The Boy I Love (12 page)

Paul frowned at him, knowing from the brittle edge to his voice the mood Adam was slipping into. ‘I'm sorry if you're disappointed.'

‘Disappointed! Don't flatter yourself.'

They walked almost to Tanner Street without speaking. Finally Adam said, ‘I suppose she'll be waiting with a meal on the table, little house all spic and span.'

‘I doubt it.'

‘Oh? She looks like the domesticated type to me. So, will you have to fry yourself an egg, or something? Christ, if I had a wife …'

They stopped outside Paul's door. Hesitantly Paul said, ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

Adam ignored him and went on walking towards his own house five doors away.

There were no Bath buns, just a few rock cakes, yellow as sulphur and studded with dead-fly raisins. Patrick carried his cup of tea to a table by the window, rubbing a view-hole in the condensation to look out at the platform. Two sailors were waiting, their huge kit bags lolling at their feet. He watched them, jealous of the easy way they stood and talked together.

He had never been easy around other men, only Mick, and Mick didn't count.

After he had signed the papers in the doctor-colonel's office, a nurse had showed him along a corridor. He remembered glancing inside the open doors of the first ward he passed, catching a glimpse of five or so men playing cards around a table. All of them were double amputees, like Mick. All of them turned to look at him as he passed, defiantly dismissive of visitors with legs.

When the nurse left them alone together Mick said, ‘Have you come to take me home?'

Patrick nodded. He sat down beside the cumbersome, institutional wheelchair that took up too much space in the bare little room deemed suitable for visitors. They hadn't seen each other for two years. Mick reached out and touched his face, sweeping his thumb under his eye.

‘Don't cry, Patty. I'm all right.'

‘I felt it, when you were wounded, the pain …'

‘No.' Mick leaned closer. Taking his hand he ducked his head to look up into his downcast face. ‘You only think you did, afterwards, when you found out. The shock … it must have been the shock.'

‘It was terrible.'

Mick smiled slightly. ‘They gave me morphine so quickly, and then the doctors put me to sleep … the pain was in your head, Pat. It wasn't real.'

‘I thought I was going to die.'

Mick sat back in his chair. ‘I'm so sorry, Patty. I tried not to think of you. I couldn't help it.'

The sailors climbed aboard their train. His tea had gone cold but he drank it anyway. Lighting a cigarette he thought of Paul again, idle, unfocused thoughts: Paul in dress uniform or in black tie and dinner jacket, a doll to dress up as the fancy took him; Paul as bridegroom, a yellow rose in his buttonhole. He saw again the girl on his arm and fought against the sudden surge of jealousy.

The tea finished, he walked out on to the platform. Suspended on a chain outside the waiting room a large clock face showed five o'clock. Patrick watched as the minute hand jerked past the Roman numeral twelve. He looked along the platform, anxious now even as his cock stirred in anticipation. Taking a deep breath he walked purposely towards the public toilets.

The man said, ‘Not here.'

Boldly as he dared Patrick said, ‘Where, then?'

‘Follow me.' The man turned away from him. ‘It's not far.'

He followed him out of the station toilets, keeping a few steps behind. They walked through the dark back streets, the man's furtiveness acting like a magnet, drawing him along. He didn't once look back. He's a fool, Patrick thought. Only a bloody fool would put himself in such danger.

The man pushed open a back yard gate and beckoned him inside. As soon as Patrick was in the yard the man shut the gate quickly, and hurried to unlock the door into the house. Even then he didn't stop. Patrick saw only a brief glimpse of a chaotic kitchen, pans in the sink and on the stove, their contents left to congeal. He breathed through his mouth against the smell of cold grease and damp.

The stairs creaked and he felt he should tiptoe to avoid the noisiest boards and that he should've taken off his shoes. He knew these poky terraced houses – the neighbours could hear a dog fart through the walls. At the top of the stairs the man glanced at him before pushing open the bedroom door. He went at once to the bedside table, picked up a photograph frame, and slipped it under the bed. Patrick almost smiled; the man had a sweetheart, then. He didn't want her pretty little face smiling out at him as he was fucked.

Neither spoke, only undressed by the light of a full moon shining through threadbare curtains. Naked, they lay down on the bed. Patrick stared up at the cracks in the ceiling and gently rested his hand on the man's thigh.

‘Maybe you should take your glasses off,' he said.

‘I'm blind without them.'

‘Take them off.'

He sighed, taking off his spectacles and placing them on the floor.

