Love, Charlie Mike Page 2

  3. He’s too busy getting his head round the language, the different factions, the UN ropes.

  4. He’s so homesick he can’t bear to write.

  5. He can’t actually write?

  6. He’s having such a fantastic time he’s forgotten me.

  7. He’s having a miserable time but being three continents away has put our relationship in perspective and suddenly it seems really dumb.

  8. He’s met a stunning Bosnian woman and fallen for her beauty, her dignity, her courage under fire.

  9. He has written but the letter is lost.

  10. All of the above.

  11. None of the above.

  These possibilities rolled round in my head for several hours every day until one afternoon lying in my room Brenna said, ‘Maybe he’s just not a letter-writing sort of person.’

  ‘Like he’s not really a telephoning sort of person.’ I didn’t like that thought at all. In the eight weeks between my grandfather’s funeral, when I’d fallen utterly in love with him, and the day he left for Bosnia, Sonny and I had only had two phone conversations, both initiated by me. They weren’t the high points of our relationship.

  ‘Some guys are just useless humps on the phone,’ Brenna said. ‘Take Kerry — useless as a tit on a rooster. Long silences and animal grunts till I started to wonder about his IQ. Ross, on the other hand, he’s a regular chatterbox. But then,’ she gave me a sly sideways glance, ‘he’s not hung like a stallion.’

  ‘Brenna!’

  ‘Not that I’m knocking his privates, you understand. Small but perfectly formed and all that. But why does it always come down to a choice between balls or brain? Answer me that, m’girl?’

  She’s all talk. I think. As far as I know — and if I don’t know, who does? — she and Ross haven’t done the Wild Thing yet, but Brenna loves to come on like the slut of Shirley, loud and coarse and provocative.

  ‘Sonny’s no dummy,’ I said. ‘He’s just better in person.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  But how could I adequately describe the feeling around my heart when Sonny held my hand and appraised me so sweetly with his big sleepy hazel-brown eyes. How could I say what it was like sitting on the same chair, our lips exploring each other’s skin, our smells mingling?

  ‘He’s heaven,’ I said. ‘Give me a fag.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ she said, lighting two cigarettes, passing me one. ‘It’s the lubricious detail I’m after.’ She stretched out on my bed, ran a hand the length of her perfectly curved body, pulled the tie from her ponytail so that her black hair spilled. She was like a Burmese cat readying herself for mating, sleek and glossy, moving sinuously.

  ‘Lubricious!’ I spluttered on my drawback. ‘That’s a good one. What the hell does it mean?’

  ‘Slippery, smooth, oily, lewd, wanton.’ She drew out the words, enjoying herself. ‘From lubricus, meaning slippery. Good eh?’ She took a long haul on her cigarette and blew four excellent smoke rings.

  ‘You are quite disgusting, young lady,’ I said in the manner of Sister Colleen, our senior mistress — and Brenna’s Latin teacher. I tried a smoke ring but it crumpled too early.

  ‘But look,’ said Brenna, ‘if you’re going to get any more physical, you might need special dispensation — this second cousin thing.’

  ‘Crap.’

  I got the six-pack of raspberry buns and laid them out carefully on the duvet. Our current passion: the doughy pleasure of the Shirley Bakery’s raspberry bun. We liked how thoroughly unhealthy it was.

  ‘Goody,’ said Brenna, ‘three each.’ She could go from hottie to hog in a matter of seconds.

  I chewed and sighed. Sonny’s pre-departure leave had just ended, and we were back to silence and longing until next Saturday.

  ‘Consanguinity,’ said Brenna from the floor, still on the cousin thing. ‘That’s what it is. Like blood. You and Sonny have “like blood”, girl, and if you do it you’re probably breaching the prohibitions against consanguineous relationships. I know. It’s in the marriage licence small print. I saw it when I went to Births, Deaths and Marriages with Da last year. He wasn’t breaching any consanguinity laws, unfortunately, so there was no reason for him not to marry Ruth. Apart from her utterly bilious personality, that is.’ Brenna hates her stepmother.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. Second cousins are fine. So are first, actually. My parents wouldn’t let me go out with Sonny otherwise.’

