Edie had said nine o’clock. One minute to go. Trained up into precise punctuality since babyhood he could not bring himself to knock on the door a second earlier.
When she had come back after rehearsal to ask for help with her script his pleasure had been tempered by a certain sceptism. In fact he had gone so far as to check the corridor, half expecting to discover the rest of them snorting and giggling behind the swing doors. But it had been quite empty. And his suspicions had been completely vanquished when, as they were parting, she had said, ‘Don’t tell the others.’
At this remark an upsetting little thrill had rippled through Brian’s slender frame. Agreeable yet alarming. For the words seemed to him to add a definitely clandestine gloss to Edie’s request. Hoiked it out of the simple teacher/pupil category into something quite different. He had been both relieved and disappointed when she had added,‘They’d only laugh.’
Even so the fact remained that he would, presumably, be alone with her and since their brief exchange his imagination had run lubriciously riot. In vain did he argue that the aim of the visit was basically pastoral. Inventive and spicy images still seethed.
She sat, hands on her wide-apart knees, revealing those absurdly brief, terribly tight, furry knickers. What Tom called her pom-pom shorts. Alternatively, Brian zoomed in on her ears. One a transparent spiralling unblemished shell of exquisite delicacy, the other brutally hammered by bronze and iron-like shapes - studs and pins and rings and dependent, trembling corkscrews of silver wire. He pulled a comb from her hair and it tumbled, like glowing lava, over bare shoulders.
An owl hooted. He glanced again at his wrist. Half a minute past! Thirty whole, deeply precious seconds wasted. He looked for a gate, could not find one and climbed over the railings.
By the light of a brand-new carriage lamp he could see a scrubby bit of grass littered with domestic detritus. A rusty fridge, part of a sideboard, some smashed-up tea chests and a disembowelled armchair piled with old car tyres. Next to the chair was a beer barrel lying on its side.
As Brian approached the house he heard a rattling shake then, with a terrific snarling and snapping, a dog leapt out of the barrel and flew at him. Brian yelped with fear and shot up into the air like a rocket. At once the dog doubled up on the vocal pyrotechnics, tugging on its metal chain and growling with great ferocity.
‘Sabre!’ A rectangle of golden light and Edie stood in the doorway. ‘Shut that bloody row.’ She held the door wider, smiling at Brian as he approached with admirable speed. ‘He won’t hurt you.’
‘Goodness.’ Brian gave vent to a costive chuckle. ‘Dogs don’t bother me. Quite the reverse in fact.’ Boldly he made as if to reverse his steps. ‘Here boy ...’
‘I shouldn’t pat him, all the same.’
‘Oh. Right.’
She did not make way for him to enter the house. Brian had to squeeze by, holding his breath apologetically, giddily aware of her lovely face, a mere kiss away from his own.
They were immediately in what Brian assumed must be the sitting room, though there wasn’t a lot of space to sit. One of the walls had almost vanished behind stacks of cardboard boxes labelled Sharp and Hitachi. The black-vinyl settee, disgorging foam chippings from various gashes and splits, looked as if it had been playfully gored by a bull. In the corner was the largest television set that Brian had ever seen. Vast, matt black, state-of-the-art Technic. On top of it was a wicker basket full of plastic flowers in violent shades of red and orange, and underneath, a video. A handsome ghetto blaster played pop music, very loudly. Clothes were lying about in untidy piles and a couple of dresses hung from the picture rail on wire hangers.
Edie did not even refer to the state of the place, let alone offer excuses, and Brian could not help but be impressed. His mother would apologise for the mess if one of her quilted salmon-velour scatter cushions, Velcroed into position across the back of the chesterfield, was an eighth of an inch out of true.
‘Make yourself at home then.’
‘Thank you.’ It was extremely warm. Brian unzipped his anorak, folded it carefully , laid it on the settee and sat on it. He was touched to notice one of the computer print-outs that he had handed out, heavily notated with Biro. He coughed nervously and looked around, searching for something to say. His eye fell on the boxes.
‘You ... er ... go in for hi-fis then, Edie?’
‘We’re collecting them. For the Multiple Scrolosis.’
‘Excellent.’ Brian was careful to keep the surprise from his voice. ‘Keep up the good work.’ Hyuf, hyuf.
‘You wanna drink?’
‘Thank you.’
She crossed over to an old, heavily carved 1950s sideboard covered with ornaments, glasses, more plastic flowers and birthday cards and opened it, producing a totally unfamiliar bottle.
‘To whom do I wish many happy returns, Edie?’
‘Me mum. Thirty-one yesterday.’
‘Good heavens.’ Younger than me. ‘Is she ... er ... around at this moment in time?’
‘No. It’s her weight-lifting night.’
He wanted to ask where Tom was, but feared seeming too obvious. He knew where her father was. Doing ten years for armed robbery in Albany.
‘Put the wood in the hole, Bri.’
At a loss he stared around then noticed a door standing open in the far corner, leading to some stairs. He closed it and leaned against the panels, raising his eyebrows whimsically. Then it struck him that this stance might look a bit threatening, so he moved back into the centre where he was given his drink.
‘Bottoms up, then,’ said Edie as he stood awkwardly clutching the smeary tumbler.
‘What is it?’
‘Thunderbirds Mixed Wine.’ She grinned. ‘It’s fruity. Apples and lemons and that.’
‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘Got to keep me head clear, haven’t I?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘You’ll be leading me in wicked ways, Brian.’
More to smother this wondrous notion at birth than because he was thirsty Brian took a large gulp of the liquid, which exploded between his ears.
‘All right?’
‘Absolutely.’ He clutched the back of a chair. ‘Thunderbirds are go.’
‘You what?’
Of course she would be too young for the first TV series and too old to bother with the repeats. What a stupid thing to say. She’d think he was an absolute cretin.
Eyes closed, Edie was swaying now to the music, the arch of her back as strong, slender and supple as a steel spring, balancing gracefully on spiky, high-heeled shoes of patent leather that seemed slightly too big for her. Brian wondered if they belonged to her mother and the thought impelled feelings of excited tenderness. He boldly joined in, shifting clumsily from one foot to the other and clicking his fingers - off the beat, his ear for music being even worse than his ear for dialogue.
‘You wannanother drink?’ She had stopped dancing.
‘Better not. Thank you.’
‘Sit down then.’
Brian looked about him. The single armchair held video and audio tapes, freebie newspapers, some tights and a plate streaked with tomato sauce and dried egg yolk. He gravitated back to the settee.
This also held a certain amount of debris. Edie threw it all over the back. This move involved both kneeling and reaching and the narrow band of Lycra posing as a skirt was so tautly stretched that Brian could clearly see the cleft between her buttocks. He broke out into a warm glow, which he put down to the excessive heat from a three-bar electric fire.
‘So, young Edie.’ Keep it light and jocular. ‘How can I help?’ She bounced down beside him.