Patrick rolled on to his side. Propping himself on his elbow he looked down at the skinny, hairless body beside him. The man smiled slightly and for the first time Patrick saw that he was handsome, perhaps even a little younger than himself. The smile stayed in his eyes, wry and intelligent, as though he understood the absurdity of their situation.

Kneeling now, the man bowed his head and closed his mouth around his nipple, biting gently as Patrick drew a sharp, surprised breath. His hand moved down Patrick's body, past his leaping, greedy cock, to rest on his thigh before pushing his legs apart. Lifting him slightly, he pushed a finger inside him, biting down harder on his nipple as Patrick arched his back and clenched his fingers into his hair. He would come too soon. Twisting away he sat up, leaning back on his elbows.

The man looked up at him myopically. ‘Relax.'

‘Sorry.'

‘You're married, aren't you?'

‘No!'

‘You're being unfaithful to someone.'

‘No. There's no one.'

‘Then relax.'

‘I'm sorry.'

The man laughed. ‘Jesus.' Taking Patrick's hand he closed it around his cock. ‘I've been hard since I first saw you. You don't have to apologise to me.'

His penis was small, like a boy's, its skin smooth and soft as fine kid. Patrick held it gently, his fingers reaching down to stroke his balls. The man groaned, a deep, sexy noise full of that knowing smile, and he kissed Patrick deeply, his hands moving over his body. After a while he broke away, sitting on his haunches beside him. ‘Ready now?'

Patrick nodded.

The man took one of the many pillows and placed it beneath his groin as he rolled on to his belly. He laughed a little. ‘Be careful. I've not seen many as big.'

He'd imagined he would think of Paul. Instead he thought of nothing but the effort of pushing himself inside this stranger's body. As he tried and failed the man reached back, taking hold of his cock to guide him. Finally he said matter-of-factly, ‘You'd best use some spit.'

Patrick spat on his fingers, rubbing the spittle over his cock before trying again. The resistance gave. Beneath him the man cried out, bracing himself against Patrick's thrusts. His head banged against the metal bars of the bedstead, which in turn banged against the wall. Patrick gritted his teeth, holding back from the release of orgasm, wanting to go deeper and deeper as hard and as fast as he could. Eventually the body beneath his lost its tension and collapsed down on to the mattress. Patrick's own orgasm followed quickly.

The man rolled on to his back, throwing his arm over his face and panting heavily. He laughed. ‘Christ.'

Patrick lay still, closing his eyes against the sound of his breathing. In a moment he would get up and dress. He wouldn't touch him or look at him again. Now though he felt too drained to move. The familiar despair crept over him and he covered his face with his hands.

‘Are you all right?'

Patrick heard the bed creak and tensed, not wanting to be touched. He knew the man was leaning over him. Forcing himself to speak he said, ‘Yes.'

‘What's your name?'

From downstairs came the sound of someone knocking on the door. Patrick glanced at the man but he only frowned as though he might have something to do with the caller. When he made no move Patrick said, ‘Answer it.'

‘I'm not expecting anyone …' He frowned again. ‘Jesus! I forgot about Henderson!' He got up, pulling on trousers and shirt. Buttoning the shirt swiftly he said, ‘Stay here. For God's sake stay out of sight.'

Patrick began collecting his clothes from the floor. Feathers tumbled across the bare boards, the small, white and brown feathers used to stuff pillows. He wondered how anyone could live like this. The rosebud-patterned wallpaper was peeling from a damp corner, the bedding was stained with mildew and the feathers collected in balls of dust. On the bedside table was a teacup containing half an inch of cold, muddy cocoa, and he remembered the picture frame the man had hidden under the bed. Curious, Patrick knelt down, stifling a sneeze caused by the thick layer of dust. His fingers closed around the frame and he picked it up, peering at the photograph in the dim light.

Paul gazed back at him. Dressed in cap and trench coat, its collar turned up to frame his face, he was unsmiling, as beautiful as ever. Patrick placed the picture down gently on the bed and stood staring at it before lifting it up again. He turned it over, easing out the cardboard holding it in place. On the back of the photograph Paul had written,
Adam, I really think I should have smiled
–
don't you?
(What a prig I look!!) My love always, your Paul.

Your Paul.
Setting the picture down on the bedside table, Patrick looked towards the door and the sound of voices in ordinary conversation carrying from the kitchen. He remembered the man as the one who had stood beside Paul outside the church. How could he not have recognised him? Of course they were lovers, the two of them. On the back of the photo another hand had written
January 1916.
They were lovers and had been for years. Anger rose inside him. Sweeping his arm across the table he scattered its contents across the floor.

