The Boy I Love (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

One Month Later

A
DOUBLE BED HAD
appeared in Mick's room. Hetty stared at it.

Gently Mick said, ‘I was tired of sleeping in a child's bed.'

She glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Patrick watching her from the doorway. ‘Did Patrick …' Words failed her. Mick wheeled his chair closer and took her hand.

‘I told Patrick the other bed was uncomfortable.'

‘So he went and bought this?'

‘He didn't have to buy it. The bed was upstairs.' He smiled awkwardly. ‘My mother used to call it the guest bed. It was never used.'

‘What must he think?' Pulling her hand away from his she stared at him angrily. ‘What must he think of me?'

‘Why should he think anything?'

‘Because of that bed! Doesn't it tell him what to think?'

‘I told him the other bed was uncomfortable.'

‘So you say! I bet he had a right good laugh.'

‘A laugh? Is it funny?'

She looked away from his angry gaze. ‘It's humiliating.'

Mick snorted. Manoeuvring his chair around he said, ‘For God's sake, sit down. I'm not asking you to test its springs just yet.' He lit a cigarette and wheeled himself towards the open French windows. ‘I was thinking we could go out, later. It's a lovely day and there's a band playing in the park.'

‘Have you told Patrick about us?'

‘No.'

Going to stand in front of him she said, ‘Promise me.'

‘I promise.' He looked down at his cigarette. ‘What do you take me for?'

‘I know how close you are.' She heard Patrick moving about in the room above them and glanced up. ‘Maybe he's guessed, anyway.'

‘Maybe. Would it really matter? Are you ashamed of us, now?'

‘No …' She sighed. ‘It was seeing that bed. It's as if you're taking it for granted.'

‘It?' He smiled slowly. ‘I wouldn't take it for granted, Hetty. I'm far too amazed.'

‘Amazed? I'm amazing now, am I?'

‘You,
it
. Come here.' He cupped her cheek, drawing her down so that their faces were level. Kissing her he murmured, ‘The bed
is
very comfortable …' He kissed her more deeply. ‘We could test it, if you wanted.'

‘I thought you wanted to go out?'

‘We've all afternoon.' His eyes searched hers, smiling. Above them Patrick's footsteps sounded heavily and Mick grinned. ‘Lock the door.'

She remembered the first time, how she had helped him on to the narrow single bed before taking off her blouse and camisole and kneeling beside him. As he tentatively touched her breast she kept her eyes fixed on the wall, shy of him now, afraid to glimpse below his waist. She knew that he had unbuttoned his fly, that his hand was moving frantically to bring himself to climax. She heard him cry out and felt his hand fall away from her breast; she lay down and rested her head on his chest, listening to the dramatic thud of his heart and breathing in the soft, musk scent.

After a while he'd said, ‘I'm sorry.'

She looked up at him. His eyes were closed and he'd covered his face with his forearm. Reaching up she took his hand. ‘We were both scared, I think.'

He made a noise like a laugh. ‘
Scared.
I'm still shaking.' Lowering his arm to look at her he said, ‘That was horrible, wasn't it? For you, I mean. I'm sorry.'

‘It's all right.'

‘Let me hold you.' He moved on to his side so that they faced each other, their noses almost touching. Pressing his hand against her cheek he said, ‘Your breasts are beautiful. I knew they would be.
You're
beautiful, my beautiful, sweet girl. How did I live without you?' He kissed her. ‘I love you.' After a while he said hesitantly, ‘It really wasn't that you felt sorry for me, was it?'

‘No!' She frowned at him and he touched her mouth as if to silence any further protest, smiling in relief.

Lying in his arms now, in the new big bed, Hetty kissed his chest. ‘You're so handsome, you know? The most handsome man I've ever seen.'

He laughed. ‘What brought that on?'

‘I've always thought so.'

‘Have you? Astonishing.' He rested his hand lightly on her head. ‘Hetty, on my desk there's a letter addressed to me. Would you fetch it?'

