The Forever Girl

21



Ted had said to Clover: “Listen, if you feel awkward about going to the party, then why not come with me? Why not?”

He did not wait for her to reply. “We could walk,” he said. “It’s not far. I’ll swing by and collect you.”

She was at pains to say that she felt no awkwardness, although she was not sure that he believed her. Ted had a way of looking at you when you spoke as if he were weighing up the truthfulness or otherwise of what you said; Ted could tell. “I don’t mind,” she said, looking away to avoid his scrutiny. “It’s just that I’m not sure that I want to go.”

“But everybody …”

She chided him gently. “You don’t have to do something just because everybody else is doing it.”

He grinned at her. “You do, actually.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He had written an essay on conformity, and he told her about it. “I got an A for it, as it happens.”

“Clever you.”

“Well, I got quite a lot of it from the web, although I put it in my own words. There’s this fantastic site about personal psychology – it’s called something like The Authentic You. It says that at some stages in your life you really want to conform – you really don’t want to stand out. And you know when that is?”

She shrugged.

“Now. Right now. The stage we’re at. Where we are.”

“That is – if we’re at the same stage.”

He looked at her blankly. “We’re both sixteen.”

She pointed out, half-playfully, that boys and girls developed at different rates. “Sorry about that, Ted, but we’re more mature.”

“That’s what you think.”

“No, it’s what psychologists think.”

He was not convinced. “You wish.”

“It’s true.”

He returned to the subject of the party. “Please come. James will be pleased.”

She looked away. “You said something about a Canadian girl.”

“Laura.”

She had remembered the name, but had not wanted to utter it. “Her. You said that she and James are seeing one another.”

“Yes, they are. But you know something?”

Her heart gave a leap; perhaps he had heard that it was over. “What?”

“I don’t think it’s going to last.”

She asked him why he should think this, and he replied that he thought that James was bored. “He may like her, but …”

“But what?”

“She looks at him all the time, you see. I think I told you. Imagine what it must be like to have somebody looking at you all the time. Just think of it.”

Her voice was even. “He probably feels … probably feels guilty, or something. You shouldn’t look at people.”

“Not at all.”

She hesitated. “Well, maybe a bit. Now and then.”

He thought that everybody looked at people. “You can’t go around looking away all the time. How can you?”

“You have to be careful not to become obsessed.”

He was staring at her. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “You have to.” And then he continued, “Please say you’ll come with me. You can’t have anything better to do round here. Come on.”


“If you really want me to.”

“I do, Clove. I do.”

She wanted to go, of course, and did not want to go. She thought of her mother’s advice – if it really had been advice, and if it had actually been given: it was not pressed upon her, as advice usually is – rather it was trailed before her, hinted at. You could make yourself unhappy so easily by wanting something that you might never get; that unhappiness could be avoided by the simple expedient of thinking of something – or somebody – else. Of course that was right. She had seen it a hundred times in the magazines that she and her friends read at school: the problem pages spelled it out with wearying familiarity: don’t allow a boy to ruin your life; don’t waste your time; move on. They were right, of course – she knew that – but it was easier said than done. She should ignore James’s party, but Ted wanted her to go with him and she could at least oblige him. Ted liked James; he was perhaps a little bit infatuated by him; could boys be infatuated with other boys, and not be gay? She had talked about that with a friend at school who told her that her brother constantly talked about another boy. “He drives me mad,” she said. “He thinks this boy is just great. The great Anthony: Anthony the Great. He tells me everything Ant says. It’s all the usual stuff, but he still tells me. I think he wants to be him. That’s what it is, I think. He wants to be him. Go and be Ant, I said to him, and he just stared at me.”

Their conversation had come back to her later. It was not so much the question of how boys felt about each other that interested her – she thought that for the most part boys were indifferent to other boys; they liked to impress each other, but there was not much more to it than that. What fired her imagination was the thought that people might want to be somebody else. Was that what happened when you fell for somebody? Did you really want to be him, or did you want to be yourself beside him? She tried to imagine what it would be like to be James. She closed her eyes and then opened them as if she were inside James, looking out at the world with his eyes. It did not work.

