The Boy I Love (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

M
ICK SAID
, ‘I
HATE
Sundays. I've always hated Sundays, the way they drag. Patrick looks forward to them, he had quite a spring in his step this morning. Of course, it's his day of
rest
, whereas I rest every day.'

Hetty looked up from the book she'd been reading to him. ‘I knew you weren't listening. Do you want to hear how it ends?'

‘Not really.' Throwing his cigarette stub into the fire he said, ‘Do you ever see your new neighbour? You know that young girl – Mrs Harris. Has she had the baby yet?'

‘I see her sometimes, and no, she hasn't had the baby yet. She came in the shop. Patrick gave her free liver.'

Mick raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he?'

Hetty sighed. Closing the book she said, ‘I think he took a fancy to her. I suppose she is pretty. And it's not as if she'll be a good customer – poor as mice, her and that husband. All make-do-and-mend. She peered into her purse as though it was a big, black, scary hole.'

Mick laughed but his eyes remained questioning. ‘Do you see much of her husband?'

She frowned at him. ‘Why?'

‘I knew his brother, I told you.'

‘I did hear one thing about him. Mrs Shipley who lives next door to them told Mam how he makes such a row in the night she has to bang on the wall with her shoe, says he sounds like he's back fighting the war single-handed. She says her Fred is ready to go round there and throttle him, one eye or not.'

Mick lit another cigarette. ‘What did
her Fred
do during the war? Don't tell me. Reserved occupation.'

‘He was too old to be called up.'

‘Lucky him.'

‘It can't be easy being woken night after night.'

‘No. It's not easy.' He stared into the fire, his mouth set in a thin, angry line. After a while he said, ‘It must be hard on the boy's wife.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘You suppose so? Can't you imagine how frightening it must be for her? For God's sake, can't you empathise even a little?'

Returning his angry gaze Hetty said, ‘Maybe I just think she's lucky to have a husband and a baby on the way.'

‘Even a husband whose screams wake the neighbours? Will any husband do, Hetty?'

‘Not any, no.'

He flicked cigarette ash at the hearth. Without looking at her he said, ‘I'm tired. Perhaps you'd better go home.'

‘I thought you wanted to go for a walk in the park?'

‘I hate that park, it's full of bloody women who can't keep their little brats from staring.' He looked at her at last. ‘I think you should go, now. Thank you for coming to see me.'

‘I don't want to go.'

‘No? Do you want to read me another chapter of that terrible book? Or we could play cards. There's such a lot to keep you here, isn't there?'

‘There's you.'

‘Me?' He manoeuvred his chair back, turning it round to face the window. Staring out over the garden he said, ‘You shouldn't let me keep you, Hetty.'

‘Why not?'

He looked at her. At last he said, ‘Because I think I'm in love with you. I
am
in love with you – and that's terrible because what business do I have falling in love? A great bloody useless lump like me?' Turning back to the garden he said, ‘I thought your company would be enough. It isn't. It's too bloody painful.'

‘What if I was in love with you?'

‘Are you?' He frowned.

‘Yes.'

‘But what's the point in that? I'll never be any good for you … and people look at me and think … they think …'

‘I don't care what they think.'

‘I do! They think I don't have normal feelings, and if I do …' His face twisted into an angry smile. Bitterly he said, ‘Well, no one likes to think about it, do they?'

She crouched beside him. ‘I do love you. I have for ages now.'

He gazed at her. ‘You love me?' He searched her face, his eyes intense. Cupping her cheek with his hand he said, ‘I can't have you love me, Hetty.'

She kissed him, gently at first, until she felt his resistance give. He groaned softly, his hand going to the back of her head and his fingers knotting in her hair as his tongue searched out hers. As he pulled her closer to him the arm of the wheelchair pressed against her and she drew away. She laughed a little, frustrated. ‘I can't get close enough.'

He pressed his hand against her cheek. ‘Maybe you should go.'

‘Do you really want me to?'

‘No. But if you stay …' Desperately he said, ‘I just want to hold you so badly.'

‘I know. I want that, too.'

‘I don't want you to do anything you might regret.'

