Victoria Park

Gemma Reeves

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781911630784
• eBook ISBN: 9781760874063
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

' Original, thought-provoking' - Elizabeth Macneal 'a delightful read... beautifully observed' - Daily Mail Mona and Wolfie have lived on Victoria Park for over fifty years. Now, on the eve of their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, they must decide how to navigate Mona's declining health. Bookended by the touching exploration of their love, Victoria Park follows the disparate lives of twelve people over the course of a single year. Told from their multiple perspectives in episodes which capture feelings of alienation and connection, the lingering memory of an acid attack in the park sends ripples of unease through the community. By the end of the novel, their carefully interwoven tales create a rich tapestry of resilience, love and loss.
With sharply observed insight into contemporary urban life, and characters we take to our hearts, Gemma Reeves has written a moving, uplifting debut which reflects those universal experiences that connect us all.

Two Smokers

Freddy knew his birthday party was really an excuse for his dad to invite the whole family over. He was drowning in conversation that went like this: food, gossip, health, freak weather, regular weather, gossip, food. All he wanted was quiet – that, and a bit of cash for new clothes. But the flat was overflowing with people and, even up on the rooftop, the fresh air had been hijacked by girly perfume, blue cheese and baby vomit. At least it meant everyone was too busy to notice that his best friend Patrick hadn’t turned up.

He endured a series of handshakes, wet lipstick kisses and hearty slaps on the back till one nearly knocked him off his feet.

‘Happy birthday, kiddo!’ Uncle Angelo said. ‘Sixteen, eh. The first year of real fun.’ Uncle Angelo was trying not to look at his fat lip. His dad must’ve asked everyone not to bring it up.

Even though they were a similar height, Uncle Angelo leaned down, grabbed his face, and kissed both cheeks. The force of it backed him further into the corner of the roof. He produced a white envelope with Freddy Boy scrawled across it. It felt lighter than the one he got on his thirteenth birthday but heavier than it did the last two years.

‘Thanks, Uncle A,’ he said. ‘I’m saving for new clothes.’

‘Gotta look nice for the girls.’ He winked.

Freddy put on a smile. It hurt his lip. He was thankful for the sambuca he’d sneaked from the fridge before everyone arrived. The pads of his fingers were still sticky from the bottle.

‘Got yourself a girlfriend yet?’ Uncle Angelo asked. ‘They must love how tall you are, right? That’s always been my winning card – that, and having loads of cash.’ He boomed his banker’s laugh.

Uncle Angelo was loaded and Freddy’s dad was handsome – that was how it worked.

Freddy checked his phone. Nothing.

‘Where’s your sister?’

Lyddie was always hiding. They found her in the weirdest places. Underneath the rocking chair in the front room, the car boot, in the tumble dryer with his dog Rupert. Today he thought Lyddie might be on to something. ‘No idea,’ he replied.

Uncle Angelo wiped his brow with the monogrammed handkerchief he kept in the pocket of his linen jacket. Freddy wished the weather would chill out; it was far too hot for May. His shirt was suffocating, the trousers Monty had made him stuck to his legs. He shifted the crotch; smoothed the cotton over his knees. He hated this outfit, only wore it to please his mum, who only wanted to please Uncle Wolfie. Monty’s death had been sudden. Uncle Wolfie hadn’t taken it well.

He surveyed the scene. His mum had arranged umbrellas by the deckchairs to stop guests from overheating. To anyone who’d listen she said, ‘Of course it’s nothing like home, this heat. It’s nothing like home.’ She loved to talk about the weather – it was the first British thing she’d learned to do when they came over from Veneto. The whole family were the colour of tree trunks all year round, especially Uncle Angelo, who kept his skin oiled and soaked red-brown. He had two impressive frown lines that stretched across his forehead like McDonald’s golden arches. Freddy couldn’t look at him without wanting a Big Mac. He probably had a good body once but now the muscle had run to fat, which was why he was shaking his head at the burrata thrust under his nose. ‘You know I got a personal trainer to help lose this gut, Luca,’ he said, patting his belly. ‘Cruel to tempt me with cheese.’

Freddy reckoned his new healthy attitude had a lot to do with his new wife, Inga. He met her on a business trip to Moscow. She was only twenty-three and her lips were always heavy with pink gloss and they stuck together with a smacking sound when she talked like she’d just eaten something delicious. Inga spotted him staring at her and smiled. Her dress seemed to be strips of bandages sewn together and it was so clean and so white, it looked boiled. He tried not to look at her fake boobs.

‘Happy birthday!’ she said. ‘You are real man now. No more baby boy.’ She lit a cigarette from the tip of her last one and dropped the sticky butt on to the roof, killing it with the heel of her stiletto. His mum dashed over and slipped an ashtray in front of her. It had a beach scene glazed on it and BENIDORM in coral around the rim. Inga gave her a languid look. ‘Grazie mille, Elena,’ she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. Freddy wished he could spark up with her.