The glass in the picture frame cracked in two. Next to the broken cup a puddle of cocoa sat proud, too glutinous to soak into the bare floorboards. An old shoebox that had been behind the cup spilled its contents of bundled letters. Patrick crouched beside them, recognising Paul's handwriting on the torn envelopes.

He crouched there for what seemed like minutes, the voices downstairs a low, background drone as he imagined reading each letter. To his eyes each envelope seemed thick, each letter pages long, nothing like the short notes he'd sent and received. He reached out and picked up one of the bundles. Seven or eight letters weighed heavy in his hands. He held the bundle to his nose, wanting to smell Paul on the stiff envelopes, but there was only a faint smell of dry earth. The bundles felt gritty, the blue and gold cord they were tied with fraying at both ends.

The cocoa had soaked into the floor. Patrick stooped and picked up the broken cup, slipped the picture back under the bed and put the letters in their box, before beginning to dress. He put on his jacket and chose a bundle of letters, thrusting it into his inside pocket. One bundle among so many wouldn't be missed.

The man appeared in the doorway. ‘I heard a crash.' He smiled awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘I had to tell my visitor I have a cat.'

‘I knocked the cup over.'

‘Doesn't matter … you don't have to run off because of a broken cup.' He smiled that same wry, condescending smile, making Patrick want to punch him. He turned away. Touching the letters to make sure their bulge wasn't obvious he heard the man,
Adam
, laugh. ‘Well, perhaps we'll meet again?'

Brushing past him Patrick ran from the house.

Chapter Fourteen

January, 1918

DEAREST A
– T
HANK YOU
for the chocolate, and the socks – I gave the marmalade away to one of the poor kids they've been sending us recently. He tells me it was delicious and sends his very best wishes. (He hopes for strawberry jam next time).

Remember I told you about Captain Hawkins? Today he showed me a photo of his wife and baby. She is called Agnes and the baby is called May and we both stood looking at their photograph and smiling like fools for what seemed ages. I told him she was very handsome and the baby very sweet and felt sorry for him as he put the picture away. He's only just back from England and baby's first Christmas.

Dad sent me my copy of
Robinson Crusoe
. Do you remember how I told you Granddad read it to me when I was eight and was sent home from school with whooping cough? George thought the story too difficult for me but Granddad said I was just like my mother and nothing was too difficult for her. Reading it now I find that it is too difficult. I find myself thinking about Robinson and Friday too much for my own good. The pages are becoming damp as it hasn't stopped raining for days – already there is mildew on the cover. I know Dad meant well but I'm afraid the book will be destroyed by this bloody weather.

How is school? The boy you told me about, Brownlowe, I do remember his brother from Christmas parties and such. I was sorry to hear what happened. Rob knew him quite well, I think. I'll let him know, as he'll want to send condolences to the family. I agree it's unlikely he's alive if they've listed him as missing, but being out here makes you pessimistic – they may be

right to hope.

Remember the shrine I told you about on the side of the road? We passed it today, blown to smithereens. Later Smith said what a pity it was because the little statue of the Virgin had such a pretty face. Jenkins laughed so much the poor man took offence. I tried to apologise to him, but it was difficult with Jenkins crying with laughter. It wasn't that funny really – it was just the sad, serious way Smith said it.

We're having a quiet time of it at the moment. I read
Crusoe
and think of you (and Friday). I sleep a great deal, and dream all kinds of idiotic things. Last night you were here with me. Hawkins gave you a dressing down for not having the right kit. You asked if I had a spare pistol you could borrow. It all seemed very normal but then I woke up missing you so much I couldn't go back to sleep. I walked out into the trench and ended up drinking tea with Smith and Sergeant Thompson, although I wouldn't normally bother the men. Thompson with his gold-tooth-grin sees right through me and I can't decide whether his smirking behind my back bothers me or not. Mostly not, I think. His tooth is fascinating. It makes his breath smell of gun metal, as though he sucks on the barrel of his rifle. Am I smirking behind his back, now? Yes, definitely.

Write soon, won't you? My very best love –
P

PS: I've suddenly realised that I don't have a photograph of you. I thought you could go to Evans's studio in your Sunday best and have your picture taken beneath the artificial rambling roses. Look pensive. Don't smile. Right profile would be best, I think. Next time Hawkins shows me his wife and family I can produce you from my wallet, my own true love.

