Peter Robinson - The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Sure,” said Banks.

Kay walked over to the old stereo system. “Let’s see,” she said, flipping though a box of LPs. “I packed these last night, but I didn’t really pay much attention. There’s probably not a lot of choice. Dad only liked the stuff he used to listen to in the war, and Mum wasn’t much interested in music at all. As you can see, they don’t own a CD player. I think the last LP they bought was in 1950.”

Banks went over and joined her, looking at the old-fashioned covers. At least he could read what was written on the backs of them, unlike the tiny print on CDs. “That’s after 1950, he said, pointing to Beatles for Sale.

“That must be one of mine,” Kay said. “I didn’t even notice it.”

Banks flipped open the cover. Written inside, in tiny blue ballpoint over the photograph, were some words. They were hard to make out, but he thought they said, “Kay Summerville loves Alan Banks.” Banks passed it to Kay, who blushed and put it away. “I lent it to Susan Fish,” she said. “The sneaky devil. I didn’t know she’d done that.” She pulled out another LP. “Ah, this will do fine.”

The needle crackled as it hit the groove, a sound that gave Banks an unexpected frisson of delight and nostalgia, and then Billie Holiday started singing “Solitude.”

“Couldn’t do much better,” he said.

“Dance?” Kay asked.

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “Remember the vicar wouldn’t allow dancing at the youth club because he said it led to sex?”

Kay laughed. “Yes, I remember.”

Then she was in his arms, Billie was singing about solitude, and they were doing what passed for dancing.

“A wise man, that vicar,” said Banks about an hour later, as he lay back on the sofa, Billie Holiday long finished, a naked Kay half on top of him, her head resting on his chest, fingertips trailing languorously over his skin. It had been good — no doubt much better than their youthful fumblings, which he could scarcely remember now — though there had been something a little melancholy and desperate about it, as if both had been straining to capture something that eluded them.

“What happened to us?” Kay asked. “All those years ago.”

“We were just kids. What did we know?”

“I suppose so. But have you ever wondered what would have happened? You know, if we hadn’t...”

“Of course I have.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine a life without Sandra and the kids.”

“I know that. I mean, even though it ended badly, Keith and I had some good times. And the kids are marvelous. It’s just a game. Imagining. You know, sometimes I’ve been places or experienced things and thought I’d have liked you there to share it.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Haven’t you ever felt the same?”

“I can’t say I have,” said Banks, who had.

She nudged him in the ribs. “Bastard.”

“There’s something I never told you before,” Banks said, stroking her silky blond hair and touching the soft skin on her neck, just below her ear.

“And you want to tell me now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“The timing seems right.”

“Why?”

“No particular reason.”

Kay shifted position. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“You know that first time when my parents were out and you came over to the house? The day we’d decided we were finally going to do it?”

“How could I forget? I was about to lose my virginity. I was scared silly.”

“Me, too. On both counts. Nervous as hell.”

Banks remembered that, as the months went on, he and Kay had graduated from kissing in the bus shelter to touching above the waist, first with clothing intact, then under her jumper, with only the thin bra between his hands and her bare, swollen flesh. After a few weeks of that, and much trouble fumbling with the safety pin that held the thing on, he got beyond the bra to the unimaginably firm and tender mounds beneath.

They had been going out nearly a year before the subject of moving to below the waist came up, and both were understandably a bit nervous about it. This might have been the swinging sixties, when kids were making love openly at Woodstock, but Banks and Kay were young, unsophisticated provincial kids, and the antics of drug-taking pop stars and free-loving hippies seemed as fantastic as Hollywood films.

But they had done it.

“Well,” Banks went on. “I had to go and get some... you know... Durex.”

“Rubber Johnnies? Yes, I suppose you did. Do you know, I never really thought about that.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well go to the local chemist’s or the barber’s, could I? They know me there. Someone would have been bound to tell my parents.”

Kay propped herself on one elbow and leaned over him, her nipple hard against his chest. He could smell white wine and cheap brandy on her breath, see sparks of light dancing in her dark blue eyes. “So what did you do? Where did you go?” she asked.

“I walked miles and miles to the other side of town and found a barber’s where I was certain no one would recognize me.”

Kay giggled. “Oh, how sweet.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“Go on.”

“Do you know how the old barbershops had a sort of hallway with a counter between the outer and inner door, nice and private, where you could buy shampoo and razor blades and stuff?”

“And rubber Johnnies?”

“And rubber Johnnies.”

“I remember. My dad used to take me to the barber’s with him sometimes when I was a little girl.”

“Right,” Banks went on. “Well, as I said, I’d walked halfway to Cambridge and there I was, bold as brass, outside a barber’s on a street where not a soul could possibly know who I was.”

Kay smiled. “What happened?” She moved her head and her hair tickled his chest.

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, but this particular establishment didn’t have a discreet sales area. Oh, no. I opened the front door and I found myself standing right by the barber’s chair. He was giving a bloke a shave, I remember, and the place was full of grown men. I mean, every chair in the waiting area was taken, and I swear that the minute I walked in there they all looked up from their newspapers and every eye was on me.”

“My God! What did you do?”

“What could I do? I’d gone too far to turn back. I stood my ground and I said, in as deep a voice as I could manage, ‘Packet of three, please.’”

Kay put her hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. “Oh, no!” she said. “You’re joking?”

“No word of a lie.”

“What did he say? The barber.”

“Not a word. He stopped midshave, straight-blade razor in his hand, and he went to his cabinet and got them for me. But you should have heard the other buggers laugh and cheer. You’d think Peterborough United had won a game. I went red as a beet.”

Kay burst into a fit of laughter and couldn’t stop. Banks started laughing with her, holding her against his chest, and after a while, laughter turned to lust.

It was after two o’clock when Banks slipped the key in the door of his parents’ house and turned the lock as quietly as he could. He shut the door slowly behind him, without making much noise, and made sure the chain and bolt were on. The stairs creaked a little as he tiptoed up to bed. He couldn’t very well go and brush his teeth as he would have to put the bathroom light on and the tap would make noise. He thought he could just about manage to undress and crawl into bed in the dark. The bed would make a bit of noise, but that couldn’t be helped. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to use the toilet before leaving Kay’s.