  ‘What about genetic diseases? You might have something way back, in your family.’ She sat up. ‘Lord, what am I saying? Your grandmother. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it might be hereditary.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I grabbed a bun and stuffed it in her gaping mouth. ‘She’s the other side, you fuckwit, she’s not even related to Sonny. Now be quiet. Let’s just lie here and eat and dream.’

  ‘If food be the music of love,’ said Brenna, lying back again, holding the bun above her and bringing it down slowly to her mouth, ‘chew on.’

  I got a book on Bosnia out of the library called Why Bosnia?

  ‘Why Bosnia?’ said Dad, reading over my shoulder. ‘Why indeed? If that guy knows the answer, they’ll be after him. All those peacebrokers.’

  I was reading the timeline in the middle of the book, trying to work out who did what, and when, who they did it to. Virtually impossible.

  ‘So, why?’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m reading.’

  ‘Just thought you might like to shake the hand of the man who is now sixth on the Riverside Tennis Club ladder.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Good? It’s bloody fantastic — I’ve gone from thirty-fourth to sixth!’

  I extended a finger backwards over the couch. ‘Well done, dear. Close the door on your way out.’

  But he stood by the door, pattering a ball with his racquet.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Heard from Sonny yet?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Just wondered.’ He stopped pattering, but stayed there.

  ‘Don’t give me that concerned father look, it’s icky.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. You look like you’re going to say something intimate. Go away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of speaking intimately, don’t worry.’ He started pattering the ball again.

  I watched him watching the ball but thinking about something else. I looked at his hairy legs, his weird tennis shorts, the orange and blue Diadoras, and the serious blue and white sweat bands. (Like Steffi Graf’s.) I loved him really, but he irritated me something wicked. This was the man who said, ‘Bad line call, sport,’ when Mum got a speeding ticket or Finn got an unfair detention. The man who had pictures of Steffi and McEnroe and Agassi magnetised to the fridge; the man who proselytised endlessly about Keeping an Eye on the Ball; the man who carboloaded the night before a ladder challenge.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, when the time comes I’ll use steel-reinforced condoms. Promise.’

  He laughed. ‘I remember when you thought babies came from God and dads were for wrestling games. Those were the days.’ He scooped up the ball in a gesture of finality. ‘So you haven’t heard from Sonny.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  He’s my cousin, too. Forget it,’ he said suddenly, turning to go. ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ I called after him. It was one of Gran’s most annoying commonplaces.

  ‘Bahnya Luke-Ah!’ yelled Dad, next morning, while he was volleying in the hall. ‘Allyia Isobecovich!’

  BANG BANG BANG.

  ‘Slob-o-dahn Mil-oss-o-vitch,’ shouted Finn. He was spreading Nutella on his toast, centimetres thick.

  Mum was drinking coffee and reading the death notices in the Press. In a minute she would toast three slices of bread and spread them with apricot jam. I held open the door of the pantry and considered the cereals. This was our school term routine.

  ‘Radovan Karatitch! Bugger!’ Miss
ed the ball.

  BANG BANG BANG.

  ‘Ratko Mi-la-ditch!’ called Finn. He took a huge bite of toast and chewed, smirking.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  I put some rye bread in the toaster and wondered how I would get through the six months until Sonny’s return without clubbing my family to death.

  BANG BANG BANG. Silence.

  ‘Got a beauty!’ Dad came into the kitchen brandishing his racquet. ‘Fraan-Joe Toodge-min! Beat that!’

  ‘SerbheldCryeena,’ said Finn quickly. They both laughed their heads off.

  ‘Very funny,’ I said. ‘Hilarious. What every family needs, two smartarses who’ve swallowed Morning Report.’

  ‘It’s the Bosnian Rap,’ said Dad, jiving. ‘Veetez, Beeharj … c’mon Finn, what’s another one?’

  ‘Um, um … Tuuzlah!’

  ‘Yesss! Veetez, Bihac, Tuzlah.’

  ‘Here’s one,’ said Mum, looking up from the paper. ‘Krezimeer Zubach. Leader of the Muslim-Croat Federation.’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ I said. ‘It’s bad enough having a thirteen-year-old brother who can spout the stuff. And remind me again why you married him.’ I pointed an accusing, buttery knife at Dad.

