Tenterhooks Read online

  Now I hear the kisses of Christie’s soles on the tiles behind me. They stop, and the blankets seem to limbo up from the floor where I had laid them, one of them nestling around my shoulders. He turns me around to him, into the warmth of him, and with him, back into darkness, back to bed. Presumably he thinks that I am sleepwalking, as I have done on several occasions now. Jokingly, he has referred to my nocturnal restlessness as failing to sleep off your late, louche lunches. Sometimes I wish that I could sleep off my whole life. As he leads me away from the thawing freezer, I want to tell him, but I am so very tired and no words come.

  2

  SYNC

  For Katy Rensten

  For hours, the moon has been rolling around the windows of this minibus like a pin-ball. And now we are passing roofs which are slick with moonshine. These roofs are new to our journey: for hours we were on a motorway, in the middle of nowhere, overtaken by vehicles with unblinking yellow eyes and snappy indicators. In the headlamp-splashed darkness, my friends’ faces were dilated to pitch and catch conversation over the noise of the engine, the rolling tide of tyres. For a while, now, though, everyone has been quiet; even Mr Stanford, whose busy eyes, in his high narrow mirror, have become smaller and more level. The only other open eyes are those of the only other boy on this field trip, Lawrence; the view from one of the windows licks through the shiny surface of them. With the appearance of the roofs, I realize that we are nearly there, and my heart sinks. What is it that they say, in planes? We are commencing our descent.

  Hours and hours of engine vibration have drummed my thighs into the wooden slats of the bench, but I am further pinned down by Rachel, who is slumped asleep on me. A hairsprayed sprig of her hair lisps into my ear with every bump and turn of the minibus. One of her hands has dropped between her thigh and mine, and lies on both, open. On the tops of her upwardly-curled fingers, the thin crescent moons of her nails are oddly shadowed: she has painted them, because we are away from school, where nail polish is forbidden. Mr Stanford brakes, pauses behind a badly-parked car for a chain of oncoming traffic to pass; Rachel presses harder onto my shoulder, sinks further. There has been a lot of this, the stopping and sinking, like a drunken dance, since we turned from the motorway into these towns of crowded chip shops and dark banks, towns so much smaller than our own. An empty can growls again on the floor. I cannot reach with my feet to stop it. Lawrence’s eyes peel from the window and follow the can, they are wide with worry, but he makes no move, his hands in prayer between his thighs.

  Susie’s head looks like a sculpture in butter: no shadows, and her hair, face, eyebrows and eyelashes the same colour. On her wedding-ring finger is the ring that Nathan Harper gave her: a staying-together ring, in her words. Next to her, Trina and Avril are propping up each other’s dozes – very different dozes: Trina’s face is hard, all chin and frown; Avril’s has slipped into a smile. This is all of us: me and Rachel, Susie, Trina, Avril, and Lawrence. And Mr Stanford, of course, unfortunately; in his opinion, he is one of us. There are so few of us because this field trip is for biology and hardly anyone wants to do biology in the sixth form. Suddenly, I see that Mr Stanford’s eyes have been looking for mine.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he says to me, via the mirror, then laughs. ‘I’m desperate for a pint.’

  One-of-the-boys. I shut my eyes, to shut him up.

  The only place in the world that I dread more than nearly there is there. Rachel and I tried everything to avoid this trip: marine biology for five days of our half term holiday, five days in February on a peninsula in South Wales.

  We began by knocking politely on the door marked Biology Head and then explaining to Mr Bennett that we wanted to go with our English class to Stratford. Which was true if only because King Lear is not quite five days long. Both trips take place during the same half term holiday each year, because there has never before been an overlap between biology and English. Mr Bennett’s view was that the field trip was necessary for our biology, but that Stratford was an optional extra for English. Which is not quite what our English teachers said but – being English teachers – they were too liberal to cause a fuss. So then Rachel and I had to come up with another hitch.