She got up, padding naked across the room, aware of his eyes on her. Smiling to herself she picked an envelope up from the desk and turned to him. ‘Is this it?'

‘Yes.' He held his hand out. ‘Now come back to bed. I want to read it to you.'

She weighed the letter speculatively in her hand. ‘It feels important.'

‘It is. Now come here.'

As she climbed into bed again he sat up and reached for his glasses from the table. Hooking the frames around his ears he cleared his throat and for a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘I've been keeping something from you.'

Anxiously she said, ‘Oh? What?'

‘It's nothing to worry about. It's foolish, really. Well, not foolish, exactly … I've been writing …'

‘Writing? Who to?'

‘No, not letters. Poetry.' He coloured. ‘I've been writing poetry. I sent some poems away to a magazine.'

‘Oh …' She smiled at him uncertainly, relief mixing with surprise. ‘And they've written back to you?'

‘Yes. They've written back to me.' He glanced at her from the letter. ‘Several times. They wanted to see more, so I sent more.' After a long pause he laughed. ‘They're talking about publishing a volume, a
slim
volume, but a volume, nevertheless.'

‘Of your poems?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well … that's good. Lovely …'

‘They're going to pay me, Hetty. I've actually earned some money!'

‘Well done. I'm really pleased.'

Taking off his glasses he looked at her. ‘Well, I think it's exciting, anyway.'

‘So do I!'

‘Then you might act as though you do.'

‘I'm surprised! You never mentioned anything, not even that you wrote.'

‘I wanted to keep it to myself … if I'd failed …'

‘Failed?'

‘If no one had wanted them … anyway, now I've told you. Now you know. I write. It keeps me sane when you're not here.'

‘What do you write about?'

‘The war.'

‘Oh.'

‘I tried to write about other things but it was all terrible, sub-Wordsworth stuff. And it's all I know, isn't it? War. And butchering, I suppose. Not too many good poems in a pig's innards, though.'

‘But there are in men's?'

‘Yes.' He gazed at her. ‘You think I shouldn't exploit it? I'll write about how lovely the spring flowers are, shall I? Not upset anyone.'

‘Are your poems upsetting?'

He was silent, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one. Hetty watched him until he met her eye. At last he said, ‘I didn't write them to upset people. I know you lost your brother …' After a while he said, ‘I wrote things as I remembered them.'

Hetty lay down. She tried to imagine him writing, settling himself at the desk with paper and pens and realised she didn't even know what his handwriting looked like. She imagined poets as dishevelled and eccentric, their desks littered with papers. Mick's desk was almost bare. She imagined he kept its drawers locked.

‘I knew you liked to read, but writing poetry …'

‘It's quite common, really. Lots of men scribbled away – the trenches were chock-a-block with poets.'

‘Did you write then?'

‘I've always written.'

She thought of the poetry she learnt in school, lines learnt by rote that left her feeling hollow with boredom. She remembered the empty hours staring at the strange formation of words on paper, listening to the drone of her teacher's voice, the beat of his ruler on his desk as he kept time. Agitated by the recollection she got up suddenly and began to dress.

Mick said, ‘Don't you want to hear what the letter says?'

‘It says they want your poems, doesn't it?'

He tossed the letter down on the bed. ‘That just about sums it up, yes.'

‘Do you want to go out?' She buttoned her skirt. ‘I think it's a good idea. The fresh air will do you good.'

She felt his eyes on her as she finished dressing. At last he said, ‘I thought you'd be excited. Pleased, at least.'

‘I am. I'm pleased for you.'

‘It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me.'

She laughed without thinking. ‘Is it?'

‘Apart from you.'

Turning to him she said, ‘Do you want to wear your suit? If the band's playing everyone will be out in their Sunday best.'

‘Hetty, don't be like this.'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know … brittle.'

‘Brittle? What does that mean? Is that a poet's word?'

‘You know what it means.'

‘No. I'm not as clever as you.'

‘Oh Hetty, you're brighter than anyone I know.'

‘Bright! I left school when I was thirteen.'

