Joseph.
"If he's a poof, why should he cruise, you pinhead?" she demanded savagely, swinging round on him to twist her mouth in ugly anger. "Two bloody beaches up, he can take his pick of half the queens in Greece. So can you."
Acknowledging this incautious advice, Alastair dealt her a heavy slap on the side of her face, making it go first white, then scarlet.
Their speculations continued into the afternoon. Joseph was a voyeur; he was a prowler, a flasher, a murderer, a breather, a drag artist, a Tory. But it was left to Alastair, as usual, to provide the definitive accolade: "He's a bloody jerker!" he bellowed with a sneer out of the corner of his mouth, and gave a suck to his front teeth to underline his shrewdness of perception.
But Joseph himself acted as oblivious to these insults as even Charlie could have wished, so much so that by mid-afternoon, when the sun and the pot had lulled them into near stupidity--all but Charlie, once again--they decided he was cool, which was their ultimate compliment. And for this dramatic change, it was Alastair, once more, who led the pack. Joseph would not be shaken off by them and he could not be pulled--not by Lucy, not by the lover-boys either. Ergo cool, like Alastair himself. He had his territory and his whole presence said so: nobody drives me, this is where I have pitched camp. Cool again. Bakunin would have given him high marks.
"He's cool and I love him," Alastair concluded as he thoughtfully stroked Lucy's silky back, all the way down to the hip band of her bikini, then on again. "If he was a woman, I'd know exactly what to do with him. Would I not, Luce?"
The next minute, Lucy was standing up, in that heat the only upright person on the shimmering beach. "Who says I can't pull him?" she said, climbing out of her bathing dress.
Now Lucy was blonde and broad-hipped and as tempting as an apple. She played barmaids, tarts, and principal boys, but her speciality was teenage nymphomaniacs, and she could pull any fellow just by giving him the eyelash. Knotting a white bathrobe loosely under her breasts, she picked up a wine jug and a plastic beaker and strode across to the foot of the dune, the jug on her head, hips rolling, and thighs peeking, giving her own satirical rendering of a Hollywood Greek goddess. Having scaled the little slope, she knelt beside him on one knee and poured the wine from high up, letting the robe fall open as she did so. Handing him the beaker, she decided to address him in French, or as much of that language as she knew.
"Aimez-vous?'asked Lucy.
Joseph showed no awareness of her presence. He turned a page; then he observed her shadow, and only then did he roll onto his side and, after considering her critically with his dark eyes from the shadow of his golf cap, accept the beaker and gravely drink a toast, while from twenty yards away her supporters' club clapped or made House of Commons growls of fatuous approval.
"You must be Hera," Joseph remarked to Lucy with about as much feeling as if he were reading a map. And it was then that the dramatic discovery was made: he had these scars!
Lucy could scarcely contain herself. The most appealing of them was a neat drill-hole the size of a five-pence piece, like one of those bullet-hole stickers Pauly and Willy had on their Mini, only this one was on the left side of the stomach! You couldn't see it from a distance, yet when she touched it, it felt all smooth and hard.
"And you're Joseph," Lucy replied mistily, not knowing who Hera was.
Renewed applause drifted across the sand as Alastair held up his glass and shouted a toast: "Joseph! Mr. Joseph, sir! Power to your elbow! Sod your envious brothers!"
"Come and join us, Mr. Joseph!" Robert cried, to be followed by Charlie's furious order telling him to shut up.
But Joseph didn't join them. He raised his beaker and it seemed to Charlie's raging imagination that he raised it to herself particularly, but how could she have registered such a
"If he's a poof, why should he cruise, you pinhead?" she demanded savagely, swinging round on him to twist her mouth in ugly anger. "Two bloody beaches up, he can take his pick of half the queens in Greece. So can you."
Acknowledging this incautious advice, Alastair dealt her a heavy slap on the side of her face, making it go first white, then scarlet.
Their speculations continued into the afternoon. Joseph was a voyeur; he was a prowler, a flasher, a murderer, a breather, a drag artist, a Tory. But it was left to Alastair, as usual, to provide the definitive accolade: "He's a bloody jerker!" he bellowed with a sneer out of the corner of his mouth, and gave a suck to his front teeth to underline his shrewdness of perception.
But Joseph himself acted as oblivious to these insults as even Charlie could have wished, so much so that by mid-afternoon, when the sun and the pot had lulled them into near stupidity--all but Charlie, once again--they decided he was cool, which was their ultimate compliment. And for this dramatic change, it was Alastair, once more, who led the pack. Joseph would not be shaken off by them and he could not be pulled--not by Lucy, not by the lover-boys either. Ergo cool, like Alastair himself. He had his territory and his whole presence said so: nobody drives me, this is where I have pitched camp. Cool again. Bakunin would have given him high marks.
"He's cool and I love him," Alastair concluded as he thoughtfully stroked Lucy's silky back, all the way down to the hip band of her bikini, then on again. "If he was a woman, I'd know exactly what to do with him. Would I not, Luce?"
The next minute, Lucy was standing up, in that heat the only upright person on the shimmering beach. "Who says I can't pull him?" she said, climbing out of her bathing dress.
Now Lucy was blonde and broad-hipped and as tempting as an apple. She played barmaids, tarts, and principal boys, but her speciality was teenage nymphomaniacs, and she could pull any fellow just by giving him the eyelash. Knotting a white bathrobe loosely under her breasts, she picked up a wine jug and a plastic beaker and strode across to the foot of the dune, the jug on her head, hips rolling, and thighs peeking, giving her own satirical rendering of a Hollywood Greek goddess. Having scaled the little slope, she knelt beside him on one knee and poured the wine from high up, letting the robe fall open as she did so. Handing him the beaker, she decided to address him in French, or as much of that language as she knew.
"Aimez-vous?'asked Lucy.
Joseph showed no awareness of her presence. He turned a page; then he observed her shadow, and only then did he roll onto his side and, after considering her critically with his dark eyes from the shadow of his golf cap, accept the beaker and gravely drink a toast, while from twenty yards away her supporters' club clapped or made House of Commons growls of fatuous approval.
"You must be Hera," Joseph remarked to Lucy with about as much feeling as if he were reading a map. And it was then that the dramatic discovery was made: he had these scars!
Lucy could scarcely contain herself. The most appealing of them was a neat drill-hole the size of a five-pence piece, like one of those bullet-hole stickers Pauly and Willy had on their Mini, only this one was on the left side of the stomach! You couldn't see it from a distance, yet when she touched it, it felt all smooth and hard.
"And you're Joseph," Lucy replied mistily, not knowing who Hera was.
Renewed applause drifted across the sand as Alastair held up his glass and shouted a toast: "Joseph! Mr. Joseph, sir! Power to your elbow! Sod your envious brothers!"
"Come and join us, Mr. Joseph!" Robert cried, to be followed by Charlie's furious order telling him to shut up.
But Joseph didn't join them. He raised his beaker and it seemed to Charlie's raging imagination that he raised it to herself particularly, but how could she have registered such a
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