B.Y.O.G. (Bring Your Own Girlfriend)

It’s a shame that everyone’s known by their surnames at this school. There’s a James and a Lee and a Russell. Surnames that could be first names. First names that could be surnames. There’s a Mather and two Mathers. The latter are twins, but they’re unrelated to the former. There’s an Allen, but not spelt the way it would be if it was a first name. A Summerhayes and a Winterton. The permutations seem endless.

The party’s been organised by James Lee and Lee Winterton. You can see the problem. Outside of school, which one is Lee? They’re also cousins, but that’s by the by. I’m thinking all these things as Patrick drives us to the beach. It’s late spring and the light’s about to fade. There’s an impressive sunset somewhere behind us, but we’re headed east. To the posh side of town.

Patrick’s girlfriend is in the back seat. Ellen. I have to try and remember that. I’m not good with names. I didn’t know Patrick had a girlfriend. He’d never mentioned it before, but here she Is. Blonde hair. Tall for a girl. Softly spoken.

Patrick watches the road and keeps up a running commentary. I’m not sure who it’s aimed at, so I nod my head at appropriate gaps in the conversation and watch as the neighbourhoods change from terraced houses to semi detached and then detached. Properties become further recessed from the road. In the driveways the parked cars look newer, more expensive. The trees seem to retain a deeper shade of green.

We park in a bay near the yacht club. It’s free at this time of the year after 7pm. The sun has set now. Twilight encroaches. There’s no one much about. A solitary dog walker returning home. A few seagulls wheeling around in ever widening circles and then departing into the gathering gloom.

Once we make it on to the beach I can hear the music. It drifts on the breeze. Tainted Love by Soft cell. There’s a glow from a barbeque set up near to one of the beach huts. Here’s where we meet James and Lee. James is attending to the fire. Lee is on the steps of the beach hut, kissing a girl I don’t recognise. There are two other teenagers on the opposite side of the barbeque drinking beer from cans. I’m not sure I’d call it a party.

The tide is going out. I watch as James puts sausages on to the barbeque. Patrick is on the steps of the neighbouring beach hut to Lee. He and Ellen are kissing, as though it’s some sort of competition. The music changes. It’s The Human League now. Don’t You Want Me. I grab one of the beers I brought with me and open it. Swig down a couple of mouthfuls. Something to relax me. It’s not like I’ve run out of conversation, because I never had any to start with.

The party was a lie. Or a flimsy promise. The two lads standing on the far edge of the fire depart after a few minutes. They don’t even hang around for the food. I wander off to where the sea is slowly receding. The beach is stony, so I pick up some pebbles and start skimming them across the water. It’s satisfying when I can get them to skim far enough out that I can’t see where they eventually lose momentum and sink below the ocean.

I’ve been down there for several minutes before Patrick comes down to find me. “Why are you standing out here on your own? You need to be more sociable. It’s embarrassing.”

He looks at me pitifully, as though I’m some sort of failed science experiment. He’s remembering the time we had to marshal the school cross country race – after an hour he wanted to bunk off and go to the nearest pub, but I was happier in the woods watching as the occasional straggler would come past looking for directions. Or when he’d wanted to go clubbing after the football match last weekend, but I’d worn jeans because I knew they wouldn’t let me in with casual wear. I’m not sure why we’re friends, but we are.

Later on Lee’s girlfriend comes up to me and starts a conversation. I don’t even know her name. She smells like vanilla. It’s hard to make much out in the dark, but I can see her lips move and the tips of her teeth. She asks me what I’m studying and I tell her it’s music even though that’s a lie.

“I’m going to be a drummer. People make fun of drummers, but they’re the most important member in a band. Them and the bass player. But the thing is, you hear the drums. You don’t hear the bass, you feel it.”

Somehow I think I’ve said something profound. I ought to stop there, before I make a fool of myself.

“I love this song,” Lee’s girlfriend says. It’s either a non sequitur or she’s simply not listening to what I’ve said. The song is something screechy by The Eurythmics and I don’t like it.

At some point I tell her that I lost my mum to cancer when I was fourteen. She’s silent for a moment, as though trying to process what I’ve said and then how she should react. She reaches out and takes the stones from my hand, lets them drop back to the ground. She squeezes my palm, as though gestures are more important than words. Or she doesn’t have the words. In a moment she might lean closer and try to kiss me.

Only none of this really happens. My parents are both still living. It was Ian Broady who lost his mum. He was the smartest kid in our class. He was captain of the school chess team. But after his mum died he changed. Not straight away. It ate away at him over time. He went slowly off the rails. Got into arguments with teachers. Complained when he couldn’t take the combination of subjects he wanted to for A-levels. Disrupted lessons. Eventually they had to suspend him. He’d just learnt to drive and on that last day he exited via the playing fields, spinning his tiny red mini in circles around the middle of one of the football pitches and then departing in a rush of speed out on to the main road.

When the fire from the barbecue gets extinguished, there isn’t much light to see by. I should walk home at this point. It would only take me an hour or so. Instead we all go back to Lee’s house.  He has a big dog that clambers all over him as he walks through the front door. His mother offers us coffee before picking up a pile of ironing and leaving the room.

James says something about a sailing race. Next weekend. Crossing the estuary over to Kent. I’ve zoned out by now. Eventually it’s time to leave. Ellen takes the front seat for the journey back. Patrick drops me off at the bottom of my road. It’s cold outside, but I don’t want to go home. I walk until I pass the lights from a row of local shops.

Back to school on Monday. Exams in June. Time is drifting away. I feel the need to make a gesture, something memorable. Like that mini, a blur of motion as it cut up the turf of the football pitch. But I’m empty of ideas at the moment and so eventually I simply turn back and head for home.