  We decided that we could not miss any of The Crucible rehearsals, two of which were scheduled for this week. This was too much for Mr Bennett, who sent us to Mr Dene, the Headmaster. Mr Dene said that all we had to do in our roles was scream. We informed him that there was much more to our roles than simple screams – that we had to scream at the correct moments and with the correct intensity. In our defence we called one of the English teachers, who was directing the play, and she did her best, but Mr Dene – being Mr Dene – refused to listen to her.

  So then Rachel marched into his office and did not stop until she was in the middle, where she hooked her hair behind her ears to show that she meant business and said to him, ‘Look,’ I’ll be straight with you, ‘we just don’t want to go, okay?’

  This okay was her mistake, because from behind his desk he bellowed, ‘No, it is not okay,’ and went on, ‘if you refuse to go on this field trip, then you will be unprepared for your exams and I will refuse to allow you to take them.’

  I stepped forward from the doorway to join Rachel, and explained calmly, ‘Mr Dene, marine biology is one of our options; in the exam, we have to write essays on four of six options. So, we can easily avoid marine biology.’ I had done my homework.

  But my mistake was to have mentioned options, and ease. Why did I do this? I know very well that Mr Dene’s whole life is about the destruction of our options and ease. I think that I may even have smiled, slightly, which, if I did, was even more stupid of me.

  Mr Dene addressed Rachel, which people usually do: parents and teachers, they all direct their arguments to Rachel, often looking at the four earrings that she has in both ears, as if this justifies their shouting, as if the earrings are blocking her ears. ‘You will go,’ he yelled, leaning over his desk, ‘because I say so.’

  Rachel muttered, ‘Wonderful philosophy of education,’ but stepped backwards to the door. I could not believe that she was giving in so readily. But I followed her, I had to follow her; if I had not followed, I would have been left behind. At the door, though, she turned our defeat into a threat: ‘We’ll go,’ she told him, and cocked a cold smile onto her face, ‘but, believe me, we don’t have to like it.’

  And so here we are, not liking it: I did not choose biology so that I could study whelks; I chose biology because I was interested in people. I wanted to follow the intense and precise activities beneath our skin. I love the logic of biology: in bodies, everything has a time and place. This is why biology is so easy to learn, for all the intricacies. Because I only have to think, as long as I think very carefully: what is needed, here, and what happens next, what has to happen next? Unlike those other favourite subjects of mine, literature and history, which are made of people’s schemes, mistakes, runnings amok. But the logic of bodies is different from the meaningless logic of maths or of the other school sciences, chemistry and physics. Biology makes sense: I can hold the bits in my hands, if I want, if I need, and they are the means to an end, an end which is real, which is life. In the chemistry labs, the plastic models of molecules look like starships given away in packets of breakfast cereal. And physics: I remember one lesson, on inertia, and I suppose that inertia is real in a sense, but not really real; physics was a lot of ticker tape.

  But my biology has to be human; or, at a push, mammalian, and then only because of the similarity of their little bodies to ours, their skulls and spines. I have no interest in animals which drag shells or lay eggs, and I have even less interest in plants, those stacks of starchy cells which soak up whatever is dropped on them. There are whole textbooks that I never open: The Plant World, The World of Invertebrates. Unfortunately, marine biology is made from the very worst of both worlds, animal and plant: animals that are no more than plants, and plants that are more like animals. All of them are bits of slim
e that stick to and hide in rocks.

  Three days ago, I despaired and took matters into my own hands: I went to the doctor and lied that I was ill. She asked questions about my appetite, kneaded my neck with her fingertips, pressed her cold stethoscope to my bared chest, found nothing and diagnosed a virus.

  I explained, ‘But I’m going to a peninsula for a biology field trip in three days’ time.’

  She reassured me, ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

  I hurried, ‘But what if I’m not?’

  She frowned, smiled, told me to come back if I did not improve. So, I did, yesterday, to tell her that I was worse. She pulled down my lower eyelids, looked into my mouth, frowned into my face and asked me, ‘Do you have anything on your mind, at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, the biology field trip.’