‘I won't.'

‘If we just hold each other, that's all.'

She nodded, impatient with desire. ‘That's all.'

He laughed as if he couldn't believe the passion in her eyes. Softly he said, ‘Help me on to the bed.'

Margot watched Paul shave at the kitchen sink. Earlier, he had taken his eye out and cleaned the socket while the eye watched from a glass of water. The eye didn't produce tears and throughout the day he would drop water into it to prevent the socket from becoming dry. Usually he did all this in private but this morning it seemed he had forgotten she was there.

The
Sunday Post
was spread out on the table in front of her. She had been pretending to read the same article for the last ten minutes. Turning the page she said, ‘You promise you won't be late?'

He glanced at her, razor poised. There was a line of soap on its blade and he rinsed it off. ‘I promise.'

‘Because you know what Daddy's like. And it is his birthday.' After a moment she said cautiously, ‘You'll make an effort, won't you?'

Looking in the mirror he'd propped up on the window ledge, he dragged the razor across his cheek.

‘I know you don't want to go, Paul.'

He smoothed back his hair with both hands. Catching her reflected gaze he said, ‘I'll be there, don't worry.' He shrugged his jacket on. ‘Are you sure you don't want me to walk you to church?'

‘I'm sure. Go and see your friend, have a nice time.'

After he'd gone Margot went into the front parlour and lifted the lace curtain away from the window to watch him walk towards the High Street. Letting the curtain fall, she thought of thin French actresses and looked down at her own mountainous body in despair.

Paul walked to the Red Lion pub where he had promised to meet Patrick. There was a group of young lads on the corner of Tanner Street and he felt his heart beat quicken. He wished often he didn't look so obviously like a frail little queer. He tried to walk a little taller and resisted quickening his step as he passed the youths. Not one of them looked twice at him and he wanted to laugh at his paranoia but it was too depressing. He thought of the boys at school and wondered what they had in store for him next. He knew he was completely at their mercy, just as he had been at Jenkins's.

Last night he'd dreamt of Jenkins again and woke in a sweat to find Margot standing over him, her hair dishevelled from sleep and her eyes wide with fright. ‘You were swearing!' She gazed at him in disbelief that he could use such terrible words. ‘And who's Jenkins?'

‘No one.' He held out his hand to her. ‘No one, come back to bed.'

No one
. Paul lit a cigarette as he turned the corner on to

Skinner Street. If only.

Jenkins crouched beside him and sang softly, ‘The boy I love is up in the gallery, the boy I love is …'

Paul had been asleep on his bunk. Startled, he'd sat up, fumbling in his haste to fasten his tunic buttons. He searched his pockets for a cigarette, appalled to see that his hands were shaking as he struck a match.

Jenkins laughed. ‘Lord, you're uncivil! Aren't you going to offer me one of those? Isn't that the done thing?'

As Paul made to get up, Jenkins placed a hand on his chest, pushing him down again. ‘Hawkins asked me this morning if I knew what was wrong with you. Said you'd been behaving strangely. I wonder if he knows just how strange you are. Perhaps I should have a quiet word with him, put him in the picture.'

As if on cue, Hawkins came in. He frowned from Jenkins to Paul. ‘Harris, have you told him yet?'

Paul scrambled out of his bunk, trying to avoid brushing against Jenkins who, as usual, stood too close to him. Straightening his tunic he said, ‘No, sir, not yet.'

Hawkins grunted. ‘All right, I'll do the honours.' He looked at Jenkins. ‘You and Harris and twenty of the men are going on a little raiding party. Top brass want us to catch a Fritz prisoner.' He grinned at Paul. ‘They imagine we can find out a few of their secrets, eh, Harris?'

‘Yes, sir.'

To Jenkins he said, ‘I wouldn't normally send the two of you but I think you can learn from Harris's experience. So mind you take notes, Jenkins – you'll be doing it on your own next time.' Hawkins sat down at the table. ‘Be a good chap and go and tell Johnson to fetch me a cup of tea, would you, Jenkins?'

When he'd gone, Hawkins looked at Paul. ‘Do you think he'll manage?'

