The Boy I Love (14 page)

‘Happy pig, eh? I suppose it is. I always thought it was sinister.'

‘Then why do you keep it?'

‘I don't know … people recognise it, I suppose.'

Patrick tried to ration himself to looking at Paul for only a few seconds at a time. All the same he noticed that the glass eye was a shade darker than it should be and there was a faint white scar below it where the shrapnel had cut. He was thinner than he remembered and less boyish. In the army he'd been serious, weighed by responsibility. Now he smiled and the smile changed him, made him more attractive, if that were possible. Hardly able to believe he was sitting across a pub table from him, Patrick stole another look.

Paul's hand went to his face and he laughed awkwardly. ‘I lost the eye.'

‘Yes.' Patrick looked down at his drink. ‘Sorry.'

‘Worse things happen.'

Forcing himself to meet his gaze he said, ‘It's the wrong shade of green.'

Paul smiled. ‘I rather like that. It draws attention.'

‘What does your wife think about it?'

He stubbed his cigarette out. ‘She likes it, too.' Finishing his pint, he put the empty glass down. ‘Another?'

Patrick watched him at the bar, allowing his eyes to linger on his neat little backside until the beginnings of a hard-on made him look away. He wondered if he would be drunk enough to take back to the shop. Three pints of beer in quick succession might make a man his size just pissed enough. He looked down at his own half-finished drink. In all his fantasies Paul had always been stone-cold sober, an awkward, vulnerable boy, not this self-assured man. Perhaps a dingy room over a butcher's shop wouldn't be good enough for him. Thinking of the soiled mattress left behind by the last tenant, his hard-on shrivelled.

As he sat down Paul said, ‘Cheers.'

‘Cheers.'

Paul lit another cigarette, offering him the open case. When he shook his head Paul laughed. ‘I smoke too much. They wouldn't let me smoke in the first hospital and I nearly went mad. One of the nurses used to take pity on me occasionally, but Matron caught her and gave us both a frightful row. I couldn't see at the time and I thought this Matron was enormous, a real battle-axe. She wasn't, of course.' After a moment he asked, ‘Do you know what happened to Sergeant Thompson?'

Patrick nodded. ‘He stayed on. I told him he was mad.'

‘Didn't you ever consider it?'

‘Never. Did you?'

‘Sometimes.'

Patrick stared at him incredulously. ‘You'd have stayed in the army?'

Paul stared back. He smiled slowly. ‘I liked the uniform.'

‘It suited you.'

‘Heads turned.'

‘I'm sure.'

Holding his gaze Paul said, ‘So, you have your own pork butcher's shop. Do you sell everything, right down to the squeal?'

‘Everything.'

‘Drink up.' Paul drained his glass.

‘Where are we going?'

Standing up, Paul said, ‘You're going to show me round your shop.'

Chapter Sixteen

‘T
HIS IS INEXCUSABLE
.'

Daniel went to the dining room window, lifting aside the lace curtain to look again for Paul. Turning to Margot he snapped, ‘Did you tell him to be here for one o'clock?'

‘Yes.' Anxiously she said, ‘Can you see him?'

Iris sighed. ‘He's probably staying at home until this rain stops. Lunch can wait a few minutes.'

‘He's half an hour late, Iris, half an hour.' Daniel looked at his watch. ‘Almost forty minutes, now.'

Standing beside her father, Margot looked out at the path leading from the vicarage to the churchyard. Rain bounced off the ground, hammering on the roof of the bay window and running down the glass. ‘Perhaps I should go and look for him.'

‘You'll do no such thing!' Daniel frowned at her. ‘Go out in your condition in weather like this simply because he's forgotten the time? We'll eat without him.'

‘I'm worried, I've never known him be late.'

‘You hardly know him at all. I should imagine this is typical behaviour.'

Her mother laughed sarcastically. ‘Typical.'

‘I suppose you think this kind of thoughtlessness is acceptable? That it's all right to keep everyone waiting?'

Iris snapped, ‘I'm surprised he agrees to come here at all the way you treat him.'

‘How do I treat him? How does one treat a person who hasn't the grace to meet one's eye or make even the smallest effort at conversation?'

‘You should make allowances.'

‘Allowances!' Daniel snorted. ‘He should pull himself together.'

Her mother laid down her knitting and stood up. ‘I'll go and turn the oven down.'