  She smiled. ‘Fresh air and exercise: you’ll be fine.’

  ‘But what if I’m not?’ I urged.

  She soothed, ‘Don’t worry.’

  We seemed to be at cross purposes.

  Then she laughed, genuinely happily. ‘You’ll survive.’

  Survival: I love the perfection of human biology but also, and perhaps more so, the flaws; I love the possibility of flaws, which cannot exist in the other sciences where everything either is or is not. I love the ways that bodies can overcome their problems. I love the mysteries, too, the unmapped depths of bodies. There is a brain injury that causes people to try to have sex with anyone or anything. Which means that there is a biological basis for inhibition, that even self-control is biological.

  We have survived the first full day of field work. The schedule pinned to our dormitory door tells us that, now, having had our Dinner, we are Free until Lights Out at eleven o’clock. This seems expertly cruel: we are free, but there is nothing to do and nowhere to go. Before we came here, Mr Stanford told us that he would drive us to local pubs, and we decided that an evening with him was better than nothing. But arriving here yesterday, parking in the courtyard, in the darkness, he hit something and tore off the back bumper. So now the minibus is awaiting the attentions of the local garage man, who is due sometime much later in the week. When we whined to Mr Stanford, this evening, over dinner, that we had nothing to do, he laughed and suggested that we take advantage of the library. This mention of the library was to flatter Jim, the Course Leader, who was sitting with him – this morning, during our Briefing (09.05, Briefing, Prefab no. 2), Jim had fantasized long and loud over the library. He had told us that the library was excellent, rare, renowned, so that people came from all over the country.

  Rachel whispered in my ear, ‘Yeah, my mum is always nipping down here.’

  Jim must have heard, because he looked at her earrings and stressed, ‘Marine biologists.’

  He is a marine biologist, which, for some reason, seems to impress Mr Stanford. Not us, though: one day here and we have discovered that marine biologists are the lowest form of life. At lunch time, Mr Stanford owned up that he would have liked to have become a marine biologist. We think that he would like to be Jim, climbing over rocks with the wind in his hair. We think that Mr Stanford has been tampering with his hair today so that he looks like Jim. He is happy here, and has made no effort to hide this from us. He has a drinking buddy in Jim, which we know because Avril overheard Jim’s promise of a hot toddy or two tonight in my room. And, more importantly for him, he has found someone to fancy, someone called Janet who is here to research for a Ph.D. in algae. And she looks as if she is here to research for a Ph.D. in algae. Avril saw Mr Stanford turn from Jim to Janet, heard him ask her, ‘Janet? A hot toddy or two, later?’ He has plans, now; he cares even less about us, he makes no pretence, now.

  When he laughed and told us to spend the evening in the library, I was only amazed that anyone could laugh anywhere in the vicinity of that meal. We had been called to dinner by an electric bell, like a fire alarm, which jangled the courtyard where we were trying to remove our waterproofs. We had come back late from what Jim called the field; he had kept us too long in the field and then taken us, in our waterproofs, into Prefab no. 2 for a late Debriefing. When the alarm rang, Mr Stanford announced, cheerfully, ‘Dinner.’

  Avril complained, ‘That noise! Can’t we have a gong or something?’

  Mr Stanford said, ‘No.’

  In the dining-room, we had to queue with various staff and researchers for food, which was served in individual portions on metal trays. According to one of the cooks, the stew was lamb and the vegetable was swede. I asked her, ‘Is there any vegetarian?’

  She said, ‘None in Pembrokeshire that I know of.’

  I walked carefully to Mr Stanford with my runny portion and said, ‘But I’m vegetarian.’

  He said, ‘No you’re not.’

  I told him, ‘Yes I am.’

  He laughed. ‘No you’re not: humans are omnivorous.’

  I ignored this. ‘I’m vegetarian.’

  Suddenly humourless again, he said, ‘But if you were vegetarian, you would have thought about this, you would have told me before we came away.’

  I had to think quickly. ‘I’ve converted. There has to be a moment of conversion, and mine is now, with this lamb.’

