Mark Lake

At age eleven Mark Lake was allowed to stay out as late as he liked. He also had to put a pound coin in his telly to make it work. Even though I didn’t know what an erection was, I knew he could get one because he showed me the day I first met him, just after the teacher had come over to check our creative writing. We weren’t ever really friends, mainly because my parents disapproved of him. I even told him that and maybe it really hurt him. Like all the things that happened between us, I didn't think of it at the time. Later in life I smoked my first cigarette with him, stole from the village shop and in a way never really felt like I met his expectations. He seemed to be living in the world while I watched on.

One gusty October day Mark was going to the fair in the next village. We biked from his house to mine and I left him at the top of our raised driveway while I went to ask my certain-to-decline-parents if I could go. From the front room Mark was still visible on his beaten up yellow mountain bike, a pubescent hero outlined against the loaded autumn sky. He must have been at least a little nervous as he waited out there in the blue-grey of evening. Mum said, ‘No, but I’ll check with Dad’.

I went back out to tell Mark the news. He got on his bike and started riding in circles as I got near to him. I told him what they said. Part of me was ashamed in the shadow of his impulsive life, ridden and pushed by his moods. He must have pitied my chaste life. ‘Maybe Dad will say different.’ I said.

I sometimes wonder what my parents thought about Mark, what they knew about his past life, where he came from. They never really said what the problem with him was, although I felt like I knew. His stare was unnerving, he looked at people hungrily, demanding they live up to his expectations. In such a free spirit my parents must have found that threatening, even if I sensed a warmth in my mum's voice when she spoke to him.

At that moment she came trudging up the drive to deliver the aggregate verdict and was friendly. I could see the thought of my dad made Mark bristle a little, I don’t think he had a dad, but my mum was always gentle. No was still the answer. I watched him ride off and couldn’t guess what experiences he was moving on to.

Weeks later I was stood in his front room. His mum was never there and the house smelt of cigarettes. Mark was cursing the lack of pound coins to make the telly turn on. I can’t remember ever being in a space that smelt so strongly of smoke, a smell so strong it confused my vision, making the tattered looking arm chair and lumpy couch seem christmas wrapped in a dusky, cling-film thick membrane of grey particles. Mark went to his mums room searching for money. Looking out of the window all you could see was concrete, a half-dismantled Ford Orion and a small patch of grass where our bikes lay. He was back now and sent a coin rattling into the metal tubing that ran down the back of the T.V which eventually brought it flickering to life. His world was not mine.

We were actually on a mission that day. Mark wanted to tell a girl called Stephanie in the year above that he was in love with her. I had told my mum I was going to play football. I think we went to his house to get a pen or money for flowers, but now we were watching telly. I suppose he had all night to deliver the gifts, but it was already four and I had to be home by five thirty. I asked him what happened to the money that gets put into the T.V. He just shrugged.

Eventually he turned off the telly and we went to the kitchen. He got a hand full of money and a pen. We went out of the flat and back down the echoing communal stairway, bouncing off the railings like coins in a vending machine until we were out into a sunny October evening. We met the bikes still flung on the patch of grass. After getting on and strapping my helmet on I looked to Mark, and saw that he hadn’t got one so I took mine off and hung it on the bars of the clunky mountain bike I had inherited from my brother. I looked at the helmets polystyrene interior with my name written in black capital letters along the inside edge. Marks gaze was as hungry and driven as ever, but once we were out on our bikes in the sun, being friends with Mark seemed to make sense. Away from his house, in the bright light of day, we almost seemed a natural pairing.

The plan was to go to the village shop to buy a card and flowers, then on to Stephanie's house just outside the village at the end of a long track to deliver them. That was the most nerve-wracking part. Stephanie was from a big family called the Buntfords who were well known in the village. That did not matter to the born outsider Mark, but Stephanie’s parents knew mine. If they caught me it would be village news and my parents would know I lied. There was no point telling Mark, for him the idea that parents would be annoyed did not register. I just hoped that we could drop the flowers and go.

We quickly got to the village shop. A dark, messy empire of pot noodles and penny sweets. Even this place exemplified the contrast between me and Mark. Here he was a known village character, in a place that seemed foreign to me. My family always shopped in the less well stocked but longer running Post Office opposite. My sisters were even banned from coming into this place because of stories about the owner’s cheap deals for young girls, not that I knew that at the time. I just knew that we always shopped over the road where there seemed to be a bit more sunshine.

As soon as we walked into the shop Mark was met with a reception from Arthur the owner. ‘Where’s my two pounds you little bugger, you still owe me for your Mum’s cigarettes.’ he shouted, but his words belied a smile that shone only in his eyes.
‘You’ll get it.’ Mark shouted and pulled me into the only aisle that was hidden from the counter, the aisle with the cards in it. They were in a triangular column of pale pinks and blues, three cards wide and ten high on each side. Clearly here Mark felt I had some actual value and pushed me towards the pillar of paper and print. He was turning the display with one hand whilst his other held me in place. I can hardly ever remember feeling less useful. I didn’t understand why he wanted to give this note and flowers to Stephanie, it seemed like something from for a different type of person.