  ‘Because he’s funny,’ said Mum, giving Dad a kiss on his freshly shaved cheek.

  ‘He’s a joke — playing tennis in a suit at eight o’clock in the morning! There are people dying in Bosnia,’ I glared at Dad, ‘and all you can do is mock.’

  ‘How long did you say, before she can leave home?’ said Dad, looking at his watch.

  ‘Not soon enough, believe me,’ I said.

  ‘Good morning, girls,’ said Gran, coming into the kitchen. Sans suitcases.

  ‘You sleep well, love?’ said Mum. But Gran was narrowing her eyes at Dad.

  ‘Goodness me,’ she said, turning aside, whispering loudly to Mum. ‘A bit early in the day for salesmen, isn’t it?’

  ‘See,’ I said to Dad, ‘even your own mother doesn’t want to know you.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Finn, into the silence, ‘was ugly. Even for you.’

  ‘Shut up.’ I buttered my toast assiduously, not looking at Dad.

  ‘Have a good day, darling,’ said Mum, manoeuvering Dad from the room by his arm. I could hear her murmuring to him in the hallway.

  ‘I do wish,’ said Gran, beside me, very confidential, ‘I do wish Cushla wasn’t quite so familiar with complete strangers.’

  ‘She has a heart of gold,’ said Finn, rinsing his dishes like a good boy. ‘Dispenses favours to anyone—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Gran coldly. ‘Who might you be, making free with the facilities and unwanted commentary?’ Lately she’d consigned Finn to the same amnesiac cupboard as Dad.

  ‘Hired boy, ma’am,’ said Finn, pulling at his fringe. He did this all the time — went along with her lady-of-the-manor bit. ‘Eight till twelve.’

  ‘Well, on with your work then, and kindly speak only when you’re spoken to.’

  ‘Up your fanny, Granny,’ said Finn just low enough. He slung on his backpack. ‘See you, citizens.’

  ‘Oh lord, look at the time,’ said Gran. ‘Better start packing.’

  I wanted to shoot the lot of them.

  ‘What’s the story here?’ Sonny asked me. ‘This is Bob’s mother and she doesn’t know him, but she remembers Cushla even though she’s only known her half as long — not even half, maybe twenty years. I don’t get it?’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘And how come she’s okay about you, but hazy about Finn? She got something against men?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Bummer.’

  ‘Finn doesn’t care.’ I said. ‘Really. He just treats it like a game, a chance to invent something. He feeds her a whole lot of crap and she’s happy.’

  ‘But how come she doesn’t know her own son? Her only son?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  He looked sceptical.

  ‘They don’t. Nobody knows what goes on in her head. If there’s anything in her head. Personally, I think she was born addled.’ This was completely untrue. I could remember the Gran of a few years ago. Sharp as a tack, to quote Mum. Tart-tongued, to quote Dad. Stylish, efficient, funny, abruptly loving. The dispenser of expensive presents and money, English toffees, unwanted advice, long stories and, sometimes, quick fierce hugs, a sudden kiss on the top of the head. ‘Nothing we can do about it, anyway,’ I said, squashing my shame.

  On Saturdays, Sonny hung out at our place. He’d been at Burnham Camp all year but we hadn’t seen him until my grandfather’s funeral,

  ‘How come you didn’t check us out?’ I kept thinking that if he’d come visiting in January we’d have had so much more time before he went to Bosnia.

  ‘Hadn’t got round to it.’

  ‘But now you can’t stay away.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He put his hand around the back of my neck. I could feel my pulse under his fingers. I could hear the blood drumming in my ears, my cheeks heating. It happened all the time.

  We sat inside and talked and listened to music. We sat outside and talked and smoked. We walked and talked. We went for drives in his car and talked. After Brenna, it was the most I’d ever talked to anyone in my life.

  Sometimes I watched him play tennis with Dad. Or I watched him kick a soccer ball around with Finn at Avon Park. I could have watched him for hours. He was big and beautiful but he had a kind of lazy grace, too, in spite of the height and breadth.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ I said when he came away from the tennis club sweating and panting. ‘You don’t have to hang out with my family. Be nice to them.’

  ‘It’s for the beer,’ he said, holding a cold can of lager against his cheek.

