The Party at the End of Time

By David Pearce

Frank Prettyman, owner and CEO of Celtic Literary Enterprises, is drowned attempting to locate C.D. Moreclay, a pig-farmer and the author of “The Party at the End of Time”, an unsolicited manuscript that both he and Frank are convinced is a masterpiece.
Celtic has traditionally, and profitably, specialised in the publication of peninsula romantic novels and Cornish poetry in translation. “The Party” is a radical departure from this tradition and there is opposition from within.
Following her husband’s death Olivia Prettyman takes over and, in deference to his wishes, proceeds with publication. The book is an international sensation but one of its features is the prediction that the cosmos will come to an end on a specified date.
Olivia suggests that the appropriate response is to hold a gigantic party. To her consternation it is decided that the obvious venue is “The Old Mill”, her house and paddock set in an idyllic Devon valley. She feels compelled to agree.
Her new-found friend and ally, Ellie, sets to work on the invitations that, given Moreclay’s associates, include members of the National Farmers’ Union (Pig) Branch, in addition - traditional Cornish Wailers and poets, romantic lady novelists, members of her daughter’s cycle racing team and any number of little old ladies.
Chaos ensues as characters from the Prettyman son, Henry’s, past invite themselves. Olivia despairs as, mounted on one of her magnificent horses, she observes the arrival of first a boatload of Vikings followed, to the delight of the feisty little old ladies, by pirates.
But it has rained for forty days and nights and high above the valley the holding tank in which Moreclay stores his pig-slurry splits its seams. Surfers gather to take advantage of the mother of all waves as it sweeps down carrying all before it and out to sea.
The mother of all epics "The Party at the End of Time" involves readers in turbulent and in some cases terminal times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Pearce
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463058480

David Pearce

Long past my sell-by date but doing all I can to keep fit with daily exercise and a healthy breakfast I spend most of my time writing and listening to the radio with occasional excursions in the local countryside on my electric-assist bike. I live alone in southern France close to the river Rhone and possibly on borrowed time as there is a large nuclear plant close by.

Book preview

CELTIC LITERARY ENTERPRISES

AND

CLARENCE DUPLICITY MORECLAY

CORDIALLY INVITE YOU

to

THE PARTY

AT

THE END OF TIME

The party to end all parties!

Copyright 2018 David Pearce

Published by David Pearce at Smashwords

CONTENTS

Part One - The Prophecy

Part Two - The Party at the End of Time

A note from the author

Other books by this author

Connect with the author

List of Paragraphs Part One

List of Paragraphs Part Two

Volume One – The Prophecy

1. How Moreclay became a prophet

The circumstances in which Clarence Duplicity Moreclay, poet, playwright, polymath and pig farmer, became a prophet, some even assert a Dartmoor Sage, are obscure. A brief account exists according to which all was revealed to him one bright Devon morning after he had despatched a consignment of porkers to the abattoir.

After the lorry departed he returned to the fattening sheds to find a single pig that had remained quietly in a corner while the world squealed and panicked around him. Moreclay was about to curse, but something about the pig arrested him. Nevertheless, after breakfast he would load him into his trailer and he would rejoin his fellows penned and protesting in Hatherleigh before they began the process of transformation into their component parts.

He feasted on eggs and several thick rashers of bacon. He drank a pint of coffee and then he cleared the table and carried plates and cutlery to the sink. It was here that a singular occurrence changed his outlook on life. He found himself standing in what he later described as a shaft of sunlight. But as he observed this was no ordinary shaft of sunlight. Even the sun of Devon does not penetrate the north facing window of the Moreclay kitchen. He did not hear voices apart from those of the presenters of the Today programme who, for the next period of time, vanished from his consciousness as if there had been a power cut.

Moreclay stood, bathed in light, washing up mop in hand and became a prophet. The light faded, the voices on the radio resumed, Moreclay became conscious of his mop and that he was the subject of a revelation. He now knew exactly how the cosmos will end. He could not know exactly when, but he soon realised that he could work that detail out for himself. So far, so good. Everyone is familiar with the idea of revelation. The peculiar twist where this one is concerned is that Moreclay was convinced that his was in a mysterious way connected to the pig. He spent the morning whitewashing and gilding a spacious sty. The pig sidled into it as if it had expected nothing less. When it was settled Moreclay hastened to set down all that he had learned before a memory lapse and or the demands of pig husbandry drove the details from his memory.

2. How Frank Prettyman succumbed to lust

Sir, sir, sir. Oh, please, sir.

Frank was not sure whether he approved of being bounced before he had even managed to open the door of his helicopter, the blades still whirling. But what was to be done? Here is The Youth, (Oh, what is his name? Why can I never remember his name?) eyes sparkling and bushy tailed, with yet another bright idea. How to tell him that he had already heard and, with reservations, approved it, that he had braved the helicopter pad but Miss Gracenote had got in before him. A devious little minx, stealing his ideas and embarrassing him in public! What a pair of little vipers. The Youth struggled to keep up.

But what a good idea! Each episode of the Moreclay saga tailored to coincide with the modern attention span! Three minutes of reading...

Then time for a cup of tea...

A biscuit...

Nintendo!

Ideas tumble from them and the difficulties are dismissed with contempt.

They take their time over the short chapters.

And read twice as fast in the long ones.

Of course. So obvious, why had none of the older..?

Why had none of the others? The reason was simple: because they had not been given a sniff at the manuscript, only Miss Gracenote and The Youth, sworn to secrecy, threatened with death in the event of disclosure.

And names...

Titles, sir. He means titles. Titles and numbers for every paragraph.

The poor boy could hardly get a word in edgeways but enough, Frank retrieved his briefcase and the plastic bag that contained the Moreclay manuscript. He shooed the young enthusiasts back to their cage and made his way down the second flight of stairs to the quiet opulence of his office and into the custody of PollyPA.