Mark had thumbed through a few cards, but the one he was holding now had pale pink roses on, wrapped in an even paler ribbon, lined in golden details with the message, ‘Just a note to say I love you’ written above them. The message meant nothing to me and seemed faint against his thick, grubby eleven year old thumb. I looked at him. For the first time I can remember I looked right at him. Looked at him as if he was just another boy like me. His brow was creased giving his face a tension that looked like it would rip it apart if it wasn’t for his already grown-up jaw being clenched firmly shut. Then his arm came from my back and joined the other clutching the card and now he held it like a treasure, slowly moving it forward towards me, submitting it for my approval. I looked at it again and back to him, aware that the first time he ever really needed help from me, I could offer nothing. We stood that way for a moment

Suddenly he was roused ‘Right, where are the flowers in this dump’, he said and was already off round the corner at the bottom end of the shop near the counter. He was asking the shop keeper, who was now smiling at seeing him with a romantic card in his hands, where the flowers were. He pointed to a sorry looking few bunches out in front of the shop.
‘The card is a pound and two pounds for any bunch of flowers you want young man.’ The transaction in the shadowy shop felt imaginary, the numbers were too simple, the yellow toothed grin of the amused shop keeper seemed unsecured, capable of slipping off his face, leaving exposed his small yellow teeth. I looked away from it and back to Mark who was slowly fumbling what looked like less than three pounds onto the rough wooden counter. “you got fifty p?’
I dug quickly in my wallet and gave him that weeks pocket money. I looked back at the shop keeper with his shirt buttoned hardly halfway up and rushed out of the shop before Mark had even picked his card back up off the counter. Stood outside looking back in though the heavily postered windows I saw Mark and the man joking as he headed towards the door and as it opened with a jangle faintly heard on the outside, the shop keeper said‘...and I’m going to get that money off your Mum when she’s next in here, and I’ll tell her about your girlfriend.’
‘I don’t care old man,’ shouted Mark and pulled the door closed behind him.

Once outside he didn’t mention the time in the shop and went straight to the flowers. ‘I’m taking two he bunches, they’ll look rubbish otherwise.’
He grabbed two of the better looking bunches and stuffed them into his backpack along with the card which got some drops of water from the flower buckets on it’s pale pink replica roses. ‘I’ll fill it out when we get there,’ he said. We got back on the bikes and rode the longer journey to Stephanie's farm where the moment I was dreading awaited us.

We stopped as we neared the loosely graveled track, at the end of which was the big red bricked house where Marks love lived. The hawthorn hedges on either side of the track were towering and well maintained but the sunlight that had lit us earlier was lost behind them, choosing instead to bathe in the grassy horse paddock behind. Mark pulled out the dampened valentines card from his bag and looked at it for a moment, contemplating it’s power. It has struck me since that he might have a certain reverence for love, that it was something alien or magical to him and even then I felt that what he was expressing was probably not in that card or love in the way he thought he was. He thrust it towards me.
‘Here’s the pen, fill it in.’
I had seen one Valentines card before at a friend called Thomas‘ house. It was from his Mum and the message had read something like “Dear Thomas, Love you forever, from ?”
We stood at the mouth of that avenue to love, enclosed by the wind rippled hawthorn walls and eventually I took the card and pen from him. He moved in immediately to see what I would write. I rested the card on my open palm and clicked out the scratchy black biro before writing out the same message as Thomas’ mum had used, including the mysterious question mark.
‘What are you putting a bloody question mark for,’ he growled ‘I paid for them flowers.’
I shrugged and gave him the card back. We biked down the track.

The house was not grand, but rather modern, red bricked and spacious, set behind some farm buildings in a field. Dogs barked, a tractor moved in a distantly field and the yard had no cars to be seen. We stood looking at the dark beaten up corrugated iron sheds, with the sound of barking echoing around them. I told him that it was probably not dangerous because the postman must have to get through with letters.
‘I’m not scared,’ he said back slowly turning to look at me and confirm it with a taunting look. We dropped the bikes, helmet and bags in a pile by the gateway and started down towards the front lawn, illuminated beyond the working farm. The first few steps were the most nerve wracking but as we got further in we saw that it was just one well chained up dog who was not that interested in us after his initial flurry.

Once through the buildings and up to the gardens that denoted the beginning of domesticity, the house looked lonely. It’s newly planted, undeveloped gardens were sparse and the lawn seemed to stretch forever up to a plain wooden front door. We looked on for a moment, once again checking the route, this time in full view of the seemingly empty house. We agreed without discussion that both of us would go to the front door. I wanted to be near Mark so he would explain our actions if we got caught. We set off up the herringbone brick path slowly, hunched close together creeping although we were in plain view. The short journey to the porch-like indent on the front of the sprawling bungalow saw more beats of my heart than everything else we had done that afternoon. We stood out like adventurers crossing the desert in the orange glow of an that autumn evening, but we went forward steadily.