‘No, we'll eat now.' He turned back to stare out of the window as though keeping a vigil. ‘Margot, go and help your mother.'

The rain began slowly, a few fat drops that gradually became a downpour. Patrick turned his collar up, shivering as rain trickled down his back. Halfway along the deserted High Street he stopped at the entrance to an alleyway. To Paul he said, ‘It's down here, the back door to the shop.'

Paul smiled at him, the rain plastering his hair flat. ‘So what are we waiting for?'

‘It's not much …'

He laughed. ‘Patrick, I'm getting wet.'

Once again Patrick checked for the shop keys in his pocket. His fingers closed around them, the key to the back yard gate already warm from his touch. Exhaling he said, ‘All right. Let's get out of this rain.'

The bones were massive, their bulbous ends pink and white and shiny as newly shelled pearls. Standing in the doorway at the back of the shop, Paul turned away from them quickly, breathing through his mouth to avoid their cold-iron smell. On the wall above them hung knives and cleavers, their metal dull in the grey, rain-soaked light. Everywhere was scrubbed and stung with the smell of bleach, a smell that mixed with that of the bones and was impossible to ignore. Soaked to the skin, Paul shuddered.

Opening the door to a flight of stairs, Morgan turned to him. ‘It's up here.' He hesitated. ‘As I said, it's not much …'

Brushing past him, Paul began to climb the stairs. He glanced back at Morgan who was hesitating still, dripping rain from the hem of his trench coat. For a moment Paul saw him in cap and puttees and he smiled slightly. ‘There's no time like the present, Sergeant.'

At the top of the stairs Paul found himself in a room that was empty apart from a mattress covered in blue and white striped ticking, a large, brown stain at its head. Above it was a window that was too high to see from, a grill of wire mesh covering it. Pictures had been torn from a magazine and stuck to the wall above the fireplace: a fat baby in a tin bath advertising
Pears Soap
and a soldier with a girl on his knee. The smell of bones and bleach was overlaid with mustiness. Behind him a floorboard creaked and Paul turned round.

‘It's been empty for a while,' Morgan said. Awkwardly he added, ‘There's a kitchen, and another smaller room …'

Paul took off his coat and folded it on to the floor. ‘You should rent it out.'

‘Maybe.'

‘But then you wouldn't be able to show me around.'

‘No. That's what I thought.'

‘So you've been thinking about it?'

‘A bit.' He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting someone else to walk in. Distractedly he repeated, ‘A bit.'

Paul stepped towards him. Touching his arm he said, ‘You're soaking.'

‘So are you.'

‘Do you want to get out of those wet things?'

‘Do you?'

Paul looked towards the mattress. ‘Do you have any blankets?'

Morgan reached out and cupped his face. Surprised by his tenderness, Paul stood very still. Morgan's long fingers were dry and hard; as he pressed his palm to his cheek Paul could feel its calluses and he remembered the weight of it, pressing his head down into the mud of no-man's-land. He closed his eyes. The memory was vivid and he laughed shortly, appalled to find that he was crying.

Softly Morgan said, ‘Hush now. It's all right.' Still holding Paul's face he wiped the tears away with a careful sweep of his thumb. ‘You're all right now. Safe.' Morgan pulled him into his arms. He rocked him, stroking his hair, repeating over and over the same quiet words. At last he whispered, ‘Lie down. I'll hold you. I'll make it all right. Lie down.'

Wiping away snot and tears with his hand, Paul gasped for breath. Morgan kissed him, a soft, dry kiss. His hand cupped Paul's face again and he kissed him more forcefully until Paul responded.

Morgan led him to the mattress and they lay down. He pulled Paul into his arms, his hand slipping beneath his clothes to rest over Paul's heart. ‘There,' Morgan said. ‘Almost calm.'

Paul closed his eyes, his head on Morgan's chest rising and falling as he breathed. For a while they stayed like that and he imagined he would sleep listening to the sounds of the other man's body, as though he was a shell pressed against his ear. He thought of the nightmares he wouldn't have, the memories drowned out by the thud of his heart.

‘I remember the first time I saw you.'

Paul opened his eyes, startled from drowsing.

Quietly Morgan went on, ‘I wasn't afraid until then. I couldn't stand that you might be killed.' He shuddered, holding him still closer. ‘It was all I thought about, how terrible it would be to lose you.'