  ‘Scrag end,’ corrected Trina, coming over, grimly cheerful, with her own tray.

  Mr Stanford said, ‘Tough.’

  Trina agreed, ‘You can say that again,’ and demonstrated, poking a piece with her knife.

  I told him, ‘I’m not touching this, or anything like this; and if I starve, you’re responsible.’

  He fizzled into exasperation, hissed to the ceiling, ‘Why are girls so fussy?’ Then he shouted through the hatch, ‘Is there any vegetarian?’

  And a voice came back, ‘There’s a banana.’

  So I had swede and banana, which I mashed together.

  And now we are in our room for the evening; we have all crowded into the room which belongs to me, Rachel, and Susie. Even Lawrence, who was found in the corridor by Trina when she was coming from the room which she shares with Avril. According to her, he was pretending to read the bulletin board which is pinned with local maps and posters of seaweed. She told us this after pulling him into our room and announcing, ‘Look who I’ve found: Loz.’ She always calls him Loz.

  We had temporarily overlooked Lawrence, in our self-pity. We apologized profusely and offered him a toddy; we have our own, a toddy but not hot, a quarter bottle of Scotch which Rachel was clever enough to buy from the supermarket on her way to school yesterday. We passed the bottle to Lawrence and he swigged, but appeared not to swallow and has declined all further offers. He is sitting on the end of the bed next to the door, which is mine. His knees are prominent.

  Susie left the room ten minutes ago to phone Nathan. We can hear her on the pay phone at the end of our corridor, but her murmurs make no sense to us, they are little question marks to hook and hold his attention. On her pillow is an unfinished letter to him. Rachel, lounging on the floor, has been lying in wait for my gaze which she snares now in a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘What?’ I ask, wary, my hand pausing in the box of breakfast crunch, which is our only treat because we have already eaten our week’s supply of chocolate.

  Holding my gaze, she reclines, suddenly switches her attention to the top sheet of Susie’s letter.

  ‘Don’t,’ I am serious but I laugh, I am so serious that I have to laugh.

  But without taking her eyes from the letter, she raises her eyebrows. ‘Is it folded carefully away, or is it here on her pillow for everyone to see?’ As her eyes move over the words, her teeth come slowly onto her lower lip to hold down a smile.

  So that now she has me: ‘What?’ I have to know, to coax her, ‘What does she say?’

  The eyes widen to confront me. ‘I’m not breaking Susie’s confidence,’ she complains, mock-indignant.

  I tut her away, but then the letter hovers in front of me in Rachel’s hand.

  I shake my head.

  So she places the le
tter back onto the pillow and tells me the truth. ‘She says nothing; We arrived here … that kind of stuff.’ And hums a laugh, ‘Or so far, because I stopped before the juicy bits.’

  Avril peeps over her crossword puzzle book, ‘Are there juicy bits?’

  Rachel turns on her. ‘Don’t you tell her that I read this.’

  The door opens, slightly increasing the volume but not the sense of Susie’s words, and Trina hurries into the room. ‘There’s a notice in there,’ she wails, ‘Do not flush away sanitary dressings.’ Looking around us, she emphasizes, ‘Sanitary dressings.’

  I wonder, ‘Any relation to salad dressings?’

  Her gaze catches momentarily on Lawrence, ‘Oh, sorry, Loz.’

  Rachel complains, ‘Shut the door, it’s freezing.’

  It is not freezing in here, but our bodies bear the memory of a long cold day on the shore and now shiver in response to the mere opening of doors. If anything, it is too warm in here. The block of dormitories is new, and seems to be built from static.

  Shutting the door, Trina complains, ‘It’s so cold that I can’t even face going for a fag.’ We have to go outside to smoke; the building is fitted with smoke detectors. She stomps across the room and thumps the window. ‘Has anyone managed to open this yet?’

  Avril says, ‘I don’t think it’s supposed to open, it’s like a porthole. Because of all the water around here.’

  We all turn to her. And I check, ‘You think the water comes up to here?’