Lucozade

Lucozade

Bob Archer has to use both hands to force the boot lid shut. He sighs,
wondering, as he did last year, and the year before that, why they
always seem to pack for a month, even when they're only going away for
a week. He bounces the rear of the Ford Zodiac worried that the
suspension might fail; the car slumps low on its rear springs and
there's little clearance between the arches and tyres. He turns to gaze
over the rooftops towards the Headstocks where the giant winding wheels
are spinning, a sign that the day shift is just starting. It looks like
it's going to be a hot day with the early mist clearing and the pale
blue sky scribbled with slender white clouds. He sniffs the air and
coughs.

Bob tries to take his family on holiday every year. A week, sometimes
two, as far from the red brick colliery houses as money or
circumstances will allow. A break somewhere in the countryside or by
the sea where the sweet smell of manure or the tang of sea salt will
erase the cloying, bitter taste of the coal dust he blames for his
constant coughs and wheezes. So many of his colleagues have bad chests,
racking coughs, black phlegm&;#8230; and ruined backs. The long
hours they spend bent double, squirming down narrow tunnels; people
wouldn't believe how archaic their working conditions could be.
Millions spent on drilling and cutting machinery, walking chocks that
support the rock above the miner's heads and which move forward
automatically as the coal face eats its way through the earth. But men,
dressed in filthy rags, still use pickaxes, arrive at the coal face
after a stomach wrenching drop down deep shafts in little more than
wire cages and endure a two mile ride sat cross legged on a crude
conveyor belt. If only people realised how difficult and dangerous it
is to get those shiny black lumps of latent power back up to the
surface. Anthracite: Nottinghamshire gold. Bob kicks a tyre and heads
back to the house.

They leave after an early breakfast, heading for a caravan park in
Ingoldmells, a one-donkey seaside resort a few miles north of Skegness
on the Lincolnshire coast. The car feels heavy, wallowing like a
drunken hippo as they drive away from the house. By the time they're
speeding along the A46 towards Lincoln, Bob has forgotten his
suspension worries and is drumming his fingers contentedly on the
steering wheel, tapping along to his eight-track Klaus Wunderlich
cartridge. Bob has two passions; the Ratepayer's Association, of which
he has recently been made chairman, and ballroom dancing. In his mind,
he leads Margaret around the dusty boards of a dance floor, their shoes
sweeping in perfect rhythm, a mirrored globe cascading glimmering
sequins of light onto their shoulders. But a distant look on Margaret's
face, she doesn't seem quite so enthusiastic these days. She never was
very enthusiastic about much, but nothing seems to excite her anymore
and he can't remember the last time he saw her face flush with
pleasure. Never mind, a week at the seaside will do her &;#8230; all
of them, the power of good.

Margaret yawns, rests her knitting on her knees and stares at the road
as it's eaten up by their progress, the tarmac disappearing below the
bonnet of the car, trailing away behind them. Up ahead, the white lines
hardly seem to move towards them, then, 'whoosh', they rush past in a
blur and are gone. Just like life, she thinks. She hopes that a weeks
break will rejuvenate her spirits and make her feel less tired. It's
been months since she last felt well, everything seems to hurt; her
feet, hands and head hang heavy as though she's sickening for the flu.
Everything seems to annoy her these days, little things get on her
nerves, Bobs tapping for example. She'd like to tell him to stop, jab
one of her knitting needles into his hand. He sometimes sets her teeth
on edge. It's not that she doesn't love him, though they had married at
a time when it seemed that finding a good man came first and love
blossomed later, if you were lucky. It was just that Bob could be
so&;#8230; well, obsessed. In their early days it had been fishing;
long dreary days perched at the edge of some dismal lake or river, rain
tipping down pummelling the water's surface and beating a monotonous
tune on the green umbrella. 'Best kind of weather for fishing,' he'd
say, squinting at the float, concentrating, leaving her to read her
Woman's Realm from cover to soggy cover. Then cricket, Bob scuffing his
feet out on the boundary whilst she helped prepare piles of ham and
tomato sandwiches, gallons of scalding tea, listening to the other
women bleat. That period had ended when Bob fielded a fast-delivery
with his face; he still has the scar where his teeth burst through his
lower lip. Now the Ratepayers thing, loading all the worries of their
neighbours on his not-so-broad shoulders, the long evening meetings,
Bob arriving home late stinking of beer and cigars. Perfume perhaps?
And the dancing, Christ, twice each weekend and once during the week.
Dancing classes, tea dances, dinner dances, endless steps to learn and
polish, Bob insisting on every movement being so correct. The exercise
must be doing them some good, but Bob's figure wasn't what it used to
be; seven-stone-wet-through when they'd married, his waistline has
expanded considerably since then. Most likely the result of all the
beer, swigged back as quick as possible so as not to miss a single
dance. And he sweats so much. It drips off him, his hair lank with it,
his shirt so damp you'd think he'd taken a bath in it, the collars so
grimed she had a tough time getting them clean again. She wished he'd
turn off the music now, turn on the radio and tune into a nice story,
something to lose her self in for half an hour. She sighs quietly and
picks up her knitting.