All I need now, he assured her, is an ice-pack, a handful of tranquillisers, a pint of scotch and a lightly oiled Nubian masseuse.

There is, she assured him, a fresh capsule in your coffee machine.

He said, You are a pearl and congratulated himself on the value and variety of the women in his life; his personal assistant; Olivia, his wife; his mother, Madeleine, Mel and Carole, even the slippery Miss Gracenote.

Coffee in hand he walked to the window. The flags on the cathedral cracked in a strong breeze. He looked south down the river but he became aware of the discordant scent emanating from the plastic bag. It was a reminder that there was work to be done, a monumental decision to be made and disagreements to be countered. Enthusiastic youngsters making the best of their job opportunities are refreshing, but when it comes to difficult choices it is age and experience and tradition that rap their knuckles on the editorial desk and demand to be taken into consideration.

Frank backed away from the window for a fresh sniff at the contents of the plastic bag in the hope of a further assessment of the challenge it represented. There was no gainsaying the fact that it would be a departure from Celtic traditional output but challenge! the moment the word crossed his mind he felt little bulbs light up as if he were a tree anticipating Christmas. A challenge is just what a chap needs, especially if time is short, and if the smelly manuscript were anything to go by, time is very short indeed.

He tried to sit and make a calm, dispassionate review of the situation, to assess the rewards, to take into account the distorting influence of lust. The fact is, and Frank made every effort to face this head on, nothing muddies the purest water more than metaphor. He shook his head. He sensed that metaphor was what he was about to become mired in when this was the last thing he wanted. But if there is a single undeniable, indisputable fact it is that the entire male population of Devon, and to a lesser extent, Cornwall, wrestles with the problem of lust. This is unquestionably true of Cornish poets, but it also preoccupies the minds of Pete, Henry and The Youth and even some females; those of Miss Gracenote and Mel, for instance. Carole takes it for granted and does not agonise. Frank did. His case was slightly different in that his lust was not for sexual gratification; this he accepted as his reward for having made a successful marriage and he and Olivia had enjoyed the waking hours they spent in bed (and other less obvious locations) for as long as they had been together.

In Frank Prettyman’s case the lust was for significance.

His problem was compounded by guilt. He tried to dismiss the idea as absurd but he was not able to do so entirely, and there were times, confronting his eyes in the mirror when shaving for instance, when he accused them of being guilt-laden. He rather enjoyed the idea, it gave him a dramatic dimension that might otherwise have gone unnoticed; it gave him a conscience with which to grapple. But why should a highly successful business man, respected throughout the southwest peninsula and beyond, be in need of a conscience? The reason is this: Celtic Literary Enterprises is a flourishing business, much of its success is due to Frank and those in a position to judge give him full credit for what he had achieved. He was dissatisfied because the ideas were not his but his father’s; it was he who realised the literary potential of the two counties though he had lacked his son’s genius in exploiting it.

Frank Prettyman had surfed the new wave of Devonian writers of romantic fiction and Cornish poetry in translation that thundered up the sandy beaches of these remarkable counties in the middle years of the twentieth century, adding to the reasonable fortune his father had made in the development, (the unshaven of his enemies whisper exploitation) of the earlier generation of Cornish bards.

Fortune and a modest degree of fame in the area covered by Radio Devon should have been satisfactions enough. It was by any standards a remarkable achievement; horses, a helicopter, a Gate purpose-built for Contemplation, what more could a man want? He had asked himself this question every morning since he had returned in his late forties to wet shaving but, confronted, for the time it took to lather and then razor away the overnight stubble, those eyes told him that what he had achieved so far was not enough. They were guilty eyes with a hint of mockery. He had, to coin a metaphor from his surfing days, simply body boarded up the beach. The goose had not only laid her golden eggs but...at this point Frank tended to tell himself angrily to piss off and leave himself alone...confrontational eyes and convoluted metaphors, are more than any man should have to endure before breakfast. This was just the sort of dilemma that The Gate of Contemplation might be expected to resolve. He needed someone to blame or a cat to kick. All would be well if only there were someone he could blame or kick. Just when the problem appeared to be forcing itself to crisis point an event occurred the repercussions of which are felt to this day.

Celtic Literary Enterprises discourages unsolicited manuscripts of any shape or form. The geese that lay the golden eggs are identified as goslings from the instant they burst through their shells. They arrive by recommendation. Poets are harvested from bars and by-ways. They, both poets and romantic lady novelists, are not so much nurtured as bludgeoned into shape. The process is brutal but effective and the slightest sign of deviation, philosophical inclinations or originality is dealt with according to strictly followed, and sometimes terminal, procedures.

Frank wiped his chin. The soap departed; the dilemma remained. As he dabbed his cheeks with the after shave lotion that he had found under the Christmas tree, enduring its sting with Devonian fortitude, he had yet to decide whether it, the manuscript that is, had been sent to provoke or fuel the mid-life crisis (that might be due or over-due, he was not clear) or whether, on the contrary, it was exactly what he needed to prove his literary virility and enable him to break free from the legacy of his father. This was the attitude he took on good days. On others he cursed Moreclay and all his works, assuming that there are others. On bad days he considered that the one he had been sent was more than enough.

For a while it seemed to be in danger of becoming a permanent fixture on the coffee table. Olivia objected to its porcine stains and smells. If only she had had the guts to ditch it, though not in the stream. It was thick enough to block the culvert.

Oh I’m sorry, darling. I threw it into the Aga. I mistook it for...

Impossible, it was a thick wad of smelly manuscript, quite unmistakable both for what it was and for the challenge it represented. This was the thought that undid him. The moment that word challenge slid beneath the radar he was lost. It was what he needed, a challenge with a hint of risk; more than just a hint, his reputation would be on the line. What a temptation! To pluck Clarence Duplicity Moreclay from piggery! To pull him up by the wellies, hose him down and launch him into the world of the glitterati, where they come and go and Michelangelo. He, Frank Prettyman, would be there when, his hands soft now, cleansed of dubious splashes and nails manicured, his protégé steps forward to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. They would stand side by side for the photographers and make modest disclaimers.

