The Summer of Secrets (14 page)

‘Dad wants to go the other way, anyhow.’

She wandered across to a stack of wood, piled between rusted metal supports.

‘What do you suppose these are for?’ They were the size of railway sleepers, all the same dimensions, their ends crumbling in the same way as the lock gates. The sun was directly on them and, checking the top layer for insects first, climbed up, the warmth pleasing under her legs.

‘Dunno.’ Victoria hopped up too, stretching herself to one side to reach into a pocket. She drew out a cigarette, bent from being in her pocket, a roll-up like one of Piet’s, but thicker and longer.

‘Never seen you smoking before.’

‘All right, Granny.’ Victoria had pulled out a small box of matches as well. She took her time straightening the cigarette before putting it in the corner of her mouth, then she struck a match. She leaned forwards so the end of the cigarette was directly over the flame. It took a couple of attempts to get it going, and the match burned down to her fingers. She dropped it to the ground with a shake.

Helen watched her lie down on her back, knees bent and feet flat on the wood. The line of smoke curling up from the cigarette’s end smelled sweeter than the tobacco Piet and her dad used. Stronger, too, when it was this close. When Victoria held it out to her, she reached for it without giving herself time to think. For a second, she felt the cool surface of Victoria’s nails under her fingertips as the cigarette was passed across.

‘You have to get on with it or it’ll go out.’ Victoria tilted her head up, shading her eyes with her hand.

‘I know.’ Helen carried on studying it. ‘Did you get it from Piet? I thought he was always telling you not to start.’

‘No’ Victoria kept her face to the sun. ‘I got it from Moira actually. She taught me how to make them.’

It felt like a challenge. The paper end was soggy, and Helen hesitated before tearing a bit off with her thumbnail. It was harder to tidy up than she had imagined, strands of tobacco pulling out like ends from a holey jumper. Giving up, she put it in her mouth, and drew in a cautious breath. It was easier than she expected, and on the second inhalation, she leaned back and let the smoke out slowly, watching it curl and spread. Suddenly a feeling of tightness took over, she couldn’t catch her breath, and she spoiled it by coughing. She handed the cigarette back to Victoria. It was no good. She was going to have to ask.

‘Is Moira still staying with you?’

‘No.’ Victoria blew out another stream of smoke. ‘She only needed a couple of nights to get sorted.’ She held out the cigarette again.

Helen forced herself to sound casual: ‘And? What was she like in the end?’

The smoke had sent a light tingle down to her fingers, and her heartbeat had speeded up. She let herself drop back and closed her eyes, but everything started to spin. When she opened them, Victoria was blurry.

‘OK, actually. She was telling us about all the places she’s lived in.’ Victoria hugged her knees. ‘She was at Greenham Common, you know. Cutting through the wires and blocking the roads.’ Her voice had become high and fast and, as if suddenly aware of it, she leaned back on her elbows and slowed down to a nonchalant drawl. ‘She was telling us about last winter, living in tents with no heating. It was like being in the Middle Ages, she said.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ Helen struggled for something more to say. Thinking about Moira made her feel like she was one end of a magnet being pushed against the polar opposite of another. ‘Why isn’t she there now?’

‘Oh,’ Victoria’s voice was casual. ‘It wasn’t radical enough. All the holding hands and stuff.’

Helen forced a laugh. ‘Wasn’t that the point? Holding hands instead of bombs, I mean.’

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t work, does it?’ Victoria met her eye, challenging her to disagree. ‘Moira says that sometimes direct action is the only course.’

They sat for a time in silence. Helen had the cigarette again, but the smell was making her nauseous. She handed it back to Victoria, but it had gone out. Victoria threw the end into the grass and stood up.

‘I want to cross over,’ she said. She swung herself up on to the top of the lockgate and edged out to where it angled against the other one of the pair. ‘Come on! It’ll take more than us to make it collapse.’ As if to prove the point, she turned a neat cartwheel along the remaining length of the narrow beam.

Following slowly, Helen gripped the scored and flaking wood of the gate. She didn’t like balancing at the best of times, and right now her head felt unreliable even on solid ground. But Victoria was off. She thought about Moira, about the emptiness of the long days without the Dovers, and she hauled herself up.