No, she yearned for something quite different from what she imagined James wanted. She wanted to be with him; she wanted to listen to him because everything he said was somehow … What was it? Was it anything different from what Ted or any other boy said? Yes, it was. It was different, but she could not decide why this should be so. James was funny. James looked at you in a particular way when he spoke and that made the words seem different. James was beautiful. James made everything seem special, as if the sheer fact of his presence cast a light upon what was around him that was simply not there in his absence. Margaret used to say that about Jesus. She said: The Lord makes everything shine, you know. He makes it so different that you scratch your head and ask: is this the same place? Is this Jamaica? Is this Cayman? Or is it the Lord’s special place? Margaret had religion, and people who had religion said things like that; sang them too. But leaving Jesus and the Lord to one side, she wondered how one person, a boy, could do this? How could one person transform the world about him?

She had not allowed herself to use the word – at least about herself and James. But now she did. Now she thought she was approaching the heart of what was happening; she had fallen in love with him. This was the mysterious thing that people talked about so much, that was in almost every line of every song, written into the digital code of every mp3. Love. This is what it was. It was like a wave. It was like being covered by a great wave coming in off the open ocean; a wave that rolled you over and over, making you tumble helplessly in its force, rendering you unable to do anything about it because it was so strong. That was what it was like, and it was happening to her. She could admit that now. She loved James.

And what can you do if you are in love? What are you meant to do? Do you throw yourself at the person you love? Do you tell him how you feel and place yourself at his mercy? Or do you wait until the moment comes when what you are experiencing within yourself is somehow reciprocated and the feelings of two people coincide? The problem with that was that if she did nothing, James would be lost to her, and then somebody else – some girl from Vancouver – would step in and take him away. Lure him away with sex. Give him what every boy wanted and thought about all the time, if you could believe what you read about that.

Ted had hinted – in a smutty, childish way – that this is what had already happened. She could not bear to think about that. How dare she even touch him: slut. Even if they only kissed, that was too much. Her lips all over him, parted like the lips of a … mollusc. Mollusc. Her saliva in a little trail on his chin. Her teeth. Her disgusting, greedy lips. Her busy hands. Now she felt a new emotion: hatred. She hated that Canadian girl. She wished that she would die. No, she did not; you could not think that. She was a girl, just like she was. She had parents who probably loved her and would be upset if she were dead. You could not think that. Or just a little bit dead – dead for a short time – and then discovered still to be alive. No. Injured somehow. Run over, perhaps; not too badly, but enough to put her legs in plaster. No, that was cruel; you should not think cruel things about real people, and I will not. I will not. Sent away then. Sent back to Vancouver for doing something illegal in Cayman. Marched out of the country and being seen at the airport handcuffed to a fat Caymanian policewoman who ate too much unhealthy food and who wanted to get home to eat more fried conch and rum cake. Parents crying and waving goodbye; their only daughter disgraced on the front page of every newspaper; We had no idea she was such a slut, they said to the press. The Cayman Airways plane with its piratical, one-legged turtle painted on it waiting for her; people staring out of the windows and pointing at her. Goodbye. Goodbye. The sound of the plane’s engine and its blast blowing leaves and sand back across the runway like one of those high winds. Back to a school in Vancouver – a girls’ school – where there would be no boys to ogle or seduce. A school run by nuns, perhaps – if there were any of those left; they had them in Quebec still and they would come and scold you in French. A school where the dormitories were actually small cells with barred windows out of which, if you stood on a chair and peered, you might just see boys in the distance, all of them unaware of you; far away, out of reach.

She stopped herself. It was not in her nature to be unkind; in fact, she was naturally quite the opposite. I am an ordinary girl, with ordinary feelings; that’s all. She would not think such thoughts; she would make a real effort to like Laura, to see her better points … her hair, for instance. She stopped herself again.


In a moment of honesty, she said to Ted as they walked together up the short tarmac drive of the Collins house: “I feel nervous, Ted. Sorry, but I do.”

Ted turned to look at her. He smiled. “Of course you do, Clove. We feel nervous about people we like a lot. We feel worried in case they won’t like us as much as we like them.” He paused. “I feel nervous too.”