Genius. Saw it the moment I read the first page. Anyone would...

Oh no they would not. These were the moments when Frank became rigid with excitement. It would be the last terrific gamble. He was not sure what Olivia’s attitude was to gambles. He would have to break it to her gently, over a prolonged period of time, but he didn’t have a prolonged period of time.

What a triumph it would be to add the name Clarence Duplicity Moreclay to the pantheon of the artists of the greatest artistic movement of the twentieth century and to hear him admit I owe it all to him – Frank Prettyman.

But it would not be an easy task. Seedy Moreclay wrestled in the tradition of the great literary wrestlers in solitude and, in his case, up to his knees in pig slurry, but whilst he had wrestled in the pursuit of his own significance, discrimination, amongst a host of other desirable attributes, had eluded him, as Frank was well aware. At moments at the Gate of Contemplation he held his hands in what a minor novelist would have described as a gesture of despair, resting his elbows on the top rail he was in danger of transforming it into his private wailing wall. There was, for instance, the sudden, unexpected and entirely gratuitous efflorescence of sex in the late flowering pig-man, playwright, prophet and novelist’s work. It could not be ignored The Bishop’s antennae would twitch. Ponder would...Ponder always did.

Sex at seventy.

Frank moaned aloud. Sex was not Celtic’s strong suit. If they discovered his protégé’s age the critics would tear him apart.

Seventy! It’s bad enough at sixteen.

But the greater the challenge the greater…Frank raised his eyes towards the hills and felt the strength flow into him. Today Radio Devon - tomorrow the world. It was a time for the girding of loins and at least he could console himself with the thought that by the end of Chapter Seven the worst of the sex is over. The first six are innocuous enough. The Youth grumbled that there was nothing left to look forward to, only to have his shin hacked by Miss Gracenote who was at that very moment preparing the ground for Frank’s next big idea.

The moment came when the horses, Frank’s neighbours in the adjoining farm further up the hill, Olivia (startled) and a pair of innocuous hikers (terrified) were witness to its effect. Whether Henry heard or reacted to his father’s shout of triumph may never be known but most of the flock of Jacob sheep, corralled by Devon hedges and the famous Gate, hesitated mid-chew.

Never mind the details, the effect was that the following day The Youth and Miss Gracenote were installed in a safe house in the city suburbs with instructions to read, correct typos, edit, rewrite, rearrange, interpret, reinterpret and deodorise as they saw fit and bring a copy back fit for human consumption by the end of the week; he would then come to a final final decision. On no account was the original to be brought within sniffing distance of Celtic Tower. In the meantime any further ambushes on the helicopter pad and the offender would be tipped over the parapet into the car park sixty feet below.

He passed over the manuscript. Leaving it out all night every night had not improved its aroma. It retained a strong smell of pig.

The Youth set to his task with unalloyed enthusiasm. Miss Gracenote was ambivalent. She hummed and haad when it came to the division of responsibilities but they agreed to read Moreclay’s third person account of his revelation, break for coffee, followed by a discussion, after which...

Miss Gracenote said: We could...but on the other hand we...

But by this time The Youth had already bent his head over the manuscript and begun to read...

3. A love story Mel loves Henry

and, in spite of having been a scrum-half, The Youth sighed because he was soppy and sentimental at heart.

Henry said, I have a theory.

Mel said, You just would have.

She had waited patiently for about eight years. She could not be precise because she had not begun her secret diary until some months after she realised that she was in love. Before she began her diary she had drawn secret, diminutive hearts on folded pages in her jotter and on the tip of a finger or two if she had time, or during art periods but when her friends teased her and speculated and said they would tell, she turned on them fiercely, rebuking them, telling them they meant nothing, that they were merely decoration and they could tell who they liked. She said she didn’t care. But they knew she did.

Henry was friendly, but he was friendly to them all, especially Lucy and Carole, so Mel suffered, but she suffered just as she lived, quietly, containing her emotions, dissimilating so that, even if they suspected, her best friends did not know when she cried, and even her mother had no idea what a struggle it was for her to wrestle with love when she was nine, as if it were an intrusive monster that threatened her concentration and her happiness. Not all the time. Sometimes he sat beside her, not just because there was no other vacant chair in the room, and then he would whisper and try to distract her because that is what he did all the time under the teacher’s nose, and he could keep a straight face while his victim was trying to cope with convulsions.

He didn’t do that to Mel, but she had to remember not to kick her shoes off and she had to lean against the back of her chair so that he could not undo the bow at the back of her dress and keep her elbow in to avoid a nudge. She would try to maintain her concentration because she was afraid that if she were to relax for an instant she would look at him, or say something that would reveal her secret, and the whole world would know that Mel loves Henry. Other girls drew hearts and made esoteric calculations and made no secret of loving Henry, lots of them loved Henry and Nick, and one girl even said she loved Booby Gloyns but that was play love. Mel knew just how much she loved Henry and when he was casual or dismissive, as he was forced to be at times just to show the other boys how little he cared, she suffered and cried herself to sleep.

But it would be years before she would begin to question her love for him. She counted them up – more than ten!

4. Another love story Ken loves Eleanor loves Ken

Ellie was Ellie to everyone apart from her husband, who called her Eleanor and Mel and Pete who called her mum, or mother when they were exasperated. Ken appeared to be punctilious rather than romantic. He never forgot birthdays or anniversaries and he provided chocolates, roses, whatever was appropriate. He took seasons and diets into account and both his PC and his mobile were primed with reminders. He was organised. His life was ordered and he loved his wife.

Ken said, I married you because I like saying your name.