Patrick folded the letter back into its envelope and placed it beside the others. He remembered the demolished shrine, the Virgin lying in a ditch amongst splinters of wood, her hands still clasped to her chest, her head a few feet away. It had made him remember the statuette of Saint Francis kept in his mother's dressing table drawer because its head had broken off. Whenever the drawer was opened the bearded face rolled towards the light, exhaling the stink of lavender.

At the French roadside Paul had hurled the Virgin's head into the sky. Watching him, Patrick had crossed himself. Rain came down in sheets, blurring Paul into a grey smudge as he stared after the head's trajectory. The cobbled road ran with water, the countryside disappearing under the flood. He thought of the head drowning.

Mick's voice shouted up the stairs. Patrick jumped, expecting him to burst into his room just as he used to. Gathering the letters together he left them in a pile by his bed and went downstairs.

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs Mick said angrily, ‘I've been shouting for you for ages. What were you doing up there?'

‘I must have dozed off.'

‘Liar!'

‘Don't call me a liar.' He edged past into the kitchen. ‘Do you want some supper?'

Mick followed him, banging his chair on the door; he damaged it in exactly the same place every time so that a groove had appeared. He glared up at Patrick. ‘Where were you this afternoon?'

‘You were all right. You were with Hetty, weren't you? I didn't think you'd miss me.' He began looking through cupboards, finally bringing out a tin of corned beef. ‘Will this do? I'll make you a sandwich.'

Mick knocked the tin out of his hand, sending it scuttling across the floor. ‘I asked you where you were today!'

‘Nowhere.'

‘Seeing Harris?'

Patrick laughed bleakly.

Taking a fistful of his shirt, Mick yanked him down so that their faces were level. ‘The fire in my room went out – do you know how cold it is in this morgue?'

Patrick pulled away. ‘Hetty should have …'

‘Well she didn't! You had no right to send her here like that.'

‘I thought you'd be pleased.'

Mick gazed at him as though he couldn't believe his ears. ‘I don't want her skivying for me! I can look after myself!'

‘Then go and light the fire in your room.'

‘I would if you left some fucking coal in the scuttle!'

‘You know where the coal is, Mick. Down the cellar steps, first door on your left. Remember? We've always kept it there.'

‘Piss off.' Mick turned the chair round, banging it against the door again. The book that had been on his lap slid to the floor and Patrick stooped to pick it up, then followed him into his room.

The cold came as a shock after the warmth of the kitchen. Placing the book on the hearth he squatted in front of the dead fire and cleared the ashes from the grate.

‘Give that book to me. It'll get filthy down there.' Without looking up Patrick handed it to him. Snatching it Mick barked, ‘Now get out.'

Patrick sighed. ‘I'll light the fire first.'

‘I want to go to bed. I don't need a fire if I'm asleep.'

‘It's early yet.'

‘I'm tired. And I don't need your help, either, so just get out.'

Patrick straightened up, dusting ash from his hands. ‘You haven't eaten today, have you?'

‘So?'

‘Why don't I make you a sandwich? I'll bring it to you in bed.'

Mick bowed his head, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes. After a while he said, ‘She didn't light the fire because we went for a walk. To the park. We had a nice time, really. The kerbs were a bit difficult for her, but she's quite strong. Didn't complain.' Lighting the cigarette he said, ‘I asked her to visit me again.'

‘Did she say she would?'

‘Yes.'

‘So what's wrong?'

‘Nothing.' He laughed bitterly. ‘Everything's tickity-boo.'

‘I'll light the fire, shall I? Then get you something to eat?'

‘Do you think she said yes out of pity?'

Crouching in front of the fire Patrick looked at him. ‘I don't know, Mick.'

‘If it's pity I'd rather she didn't bother.'

Patrick turned back to the grate. ‘Maybe pity will become something else.'

Mick exhaled as though he'd been holding his breath. ‘Maybe. Corned beef sandwiches then? I'll go and make a start in the kitchen.'

Margot made supper of eggs and bacon and black pudding and Paul ate it without comment. He was always quiet when he came home from the school, as though he was too exhausted even to make conversation. She would have liked to hear about his day, to talk about the other masters and their wives and families. All day she tried to think of things they could discuss over supper, ordinary gossip that would make their marriage seem normal, but nothing very much happened to her. She cleaned the house, she shopped with the little money he gave her and from time to time she visited her mother, short, stilted visits in an atmosphere still crackling with her mother's anger. Since New Year's Eve and that disastrous dance, she had felt friendless. As she went about her chores, aware of the baby moving inside her, she tried to be proud of the fact that she'd out-grown the girls she'd been at school with.