‘So?'

‘So? I don't understand poetry, Mick. I don't understand it and it makes me feel stupid. So there. Now
you've
learnt something about me.' Snatching his clothes from the floor she tossed them on the bed. ‘Here. Let's get you dressed.'

‘Hetty.' He caught her hand, holding it tightly as she tried to pull away. ‘Hetty, I haven't changed into someone else since this morning. I still love you. The only thing that's changed is that now perhaps I can be more independent financially. I'll have a little bit more than just my army pension …' Taking her other hand he held them both between his own. ‘Do you still love me?'

‘I should, shouldn't I?'

‘Should?'

Looking away she felt herself blush. ‘If I didn't I couldn't do what we do … and you don't just stop loving someone, just like that.'

‘Not even if they tell you they write poetry?'

She smiled. ‘Not even then. Come on, get dressed up in your suit and let's go and see this band.'

From his bedroom window Patrick watched Hetty push his brother along the street towards the park. In the distance he could hear the brass band playing a marching tune he felt he should know the name of but didn't. The tune reminded him of square-bashing and he drew the curtains in an attempt to muffle the sound. It made no difference and he went to lie on his bed, wondering how he would kill the hours until Mick came home. Looking at the box of Paul's letters by his bed he reached out and trailed his fingers across the ragged tops of the envelopes.

Choosing one at random he switched on his bedside lamp and turned the letter over in his hands. He'd read them all, many times, and recognised this one from the way it had been opened: a ragged tear ran through
A
's surname, disfiguring the letter
s
.
A
must have been desperate to get to the letter inside; there were greasy fingerprints along the bottom of the envelope, as though he had interrupted his breakfast to open it. Patrick thought of
A
standing in that filthy kitchen, pausing briefly before tearing the envelope almost in half in his haste. Closing his eyes, Patrick tossed the letter down.

He thought of asking Paul about
A
every time he saw him and every time the question wouldn't come. Usually they made love almost at once, Paul slow and sensual, calming him, making him take all the time they had. During this long, sweet process there could be no question of talking.

He could have asked about
A
in the pub, he supposed. Dropped it casually into the conversation between the plink, plink, plinks of the piano. He had thought about it, thought of asking,
Who was best man at your wedding?
He imagined Paul's quizzical look, that smile of his that still brought on the stirring of a hard-on even while making him feel stupid.

Often he told himself that Paul couldn't possibly be seeing this man. He had a wife he seemed to love, and he had himself, enough sex for anyone. More often he believed that Paul did see him and the jealousy kept him awake at night. He would turn on the light then and re-read the letters because oddly they were reassuring. When he wasn't writing about what was going on in France Paul wrote like an adolescent with a crush on his teacher. His words seemed to clamour for
A
's attention, suggesting to him that
A
could barely summon the interest to write more than a few lines in reply. It made him want to smash the man's face in for his callousness but it also made him believe that the relationship was doomed. He thought about
A
outside the church on Paul's wedding day. He'd looked as though he'd rather be a thousand miles away.

Restlessly he got up and went to the window, drawing back the curtains and opening the sash. He leaned out, listening for the band and trying to pick out the tune. Eventually he recognised it:
The Merry, Merry Month of May.
He smiled to himself. With sudden decisiveness he closed the window. He'd follow Mick and Hetty to the park – a normal, Sunday thing to do.

Chapter Twenty-three

M
ARGOT
'
S ANKLES WERE SWOLLEN
and her wedding ring cut into her finger. The midwife had told her the baby's head was engaged and she pondered this odd expression as she walked slowly, arm in arm with Paul, along past the cemetery and Parkwood towards the park and the sound of the brass band. She wished she didn't feel so ponderous, like a great seedpod about to burst.

Behind them a voice called, ‘Paul! Margot! Wait for us!'

Adam Mason smiled as he walked towards them, a young woman following closely. Breathlessly he said, ‘We thought it was you two!'