The rain pounded on the roof. A drop of water appeared on the ceiling and began a steady beat to the floor. The room grew darker and cold seeped from the damp mattress. Warmed by Morgan's body, Paul began to drift into sleep again, finding himself at sea. There was no land on the horizon. Both England and France were far away. Waves crashed the decks, soaking him. The ship rose from the high sea again and again, riding the storm.

Patrick watched Paul sleep, half sleeping too, going in and out of dreams of ditches and trenches and stone-cold cellars where dead men lounged nonchalantly against green-moss walls. He saw Very lights dazzle the dark sky and illuminate the ragged stumps of trees, and he focused on the rain dripping from the ceiling so that he wouldn't see more. Beneath Paul's body his arm went to sleep. The rain stopped. Watery winter sun slanted through the high window and he closed his eyes against it.

They must have slept for an hour or more. Paul murmured, frowning as he looked up at him. ‘What time is it?'

‘Three o'clock.'

‘Oh Christ!' He struggled to stand up, going at once to his coat on the floor. Searching through its pockets he took out his cigarettes. Patrick watched from the mattress, saw that his hands trembled as he attempted to strike a match. He got up, took the matches from him, and lit one.

‘I had to be somewhere.' Paul laughed bleakly, accepting the light. ‘It's too late now.' Glancing at him he said, ‘Did you sleep?'

‘A little.'

He looked down at the cigarette. ‘I'm sorry. Crying like that … I'm sorry.'

‘It's all right.'

‘Feeling sorry for myself …'

‘It doesn't matter.'

He held out the open cigarette case. ‘Sorry, I should have offered you one.'

‘No, thanks.'

‘I smoke too much.' Bowing his head he said, ‘I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have come here. When I saw you at that dance … Anyway. I'm an idiot.'

‘No. No you're not.'

‘I have to go.'

‘Paul …' He'd never used his name before. For the first time in his life he felt himself blush.

Gently Paul said, ‘I'm married, Patrick. My wife is pregnant.'

‘Then why did you come here?'

‘I don't know.' Patrick looked at him and laughed painfully. ‘I was thinking about you, the last patrol we went on, before …' He exhaled a long breath of cigarette smoke. ‘Before all that other business. I suppose I thought seeing you again would put it all in perspective.'

‘No other reason?'

He laughed again, looking away.

Quickly Patrick said, ‘I don't want anything from you. Just to see you from time to time … We could meet here. I could make it nicer.'

‘Fix the leaky roof?' Paul smiled. ‘I've been fucked in worse places.'

‘It's not just about that.'

Paul looked down at the cigarette. After a while he said, ‘When I first saw you … in France when we first met …' He hesitated then went on quickly, ‘I tried not to think about you, to look at you, even. I just wanted you safely out of my sight.'

‘I think about you all the time.'

Paul tossed his cigarette stub into the fireplace. ‘And I went to that pub wondering if you really would be there, half hoping you wouldn't be … then you walked in.' He laughed shortly. ‘I'm still getting over the shock.'

Attempting to smile, Patrick said, ‘I'm not so shocking.'

‘You are to me.'

He forced a laugh. ‘Why?'

Paul gazed at him. ‘Because you make me feel like a fey little queer when you look at me? I don't know.'

‘I don't mean to make you feel like that.'

‘It's all right. I am a fey little queer.'

Patrick stepped towards him. ‘Paul, let me see you. It's safe here – no one will suspect anything.' He tried to make his voice lighter. ‘Who would suspect two old comrades meeting up from time to time?'

‘To re-live the past?'

‘No! It's finished, all that. I just want you. Since I first saw you …'

Paul put his coat on, glancing at him as he fastened the buttons. ‘I really have to go.'

‘Next Sunday, I'll be here. I'll be here all day.'

‘Wednesday evening would be better. About seven o'clock?' Paul pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘Is that all right?'

‘Yes.'

Paul smiled. Briskly he said, ‘Good. I won't cry and you can fuck me as much as you want. I'll look forward to it.'

‘Paul …'

About to go downstairs Paul turned. ‘It's what you want, isn't it?'

Patrick wondered if he was blushing again. ‘You want it too.'

‘Of course. I'm up for anything. Seven o'clock, Wednesday. Don't worry if I'm late.'