It occurred to her that it was not just for her sake that he had suggested she accompany him to the party. “Because …” she began.

He hesitated. “Same as you,” he muttered.

She reached out to him, but said nothing.

“I spoke to somebody once. He said I’d grow out of it. That’s what he actually said.”


“Maybe you will.”

He laughed. “Nobody says that any more. But at least with James I know it’s no use. I can be his friend – that’s all.”

She felt a rush of sympathy for the boy beside her. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It’ll have to be.” He paused. “But don’t think I’m unhappy – or all that unhappy. I’m not.”

“Good.”

“So let’s go in.”

James answered the door. She looked up and saw him; then she glanced at Ted. He was smiling, as was James.

“Clove?”

“Yes.”

“Ages …” He stepped forward, grinning, and put his arms about her. “Ages and ages.”

She felt his cheek against hers. “It’s been …”

“Ages,” he said. “Ted told me he had been in touch with you. Sorry, I haven’t myself. I’ve …”

His explanation died away, and she helped him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Cool. You must give me your e-mail.”

He held her away from him, looking at her. She felt his eyes upon her, and she blushed.

James turned to Ted. “She’s just as pretty as she always was, isn’t she, Ted?”

Ted nodded. “More, even.”

James gestured towards the inside of the house. “My folks are out until midnight. We’ve got the house till then.”

“Great,” said Ted. “Who’s coming?”

James shrugged. “Everyone,” he said. “You’ll know everybody, or just about everybody.” He smiled. “About twelve people max.”

They heard voices from further inside the house, which, like many houses of its vintage on the island, was a rambling warren of cool interiors. “That’s them,” James continued. “In the kitchen.”

Twelve, thought Clover, and winced inwardly. At a large party she could have avoided Laura if she chose to; with twelve it would be impossible. She glanced at Ted, who understood. “Laura?” he said. “Is Laura here?”

James shook his head. “They’ve gone to Florida for Christmas. Clearwater, I think.”

For Clover, it was a release from dread. “I wanted to meet her,” she blurted out, and immediately regretted it; he might ask how she knew; he might ask what Laura was to her.

But he did not. He smiled at her. “You’ll like her. I think she wanted to meet you too.” He paused. “She heard we were old friends.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Next time, maybe.”

They moved through the house, to join the other guests in the kitchen. There was music playing, and a couple of girls were emptying packets of snacks into bowls. There was a large container of popcorn and a bowl of what looked like fruit punch. One of the boys, whom she recognised as having been in the year above her at the Prep School, smiled at her as he poured a bottle of vodka into the punch. He poured her a glass, which she took gingerly. She did not like alcohol and would make one drink suffice for the evening.

They drifted out onto the patio, lit by a line of white lights strung along the eaves of the house. There was a pool, as there was with most of the houses in the area, shabbier than their own and with a water slide that leaned drunkenly to one side. “If you swim,” said James, “don’t get on that. Nobody’s used it for five years.”

She sat with Ted and James by the side of the pool, their feet resting on the first step below the water. For a brief moment she felt James’s right foot touch her own, and remain there briefly until he moved it away. She glanced at him, and he returned her glance in a way that she thought was encouraging. She wondered whether she should move her foot back, but did not.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” he said. “And you, too, Ted. The three of us again.”

“Like old times,” said Ted.

“Yeah, like old times.”

There was a burst of laughter from somewhere behind them; the party was getting going, but James seemed content to be talking just to them. He asked Clover about Strathearn and whether she liked it and whether there was anybody there he would know. Then Ted volunteered some information about the boarding school he was at. “It calls itself progressive,” he said. “But none of us knows what progressive is meant to mean. Nor do the teachers. Nor do people’s parents. Nobody knows.”

“But it sounds good,” said James.

Ted laughed. “Yes, it always sounds good to be progressive. I believe in progress. Great, so you believe in progress. Who doesn’t?”

James looked thoughtful. “Some people,” he said. “Some people want things to go backwards – to go back to what they used to be.”

She asked why.

“Because they’re conservative,” suggested Ted. “Because they hate other people.”