She had seen Adam only once or twice since the wedding and had hardly spoken more than a dozen words to him since. Now he was smiling at her as though they were the closest of friends. He turned to the girl behind him. ‘Emma, you know Paul, don't you, from school? This is his wife, Margot Harris. Emma is one of our French teachers, Margot.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Margot.' Emma linked her arm through Adam's. ‘It's a lovely day, isn't it? Adam and I thought it was perfect weather for a stroll in the park.'

The girl was slight as a boy, neat in a grey two-piece and a matching hat. Her skirt skimmed her calves fashionably and Margot noted that her shoes and handbag matched and that she wore the slightest suggestion of lipstick. She looked severe and clever at once and she felt huge beside her. Self-consciously she moved even closer to Paul as though he might shield her from the girl's condescending smile.

Paul said, ‘We're going to the park, too, if you'd like to join us.'

‘But we're slow.' Margot laughed awkwardly. ‘You'd have to drag your feet …'

The girl said, ‘Oh, we don't mind, do we, Adam?'

‘Of course not. It will give us more time to enjoy the air.'

Paul stopped to light a cigarette, allowing Margot and Emma Hargreaves to walk a little further ahead of them. He smiled at Adam who looked away sheepishly. ‘So, what's this about, then?'

‘It isn't about anything. She lives in one of those bleak boarding houses on Jesmond Terrace. I felt sorry for her spending every weekend alone, she's homesick.'

‘You're not courting, then?'

‘No!'

Paul smiled at Adam's look of horror. Because he was so easy to tease he said, ‘She's a lovely girl. You could do a lot worse – should I be thinking about buying Margot a new hat?'

‘What?'

‘For your wedding.'

‘Do you think that's funny? Is that your idea of a joke?'

‘No – I only thought …'

Adam shook his head angrily. ‘You think I'd get married? You really think I could be as immoral and faithless as you are?'

There was such venom in his voice Paul stepped back. Adam was glaring at him. ‘I'm sorry,' Paul said. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.'

‘
Upset me?
You think you still have the power to upset me? You don't know anything about me! So, I'll tell you some home truths, shall I? I'd never marry! I wouldn't treat women as you do – I wouldn't be so bloody cruel!' There was a thread of spittle hanging from Adam's mouth and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing. ‘You know –
you're
the joke! You're the one who can't decide whether he's fish or bloody fowl! You should grow up and realise you can't have all the sweets in the fucking sweet shop!' All at once he turned away and ran to catch up with the two women.

Hetty parked Mick's chair at the end of the last row of deck chairs. ‘Here will have to do.'

‘Here's fine. Sit down and stop fussing.'

‘I'm not fussing.' She sat down gingerly, never fully trusting of folding chairs. ‘It would've been nice to get closer to the bandstand, that's all.'

A family of children turned to stare at Mick. Hetty poked her tongue out at them then said loudly, ‘There should be places reserved for veterans. Veterans should get special treatment.'

‘Be quiet!' Mick glared at her. With quiet intensity he hissed, ‘Don't call me a veteran. You make me sound like some decrepit old soldier.'

A man in front hushed them and Mick stared at him angrily. As he turned away Mick tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Are we bothering you?'

‘What?'

‘I know you heard me because you've got extra sensitive hearing, but I'll ask again: are we bothering you?'

‘Yes, so shove off.'

‘Say that again.'

The man laughed. ‘Shove off, you bloody freak, you're frightening the kids.' He turned away and Hetty watched anxiously as the colour drained from Mick's face.

She touched his hand. ‘Ignore him, he's ignorant.'

Mick leaned forward in his chair and hooked the man around the throat with his right arm, dragging him backwards. The man's deck chair collapsed and he gasped in shock as Mick hauled him up by the neck, bringing his face close to his own. ‘What did you call me?'

The man's children began to cry. Pulling uselessly at his arm, Hetty said, ‘Mick, please, let him go!'

‘Major, can I help, at all?' Paul Harris squatted down beside Mick's chair, placing a hand on his free arm. ‘Sir, perhaps you should let him go, he's going a funny colour.'