This Ellie denied. Her theory was that Ken was unfulfilled with just one person, himself, to keep tidy and organised. But it was true; he adored the sound of her name. Her father would not have given it a thought, a desperate bastard, too self-obsessed to think for one moment of contractions verbal or physical. Ellie, smelly, belly. Kids taunted her. What effect might that have had? Not being a psychologist Ken was unable to speculate with any degree of profundity. She seemed to have survived without discernible scars and he liked the name as it should be, in full, Eleanor.

They stood looking down the aisle of a cathedral somewhere in Normandy because the guide book told them that this was where Eleanor of Aquitaine had married and they walked down the aisle together arm in arm, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Ken of just outside Ivybridge. He was not an enthusiast for cathedrals but he was for Eleanors.

Ken said, I’ll bet she wasn’t as good looking as you.

He said it quietly, into her ear because they were in a cathedral, right in front of the high altar and perhaps it was blasphemy, and he thought he saw the candles give a little shiver but she gave his arm a squeeze. When he said things like that she wanted to hug him first and then dance round him, and she had to tell herself not to be silly and grow up, and she told him that he only said things like that because he wanted to get in her pants and they both looked round in case a vicar…

Ken said, It would be a bishop, wouldn’t it, in a place like this?

or God, was listening.

Neither of them had really given much thought to God but Ellie thought that you need to be careful because you never know.

5. Carole creamy and unblemished

Mel pointed Henry out to her mother in Tescoes and her mother said, Hank Marvin.

Mel had no idea what, or even who, she was talking about but she rarely ask her mother to elucidate as her mother’s explanations invariably left her more baffled than she was before she asked. He was, she gathered, a figure from her mother’s youth.

She insisted that there was a likeness. Both were tall, thin, had the glasses and features that were chopped rather than rounded and those glasses, a fashion statement and defiant, thick, black rimmed windows on the world that suggested an approximation to blindness, lenses so powerful that they must be contained by titanium. He took them off when he played rugby. That required an explanation but so far she had been too shy to demand one. If he were brusque in his reply, dismissive, demanding to know what business...it was not in his nature to be cruel but even if he were merely brusque it would be sufficient reason for private tears. Later she would snatch them from him, try them on and discover that they were little more than plain glass, but she was, at this point, far from the snatching stage. How polite and guarded they were with each other!

Carole teased Henry and told him that Mel was passionately in love with him, but he did not believe her and in any case she was not his type. Carole laughed at him and dared him but she was not sure what she really wanted him to do. That was the thing about Mel. She was quiet and guarded, but you could see the moods in her face, though she didn’t smile like some people, like melons splitting from seam to seam or...and she leaned her head forward just a bit. Carole leaned her head forward just a bit to see if she could reproduce the movement and its effect, but her hair didn’t fall forward in quite the same way. When Mel did it was like a tortoise...she would tell her that...like a tortoise going back into its shell so you don’t know whether they are smiling or not but she didn’t know Mel well enough to tell her she was like a tortoise, even if she liked tortoises, which she almost certainly did.

Carole brushed her hair back and twisted a band into it to form a pony tail then began a careful inspection of her face for blemishes.

Carole said, Unblemished.

She separated every syllable. She had a little monster for a brother but her face was creamy and unblemished.

6. Saturday Okay is that a question?

Henry said, I’ve got a theory.

Mel said, You just would have.

What she wanted to say was Tell me about it because it was one of those phrases that people were using like Whatever. and...and Tell me about it could be interpreted as...

Henry said, You’re supposed to say fascinating, please tell me about it.

Mel glanced round the room. There were twos and threes sitting at or on desks, one or two curious glances. Mel and Henry, that’s interesting.

Whatever.

This was not quite the longest conversation they had ever had but two or three more sentences and it would be entered in her diary in red biro and now perhaps, she must take her chance, or might it be better to..?

Mel said, That sounds very interesting. Please tell me about it.

She captured the mocking intonation of his voice exactly and with a slight inclination of the head concealed her fear of heights.

Henry said, Well since you insist. It’s a long theory.

You can’t tell me now?

Then they’ll all hear.

They had become the centre of covert attention. Henry was always close to the centre but Mel shrank from such exposure. He leaned forward so that his lips were close to her ear and his eyes could take in the reaction of classmates.

Henry whispered, You’ll have to come out with me.

Mel said, I shall have to think about it. I shall have to consult my...

Saturday.

Okay.

7. Explorations in the little park

They danced all evening. Much of the time Mel closed her eyes and let the flashing lights make dark patterns against her eye lids and the sound bounce from her ear drums and she felt drunk with atmosphere and happiness. Carole was somewhere and other girls that she knew. She remembered to be friendly and smile and wave at them especially at the beginning when she feared that Henry might wander but he didn’t. When she opened her eyes he was still there.

She wanted to confess, Henry, I love you. I have loved you since I was eight or nine, no eight.

She knew better than to administer such a fright and then it was late, the records had changed in mood and tempo and Henry had forgotten that he was going to tell her his theory and wasn’t that the whole point of the evening? Or was it a pretext? Perhaps she would remind him later, but now was later; he was holding her so closely that she thought she might burst into flame.

Henry said, Nice evening?

Now she should say the sort of thing that Carole would say, Passable or I’ve had worse, something witty and dismissive but she leaned her head into his neck and hummed at him because she was afraid that if she spoke she might shout, Henry I love you even more and this has been the happiest evening of my life

That would really finish him off but...

A third party had joined them. He was doing his best to maintain a position of insistent pressure between her legs.

Henry whispered. That’s Sam - Slippery Sam.

Mel tried to maintain a position of neutrality, neither encouraging nor actively discouraging, but it was a lovely feeling, tantalising and she found the position of her hips slipping in the direction of encouragement.

Do you want to hear it?