So far their neighbours remained strangers, although she could hear their children's cries and shouts through the walls. Often she left the house just to get away from the nagging feeling that the women in the street were deliberately snubbing her. She'd go window shopping, avoiding the haberdashery with its display of lacy Christening gowns, and wished she'd saved even a little of the weekly allowance her father used to give her.

She knew that soon she would have to ask Paul for money to buy clothes and underwear, replacements for items that were becoming too tight or too threadbare. She had begun to worry about this, of being even more of a burden, noticing that Paul's cuffs were becoming frayed and that he spent nothing on himself apart from the cheapest cigarettes. She thought of her father, who wouldn't settle for anything but the best pipe tobacco, a little treat that had always seemed unremarkable; now, compared to Paul, he seemed like a spendthrift.

She cleared the table of the supper dishes. Unable to stand the silence any longer she asked, ‘How was school?'

‘Fine.' He looked up from the
Evening Gazette.
‘It was fine.'

She rinsed a plate under the single cold tap. ‘And Adam, is he all right?'

‘Yes.' He returned to the newspaper. ‘He's fine, too.'

She felt compelled to persist. Making her voice light she asked, ‘Is he courting?'

Paul flicked over a page. ‘No.'

‘No? That's a pity, he could bring his girl to supper, if he had a girl, of course.'

‘He hasn't.'

‘Oh well. It was just a thought. You know, I realised today that he lives next door to that girl, the one who was with that crippled man's brother at the dance.'

He looked up at her, frowning. ‘His brother was with a girl? Are you sure?'

‘Yes!' She laughed. ‘I thought I recognised her when she was dancing with him.'

He turned back to the paper. After a while he said, ‘I don't remember a girl.'

Sighing, Margot scrubbed at the greasy frying pan. She thought of the slight, sharp-faced girl she sometimes passed in the street. She looked about her own age and sometimes she felt that she should introduce herself but so far she'd been too afraid; the women who lived in the terraces seemed unpredictable, too quick to make friends and enemies.

Paul stood up. ‘I'll dry, shall I?'

‘No. You should sit down, you've been working all day.'

He took a tea towel from the drawer and began to wipe the plates. Earlier he had taken off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his collar so that the dark hair of his chest was just visible. There was ink on his hand. As usual when he stood close to her, she was surprised by how much she wanted him.

He smiled at her and she looked down into the grey washing-up water. Summoning courage she said, ‘I may need a few shillings extra, soon.' She felt herself blushing. ‘There are some things I need.'

‘Of course. How much would you like?'

‘I don't know … not very much.'

He began to put the plates away. ‘You must tell me if I'm not giving you enough housekeeping.'

‘Things
are
expensive.' Awkwardly she said, ‘How much more could you give me?'

‘Enough to go mad and buy you a new dress? I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were worrying about money. Tomorrow make a list of everything you need, for the baby as well. I'll draw the money out on Saturday.'

Relieved, to her horror she began to cry. At once Paul drew her into his arms, kissing the top of her head as she pressed her face to his chest. ‘Oh, Margot, hush, please don't cry over money. Money doesn't matter.'

She drew away from him, hurriedly wiping her eyes. ‘Yes it does … you work so hard.'

He laughed. ‘I've worked harder.'

‘You always look so exhausted.'

‘Well, that's just me – pale and interesting, I can't help it.'

She blew her nose, then stuffed her handkerchief into her pocket, avoiding his gaze. ‘I know you don't sleep well.'

‘I can't help that, either.'

‘I'm never sure whether to wake you or not.' Her voice rose and she tried to fight back the tears, remembering how frightened she was when Paul woke shouting in the night. Last night she had found him crouched in the corner of their bedroom, his arms covering his head as though protecting himself from blows. Managing to meet his eye she said, ‘What happened last night, for instance …'

He frowned. ‘Last night?'

‘You got out of bed, you were shaking.'

‘I don't remember.' He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. Exhaling smoke he said, ‘I'm sorry. I'll sleep in the other room, if you like.'

‘No. I don't want you to do that.' She blushed again because she said the words too hastily, making herself sound brazen. ‘You wake me anyway. It's better if I'm there with you.' Sitting down beside him she said, ‘Don't you think it's better?'

He laughed, looking down as he rolled his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray. ‘I think it's much better. I don't want to scare you, that's all. I know how horrible it is, being woken like that.'