A Secret Worth Killing For

‘Ha-ha, funny girl,’ he replies, restoring the big grin and giving her a deep kiss.

‘All right,’ she says when they ease apart, ‘why them?’

‘All men who changed the world.’ His eyes range over them before settling on Senna. ‘And he’s just brilliant. He’ll be number one again next year for sure.’

‘Can’t say it’s my scene.’

‘You’ll love it when I get you close up to the noise.’

She ranges towards a small round table with a handful of framed photographs. He hovers over her as she picks them up one by one. Colour snapshots of a good-looking young couple by the sea and among hippy-dressed crowds at a festival.

‘Mum and Dad,’ he says, ‘Isle of Wight 1969. When Dylan came over.’

‘They look too straight for that.’

‘Some people went for the music. The Who, Moody Blues, quite a line-up.’

She replaces it and picks up David himself on graduation day wearing black gown and cap.

‘You haven’t changed much,’ she says.

‘Christ, it wasn’t that long ago,’ he protests.

‘What about your year?’ she asks.

‘By the time they got round to the group photos I was going stir crazy,’ he answers. ‘Mainly a bunch of twats, anyway.’

She works something out. ‘Is that why you’re living out here, then? Among the posh?’

‘If you mean did I have enough of squawking undergraduates, the answer’s yes. I don’t like the crowd. Never did, really. I suppose I’m a bit of a loner.’ He checks her expression. ‘Sorry, is that sad?’

‘Not at all,’ she replies. ‘I’m the same.’ She puts the photo down. ‘So, better get to work.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he says, wrapping his arms around her front. She leans her head back into his neck and sighs. Their lovemaking is sublime in a way she’d never imagined possible.

An hour later, as they’re spread peacefully in his bed, he stretches out a hand to the drawer of a bedside table and pulls out a photograph lying flat inside it. He places it face down on his chest and turns to her.

‘Since we first met, I always wanted to tell you something,’ he says, ‘but I was scared to.’

She has her back to him and rolls alertly round. ‘Whaddya mean?’ She can’t hide her alarm.

‘It’s OK,’ he says, ‘it’s just that when you told me about you having to look after the kids, I knew we couldn’t have secrets between us. We want to know everything about each other, don’t we?’

‘Of course.’

He raises the photograph and holds it out in front of them. A smiling young man in uniform stands beside a bride in a white dress holding a bouquet of roses. Behind them stretch two rows of four men, also in uniform, holding up their swords angled at forty-five degrees to a summer sky. A church porch is just visible, traces of unlit faces in the shadows waiting to emerge. The newly married couple are the same couple, though less windswept, as at the Isle of Wight festival.

She peers at it without speaking, trying to understand.

‘1967,’ he says.

‘Your mum and dad,’ she says. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘It’s their wedding guard of honour. My dad was a soldier.’ A hushed pause, then the low growl of a passing motorbike reverberates through the front bay window to the bedroom at the back. ‘A British soldier.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not what you’d have wanted.’ Silence. ‘It’s not what I’d have ever wanted, either.’

‘Whaddya mean?’

‘I feel pride in him but not in the institution. The one thing I never inherited from him is a love of the British Army.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘No, I realized it too late. It’s probably for the best.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died in the Falklands. Tumbledown. 1982. When I was thirteen.’ A tear forms in a glistening brown eye and rolls slowly down. She moves close and licks it off his cheek.

‘I’m sorry.’

He breaks away and sits up. ‘It was a shit war over a piece of fucking rock. Dying for the greater glory of Margaret Thatcher.’

‘You could say the same for Bobby Sands,’ she says. Her remark electrifies him – she has never before even hinted at the troubled history of her island and instantly wishes she hadn’t.

‘You mean they’ve something in common,’ he suggests eagerly.

‘I dunno what I mean,’ she says. ‘It’s kinda confusing.’

‘That’s why I was scared to tell you. But we’re here together now. So I had to.’ He waits while she processes the information.

‘It’s good you told me,’ she finally says. ‘But never tell it to anyone where I come from.’ She throws off the sheet. ‘Gotta do some work now.’ She needs more time.

An hour later, sitting at his desk in the front room while he reads in an armchair, she turns and casts him a frown. ‘What ’bout your mum?’

‘My mum?’

‘Yeah, you never told me ’bout her.’

‘I think she never got over it.’

‘That doesn’t kill you.’

‘No. But ovarian cancer does.’ He states it brutally.

‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ she says. She gets up, gently places herself on top of him in the armchair and embraces him. They stay locked together till finally his lips pluck her ear lobe.