He spoke so close to her ear that his voice sounded as if it were inside her head. But she wanted to concentrate her attention. Sam was a presence almost as bold and exciting as Henry himself. She could say later, but should she commit herself to later, or tell him to shut up and leave me alone with Sam, or say nothing? Mel said nothing and concentrated on manoeuvres that kept Sam in contact. If it meant prolonging the evening she would listen to him reciting the theory of evolution or the Koran. There was no escaping Sam now had she wanted to. Henry had his hands on her bum and he was pressing her to him. He felt hard and large. His aim had improved and the sensations that he was exciting made her cling to Henry’s neck as if she were afraid that her legs might fold beneath her. If they were still watching they would be able to see. But those who were not involved with Sams of their own seemed to have left. Mel began to hope that her friends’ plans did not include walking home with her, then the music stopped. The hall lights came up, dazed couples parted and made their way to the door. Mel had the money for a taxi.

It’s not far to walk.

She wanted to ask him whether she could trust him in the dark. That was the sort of daft remark that Carole might make but she felt...what did she feel? Henry made for the toilet. She stood alone. They were among the last to leave. What would he expect of her, and she of him? What she wanted more than anything was to be kissed, and although he had big teeth and those glasses the thought of being kissed by Henry was what she, at this moment, wanted more than anything in the world. She was being eleven again, starting at the big school. It was as if something different and decisive might be about to happen.

A voice said, This your coat mate?

The voice of a little friendly fat man anxious for nothing to be left behind, to make sure the DJ had moved all his equipment, to lock up, to switch off all the lights, to go home, quick shower and bed. Mel woke from her daze and retrieved her coat.

They walked up the hill and into the little park. The grass would be littered with their classmates. It was deserted.

Henry produced a can of Coke from his jacket pocket. It was ice-cold. She did not want any but he took a swig and then taking her in his arms he kissed her. He kissed with his lips until her lips parted and she felt his still cold tongue enter her mouth and they drew breath and kissed again in the warm night and she thought that nothing so romantic had ever happened to anyone ever before. There was rather less than half a moon, stars and the air was balmy. They sat on a bench and went through the whole repertoire of kissing because it was warm and private and there was nothing else in the world better to do.

Mel said, I’ve been waiting for you to do that since primary.

Good grief. Why didn’t you tell me? You could have sent a note – like all the other girls.

It was worth waiting.

Is your mum waiting? Up, I mean.

She’s cool.

What, even if she knew you were with me?

Specially if she knew I was with you. She does know I’m with you.

Henry said, Huh.

He was mortified. To be trusted with young ladies...

Mel said, You were going to tell me about your theory.

She was alarmed by the thought that because he knew he was trusted he might fly away and the world would come to an end.

Henry said, I can’t just tell. Demonstrations involved. It’s scientific research, for my project, essential for the future of...

Sam?

Humanity. You have to try something, just try something. But if you want to stop you just say so. Jus’ say stop and that’s it, no arguments, no sulks, no recriminations, okay. This is scientific research for my project, essential for the future of...

"Humanity.

Only if you give me another kiss.

Mel could feel herself becoming bolder. It was a curious and troubling sensation because she could feel an undercurrent of doubt but no one had ever kissed like Henry kissed. Now he would put his hand on her breasts. That is how they always begin, first over then under. Then on the knee and upwards with caution, an inch at a time, like deer stalking, until that same hand arrived as if by magic between her legs because he hadn’t spent long on her breasts, not even burrowing under her bra which she thought was what they always do. She thought she would have more time in which to decide whether he was allowed to burrow his way under her skirt against the bare skin of her legs.

Henry said, Scientifically speaking.

No one in the history of the universe had ever been so predictable and hysterically funny. Mel knew that she must not start laughing because...she began to laugh.

Henry decided against further exposition. He took her hand and led her behind the bench, positioning her so the she was leaning slightly forward and away from him. He stepped away to satisfy himself that she was in the required posture, nodding gravely.

Henry said, I just want you to maintain your normal breathing ratio. You may experience...

She could not feel his body, or Sam, though he was standing directly behind her. She became aware that the tips of his fingers, no, the tip of one finger of each hand had found her nipples and, over the thin stretched material of her bra and blouse, barely touching, were circling and crossing them as lightly as it was possible and still retain contact.

Her nipples were easily stimulated. Just brushing against them dressing could set off delicious sensations. But these were transitory, and weren’t boys supposed to play briefly and then want to kiss them and....

Preliminary investigation indicates.

He resumed touching and barely touching. He was disembodied. It was a torture that she wanted never to stop. The pressure decreased if anything but the sensations were being impelled down and down to a void between her legs as if direct wires linked them. As the tension mounted she wanted to press herself against something, anything, that would bring some measure of relief. She realised that she was snatching breath as if she were crying and still he maintained the teasing play with the tips of his fingers against the tips of her breasts as if he intended to continue to do so all night. She made as if to turn round but he held her in position with his forearms.

Henry said, Good. That’s right. Just...now a little...just a little...and now just undo your bra for me...there’s a good...

It was doctors and nurses, the white coat syndrome. He held the cold can in both hands. Mel undid her bra and let it fall away from her breasts. When the tip of Henry’s finger touched her nipples now they were as ice-cold as the can. The sensations were so powerful that she thought, I am going to...this is an orgasm.

Her hips seemed to have a will of their own but now they were pressing backwards and Sam had joined in the festivities.

She became aware that she was saying, Oh Christ and Oh God over and over.

Henry said, Interesting. Subject comes over all religious. and then You could let him out. Breath of fresh air. Do him good.

She said, Henry, no more...stop now...please.

They sat back on the bench.

She expected him to sound frustrated and angry but he did not sound angry at all. He sounded a little amused. He would tell them on Monday, how she went just a little way, teased him, then ran home to mummy.

Henry said, You had an organism.