The ground on the far side was less overgrown than on the towpath, with fields reaching down to the canal. They got to the end of one field where the bank had been trodden into mud by cows. Several were standing there, noses dipping towards the water. As one they all turned their heads towards the girls. The nearest cow took a clumsy step forward and Helen lost her balance, splashing ankle-deep into a brown-skinned pool. Victoria’s laughter rang out in the quietness.

‘It’s not funny!’ Helen hopped around, trying to find a patch she could safely stand on. But soon she couldn’t stop giggling either. She reached the fence on the far side and stood on one foot, trying to decide if it would be worse to keep the shoe on or walk barefoot.

‘Dip your whole foot into the canal.’ Victoria tried and failed to restrain a snort. ‘It’ll be OK, dry out in no time.’

There wasn’t anything else for it. The mud had squeezed its way right inside, and she had to take the plimsoll off to wash it out.

‘I should step in with the other one, too. At least they’d be the same colour.’ It seemed like the funniest idea she’d ever had. As if attracted by the noise, he cow started coming towards her again. ‘Vic, help me!’

She stumbled, windmilling for balance. At the last minute, Victoria grabbed at her flailing arm, getting a tight hold of her wrist. A tug got her started, and she came up the bank at a run, cannoning into Victoria and almost sending them both over. They swayed together for balance, and Helen smelled lavender and coconut and the sweet smokiness of the cigarette. She dropped her eyes.

‘Look at my shoes. They’ll never be the same again.’

Victoria pulled away, wiping the edge of her own sandal on the grass. ‘You can bung them in the washing machine. It’s what I always do.’ She carried on towards the edge of the field. ‘Come on!’

Helen paused to brush off the worst of the mud before jogging slowly after Victoria. She could feel the cows’ eyes following her.

Somehow, the narrowboat was there as she rounded the corner. She hadn’t thought they’d come that far along. It looked in even worse shape close up, the red-and-blue paintwork faded and peeling, and green mould encroaching on the portholes. Victoria was already next to it and, before Helen could say anything, she knocked on the boat’s side.

‘Vic, what are you doing?’ Helen’s voice automatically dropped to a whisper.

Victoria ignored her and knocked again. Helen could see food tins that could only have been on the bank for a short time. ‘We should go. I think someone’s living here.’

‘Why are you always running away?’ Victoria peered into one of the grimy windows before knocking for a third time.

A hatch was pushed opened in the side of the boat and a man stuck his head out. Helen waited for a shout, but he said something that made Victoria laugh and set off for the far end of the boat. It rocked as she stepped on. She didn’t look back at Helen.

Helen stayed where she was for a few minutes, irresolute, listening to the sound of voices inside. She couldn’t make anything out, so she went closer until she could see in through the hatch.

The interior of the boat was dark, and the air coming out was heavy with the staleness of a small space and laced with the same sweet smell as the cigarette they’d shared by the lock. She could make out a narrow sofa against one wall with blankets tumbled along it; plastic bags spilling out their contents; glasses lined up on the floor. Something shifted in the gloom, and a naked foot appeared. Helen jumped back, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

The man’s face appeared at the hatch again.

‘Are you coming in or not?’ He had broken teeth, and dark creases dragging at the skin of his face.

‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Helen gave him a quick smile. ‘My feet are wet, I’m OK out here.’

Victoria joined him. ‘Come on, don’t be rude.’

The man retreated, leaving space for someone else.

‘Hey.’ Moira was rubbing her eyes, as if she’d only that minute woken up. ‘Come and join us.’

If Moira was here, Helen realized she could stop wondering about Seth. She wished that made getting on the boat easier to take.

Helen smiled, keeping her lips pressed together. The muscles on her face ached from being kept in an interested expression. She was sitting on the top step so that she could stick her head out every so often, although the air above deck reeked of petrol.

‘So we ended up down by the harbour, but the
poli
found us. They kicked us awake.’ Moira reached down to tap the ash from her cigarette into a can on the floor, then leaned back again, one leg tucked under herself, the other stretched along the sofa. She had pushed the covers up to one end, and Victoria was perched on top of them, her face turned towards Moira, hanging on to every word. ‘This guy, Jose Luis, he’d been in the original protest, and we were all pretending to be thick English hitch-hikers, you know, not understanding what they were saying, and he was hiding at the back.’

‘Wow.’ Victoria sounded breathless.

Moira reached down again, picked up the can and peered inside it. Helen thought she was going to drink from it, but she took one last draw from the cigarette and dropped the stub in through the hole. ‘Are there any more, Dave?’