Steve lays across the rear seat flipping a silver coin between his
fingers. They'd stopped a few miles back for petrol and his Dad had
lobbed him another Gordon Banks, his fifth. Where were all the Geoff
Hursts? Life could be so unfair, at this rate he'd never finish his
World Cup Footballers coin collection. He bet that there was some other
kid sitting on a pile of Geoff Hursts and no Gordon Banks'. No, bet the
petrol companies hadn't printed, punched - whatever they did to make
this things - any Geoff Hursts just so all the kids would keep
pestering their Dads to buy the petrol from the same company. Well next
time he'd get him to buy Esso instead; one of those tiger tails would
look great swinging from the handlebars of his Chopper. He gingerly
touches the latest spot to have erupted; his acne being one collection
that is rapidly expanding, livid pimples which seem to have appeared
almost overnight as if he'd slept with his face against the cool metal
of a colander. They make him look so stupid, ugly. No one else in his
class has so many, why him? No way is he going to pull with this face
full of puss. He wonders if there will be any girls at the caravan
park, that would at least make up for the boring week he'll have. He's
long outgrown sitting on a windswept beach building sandcastles and
sculpting boats, lobbing stones spitefully into a sea which is always
too cold to swim in for more than thirty seconds without freezing you
cobblers off. The evenings spent sipping warm lemonade in some reeking
club whilst his parents danced, or alone in the caravan, no TV and just
a book and a few comics to keep him company. No one had spoken for ages
and with his mother knitting and his father listening to his music he
wouldn't be surprised if they forgotten he was there.

"Bloody hell," Bob bellows, hitting the horn with both hands and
stamping on the brake pedal. The tyres squeal as the car fishtails and
draws up close behind the red Massey Fergerson that has pulled out
directly in front of them. Steve scrambles upright to see what's
happened. His Dad's hands are still pressed hard against the horn, his
mother's hands are braced against the dashboard as if she could prevent
them ploughing into several tons of farming machinery. Both their faces
are horror stricken. Bob swerves round the tractor and accelerates.
Steve stares at the huge tyres which throw off clumps of earth like
sparks from a Catherine Wheel as they pass. The farmer stares ahead at
the road and doesn't look down at them as they overtake. He seems
pleased with himself.

"Pig ignorant idiot. Nearly had us all killed." Bob's heart is
pounding, he can almost hear the blood surging through his veins. A
sharp pain shoots down his left arm and across his chest, his fingers
tingle and a sweat breaks out on his forehead. He winds down his
window, wipes the back of his hand across his brow.

"Don't swear, Robert." She glances over her shoulder at Steve. He's
been so quiet she'd almost forgotten he was there.

"I feel like stopping and giving him a piece of my bloody mind."

"Leave it, Bob. It won't do any good. You're worked up enough as it is
without having a slanging match at the side of the road. Calm down."
Margaret wonders how much notice Bob had been taking of the road
anyway. Perhaps if he'd stop tapping he might notice huge tractors in
the middle of the road. She notices his fingers are now wrapped so
tightly around the steering wheel his knuckles are white.

**

The remainder of their journey is relatively uneventful and by
mid-morning they're driving past low rise, pastel-coloured seaside
houses. Every third building seems to be a shop selling beach goods:
stacks of plastic buckets and spades, fishing nets, brightly striped
windbreaks, inflatable animals and boats tethered to the shops'
awnings, racks of cheeky postcards. Past the village, a long, high
mound, grass covered, runs parallel to the road hiding the sea and
protecting the regiments of mobile homes from offshore breezes. They
turn into one of the many caravan parks and stop at the lowered red and
white barrier. Out of the car, Bob stretches his legs and arms,
relieved that the pain in his chest has gone, and heads towards the
park's office, a whitewashed wooden building.