She wanted to scream with laughter. She felt delirious with satisfaction and happiness because she had had a Henry organism and he had desisted when she asked him to and she would ask him not to tell the others and he didn’t know...he had got it...

Organism! You mean…

She would learn over time not to fall into his traps, not to encourage him.

No, I organise, you gasm. Organism.

Was this anything to do with your theory?

Henry didn’t answer. He felt virtuous. On Monday he would be enigmatic. He had been unsure about this evening but there was something different about this girl that he would not think about tonight but...she leaned into him. There was an unsatisfied guest at the party, a hard shadow in the darkness but Henry was patient. He appeared to be content with what he had accomplished and he made no move to take advantage of Mel’s anxiety to please him but she felt him with her fingers.

Mel said, I’m going to let him out. I want to see.

He felt huge beneath the material of Henry’s jeans.

Henry said, Well, if you insist.

He eased his hips forward as she undid the zip. Sam remained confined within his cocoon so that Mel had to begin again with the belt and Henry had to raise his hips and then there he was. It was too dark to see clearly but there he was. Mel felt a sense of relief as well as excitement. Now that she had done what she had done he would not tease her and tell the others, even if she didn’t let him go all the way she could still...she held him experimentally.

He feels nice. He’s lovely and warm and...my brother has races with his mates.

How do you...?

Henry was stunned. He had expected and rehearsed his role as mentor. He would gently suggest...and she might...

Shall I..?

But she had already begun and Henry found that he was having difficulties with breathing and he was afraid that his voice might betray him...and Pete and his mates, perhaps she had...

They have a secret place. Pete told me where. I tortured him. Then I spied on them.

Spied!

Only once. It was funny.

That can’t be the only thing - she steals from shops, beats up little kids and nicks their sweets. Perhaps she...

You...ah...you haven’t...I mean you are..?

He thought she was not going to answer. She was concentrating her attention on Sam so successfully that they absorbed thoughts, questions, preconceptions and...

Henry said, There, now look what you’ve done, another organism.

They sat side by side. Something had disturbed sheep on the other side of the estuary, and had they been listening they might have heard their bleats across the water, but Mel wanted to tell Henry that she had loved him since she was eight or nine, and still loved him and she would until the day she died, but this might not be a good idea because all he had done was ask her out this one night and they had had organisms and if he had wanted her to…asked her to, would she have..? and then what would he have thought? and if she told him she had never, but she guessed that was silly because he would know. She wanted to cry or giggle but instead she took some tissues from her bag and carefully wrapped Sam in them.

Henry said, He likes kisses.

That was another thing, kisses, and not just kisses. He hadn’t had the nerve to tell her what he really liked. She was not at all sure about that. They put him away and Mel twined her arms round Henry’s neck and kissed him, just in case he decided that once was enough, and she was too dull and wouldn’t go far enough and there were plenty of other girls who would, and he would take them out instead. It would spoil the whole evening if she thought like that and she would go home and start crying, so she had to make him say something just in case, but she had to be careful because she didn’t want him to think that her whole life depended on what he said, or replied, even if it did.

Mel said, Thanks, Henry. I’ve really enjoyed...

Henry said, Yea, me too. Thanks Mel.

But not, how about next Saturday, or what about Wednesday or..? and he didn’t when they reached her house after he had finished kissing her. Off he went appearing in the pools of light between the streetlights and disappearing into shadows and she watched until he was too far away for her to see whether he was still turning and waving.

8. Mel creeps in

This was the latest that Mel had ever entered the house on her own, turning her own key in the lock so quietly and leaning her weight against the door to ease it inwards without a sound. No need to pause for the mad axe man, her mum and dad would be in bed under the duvet that her mum claimed to love more than anything in the world including her husband, definitely her daughter and even, on some days, her son. Mel heard voices from the lounge. Her mum lay on the sofa turning different colours in the light cast by the television screen and the small lamp that stood beside it. She stirred as Mel turned the lounge light on.

Ellie said. You’ve been crying. I’m going to make some hot chocolate. Quick bond.

Mel came to the sofa and hugged her. She must be saturated with the smell of Henry.

Go and rinse your face.

She dashed cold water onto her face, into her eyes. The mirror reflected a face like a compact red pumpkin but she shrugged and smiled, wondering whether she had ever been so happy and whether she was going to cry again. By the time she returned her mother had the hot chocolate steaming on the occasional table.

Why did you wait up? Spying on me? You should be at work. Go to work.

Not tonight, Josephine. I’m catching up on the soaps. Dad videoed them for me. And I fell asleep. ’Nother hug. Did you have a lovely evening?

Yes. Quite.

Is he nice? Whisper in my ear.

I’ve fancied him since the first year, before then really. You knew that. Pooh, garlic.

Cheeky mare, Just because you’re in love doesn’t give you the right...

Who said I’m in love?

Why else would you have been crying?

They lay so still that either or both of them might have fallen asleep.

You didn’t tell me whether he’s nice.

I thought you had gone to sleep.

Just testing to see if you had. Is he?

He’s wonderful.

Ellie said, Mel, don’t rush things. Wait until you are good and ready. You, not Henry. He’ll always be ready, but...Mel...Mel.

She slid from beside her sleeping daughter and eased her feet onto the floor. She fetched Mel’s duvet from her bed and wrapped it round her then she lay her cheek for a moment where an hour or so before Mel had felt soft Sam.

Ellie whispered, Goodnight.

How far had things had gone? She kissed her daughter’s forehead, shuffled sleepily until she found her slippers and went to bed.

It was Ken who, still half asleep, in urgent need of coffee, indiscreetly dressed, found the corpse on the sofa. He returned for his dressing gown when the corpse stirred.

Ken said, What the…you alright, pet? What are you doing there? Christ you gave me a fright.

She said, Daddy, is that...what time is it?

Her voice was so thin and remote that she sounded just as she had when she was seven. He brushed the hair out of her eyes.

Ken said, Hey, beautiful girl.