  ‘You’re good,’ I said. ‘You nearly beat him.’

  ‘In the blood. The old man’s passable. And his old man was a rep. That right, Bob? Your old man and Joe, they were pretty good, eh? Runs in the family?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Dad, swinging his arm, flexing his left fist, going through all his after-match gyrations. He looked at Sonny. ‘You’ve gotta give up the fags, mate.’

  ‘Weed,’ said Sonny. ‘Buggers the breathing.’

  ‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ said Dad, starting to jog.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Healthy mind, healthy body,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be outta the shower by the time you get back,’ called Dad, breaking into a sprint.

  ‘Do I want a healthy mind?’ mused Sonny.

  ‘I like your folks,’ he said later, chopping calf’s liver. ‘And Finn.’

  ‘You have such a mature relationship,’ said Brenna when I told her we cooked lunch together on Saturdays. ‘Practically geriatric. Whoever heard of anyone our age cooking with their boyfriend? You’re s’posed to lose your appetite when you’r’n love, girl, not stuff down liver casserole.’

  ‘He likes cooking, it’s his hobby. He wants to be a cook. After the army.’

  ‘He’ll make someone a lovely wife, won’t he?’

  ‘Not sure about the old lady,’ said Sonny, dredging the liver in flour. ‘She’d drive you crazy.’

  Since Gran couldn’t remember that Dad was her son, telling her that Sonny’s father was Bob’s cousin made no impact at all. She treated Sonny with barely disguised disdain. I’d heard her tell Mum that Maoris might be able to sing but they were a lazy bunch when the chips were down. I wanted to hit her.

  ‘This close,’ I showed Brenna with my fingers. ‘I came this close.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ shrugged Sonny when we all fell over ourselves apologising. ‘She’s ignorant. Like ninety per cent of the population.’

  ‘She was born in the dark ages,’ said Finn.

  ‘She’s from another world,’ said Mum.

  ‘No pun intended,’ said Finn, thoughtfully.

  ‘The truth is,’ said Dad, ‘she’s a paid-up Bigot, capital B. Blue-nose Tory, colonial menta
lity, all that shit. Sorry, mate. You can choose your friends but you’re stuck with your relatives.’

  ‘Not if you stick them in nice old people’s homes,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve been through that.’

  ‘Even racist parents have to be looked after,’ said Sonny.

  ‘What a fine upright young man,’ said Brenna, in her Sister Colleen voice. ‘Your Gran trashes him and he turns the other cheek. A true Christian.’

  ‘Your folks are fine,’ said Sonny, the true Christian, frying the liver in oil.

  ‘They’re all right,’ I said, feeling reasonably disposed to them now that they had his seal of approval.

  ‘Bit of a bloody mystery how Bob turned out okay living with the old lady, though.’

  ‘Well, he’s not exactly normal …’

  ‘Helluva good tennis player.’

  ‘Every Saturday at the Fendalton Club for a hundred years. Private tennis coaching. Holiday programmes. Until he left home and became a hippie and gave it up. Gran thought tennis was a nice game for nice people.’

  ‘Didn’t she know us black bastards play it too?’

  ‘Don’t suppose she gave you black bastards a thought,’ I said thoughtlessly.

  ‘Good to hear you calling a spade a spade, cuz,’ said Sonny wittily. We leaned against the bench kissing while the liver bubbled in its red wine sauce.

  Some afternoons we sat on a bench under a horse chestnut in Woodham Park, holding hands and kissing until the wind turned cold and the shadows of the swing frames grew elongated. In the evenings we sat close together on the living room couch after everyone had gone to bed and kissed and kissed, our skins salty, delicious on the tongue. In the small hours we leaned against Sonny’s car kissing until he got inside it and drove back to Burnham.

  ‘I’m not phoning, okay?’ he always said.

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Nope. Hate it. Can’t see your face.’

  And that was our relationship, more or less, for weeks: once a week — until he got leave — cooking side by side, talking and kissing, kissing and talking. Then it was B. Day.

  On Bosnia Day I stood at the airport with Sonny in a noisy, awkward crowd of people — my parents and Sonny’s, his grandmother and sisters and aunts and uncles and other cousins. I held his clammy hand and squeezed his fingers back whenever they nervously squeezed mine.