‘Everything,’ he shouted over the music. To watch her dance around, grinning like a fool was to be filled with joy. She was a miracle.
‘Chris, love, you’re an angel.’ She bent, took his face in her hands and kissed him on the cheek. He closed his eyes, but she had already let go, and when he opened them she was twirling around the kitchen again, lifting the kettle from the hob now and parading around with it like one of Pan’s People. She filled the kettle with water, her bottom wiggling in her tight blue jeans. She held the kettle to the skies, spun and placed it back on the hob. With a flourish she lit the gas with a match, blew it out with a wink.
‘Come on, Chris,’ she cried out to him. ‘Dance with me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can, don’t be soft.’
She rounded the table and pulled him up, took his hand and put her other hand on his waist. She rocked one way, then the other, and despite himself, he followed her. He had no choice – she was leading. He thought, could not help but think, of Angie.
‘All right,’ he said, his voice loud under the low ceiling, and pushed Phyllis back from him. Determined to lead, to show her he could, he kept hold of her hand as he had seen Adam do with women in the clubs. She laughed and spun back, wrapping his arm around her as she went, then unwinding again, letting go of him. She continued to dance, waving her fingers at him as she backed away, laughing when she banged her backside against the dresser. The song changed – three beats in and she shouted:
‘ “Best of My Love”!’ Her voice was still high. There was real glee in it, he thought. ‘I love this one!’
He did his best to dance alongside her. He had the beat but could not make it part of him like she could.
‘That’s it,’ she said, taking his hands in hers and moving them in time, but at the sweetness of it, at her proximity and her joy, he felt himself beginning to panic. His heart raced, his eyes prickled. He could not look at her. After a beat or two more, he broke from her and went to turn down the music – blew back his fringe, as if out of breath.
‘You’ll wear me out,’ he said, sitting down at the table.
She stopped dancing and came to join him. She sat down and drank her tea, and for a moment he was filled with regret at having spoiled her dance. The music had fallen away to no more than tinny percussion.
‘I’d like my name back,’ he said.
She frowned, perplexed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve given it a lot of thought,’ he said, though the idea had only come to him in that moment, through a desperate need to divert her attention. ‘I want the name you gave me. That’s my name. My name is Martin. I’d like to change it by deed poll or however these things are done.’
She nodded. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘You can still call me Christopher. Or Chris. Otherwise it’s too confusing for everyone. But officially, I’d like to be Martin.’
She paused, smiled shyly. ‘I may as well tell you while we’re at it that David and I have talked.’
‘What?’ Hot dread flared up inside him – why, he had no idea.
‘We want the spare room to be your room.’
He met her gaze, felt his brow knit. ‘I thought…’
‘I know it’s already your room, but what I mean is, I want you to keep your stuff in it in a more permanent way instead of having to clear out every time. If you want to put up posters, put clothes in the drawers, what have you… I want our home to be your home.’ She took his hand and held it in both of hers. ‘Have a think.’
‘I don’t need to,’ he said, feeling his face break into a smile, a great grin over which he had no control. ‘I would really, really like that.’
For the rest of that week, whether it was building sandcastles with the twins at Freshwater West, picnicking at Barafundle Bay, or rockpooling at Cwm-yr-Eglwys, Christopher would catch Phyllis’s eye and she would smile and he would know that she, like him, was thinking about his room in her home – his home now. His family. In these moments, he said, his happiness threatened to overwhelm him entirely until there was nothing left of him but that: happiness, pure happiness, ephemeral as tears wept into the salty pools of the sea.
* * *
Christopher became Martin but remained Christopher, if that makes sense. He studied hard, as was his way, and often took work home, where he would study in the kitchen while the twins watched television or played in their room. Phyllis pottered about. She had moved her day off to Friday so the two of them could spend the day together. Silently she slid cups of tea or coffee across the table to him, laid a hand on his shoulder as she passed or gently scratched his head. She didn’t speak to him while he worked, but he could feel her near, and the thought of her helped him settle, and concentrate. Sometimes he would look up from his books and watch her work and be filled with the deepest sense of calm. When David got home, the mere sound of his key in the lock broke what was a kind of trance, as if to signal that here was a peace that could not last. David would always stop on the threshold of the kitchen, an indefinable expression crossing his face: disapproval, perhaps, though not as strong as that. Doubt?
Suspicion?
One weekend towards Christmas, Christopher arrived as usual early on Friday afternoon, expecting to spend the afternoon with Phyllis. He ran the length of Langdale Road and, breathless, rapped on the door. To his surprise, it was David who answered.
‘Here he is,’ he said, and though his voice was friendliness itself, Christopher sensed that something hid there, something intangible.
Christopher smiled and threw out his hands. ‘I come empty-handed, but I can pop to the shop later and get some cans of lager or wine or whatever.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ said David, reaching out to give him his customary handshake. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Christopher stepped into the house and took off his coat and shoes. David was waiting on the bottom step.
‘Follow me,’ he said, going ahead up the stairs.
Christopher followed him up and along the landing to his own bedroom door.
‘There you go,’ said David, throwing open the door. ‘Surprise.’
Christopher looked into his room, where a white desk stood against the far wall next to the window.
‘Got it from a mate,’ said David. ‘He had it in his garage. It’s been in our garage for two weeks. I’ve sanded it, painted it, varnished it. What do you think?’
‘Golly,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s a desk.’
‘Of course it’s a desk.’ David laughed, more than the remark deserved. ‘Can’t have you cramped up on the kitchen table, can we? Need your own proper study space at your age.’
‘I’m fine in the kitchen,’ said Christopher, realising the mistake as the words left his mouth. He turned to look at David, tried to meet his eye. ‘But yes, this is incredible. Thank you, thank you so much.’