Mick snorted, releasing his grip. The man stumbled to his feet, rubbing at his throat and glaring at Hetty. ‘You should keep him under lock and key – he's a bloody maniac!'

Standing up straight Paul Harris said to the man, ‘Perhaps you should take yourself off to the hole you crawled out of while you still can.' To Mick he said gently, ‘Are you all right, sir?'

Mick didn't look at Paul but stared after the man's retreating back. Curtly he said, ‘There's nothing wrong with me. You can go now.'

Hetty laughed, embarrassed by his rudeness. Over Mick's head she smiled apologetically, only for Mick to turn on her. ‘Don't you dare humour me! Take me home.'

‘Yes, all right.' She sighed. ‘I'll take you home.' As she pushed Mick's chair past Paul she mouthed, ‘Thank you.'

He smiled and she noticed how frail he looked. She glanced back at him. He was lighting a cigarette, watching them.

Emma said, ‘Well! That was horrible.'

Margot looked at Paul anxiously. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes,' Adam said. ‘You shouldn't get involved with people like that.'

Angrily Paul said, ‘Didn't you hear? He called him a freak! I couldn't just sit here.'

Emma laughed. ‘He seemed to be handling it quite well on his own.'

Paul looked at her in disgust. To Adam he said, ‘And what do you mean, people like that? He was a major during the war.'

Under his breath Adam said, ‘But the war's over now.'

‘I'm sorry?' Paul frowned at him. ‘Maybe you should speak up.'

‘I said the war's over now. We should all start behaving like civilised human beings.'

‘Really? Well, if men who've lost both legs fighting for
civilised human beings
weren't called freaks perhaps we might.' He turned to Margot. ‘I think we should go home.'

He was walking too quickly and Margot stopped trying to keep pace and said, ‘Paul, slow down.'

He stopped. Still angry he said, ‘Sorry. Are you all right?'

‘Are you?' Concerned by his paleness she said, ‘You look ill.'

‘I always look ill.'

‘Should we stop at your father's house? We could catch our breath and have a cup of tea.'

‘I'd rather go straight home.'

‘I just thought –'

‘Dad only worries. He'll guess something's happened and start worrying.'

They were walking along the path leading to the park's main gate. Ahead of them Margot saw the girl from the butcher's shop pushing the major's wheelchair. The girl stopped and seemed to re-arrange the blanket covering what was left of his legs. Margot shuddered involuntarily and Paul turned to her. ‘I'd like to introduce you.'

‘Oh, Paul.' She frowned. ‘I don't know …'

‘Come on.' Holding her hand firmly he led her towards them.

Paul said, ‘Major, I'd like you to meet my wife, Margot.'

The man glanced up. Sullenly he said, ‘Mrs Harris. How do you do?'

‘I'm fine, thank you.'

The girl smiled too brightly. ‘Well, the baby must be almost due, is it?'

‘Hetty! For God's sake don't start embarrassing her again.'

Margot blushed. ‘No, it's all right. Yes, due next week.'

‘I hope it goes well for you.' He looked at her. ‘I wish you luck.'

Hetty smiled awkwardly. To the major she said, ‘Come on, then, you. Let's get you home before you cause any more trouble.'

Almost at the park gates Patrick had changed his mind about going to see the band. They had started to play
Tipperary
and he imagined the soft, sentimental faces of the crowd and their maudlin voices as they sang along. He would feel like punching them until they stopped.

The tune followed him down the lane of Victorian villas that backed on to the park. When he came to the last of these houses, the oldest and grandest, he stood looking up at its blank windows. Paul had been born in one of its rooms that overlooked the cemetery. He thought of him working in the garden and remembered the letters. He'd written about the garden often, with each new season remembering what was about to come into its own, the words so poignant that sometimes he found he couldn't read on. He would picture Paul then in tin hat and great coat, caked in mud or soaked with rain, shivering and blowing on his hands as he lined the men up for inspection.