Once there a fear that Mark might actually ring the bell hit me, but he lay the gifts straight down on the step and moved back. Looking a bit underwhelmed, he said. ‘I wonder if anyone’s in,’ and moved towards one of the windows on the front of the building. My feet twitched, the mission felt complete to me. I could trace my route from here all the way home and my deadline and desire to get away were tugging me. As Mark was starting to pop his head up and look in the window I wondered if I could see movement behind the narrow, textured window panes either side of the door. The light behind seemed to change, almost rhythmically, swaying from complete dark to soft circles of light. I watched for a few more moments before raising my eyes and exclaiming, ‘Look!’ The tractor that had been in the far distance earlier was no longer ploughing and had begun to draw closer. Mark had been about to peer in the window but he turned, saw what I was pointing at and we ran, released by my exclamation like it was the sounding of a horn. We ran down the path, out through the sheds and grabbed the bikes in seconds, making a mockery of the time it had taken us to get to the house. The tractor did not have time to leave the field before we were away and if the driver caught a glimpse of us it was no more than a flash as we passed in front of the gateway. We were free and even Mark seemed relieved. In the excitement it only felt like moments before we were rounding the tight bend of church corner, and he was turning off to go back to his flat and his next adventure.

At home I threw my bike down in the garage and eased in through the back door to the kitchen where the clock showed that I was ahead of time. Mum was at the sink when she saw me and acknowledge I was home. After a glass of water I was back out in the garage cleaning a bmx bike my cousin had given me. There was a sense of ease as dusk started to fall, softly greying out the sunny evening. I wondered how Mark felt now and as I did, a beige Range Rover came arching into the driveway and pulled up at the front door, just out of sight. I heard two car doors close, then the bell ring and my mum come to the door. I knew the car but couldn’t put my finger on who it belonged to. My dad’s voice joined the discussion. They seemed urgent but not angry. The conversation was just too quite to hear properly. It came to a close and I ventured a step forwards. It hit me straight away that the big beige farm vehicle was the Bluntfords, Stephanie's parents. They were climbing into the car as my thoughts raced. Were they angry about what Mark had done or were they just warning my parents they had seen me with him? I was sure that the car had not been at their house when we were there earlier. I started clicking the pen Mark had given me in rhythm with my racing heart. My eyes went back to the vehicle, now with its engine on, about to leave. The front door to the house closed and the car started to move. Only then did I notice the back seat, someone was in there, long haired and still. I looked harder in the increasing gloom but already new who it was sat impassively with her arms in her lap. I was grateful for the dark of the garage to hide in but could not help myself looking as the car drew past. Stephanie was pretty, even if she looked like a grown woman to my young eyes. As she moved in front of me there was a moment where her wide brown eyes looked to the place that mine hid in the dark, but if they found them she didn’t show it. The car and it’s lights disappeared and I was left with complete blackness for a moment, a blackness where just the shape of Stephanie's straight fringed haircut and look of calm was left. The garage was silent. I waited for the moments when my parents would arrive with the verdict.

They came into the garage from the back door to the kitchen, bringing a glow of light with them.
‘Who was that?’ I asked. My dad was holding something.
‘It was the Bluntfords,’ he said.
Preparing a defense was not possible until I knew what I was being tried for, perhaps the Buntfords disliked Mark like mine did. I nodded.
‘They found this near their house and thought you might have left it there when you came past earlier.’
My eyes were on his unreadable face. He had never seemed so tall and looking from his eyes down to his hands seemed to take me forever as I traced down past his slightly exposed chest with wisps of hair curling out from his shirt, then down along the length of his thick forearms to the hands that had often smacked me when I was younger but now held my helmet. My eyes trembled and I felt my brain vibrate. I looked to my bike to see the mistake, surely my helmet was still hanging there. The bars were empty and I pictured the helmet lying on the verge outside the farm earlier. This must be where it had been picked up. I imagined all of the Bluntfords stood around it like it was an over-turned turtle exposing it’s soft underbelly of white polystyrene, my name written in black along its inner edge.

This was the dreaded moment, with no one speaking whilst I waited for the verdict. He put the helmet back on the bars and as his arm came towards me everything was different, he was relaxed and his face was cracking into a smile. He grabbed my shoulder, ‘Well I wasn’t expecting that son,’ he said through a laugh that seemed both at me and with me. ‘I didn’t think we would be having this talk so soon. God knows whats going on in your head.’
‘It’s getting cold out here,’ Mum cut in, ‘finish what you are doing and come in to the lounge so we can talk.’ She seemed detached and her look was similar to that of Stephanie as she had been driven away moments before.

They left, my mum moving quietly after my dad who was still chuckling, closing the door to the kitchen softly behind her. With the light from inside gone, I was stood in the dark again. The shape of my dad was now what stayed with me in the garage, the kitchen light had drawn an orange line around him. Stephanie’s face faded back into my thoughts and then Marks ever demanding stare, the same as the first day I met him. As the three blurred into one, my hand went back to the pen in my pocket and holding it tightly I thought about the stupid question mark it had drawn earlier.