“Did you get the whiskey?” you asked.
“Of course,” Jonathan said. “How many people have you invited?”
“Just a few. The regulars from the pub, neighbours. I thought we’d keep it small.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said. “And I might have invited a few more than a few.”
“Hang on,” I said, my head in the gap between the two front seats. “Invited?”
“Bloody hell, Jonathan. Not all those old hippies you’re always picking up?”
“You know they’re very friendly.”
“This is your party?” I said.
You smiled, winked, and tweaked my cheek for reassurance.
Do you ever get that memory trick, where you think about a place and realise you are already there? It happens to me often now when I’m remembering, sitting here in the early mornings. Memories unwind: the high blowsy hedgerows of summer, walkers in shorts standing on the verge to let the car go past, the sweet tang of cowslip, the village sign for “Spanish Green only,” the flash of the sea through a farm gate, and apprehension and excitement building inside me. I can see the view through the windscreen as you turn the car onto the drive. I can remember my gasp at that first proper sight of the land (grass and gorse) dipping away towards a wide expanse of sky and the busy water, shining. I hadn’t imagined there could be English views as beautiful as those I’d seen in Norway. I can recall getting out of the car and turning towards the house (low and wooden, single-storied, with a tin roof) and the veranda, its paint peeling and a circular table at one end. A cricket pavilion, I thought. And with a jolt I realise I’m on that same veranda, I’m sitting at that memory table writing this letter. That house from sixteen years ago is my house now.
The cars and camper vans boxed each other in on the drive and people crowded the veranda, the hall, the sitting room, and the kitchen. Men shook Jonathan’s hand, a few slapped you on the shoulder, and the girls kissed you, embraced you for slightly too long; seemed disappointed, I thought, when you introduced me. Someone turned up the music, opened the French windows, and four girls in orange jumpsuits danced. The people squashed in to see, sweating in the summer evening, shouting above the music and conversations. The bottles Jonathan had brought were poured, glasses lined the windowsills, the air filled with smoke, the pub up the road closed, and the party swelled. And when your house was bursting with dancing, and shouting, and people drinking, I lost sight of you.
In the sitting room you’d introduced me to Martin and George, then left to get me another drink. Maybe you thought I’d be safe and occupied talking to those two. Every now and again I stood on tiptoes to check your whereabouts, only half listening to their conversation. A ring of people had drawn away from the dancers and I glimpsed you being pulled by one of them into the group. I saw your head dip towards hers, heard whistles and claps, and the gap through the people closed. I craned my head.
“They’ll be troublemakers, mark my words,” George was shouting over the noise. “Campfires on the beach, broken glass, used rubber johnnies . . .”
“New holiday homes mean more people. And that means more business,” Martin said.
“. . .troublemakers, all of them. . .” George said.
“More shandies, more pints pulled.”
“Village girls being pulled, more like.”
“Good for business,” Martin said. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
“Get them pregnant and then bugger off to Blackpool or wherever they’ve come from.”
“It won’t be people from Blackpool. They’ve got their own beach,” Martin said.
“It’ll be like the GIs all over again.”
“I don’t think the new holidaymakers are likely to leave used rubber johnnies on the beach,” I said, still looking through the crowd for you, “and get the village girls pregnant.” I left them to continue their argument and pushed my way through the packed room. The slower music had been replaced with something more rhythmic, the beat thrumming up through the wooden floor to my bones. I stood at the edge of the circle of men watching the dancing girls, just three now. One of them had taken her arms out of her jumpsuit and rolled it down around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She danced by rotating her hips; and her breasts, small and tipped upwards at the nipples, were surprisingly solid. I asked a man if he’d seen you, and without taking his eyes from the girl he said, “Who’s Gil?”