Sweet Sorrow(67)

‘How are you getting on with Fran?’

The question startled me, and while I tried to contrive a reply, I glanced in her direction. Alex was sitting astride her chest, fitting his thumbs into the hollows of her eye sockets.

‘Not bad.’

‘You seem quite close.’

‘We’re getting that way.’

‘And you like her?’

Perhaps it was the insidious effect of chill-out music, but the conversation was getting far too personal. ‘Yeah, of course,’ I murmured. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Charlie, I’m using the word “like” euphemistically here.’

I stayed silent.

George licked his lips. ‘What I mean is—’

‘I know what you mean. We’re not meant to be talking, George.’

‘But you do.’

‘Like her? Yeah, I really like her.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Me too.’

‘Oh. Right.’ It was true, I’d noticed how he spoke to Fran, quietly and intently, his fingers masking different parts of his face in turn. I noticed, too, the little puff of pride when he made her laugh, which was often, more often than I could manage.

‘I don’t mind, by the way. It’s not a competition. I think she likes you a lot.’

‘But is that “like” as a euphemism?’

‘You’ll find out, I suppose. Eventually.’

We were silent again until half his face had disappeared. There was a pearl of white in the curve of his nostril and, to the side of his eye, a pimple so large that it changed the shape of his face. It seemed that it might be hot to the touch but I was determined not to hesitate, feeling, I suppose, very brave.

‘I’m sorry that you have to do this,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘It’s quite repulsive, I know.’

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘The whole thing, you shouldn’t have to touch it.’

‘Not true.’

‘I can feel it actually fizzing. You know, I sometimes think if I had a knife I’d cut my whole fucking face off,’ and here he grimaced so much that the drying paper crackled. I realised that I’d really need to find something else to say.

‘You have nice eyes.’

‘Yeah, that’s what people say when they can’t think of anything—’

‘Look, George, I don’t know what to say. This is weird for me too, but I think you’ve got a really nice face, all right? It’s … expressive.’ This was, I think, the strangest thing I’d said to another human being at that time. A moment passed.

‘You’re right,’ said George, ‘we really ought to do this in silence.’

Another moment.

‘Thank you,’ he said and then we stopped speaking altogether, until it was done. When the mask was dry enough, I eased my fingers beneath the paper and it came away with a satisfying sucking sound. George rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and took a cursory look. ‘Relief map of the Andes,’ he said. ‘Get it out of my sight.’ I placed the mask with the others and took my turn.

The whole process took two plays of the chill-out compilation and afterwards, we all stood blurry-eyed, rubbing at the gum that still lurked in corners and creases, and inspected the gallery of faces baking in the sun like some bizarre crop.

‘Well, that was kinky,’ said Helen.

‘Don’t you all look splendid,’ said Polly.

‘What a bunch of freaks,’ said Alex.

‘Mine’s amazing,’ said Miles.

‘The one you made, or the one of you?’ I asked.

‘Both.’

‘Miles!’ said Fran.

‘What an interesting collection of personalities,’ said Polly.

‘I think we’re all beautiful,’ said Colin.

‘Oh, Colin, please,’ said Alex.

‘Death masks,’ said George.

‘It’s like a serial killer’s basement,’ said Fran. I sought out her mask from the others. It seemed to me like some rare and wonderful artefact from a museum, one that I very much wanted to steal.

‘Charlie,’ whispered Helen, ‘we must not tell anyone, ever, ever, what we just did.’

‘Okay, well done everyone,’ said Ivor. ‘A good week’s work. But Monday – that’s when we take things up a gear! Two and a half weeks until dress rehearsal. Long days and I need everyone off-book and on the ball. Be here on time, people! See you on Monday. Now go. Disperse! Disperse!’

But something had changed. No one wanted to leave and we loitered idly on the driveway, waiting for a plan to materialise, some way to stretch the day.

‘That’s it. We’re going to The Angler’s,’ said Fran, taking my arm. ‘Remember – nowhere without me.’





The Angler’s


Of the local pubs that catered for the underage drinker, The Angler’s was the smartest. You were more likely to get served in The Hammer and Tongs, a speakeasy where it was not uncommon to see customers in school uniform, ties loosened, satchels tucked under the table. But The Hammer was the fightiest of the town’s pubs and drinking there was a nerve-jangling experience.