Sometimes he wished she was still seven.

Where’s mum?

What do you mean, where’s mum? Where do you think she is? Still in bed.

She was here, with me, spying on me. I must have gone to sleep. It was a bit late. She abandoned me, left me to the wolves and spiders. She should have carried me up, undressed me and tucked me in.

A great fat lump like you. Have a cup of tea and then go up to your bed. It’s still early. Go on up, I‘ll bring you a cup.

And biscuits, dad, please biscuits. I’m starving.

9. The joy of torture

Who gave you permission to talk to my mum?

She’s nice. I could really fancy your mum.

How did you know where to find her?

You torture your brother.

If he’s got secrets, of course I do.

But you’re supposed to be quiet and well-behaved. I just asked him and he told me.

It’s more fun torturing.

She looks nice. Nice hair. Not like yours.

Oh thanks. She’s terrific. My best pal.

Sam’s mine.

Well he just would be.

If you think slowly and carefully you can remember every word spoken to you. Mel thought slowly and carefully. She dipped her biscuits rapidly so that the chocolate didn’t melt while she contemplated the morning and the prospect of being alone with her thoughts, alone in her bed. Perhaps she would go to sleep. She was a good sleeper. But Henry would intrude before she had time to bolt the door on him. He liked her mum’s hair; he thought her mum was nice. She had work to do for Monday, so had Henry, writing up his project. Mel felt the cup rattle in its saucer. She had woken into a changed world. Henry’s project! He was working his way through every girl in the year. He would be writing up the results...no...far too early for that but later, with his mates, discussing them...discussing her... with his mates...comparing notes, contrasting impressions...publishing their results, gocompare.com.

Ken said, Go and have a shower and go back to bed for an hour.

He must know. It must be obvious from across the street what was going on inside her. It must show. If he were to put his arm round her and give her one of those hugs…he could cube cars with one of his hugs...if he did she would cling to him, as if he were a piece of wreckage in this stormy sea and she would cry like a baby, howl in his ear like she did every time a hamster died.

Her father disappeared into the kitchen so that she was half way up the stairs before she began to cry because they are all such bastards...heartless bastards. If he had pressed her she would have surrendered her pants to him...she might...would...have given in, if she had thought, now there is just the possibility that he will love me like I love him, and be faithful to me forever and ever, and all those hearts I drew for him have come true.

She was mocking herself before she had reached her bedroom door. She demanded to know how naive it is possible to be. She told herself to wake up, grow up, to be realistic; that anyone would think she was still in primary, still in nappies, a babe in arms.

She tried to console herself with the thought that it would not be the end of the world. Henry would tell them that she had. Of course he would. Hers were another pair to raise to the top of his flag pole. He would spend the afternoon texting his mates, one more trophy for the rugby team, guess who this time! another name on the honours board. Love! Devotion! What did they..? She would practise hating them all, beginning with Henry.

She could not have got far because when her mother tapped on her door there was no reply and when she kissed her cheek she was unconscious. She slept until her mother woke her and the wicked world crowded in on her again. Ellie worried because she could feel the bruises. Sometimes she wanted her to be seven, or nine. Nine was a lovely age, only having to cope with the anguish of hamster death.

Ellie heard the garage door swish and clunk and there was Mel in her riding kit ready for the off, so no excuses. There were never excuses. They walked across the kitchen in their socks because cycling shoes clack on the tiles and Ellie would hear them and shout loud enough to drain the strength from their legs. They lifted the bikes out over Ellie’s car and set off with a headwind to test them, but a dry road. They flew. When they turned for home they would fly with the wind but for now they took turn and turn about, shouting at each other when they swapped positions. It was enough to make everything fall into perspective, at least until she was alone again in her room and she had a half hour before supper when she did things like pack her schoolbag, things that could not occupy a churning mind.

Why shouldn’t she text him? Perhaps he had rung while they were out. Mum hadn’t heard because she was down the garden. He wanted to come over, they could go for a walk, play tennis, make love. Of course not, he was too busy noting down everything he would tell everybody or writing up an account for the school magazine or his blog. Oh my god, his blog.

Mel said, Did anyone ring?

It hurt and it was a strain to make her query sound casual and of course the last thing he would do is ring so now they knew he hadn’t texted. Ellie tried to sound sympathetic and convey to her that such omissions are not always a disaster. Now if she contacted him...it was too late...unless, to remind him that he had not got round to explaining his theory. Too obvious and boys can be as obvious as they like but...she vented her wrath on her bag. She was such an idiot. She could not think of anyone else who could be so stupid.

Supper, telly until bed, sleep, hopefully, then the music. Face the Monday music. She was no different, no better than one of those sheep with smudges...different from when she drew hearts on her jotter and they would all know.

A day of nudges, smirks and innuendo to look forward to.

10. Attitudes to breakfast

The Bishop never ate a cooked breakfast. He chewed on a Ryvita and drank a pot of free trade coffee. His breakfast made him feel that he was doing his bit for the third world. Frank never ate a cooked breakfast. He was a muesli and dried fruit man. He too drank coffee and he usually managed at least one slice of toast. Olivia favoured grape fruit sweetened with honey.

Henry never ate a cooked breakfast, but this morning he was unusually quiet. His running commentary on the news bulletin was noted by its absence. There had to be an explanation. Exams and tests could be ruled out as could...

Frank said, You’re very quiet.

Olivia said, Leave him alone.

Leave him alone! Nonsense! Certainly not! Why should I leave him alone? What’s the matter with him?

Your son is in love.

A moment to savour. Frank felt much as he might have felt had he watched his son torturing wasps, waiting patiently for one to turn on him and sting. Olivia, who was the natural butt of their humour, felt a twinge of sympathy that she decided to suppress at least for the time being. It was clear that he had waited, and prepared, for this moment for a long time.