The man had been sitting on a high stool the whole time, one elbow propped on the open edge of the side hatch, also watching Moira talk, but with an expression that was more difficult to read than Victoria’s. It might have been amusement. He gave a belch, not bothering to cover his mouth, then slid down to get another can from a box on the floor.

‘Last one.’ Helen felt his eyes flicker over her before returning to Moira. He stepped across to give Moira the beer. ‘We’ll have to hitch into town if you want any more.’

‘Yeah, in a minute.’

‘And what happened next? How did you get away?’ Victoria sounded impatient.

‘Oh, us girls got to the front, gave them a bit of attention. They went off happy.’ Moira detached a pair of jeans from a bundle of clothes on the floor, and started to pull them up over her pyjama shorts. ‘They wouldn’t have been so happy the next night.’

‘Why, what happened?’

Moira grasped the bottom edge of her T-shirt with her hands crossed over, and pulled it over her head, so her voice was slightly muffled by the fabric. ‘We petrol-bombed the bar where the police hung out after hours.’

Moira didn’t have anything on underneath. A frisson of shock ran across Helen’s skin and she found herself staring. Hurriedly she dipped her chin, eyes fixed on the floor, her own hands, anything but Moira. Dave was watching her and, though she tried not to, she couldn’t help glancing round. He grinned at her, his teeth yellow and disgusting and, as their eyes met, he raised an eyebrow. She tried to pretend she hadn’t seen, focusing hard on the bubbles of rust on the doorframe and resisting the need to wipe at her mouth. When she turned back, Moira was wearing a bra, and had a one arm in the sleeve of a shirt. There was a brief silence as she buttoned it up.

‘I wish I could do things like that.’ Victoria had her gaze fixed on Moira, who was now wriggling her feet into her boots. ‘It would be so cool.’ She mimed a throwing action. ‘I could go for chucking petrol bombs around.’ Moira straightened up. ‘We didn’t do it for fun.’ Her mouth was set in a contemptuous line. ‘It’s an action against imperialism and oppression.’ She picked up a small bag, embroidered all over with tiny red flowers, and started to rummage inside. She spoke again without looking up. ‘You two can hop it now.’

‘
Did you know all along that she’d be there?
’

‘No.’ Victoria was leading the way up the path between the trees that Moira had pointed them towards. To each side of it, the ground was littered with tins and empty bags. ‘I knew she was on a boat somewhere along here, but I didn’t know where.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Helen could feel a headache closing in. She wanted to get away before Moira and the man came out of the boat.

‘Dunno. Probably because I knew you wouldn’t come.’

It felt like a long way back. They walked in silence, the path taking them through a stand of trees and over a scrubby no-man’s-land. It was well-trodden, and strewn with litter. Helen kept her head down, trying not to step on anything. In the corner of her vision, she could just see the start of the humped-back bridge.

‘Typical, we could have come this way in the first place and missed out the jungle.’ Victoria’s voice was jaunty.

‘How did she find it? I mean, did she know that guy before?’ Helen was beginning to see the sparkling lights of a migraine at the edge of her vision, even though the road here was in the shade.

‘What’s with the third degree?’ Victoria sounded impatient.

‘I was only asking.’

‘It’d be a cool place to stay, though, wouldn’t it?’ The boat was out of sight behind the trees. ‘I’d love to live there.’

‘Hmm.’ Helen rubbed at her temples. ‘The floor was sticky.’

‘Not good enough for you?’ Victoria walked a bit faster, then turned with her hands on her hips. ‘I was watching you, sitting there like you had a lemon in your mouth.’ Her voice was rising. ‘I thought you’d like to meet them. They’re interesting!’

‘But—’ Helen didn’t get a chance to say anything. Victoria had already spun round and was striding off along the road.

She caught up with her at the highest point of the bridge. Victoria was looking back along the water. As Helen came up to her, she turned.

‘You know, the trouble with you is, you can’t cope with people making choices that are different.’ Her voice was conversational and her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere over Helen’s shoulder. ‘You’re so worried about getting things dirty or getting them wrong. It’s pathetic.’ She started down the far side of the bridge. ‘And if you want to know,’ she carried on over her shoulder, ‘it’s not like you were invited. You followed, like you always do.’ Her voice drifted back. ‘You stay at home with your daddy and his stupid boat – I’m going to find one that floats.’