change places with me. Quick!’
‘I like this seat.’
When the hand started inching from my left knee towards my groin, I stood up, avoiding eye contact with my neighbour, and squeezed past Max to sit on his other side. After a short delay, the man moved to the row behind us and sat breathing heavily in my ear for a while before tiring of the pursuit and leaving the cinema, his plastic bags rustling with disappointment as he departed.
‘He was probably just a bit lonely,’ suggested Max as we walked the mile back to Eynsford Park. ‘It can’t be much fun going to the cinema on your own.’
So we knew there were cinemas, but we didn’t know that they were places to which one’s parents might ever think of going with each other, just for fun.
‘Do you remember the hideous Olivier of Rennes?’ I asked Max once – just after he moved to Dorset, I think.
‘Your French exchange’s brother? Who used to stick his tongue down your throat while muttering “pussicett, pussicett”?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I remember you telling me about him. I always wondered how he did that. Perhaps he became a ventriloquist in later life. Had a very successful career on stage and screen.’
‘He became a gynaecologist.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense. I didn’t know you were still in touch.’
‘We’re not. I made that bit up. About the gynaecology, not the kissing. And there never was an exchange the other way, remember? I stopped replying to Marie-Solange’s letters. I told Mum she’d dropped English. I just couldn’t face her coming to stay with us and seeing Dad stumble about the house, spilling whisky down his tie. And anyway, she’d only have fallen in love with you and gone all pathetic, like the rest of my friends.’
Max smiled and shook his head.
‘You’re mad.’
‘Don’t try to tell me you don’t remember how they used to wait for you at the station and then pretend they lived on the estate, just so that they could walk home with you?’
‘That only happened once or twice.’
‘Once or twice a month, you mean. But you know what amazed me more than the feeling of his tongue against my tonsils?’
‘Whose tongue?’
‘Olivier of Rennes’ tongue. Keep up.’
‘I’m not even going to try to guess.’
‘It was his parents.’
‘God! What did they do?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!’
‘One evening, Monsieur Fournier came home from work, changed out of his suit and strolled off arm in arm with Madame Fournier to the cinema, just the two of them.’
‘And then what?’
‘Nothing. That was it. That was the moment I realised that some people’s parents did things together. You know, they never went anywhere, just the two of them. Just for fun.’
‘I thought you just said that’s what they did.’
‘Not the Fourniers, idiot. Mum and Dad.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t you think that was odd?’
‘Not really.’
‘What? Never once for one of them to have said, “Come on, let’s go to the cinema,” or “Let’s go for a walk,” or something.’
‘Wandering round and round the cul-de-sacs of Eynsford Park Estate, with dozens of pairs of eyes staring at you from between the spider plants and net curtains, probably wouldn’t have been that much fun.’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘Maybe people didn’t go out as much. In those days.’
‘In those days! It was the 1960s, for God’s sake!’
The ’60s must have been going on all around us (I’ve seen the old news footage) but the revolutionary decade seemed to bypass our corner of Tenterden Close. At some point my father discarded his white shirts, progressing cautiously via striped shirts with white collars to pastel blue or green ones, but apart from that he took no part in the heady fashion revolution. A weekend might be signalled by the donning of a grey cardigan, but never the removal of a tie.
There are almost no photographs of my mother from that time.
‘I like this seat.’
When the hand started inching from my left knee towards my groin, I stood up, avoiding eye contact with my neighbour, and squeezed past Max to sit on his other side. After a short delay, the man moved to the row behind us and sat breathing heavily in my ear for a while before tiring of the pursuit and leaving the cinema, his plastic bags rustling with disappointment as he departed.
‘He was probably just a bit lonely,’ suggested Max as we walked the mile back to Eynsford Park. ‘It can’t be much fun going to the cinema on your own.’
So we knew there were cinemas, but we didn’t know that they were places to which one’s parents might ever think of going with each other, just for fun.
‘Do you remember the hideous Olivier of Rennes?’ I asked Max once – just after he moved to Dorset, I think.
‘Your French exchange’s brother? Who used to stick his tongue down your throat while muttering “pussicett, pussicett”?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I remember you telling me about him. I always wondered how he did that. Perhaps he became a ventriloquist in later life. Had a very successful career on stage and screen.’
‘He became a gynaecologist.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense. I didn’t know you were still in touch.’
‘We’re not. I made that bit up. About the gynaecology, not the kissing. And there never was an exchange the other way, remember? I stopped replying to Marie-Solange’s letters. I told Mum she’d dropped English. I just couldn’t face her coming to stay with us and seeing Dad stumble about the house, spilling whisky down his tie. And anyway, she’d only have fallen in love with you and gone all pathetic, like the rest of my friends.’
Max smiled and shook his head.
‘You’re mad.’
‘Don’t try to tell me you don’t remember how they used to wait for you at the station and then pretend they lived on the estate, just so that they could walk home with you?’
‘That only happened once or twice.’
‘Once or twice a month, you mean. But you know what amazed me more than the feeling of his tongue against my tonsils?’
‘Whose tongue?’
‘Olivier of Rennes’ tongue. Keep up.’
‘I’m not even going to try to guess.’
‘It was his parents.’
‘God! What did they do?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!’
‘One evening, Monsieur Fournier came home from work, changed out of his suit and strolled off arm in arm with Madame Fournier to the cinema, just the two of them.’
‘And then what?’
‘Nothing. That was it. That was the moment I realised that some people’s parents did things together. You know, they never went anywhere, just the two of them. Just for fun.’
‘I thought you just said that’s what they did.’
‘Not the Fourniers, idiot. Mum and Dad.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t you think that was odd?’
‘Not really.’
‘What? Never once for one of them to have said, “Come on, let’s go to the cinema,” or “Let’s go for a walk,” or something.’
‘Wandering round and round the cul-de-sacs of Eynsford Park Estate, with dozens of pairs of eyes staring at you from between the spider plants and net curtains, probably wouldn’t have been that much fun.’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘Maybe people didn’t go out as much. In those days.’
‘In those days! It was the 1960s, for God’s sake!’
The ’60s must have been going on all around us (I’ve seen the old news footage) but the revolutionary decade seemed to bypass our corner of Tenterden Close. At some point my father discarded his white shirts, progressing cautiously via striped shirts with white collars to pastel blue or green ones, but apart from that he took no part in the heady fashion revolution. A weekend might be signalled by the donning of a grey cardigan, but never the removal of a tie.
There are almost no photographs of my mother from that time.
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