Stand By Me. S.D. Robertson

      And then he carried on. He stood up and walked through to the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and made two cups of tea, which he placed on a small tray and carried upstairs to the bedroom, where he could hear that his wife was awake and moving around.

      It was time to face the music: to do his best to smooth things over with Lisa again.

       CHAPTER 8

       THEN

       Friday, 6 September 1991

      ‘Hi, Mum, I’m home,’ Elliot called.

      ‘In the kitchen, love,’ Wendy replied casually, as if that was where she’d been the whole time. In truth she’d just raced down the stairs of their small dormer bungalow, so that Elliot didn’t know she’d been watching through her bedroom window for him to get back.

      Her heart had swollen with pride when she’d finally spotted him down the road, making his way home from his first day at secondary school. Her little boy looked so grown up in his new King George’s uniform: a maroon blazer with the boys’ school’s own crest, plus a green-and-grey striped tie, white shirt, grey V-neck jumper and black trousers. It was uncanny how much he looked like her late husband.

      As Elliot closed the front door behind him and removed his shoes, Wendy picked up where she’d left off in the kitchen, preparing their tea. Right Said Fred were banging on about how sexy they were on the radio and she found herself singing along in her deepest voice.

      ‘Muuum! Please don’t. That’s gross.’

      ‘What?’ She grinned, taking in the sight of her pride and joy, whose crisp smartness from this morning had taken on the ruffled look that a day at school inevitably delivered. ‘It’s a big hit. Might even knock Brian Adams off the top spot at last.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      She stretched her arms out wide. ‘Come on then. Where’s my hug?’

      She ruffled his curls as she took him in her arms, squeezing him tight. He smelled like school, whatever scent that was: books, pencils and ink, perhaps, with a soupçon of sweaty socks thrown in for good measure.

      ‘So, spill the beans,’ she said, planting a kiss on his forehead before letting him go. ‘How was it?’

      ‘It was fine.’

      ‘Fine? Is that all you’ve got? I’m going to need a lot more information than that about my boy’s first day at secondary school. Let me get you a cup of tea and a biscuit. Then I want you to tell me everything.’

      Although he sighed and made out it was a pain to have to recount the day’s events, Wendy knew it was only an act. Unlike a lot of kids, from what other parents said, Elliot had never been one to shy away from sharing such things with her. Communication was one of the strongest things about their relationship. It had been just the two of them for so long that talking through their respective days and confiding in each other was second nature.

      There were limits, of course. As grown up as Elliot could seem, Wendy would never bother him with work issues or financial concerns, of which there were unfortunately a few as a single parent. And although she was intrigued by the new friendship he’d formed over the summer with Lisa, who was absolutely lovely, she knew better than to pull his leg about her being his girlfriend or even to suggest there was anything romantic between them.

      Lisa had a funny habit of calling him El for short, which he’d told Wendy he didn’t mind, although he feared it made him sound like a girl. She’d told him to say something if it bothered him, but she suspected he never had, for fear of offending his new pal. Wendy actually found it rather sweet, just like she did their whole friendship. And how funny that Lisa lived in Christopher’s old house. Wendy had worried how Elliot would cope when his old friend had moved away, but it had worked out perfectly. Lisa had spent almost as much time at their home in recent weeks as Christopher used to. She’d even stayed for lunch or tea several times and, honestly, Wendy found her far more polite and chatty than her predecessor.

      ‘So let’s start with the bus journey,’ she said. ‘How was that? Did you sit with Lisa?’

      ‘Yeah, it was fine. We sat next to each other on the way there and then on the way home we were on the back row downstairs with a couple of others.’

      ‘Boys from your class?’

      He shook his head and scratched his nose. ‘No, I was the only one from my year. They were some new friends of Lisa’s from Queen Anne’s: Charlotte and Joanne.’

      ‘Oh, that’s nice. What were they like?’

      ‘Um, one had blonde hair and the other one had brown.’ He giggled. ‘I’m not sure which was which, actually. I didn’t say much to them. I felt a bit shy.’

      ‘Oh, go on with you. What’s there to be shy about? Look how well you get on with Lisa and you two only met a few weeks ago. Plus I’m sure there’ll be lots more boys on the bus when everyone else starts next week.’

      Elliot shrugged. ‘I guess.’

      He explained that the bus hadn’t been particularly full, since it was just first years and sixth formers on the first day, to help the new starters settle in.

      ‘What’s the Queen Anne’s uniform like?’ Wendy asked. ‘I’ve not seen Lisa in it yet. Is it green, their blazer?’

      ‘Yes. Well, emerald they call it, apparently, with a matching jumper and socks and a white blouse.’

      ‘What about the skirt?’

      ‘Um, that’s green tartan, a bit like a kilt. Pleated.’

      His last comment made Wendy smile to herself. Not many boys Elliot’s age – or older, for that matter – would notice whether a skirt was pleated or not. That came from having a mother who loved fashion and, lacking the budget to buy the kinds of clothes she wanted to wear, had learned to make them herself.

      Wendy’s late mother, a heavy smoker who had died a few years earlier from lung cancer, had been a seamstress. She’d taught her the tricks of the trade, as well as the importance of always being nicely turned out and applying make-up well, so as to make the best of oneself. ‘You don’t have to be rich to look good,’ had been her motto, which Wendy had adopted for herself.

      Elliot was only too familiar with the sight and sound of Wendy working her sewing machine in the lounge late at night. On occasion, he’d even helped her decide on which pattern or material to use. Her hobby provided them with a little extra income here and there, as friends and neighbours would sometimes ask her to alter clothes for them. However, she wasn’t always good at accepting payment, especially from those she knew well; it felt mean to charge them for doing something she enjoyed.

      In the kitchen Elliot had moved on to telling Wendy about the structure of his first day at school. The morning and early afternoon had been dedicated to meeting teachers and getting to know the other pupils in his form, followed by a couple of hours of sport.

      Rugby try-outs, to be precise, which she knew Elliot – who’d never been much of a sportsman – had been dreading.

      ‘And?’ Wendy asked.

      Elliot screwed up his face. ‘Let’s just say I don’t think my Saturdays will be occupied by rugby matches any time soon.’

      ‘What about getting changed?’

      He’d confessed to Wendy beforehand that doing this in front of the other boys was something he’d been concerned about, having been teased a few times at primary school for being overweight. She knew Elliot was a little bigger than he ought to be, but she loved to feed him up and thought he was perfect as he was. ‘It’s just puppy fat,’ she often