James looked sideways at him. “Not all …”

“Yes,” said Ted. “All.”

“I don’t think conservatives hate people,” said James. “They’re just …”

“Uncool?” said Clover.

James shook his head. “Not necessarily. In fact, it’s quite cool to be conservative these days. Ride a bike and so on, but be conservative.”

“I’m not interested in politics,” said Ted. “It bores me. Yabber yabber yabber. Build a road. Don’t build a road. Build an airport. More taxes, no less taxes. Yabber yabber.”

James looked at him indulgently. “So what gets you, Ted?”

There was a moment in which it seemed to Clover that Ted was wrestling with a question he found awkward. Then he said, “The same as you, James. The same things as you.”

The answer came quickly. “I don’t know what I’m interested in. You tell me.”

“Things,” said Ted lamely.

James teased him. “Come on!”

“Okay, sex.”

She drew in her breath. Ted had looked away after he had said this, but James had looked briefly in her direction. He was embarrassed – she could tell that, and she decided to defuse the tension that had suddenly risen.

“What all boys think about all the time,” she said lightly. “Or so we’re told. Actually, I don’t think they do.”

“How do you know what boys think about?” challenged Ted.

“Boys tell me.” It was untrue, and she could see that neither Ted nor James believed her.

Ted scoffed at this. “No boy is going to tell you what’s in his head. He couldn’t!”

“Maybe not,” said James. “But the same applies to girls. Girls don’t tell us what they’re thinking. We have to try to work it out.”

“Clothes,” muttered Ted.

She rounded on him. “What did you say? Clothes? Is that what you think?”

Ted looked to James for support, but James put up a hand. “No. Don’t go there.”

“We do not think of clothes all the time,” said Clover sharply.

“Some of the time then,” said Ted.

They smiled at that, and were silent for a moment as the topic expired. Clover shivered. She wanted Ted to go away now, to leave her with James, but he showed no sign of moving. James looked over his shoulder towards the others, who were now standing around a pool table at the edge of the patio. Somebody had turned up the music, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention to it. “I have to go and talk to them,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to them very much.”


He rose, leaving her sitting at the edge of the pool with Ted. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder as he stood up. “I love your shoulders,” he said.

She looked up at him in surprise. “What?”

“Just your shoulders,” he said quickly. “They’re so convenient for leaning on.” Then he added, “Sis.”

He turned to Ted. “And you, bro.”

“Lean on me any time,” said Ted.

James shook his head. “No thanks. I can stand now.”

After he had gone, the two of them sat in silence. Ted moved forward and dipped his hand into the pool. His fingers made shadows in the water.

“Still like him?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He called you sis,” said Ted. “Nice.”

“Do you think so?”

“It means that he sees you as a sister.”

“And you as a brother.”

Ted shrugged. “Okay with me.” He hesitated. “But not with you?”

She stared up at the sky beyond the fronds of the palm trees that ringed the Collins’s garden. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that. I can, I think. Maybe.”

“Why does he get under our skin?” asked Ted. “What’s it about him? What is it?”

She mentioned the first thing that came into her mind. “He’s kind.”

Ted looked doubtful. “Is that all?”

“That and other things.”

Ted dipped his hand back into the water. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

“Tell them what?”

“About me.”

“About what you told me?”

He nodded.

“Of course not. Being friends is about keeping the secrets you’ve shared.”

“Thanks. And I won’t tell anybody about you. You and him, that is.”

She thought there was nothing to tell, other than that she loved James and in return he regarded her as a sister.

Then Ted said, “You okay, my sister?” He had launched into a Caymanian accent – it was redolent of their shared childhood; the accent of the Caymanian children, the ones from West Bay, from the wrong side of the tracks, with whom they had played sporting fixtures at school, across such wide divides of wealth; of the Jamaican pool-man who scooped the leaves out of the water and cut the grass. It was comforting.

He touched her lightly on the arm. His hand was wet from the swimming pool. She liked him. She had always taken Ted for granted; she had never really seen him, in the way in which we see people we value.

She nodded. “Sort of, my brother.”

He became serious. “Don’t give up,” he whispered. “Just don’t.”