A blue triangle broke away from the bunting and was carried by the breeze. They’d used the same decorations for Lyddie’s tenth birthday and Easter Sunday. He followed its flight down to Uncle Wolfie’s freshly mown lawn and then across the street. The pavement was too clean because his mum had swept away sandwich cartons and fag butts that morning. Four discarded Marlboro Lights belonged to him, but so far he’d managed to keep his smoking secret. His dad lived by a lot of trite sayings he read on a daily inspirational quote app, and one of his favourites was Secrets Will Kill You, but Freddy reckoned the fags would get there first. And, unlike his dad, he also happened to know his mum smoked. All nurses did – he guessed it was the stress.

Five Things About His Parents

1. There used to be a kick-thump sound from their bedroom. He worked out what it was when he was younger and it grossed him out, but now there’s only silence.

2. When the back door banged really hard, he knew his dad was on his way over to Uncle Wolfie’s.

3. When his dad left, his mum headed for Lyddie’s room. When he wasn’t home, Freddy could tell they’d had a fight because Lyddie’s hair was French-braided.

4. After they’d finished shouting, his mum cleaned and his dad cooked and everything swung back to normal – except the house had a creepy silence to it like when you’re sick and home from school.

5. No matter what, his mum always smelled like stewed apples and cinnamon. He’d no idea how – she never cooked.

At least Freddy had the park to escape to. When he was younger, he’d bike around there with Patrick, or try to BMX. Now, they met on the roof, and on nights when he needed a smoke, he’d wait till everyone was asleep and creep up the stairs to the fire escape. The ladder was long and thin, with even thinner wooden rungs. They’d been painted white, and he was forever picking flecks from his clothes.

From there he could see across the park, and the street beyond it, and it was like a theatre where he was the only one in the audience. He’d get high, look at the stars, imagine what it would be like to be light years away. Patrick biked over on nights when his mum managed the fancy tapas place in town. They’d been best mates since Reception when he dared Freddy to lift up girls’ skirts on the playground and showed him how to spit over the wall into his neighbour’s pond. Since then, they did all the same things – played for the football team, wore button-down Fred Perry shirts, smoked Marlboro Lights and listened to the same bands. He’d forgotten if he actually liked any of these things.

Patrick had a lot of hobbies, most of which were about impressing girls. His latest was learning to play the guitar and he’d been composing a song for Ana for the past two weeks. She was the only one in their group who hadn’t fallen for his lines. It drove Patrick crazy. He was the captain of the football team, which meant girls usually tripped over themselves when he smiled. But Freddy knew Ana was going to hate the song because a) she liked punk, not the soft indie shit Patrick preferred, and b) she hated attention.

Ana was different. She didn’t talk in code like Karly and Tamaya and the other girls at school. In class, she was quiet, did the bare minimum, and then somehow smashed the exams. The whole group knew that Ana’s flat was tiny, sandwiched between a Turkish restaurant and a snooker hall, but he was the only one to know that her mum lived here illegally. Even though she’d been with Ana’s dad for twenty years, they weren’t married and she didn’t have papers to stay. She made money running a cleaning company staffed by other illegal Colombians. What he still didn’t know was how Ana felt about any of this.

Patrick tried to teach him the guitar, but the only chords he could get his head around were ‘Smoke on the Water’.

Last week, while he focused on making smoke rings, Patrick played a few chords of Ana’s song and said, ‘Good, right? She’s gonna like it?’

Freddy decided to tell him the truth. ‘Ana’s not gonna fall for cheesy lyrics. She’s not some fashion punk like Karly. Just be straight up with her.’

Patrick thumped him in the chest and said, ‘All right, wanker. Soon as you get laid I’ll think about taking your girl advice.’

His mum zipped around the guests like a hummingbird, doling out compliments. She dropped kisses on cheeks, poured more wine, wiped tomato sauce from the kids’ faces. All of them looked alike – thin, knobby joints, Mediterranean fuzz, so many he couldn’t remember their names. He felt bad knowing that the girls would have to bleach their moustaches when they grew up. One of the boys was on the edge of the decking, swinging his feet. When he thought no one was looking, he gobbed off the side and a little of it caught on his chin, goopy and translucent. He motioned for Freddy to join him but he shook his head. Instead, he stood next to his older cousins who’d formed a line by the speakers propping up the window.

‘Fuck sake, when is this gonna be over?’ one of them muttered. With crossed arms, they looked past everyone, and said nothing to him. He was grateful.

The buzzer to the block rang and rang and someone was forever running down the fire escape to answer it. His mum was still too spooked to leave the front door open, even though it was ages ago that kid in the park had acid thrown in his f...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Smoking Salmon
• Tenderly
• Sitting
• Broken Biscuits
• Pale Yellow
• Sharing Time
• Counting Down
• Two Smokers
• The Dresses
• Windows
• After You
• Let Us Rejoice!