‘I don't know, sir.'

Hawkins frowned at him. ‘I'm worried about you. I hope you're not coming down with something.'

‘No, sir, I'm fine.'

‘Fine! You always say you're fine, thank God!' He sighed.

‘I'm sorry I've had to foist Jenkins on you, Paul. But he has to start pulling his weight some time.' After a moment he laughed. ‘The bugger went very white, didn't he?'

Crossing the High Street close to Patrick's shop, Paul remembered just how white Jenkins had gone. He had wanted to feel gratified but instead he had felt sick at the thought of having to rely on him if anything went wrong. The only comfort was knowing that Patrick would be with him. Later that night as they prepared for the raid, he'd caught Jenkins watching him as he cleaned his pistol.

‘Morgan's going on the raid.' Jenkins grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn to look at him. ‘If Morgan's going you don't need me – you can tell Hawkins you don't need me!'

Jenkins's face was twisted with fear and anger. Unable to cope with his fear as well as his own Paul shook off his grasp and turned back to his gun.

‘Did you hear me, Harris? Tell Hawkins you'll do it on your own – you and bloody Morgan!'

‘He won't listen to me.'

‘He will! You're his blue-eyed bloody boy! He will listen!'

Paul stared at him. He felt as though he was seeing him properly for the first time in his life. He had only ever looked at him obliquely and always with a creeping sense of his own cowardice for not facing up to him. He saw how ordinary he was, rather plain and pasty-faced beneath his veneer of arrogance. For a moment he felt sorry for him. ‘Listen, you'll be all right. It's really not as bad as you think it's going to be, once you're out there. Just stay close to Morgan and me –'

Jenkins had laughed so harshly he sounded like a mad man.

Paul stopped along the alley that led to the Red Lion. He leaned against the coal-blackened wall and breathed in deeply in an effort to manage the panic rising inside him. In St Stevens, when he'd allowed himself to remember that raid, a nurse had found him curled into a ball on the floor of the common room, fellow patients gazing at him with mute acceptance. A doctor was fetched; there was the usual carefully suppressed exasperation with him when despite their coaxing he couldn't speak, although he'd wanted to tell them that the guilt felt like a terrified animal trapped inside him. If he didn't stay still enough to keep it contained its panic would kill him. Eventually they had carried him to bed. An injection was administrated.

He pushed himself away from the wall and steadied himself. Taking another deep breath he walked inside the pub.

In The Red Lion Patrick looked around for a familiar face and was relieved not to find any. Tucked away in one of the back alleys that ran off the High Street, the Lion was used mainly by the market traders and its Sunday afternoon trade was quiet. Two men stood at the bar; in the far corner a middle-aged couple nursed two halves of stout. From a room above the pub he could hear scales being practised on the piano, the same flat notes repeated over and over, jarring the pub's sullen silence. At the bar the barmaid smiled at Paul as she handed him their drinks. Patrick watched her curiously and tried to work out if the interest she showed in Paul was merely professional friendliness or something more appreciative. The way others looked at Paul had always preoccupied him; whenever they were in public together his jealousy made sure he was never quite at ease.

Paul sat down. He set the two pints of beer on the table and immediately lit a cigarette. He placed the open case between them. ‘I'm pleased you came.'

Patrick took a long drink. Wiping his mouth he said. ‘Did you think I wouldn't?'

‘I wasn't sure. I thought you might be wary.'

‘Wary!' He laughed dismissively. ‘Those two at the bar. Are they queer, do you think?'

‘I doubt it.'

‘So why should they think we are?'

‘They might think I am.'

‘Of course they don't.' He frowned. ‘Don't say things like that. You're just like any other man.'

‘Am I?'

Patrick looked away. The woman with the stout was rummaging in a large handbag and he watched her, wondering what might appear. A handkerchief. She blew her nose noisily.

The man sitting next to her sighed.

Patrick took one of Paul's cigarettes, a cheaper brand than the one he smoked. He picked up the silver case, touched by the irony of something so expensive containing such rubbish. Turning the case over he read the inscription on the back, squinting at the ornately curling script.