’ll see.”

  “Oh all right, play hard to get then! Maybe I’ll take Connie instead.”

  Honest, boys are so babyish. So obvious. It’s hard to keep respecting them. Even Lily wouldn’t pull a silly trick like that to get her own way. In that moment I swung right away from the idea, right away from him.

  “Ask her then, and see how far you get,” I snapped, and ran off to where we’d left our bikes.

  *

  I rode the next hour or so with Darryl.

  It was funny about Darryl. I’d known him six years and never paid him a bit of notice. He was just a dumbo who sat in the back of the class and hadn’t even sense enough to resent the Irish jokes, which could easily all have been about him. That was what I thought.

  But there’s some people who’re not dumb really, they’re just kind of asleep. Give them the right sort of prod, and they jump up and start sending off sparks in all directions, like a catharine wheel.

  Ever since the off about this trip, he’d been like a different person. Running all over the place, working, talking, learning even. I’d laughed at the idea of him learning Dutch in a couple of weeks when he hadn’t learned to say Bonjour Mada
me in six years. But he’d done it. Oh, not properly, of course not. But he had his phrase book he’d bought down the High Street, and he’d learned to say good morning and how do you do, and how much is this, and which way to the gents and quite a lot more besides. Now when we were shopping for food, or eating in a café, he insisted on ordering in his terrible Dutch, and he didn’t care if they didn’t understand a word and he had to point it out in the phrase book. He just kept on at it. He was the only one of us that bothered to figure out the guilders and that, too – the rest of us just held out some money and hoped they’d be honest and take the right amount.

  As we rode along you could see Darryl thought the world of his brother, he kept bringing his name into the talk.

  “Wasn’t Michael something else last night? That poem?”

  “Yeah, it was all right.”

  “He half brought me up, you know. Specially since Dad went.”

  “Went? Where’d he go?”

  “Died, didn’t he. Three years ago.”

  “Oh.” Mum always says “passed away”. “Went” could mean anything.

  “He’s the eldest, see. There’s five of us. Mum couldn’t manage on her own.”

  I wondered if my mum could have managed if Dad had died. I bet she could. Lots of widows do. So without thinking, I asked, “Why couldn’t your mum manage?”

  He didn’t answer for a minute. I could hear all our tyres swishing along the track. Just before he did answer, I suddenly remembered.

  “She gets ill a lot.”

  Boozed, more like. There’d been talk at school. Still, I liked him for covering up for her.

  “He’s clever, you know. Wanted to stop on at school, take A-levels. Only once Dad went, he had to leave and get a job. On the building three years now. He’d like to design ’em, not build ’em, and he could, too, if he’d had a chance, if Dad hadn’t gone.”

  I was thinking about Kev, though, and what Con had said. I interrupted him. “Darryl, if Con was to ask you to do a bunk for a bit, just her and you – would you go?”

  He looked at me, surprised. He had this rough, reddish hair, curly now it was beginning to grow out of its punk cut. He had freckles. I hate freckles, I could never kiss a boy with freckly lips. You can’t see where they finish, they’re all sort of smudgy. Still, you don’t have to fancy a boy to like him. I liked Darryl better than Cliff, even if he was a bit wet sometimes. Darryl only acts hard.