Henry, stung, said, Christ almighty, I’ve only been out with the bloody girl once.

Christ almighty! Bloody girl! Swearing and blasphemy at the breakfast table! This is what we are told to watch out for, abrupt changes of character. Violent speech and behaviour. It’s love or heroin – withdraw symptoms. It must be love. Enjoy, we shall enjoy.

Frank celebrated with a second piece of toast.

Mel normally showered and dressed, her uniform pressed and neat as always, with thoughts of breakfast on her mind. She was the only girl she knew who, after cereals, would eat grilled bacon and shower salivating at the thought. The smell filtered through the house. Her mother grilled bacon to a crisp. Mel was not sure that this was the correct diet for a world champion but it was her favourite food and she could not imagine breakfast without several brittle rashers.

Until today. She was no longer a girl who decorated her jotter with love hearts but a woman of passions and a devotee of the dangerous Slippery Sam god and her appetite for breakfast had been destroyed. Ellie sighed. She would have taken her daughter’s part, gone to the scaffold for her but all she could do was scrape the bacon into the waste bin and give her a special hug. Pete looked at her quizzically but he knew better than to comment. Perhaps it was her period, but that had never stopped her eating bacon before, so it must be something to do with Henry. Pete, too, began to wonder what the next day or two might bring. Mel went up to her room to put a head band into her hair. It was an act of defiance. She would wear her face for all to see.

She checked her cheeks for pallor but the effect of the previous afternoon’s sun and wind ensured that in this respect at least her internal turmoil could not be read, but her face arrested her. She was early. She had plenty of time and she was in no hurry for the confrontation that she had built up in her mind. It was not just Henry. What was not just Henry? She had so much wanted to be kissed, her body had wanted so much...she was arrested by a thought that seemed to come from someone else…whose body is this? This led to another - that she was developing a self, perhaps selves who she had yet to catch up with and how could she…? Pete shouted up the stairs. Sometimes they walked to school together. Sometimes one of his mates called and they went without her. Today she would walk into school alone, brave, head held high.

Mel called down, You go on, Pete.

Before she came downstairs she wanted to ask herself whether...he shouted again, insisted. She wanted to ask herself whether, had Henry really wanted to make love to her she would have said no. How could they have made love unless he loved her? It would have been a shag, a fuck, a one night stand. Why are the words so gross and hideous? She wanted to ask herself whether her body belonged to her because...

Get your arse down here.

sometimes it wants...she heard her mother telling Pete not to be coarse and she must have started hitting him because...

sometimes it can’t do what I want and sometimes it won’t and sometimes...Pete burst into her room without knocking, demanding her protection and she could not even shout at him for not knocking. She did not care anymore and she had left it too late to contract one of the more appalling infectious diseases but there was still time to throw herself downstairs or under a `bus.

Ellie said, Love and anorexia. You wait till I see that Henry.

Mel shrugged, aware that she had got off lightly so far, for almost nothing had been said the previous day and she was certain that worse was to come.

Don’t fuss, I’ll make up for it at lunchtime.

I know. Two Mars bars.

Mel wondered how hopelessly troubled in love one would need to be to go off Mars bars but she limited herself to one a week, if only to prove to herself the iron discipline with which she exercised control over the demands of her skinny frame. Pete picked up her school bag. They went downstairs together and kissed their mother before leaving for school - setting out on the march to the scaffold.

11. A note from Henry

Miss Day, her tutor, greeted them as they arrived. She said, Good morning, to each member of her group, Good morning John. Good morning Melanie.

Mel felt the blush begin in the region of her feet and explode into her cheeks. She expected comments on the bright red glow that emitted sufficient heat to warm the room. No one seemed to notice. She exchanged guarded hellos. Conversations continued. Mel rarely demanded attention so no one found her mute presence, perched on the edge of one of the tables, surprising. She listened with sharpened antennae. Her name was mentioned, Mel. There was a Mel in the Big Brother room. Most of the discussion seemed to favour keeping her in and excluding Donnie.

Yeh, keep Mel, vote for Mel.

Jan grabbed Mel’s right arm, lifted it and continued the chant, Mel, Mel, vote for Mel.

Christine was late.

Early for you, Christine.

Sorry, miss. Mel, I’ve got to talk to you.

They huddled into a corner of the room, Christine keeping the inquisitive at bay with what she thought of as her ferocious look. Mel was aware that Henry had arrived and she was anxious to manoeuvre herself into a position for surreptitious glances. There must have been a Sunday match, half the team was in the room with something to celebrate and he must have told them; he could not possibly not have told them. Why weren’t they looking? Why..?

You aren’t listening.

No one was paying her the slightest attention. Christine was trying to talk to her about Pete as if…had she not noticed her dancing with Henry, leaving the disco with Henry, had she forgotten? Henry was talking about a rugby match. It was as if Saturday night had never happened, or the impossible had happened – Henry hadn’t told. The relief...she wanted to cry or... Henry, making surreptitious glances of his own was dismayed to see her giggling like a first year. So, she was not concerned. She had no idea...and if she had she was unconcerned. They were called to order. Mel felt as if she were sleep walking into a dream so different from the one she had expected that she had to find new bearings. She felt guilty. He was not as she had suspected, so how different was he from the Henry she loved? He had morphed into Henry the Destroyer, Henry the Wrecker who takes up young ladies and demolishes their ability to concentrate.

She felt as if she had leaped free from a whole web of apprehension and that she should run to Henry and cover him with kisses as a reward and actually it wasn’t Henry that made it difficult to concentrate, it was as if her ears had gone out of focus. She could see Mr. Prior. He was gesticulating and his lips were moving but he could not be talking about Slippery Sam, and now she knew she was smiling and perhaps the head band had not been the best idea.

Pete had told her that one of his mates called his penis General Nidgett. He had explained at the time that this had something to do with standing to attention. Willy was another. She liked Willy, but she