December 1985 Alan Vaughan invited Lizzie Mercier-Descloux and me to the Isle of Wight. My holidays were normally spent with my family in Boston. This would be the first one on which I would be absent from the Christmas table. I phoned my parents and said that I would see them after the New Year and on December 23rd the three of us trained to Les Havre to catch the Southhampton ferry.
We drank wine in Alan’s cabins and then visited the gaming hall. The weather was typically rough for the crossing. At one point a wave lifted the ship’s bow so swiftly that all the players around the 21 table were lifted from their seats and then slammed back down. The croupier called the hand over and the captain advised the gamblers to retire to their cabin. Lizzie and I bid Alan tonight. The tousled hair singer was nominally my girlfriend. We had sex and I huffed a line of heroin. The drug cured my mal de mer. The next morning we docked in the English port of Southhampton.
Another ferry took us across the Solvent to the Isle of Wight. Bob Souter was waiting at the dock and drove us to his house in Ventnor, buying lobsters on the way to eat for lunch. I wasn’t too hungry. Heroin is also a good appetite suppressant. Lizzie and I had our own bedroom. Alan and she played “Mais où Sont Passées les Gazelles?’ her African-influenced hit for Bob’s children. He on piano and she a guitar. They were definitely interested in each other and I gave them free rein that evening. High on smack my bones were invulnerable to jealousy.
Christmas morning was festive with gift-giving and drinks.
Never too early on the Isle of Wight. The weather was temperate and the sun stripped away the clouds. Bob proposed the Tennyson Trail, although in reverse, starting at Alum’s Bay and ending at Carlisbrooke. I stayed off the dope. Nodding out on a long walk would be unfair to my hosts, who would have to carry me to the nearest road. We were joined by Anthony, Bob’s teenage son. He had a crush on Lizzie. She was French same as his mother. Lizzie was pretty in a very continental way. She kissed my cheek, as we sat in the car and said, “I like Alan.”
“Like?” The word had many variances.
“Yes, like.” Her intonation narrowed them to one. She lit a cigarette. They were never far from her touch. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” It was the truth. She wanted a lover and I was too wasted to be one. “You two stay here and I’ll go up to London. That work for you?”
“Yes.” Something on her face said that this exchange was gone more smoothly than she had expected, but women are always seeking drama.
It was a beautiful walk along the chalky cliffs overlooking the plowed field of Atlantic rollers. Alan and Lizzie separated from Bob, Anthony, and I. We laughed at Alan stealing my date. At least Bob and I laughed. Anthony thought it had a chance with the singer.
Never.
It was Alan’s day and on Boxing day they drove me to the ferry. Only one train was running to London. My plane was leaving for JFK that evening. If everything went according to schedule then I would be in Boston tomorrow.
I bought a ticket and Alan carried my bag to the gangway.
“Sorry about this.” His smile was contrite.
“No worries.” I patted my coat. The packet of heroin was still had a few lines left in it. “I’ll find a way to get over it.”
And by the time I arrived in Southhampton the world was cool.
I kicked heroin on the 747. I was no junkie. It was easier than I feared.
The next day my mother was happy to see me and my father was glad to have his second son home. And so was I. Left-over turkey tasted better the next day and no one made apple pie like my mother. It was good to be home.
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