There was a gate in the garden wall and Patrick pushed against it, expecting it to be bolted. It creaked open, the swollen wood catching on the ground. Pushing harder, Patrick saw that the gate led on to a kitchen garden, neglected and overgrown and screened from the rest of the garden by a copper hedge and tall trees. Glancing over his shoulder Patrick edged through the narrow opening.

He stood on the threshold and looked around. In a cleared space was the remains of a bonfire and he walked towards it, turning over the ashes with the side of his foot until a smell of autumn hung incongruously on the late spring air. A robin hopped closer; it seemed expectant. He smiled to himself. The bird probably missed the harvest of worms and insects Paul disturbed as he worked. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of his garden. He missed him with a sweet longing that was every bit as sentimental as
Tipperary
.

Watching Paul inspect the men's feet, Thompson had said softly, ‘Ever fancy it?'

Patrick had made himself smile. Looking down at the stub of cigarette burning between his fingers he laughed. ‘You're a dirty-minded bastard, Bill. If I didn't know better I'd say you were bloody obsessed with him.'

For once the weather had been warm and dry, the sun beat down on their heads, the stink of sweat only partly camouflaged by the smoke from their cigarettes. They leant against the sandbag wall, feeling the drying sand shift and give against their weight. A bird sang, a short, surprising burst of noise. Paul crouched to examine another foot. Thompson said, ‘He's a good lad for all that he's a fucking shirt-lifter, a sight better than the other lazy bastards.'

Patrick said, ‘He's too soft on the men.'

‘Aye, well.' Thompson crumbled what little remained of his cigarette between his fingers and pushed himself away from the sandbags. ‘Unlike you and me, Patrick lad, he feels sorry for the poor buggers.'

It was true he'd felt little for anyone except Paul. Men were killed and were replaced. He had stopped crossing himself whenever he saw a corpse. When the earth released a bloated body to bob in a flooded shell-hole, when he saw the remains of men and horses scattered along straight, poplar-lined lanes, he only thanked God that it wasn't him, that he was still alive to keep Paul safe.

There was a noise and the robin flew into the hedge. A few yards away a youthful-looking middle-aged man in shirtsleeves stared at him.

‘You're trespassing.' The man's voice was exactly like Paul's. Stepping towards Patrick he said evenly, ‘If you're looking for work I've nothing for you.'

‘Are you Doctor Harris?'

Paul's father frowned. ‘Yes.'

‘I'm a friend of your son's.'

‘Paul? He isn't here. He doesn't live here any more.' He came closer, obviously curious. Patrick was surprised by how young he was, forty-five at most, his hair still thick and dark like Paul's, his eyes the same startling green. He smiled Paul's smile. ‘Were you in the army with my son?'

‘Yes.' Patrick looked away, unsure of what to do next. The doctor was slight like Paul and he felt big and clumsy beside him, a man easily mistaken for a casual labourer. The robin hopped down from the hedge and he watched it, feeling the weight of the other man's gaze.

Gently, as though he was a child, Doctor Harris said, ‘Won't you tell me your name?'

‘Jenkins.' Patrick looked at him. ‘Anthony Jenkins.'

He nodded, although he didn't seem to recognise the name. Suddenly he said, ‘Look, come into the house and have a cup of tea. I was doing a spot of gardening but frankly I hate it, you'd be doing me a favour by dragging me away.' He turned towards the house. ‘I have a fruit cake that's begging to be eaten.'

He was shown into the kitchen, a huge, cluttered room, neglected and dingy. Newspapers fanned out on the floor beside an armchair and a half-empty bottle of whisky and a sticky-looking tumbler stood on the hearth. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of Paul and his brother. Patrick picked it up, smiling at the artful, back-to-back pose.

He heard George laugh. ‘That's Paul's brother in the picture with him – I suppose you guessed. Two peas in a pod, Rob and Paul, everyone said so.' Taking the picture from him he replaced it on the mantelpiece. Without emotion he said, ‘My eldest son was killed in an accident.' Turning away he said briskly, ‘Tea. Tea and cake. Please, sit down, make yourself at home.'