"Cheer up, Steven, you look like you've lost a pound and found a
shilling' Margaret says, tilting the rear view mirror to see him in the
back seat then twisting it to catch her own reflection and picking at
her white blond hair. Curled and set, it reminds Steve of blanched
cauliflower.

To Steve, his parents seem so old, though they can only be in their
early forties; Steve has never been sure how old they actually are,
just that his mother is older than his father, a fact that always
surprises him. But too old for them to understand him and way too old
for him to enjoy their company for long. Why couldn't he have stayed
home? He can look after himself, knows how to cook an egg, toast bread.
Anyone can open a tin of beans. He could quiet easily live on boiled
eggs and beans on toast for a week.

'There's supposed to be a nice playground and a lake with boats. I'm
sure you'll make friends with some of the other boys. You'll all have a
nice time."

Steve grunts, hearing the uncertainty in his mother's voice and
remembering last year's holiday in Minehead. Young kids running around
all over the place, screaming and asking him dumb questions. What's
your name? Where are you from? Pestering him to play football. On one
occasion a scrawny boy with knees like knots in string and cup-handle
ears that wouldn't leave him alone until Steve had angrily hoofed the
boy's ball high over a Hawthorn hedge and into a field dense with
nettles. The boy had bawled and run off to tell his parents. Steve had
lain low until, relieved, he'd watched them pack up and leave the
following morning. And it rained continuously. There are only so many
games of Frustration and Monopoly you can play before wanting to blow
your own brains out.

"Can't we go down to the beach?" Steve asks sitting on his bunk bed,
watching his parents unpack the suitcases and boxes.

"Later Steve, give us chance to settle in and have a cup of tea. Why
don't you go and investigate the park? See if you can find that lake."
Bob winks at his wife. "Or you could give us a hand?"

Steve would rather sit on his bunk and read, but with both parents
looking at him expectantly, he swings down from the bunk, throws open
the caravan door and clatters down the metal steps. The sky is deep
blue and looks somehow as if it's been scraped clean. There's a strong
smell of newly mown grass. He wanders through the grid of caravans,
identical but for the flowerbeds and tubs of plants surrounding each
one. Eventually he finds the playground, squeezed between the last row
of caravans and a copse of trees. He's seen no one remotely close to
his age. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry when he sees the
'lake'. Built like a concrete doughnut mould thirty or forty feet
across, it has a small concrete island at its centre planted with a
seagull-splattered sign warning against the dangers of leaving small
children unattended. By the look of the shallow, muddy brown water,
it's not drowning parents should be worried about, it's that their kids
are likely to catch typhoid or dysentery. There's no sign of any boats.
He kicks a small stone into the water, turns away and walks across the
crumbling tarmac of the playground. The slide is barely shoulder height
and the swings have been swung around the top bars until the seats hang
high in the air, the chains left kinked and knotted. Only the
roundabout looks any sort of fun, freshly painted in primary colours
and with a collar of red asphalt around its perimeter. He grabs one of
the rails that radiate from the roundabout's centre and runs, spinning
it as fast as he can then, clambers on top and lays flat on his back
with his legs wrapped around the spindle to stop him sliding off. With
his head lolling over the rim, he watches the ground spin round and
round upside down. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine that he's
static and that it's the world that's spinning. Steve Archer, centre of
the universe. Then he wonders how fast the roundabout would have to
spin to create enough centrifugal force to push his blood out of his
eye sockets and ear drums. He begins to feel a little sick. He opens
his eyes and is startled to see a young girl standing a few yards away,
watching him. He struggles to sit upright.

It isn't the long patchwork skirt in greens and blues which falls from
her navel to the tops of her bright yellow sneakers that surprises him,
nor the bright blue bikini top against the paleness of her body or even
the long reddish-orange hair which falls in thick curls over each
shoulder. What astonishes him is that the roundabout sometimes seems to
spin two or three times before he sees her again and sometimes there
appears to be more than one of her watching him. He squeezes his eyes
shut, opens them and blinks, shakes his head to try to stop it
spinning. The roundabout grinds to a standstill and the girl sweeps
into view. They stare at one another.

Bob tucks his shirt back into his trousers, adjusts his belt and runs
his hands through his hair. He unlocks the caravan door and peers
outside. "No sign of Steve." He gives Margaret a peck on the cheek.
"Don't bother cooking anything for tea, Love. I'll pop into the village
and fetch us all some fish and chips."

In the car, Bob sighs contentedly, warm with the afterglow of their
lovemaking and happily looking forward to the week ahead. He pushes the
cartridge into the player and begins to tap along then grimaces as the
pain in his arms returns. Zipping down to his fingers, it feels like
ice water has dripped from his shoulder. By the time he's driven back
to the park's reception, the pain has wrapped itself around his chest
in a tight bear hug, squeezing out his breath. A sudden spasm makes him
groan and clutch his arm with his right hand and he loses control of
the car, slumping over the steering wheel as the car runs into the
whitewashed office.

Margaret draws back the curtains, sure now of Bob's infidelity. Their
sex life, frequently infrequent and invariably dull has always been
practised by rote like a military two-step. But Bob's new found
passion, this&;#8230; ardour, is something she hasn't seen in him
since their early days, fumbling in her clothes at the back of a
cinema. No, something is different with Bob, taking her like that and
with the chance that Steve might return at any minute. They hadn't
taken that sort of risk since Steve was a young boy. And Bob seems
overly attentive, livelier, younger almost. Margaret can only assume
that it's some other woman that is responsible, aware that her own 'get
up and go' had packed its bags and got up and gone, forever probably.
Their breath has left a blush of mist on the windows and Margaret runs
a finger across the glass, watching the beads of water race each other
down to the windowsill.

The girl's face was oddly beautiful, Steve would later think, though
awkward somehow. Her large eyes a little close together, the nose a
fraction too small, her mouth too wide and full. Nice tits though,
small and round in the blue bikini top. The colour of her hair reminds
him of something but he can't quite think what. She smiles and tilts
her head a little to one side. Steve fidgets, uncomfortable under her
steady gaze.

"Hello. What's your name? How old are you? Where are you from?"

Although Steve can see the girl's lips moving, they don't seem to form
the questions that pop into his head, one immediately after the
other.

"Lenora," the girl says. 'No it isn't the name of a soap powder. It's a
pretty name and I like it!" She frowns and puts her hands on her hips.
Steve is quiet sure that he hasn't actually spoken yet and thinks the
roundabout has fuddled his brain.

"You look bored to death. C'mon, I'll show you something to make your
holiday really special" She walks off towards the wood with long
sweeping strides, her hips swaying in a way that makes Steve's heart
thump.

He hesitates, wondering what the girl is going to show him, hardly
daring to let his mind form any answers but pretty sure that whatever
it is, his mother wouldn't appreciate it. Should he follow her and risk
the consequences? Should he just scuttle off back to the caravan and
hide? If he did, what would he say to the girl if he saw her again?
Could he handle her taunts? Or would he be missing an opportunity that
he'd regret for months? Something to boast to his friends about?

The sound of a car horn breaks him from his thoughts.

She's almost reached the tree line by the time Steve slides from the
roundabout and begins to follow. Lenora is soon into the trees and
Steve begins to run, worried that he may lose sight of her. He follows
the narrow path that twists through the trees. No matter how hard he
runs he can't seem to catch up with her, though she doesn't seem to be
hurrying, her gait unchanged, her hips swaying in the same easy manner.
She disappears around a bend in the path and Steve runs harder, rounds
the bend as she turns another. He can see the glint of water through
the branches. Is this all she wants to show him, a stupid lake hidden
by the trees. His heart sinks. He rounds another bend and stops.

Lenora is standing in a sunlit clearing on a slender sandy beach
looking out across the lake. She looks over her shoulder, glancing back
at him. She smiles, turns back to face the lake, dips a
yellow-sneakered toe delicately into the water &;#8230; and quickly
starts to disappear. From her feet upwards, her body seems to be
replaced by air: her patchwork dress, her slender torso and bikini top,
her arms and head until only her red-orange hair hangs suspended for an
instant&;#8230; and then she's gone. Or not gone; Steve can still
see the outline of her body, now a column of sparkling water, an
incandescent, liquid column exactly the same colour as the lake and
with identical ripples and movement playing on its surface. Steve
senses her look back at him once more before the column collapses into
the lake with a soft splash sending ripples in expanding arcs across
the lake. Steve stands transfixed and then begins to laugh. He's still
laughing as the final band of ripples unfold themselves against the
shore.