The Boy I Love (20 page)

Patrick sat on the armchair, trying not to look around too obviously. He would have liked to explore the whole house and imagined walking from room to room, opening cupboards and drawers, searching for sides of Paul he suspected he kept hidden. Already he'd realised that the ordered, elegant home he'd imagined Paul growing up in was nowhere near the reality, and that his father was nothing like the old, fussing man he'd pieced together from the little Paul had told him. He smiled to himself, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. He hadn't expected George to be fanciable.

‘You smoke, too? Why do all you young men smoke?' Doctor Harris sighed. ‘No, don't answer that. I know.' Setting a tray of tea on a side table he said, ‘Paul smokes like a chimney. I never see him without a cigarette these days.'

‘How is he?'

‘Oh, you know.' Sitting down in the chair opposite he said, ‘I suppose you know he was wounded? That he lost an eye?'

Patrick nodded.

‘He copes all right with that. His nerves are terribly bad, though.' He glanced at him. ‘I suppose that's something else you'd know all about, Anthony?'

Patrick smiled. ‘My nerves are pretty bad, too.'

‘Sometimes I look at Paul and wonder if perhaps they should have kept him in hospital even longer.' He laughed lightly. ‘I'm sorry, you didn't come here to listen to my worries.'

‘I'm sure he appreciates your concern.'

‘Oh, he doesn't! He thinks I fuss. Least said soonest mended, that's Paul. If you ask Paul everything's
fine.
Even when it obviously isn't.'

He poured the tea and handed him a cup and a plate of dark, moist cake. ‘Did you know Paul was married at Christmas?'

‘Married?'

‘He obviously doesn't write to you?'

Patrick sipped his tea. Placing the cup in its chipped saucer he said, ‘No, we lost touch after he was wounded.'

‘Were you over there long?'

‘Three years.' Patrick stood up. ‘May I use your bathroom, Doctor Harris?'

Patrick stood in the bedroom he'd decided was Paul's. The bed had been stripped to its mattress; the wardrobe doors hung open revealing only a few coat hangers; dust had settled on the wooden floor and dulled the colours of the Persian rug. He sat down on the bed and stared towards the sash window. A horse chestnut tree grew close to the house, blocking the sunlight and tapping its heavy, candle-like blossoms against the glass. Beside him was a pillow and he picked it up and hugged it to his body. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to catch Paul's scent, remembering.

They had waited in position for almost an hour before dawn, sinking into soft mud with the weight of equipment on their backs. The porridge in Patrick's belly had become an anchor, holding him fast to the earth. He imagined standing up, as he must in a few minutes, imagined that it would be a slow, unwieldy business, graceless and panicked. In truth he knew he'd be first to his feet when the signal came, that he'd run faster than anyone – a devil, Thompson called him, swept on the gales of hell. He closed his eyes, more scared than ever. He crossed himself.

Paul crawled on his belly towards him, slowly making his way down the line, whispering encouragement and stopping occasionally to check on individual men. He stopped for a little while with Cooper. Patrick was certain he was praying with the boy, and knew it would be a short, sensible Anglican prayer. Paul squeezed Cooper's shoulder as though murmuring a final benediction. He moved towards him and Patrick held his breath.

‘Sergeant Morgan …' For a moment they pressed themselves further into the mud as a machine gun opened fire. When it ended he felt Paul's hand on his shoulder. ‘All right, Sergeant?'

‘Sir.'

‘The cooks are bringing hot tea down the line. Shouldn't be long now.'

‘The tea or the off, sir?'

‘Both.'

‘Good luck, Lieutenant Harris.'

Paul smiled at him. ‘I'll see you in the German trenches, Sergeant.'

He remembered that Cooper bled to death in his arms, his blood soaking his tunic so that later he would pick off the dry crust, noticing how it cracked into crazy-paving patterns beneath his busy fingers. Cooper's blood stayed beneath his fingernails for days, and sometimes he imagined it was pigs' blood, that he hadn't been clean since the slaughtering in the shop's yard. He remembered that in the German trench Paul had used his pistol to shoot the machine gunner and that he seemed not to notice the blood and brains that splashed his face. Worse than the noise and confusion, worse than Cooper's bloody, silent death, was his fear for Paul, the terror of having two lives to lose instead of one.

From the bedroom doorway Paul's father said, ‘Have you seen enough?' Patrick looked at him blankly, he had forgotten where he was for a moment, and the doctor said coldly, ‘You knew Paul well, didn't you? Is it still going on?'

‘I'm sorry.' Patrick stood up, the pillow falling at his feet. ‘I should go …'

Doctor Harris stood aside, allowing him through the door. As Patrick brushed past him he said, ‘Leave my son alone. He's married now. His wife's expecting their child. Leave them be.'

Without looking back Patrick ran down the stairs and out of the house.

* * *

Mick said, ‘Where the fuck have you been?'

‘Is it any of your fucking business?'

‘Well, I know where you haven't been. I know you haven't been buggering that vile little queer. I know that much at least.'

Patrick sighed. ‘Mick, just keep your disgusting mouth to yourself.'

‘Do you want to know how I know?' Wheeling his chair close to him, Mick smiled slyly. ‘You do. I can see it. Desperate to know. Well, I saw him. Him and that sweet little wife of his. She looks about ready to drop. Funny, he doesn't look capable of screwing a woman, let alone getting one up the stick.'

Patrick turned away from him. ‘How was Hetty? What did she think of the new bed?' Lighting the gas beneath the kettle he glanced at him. ‘I hope you're careful – it's surprising who's capable of getting a woman up the stick.'

‘And it's surprising who isn't! Christ! Who would have thought that a brother of mine –'

Patrick laughed. Grasping the sides of the wheelchair he brought his face up close. ‘Who'd have thought it, eh, Mick? A brother of yours! Jesus – the great Major Morgan has a fucking fairy for a brother! It's just not on, is it?'

‘You make me sick.'

Patrick straightened up. ‘I make myself sick.'

‘Then stop! There are women who'd give their eye-teeth to be with you.'

‘I know. I'm gorgeous. They make great big eyes at me in the shop.' Rolling his eyes in impersonation he smiled bitterly. ‘And you know what? They make me sick, as well. In fact if I think too hard about them I actually vomit.'

He began to make tea. As it brewed he buttered slices of bread, then went to the pantry for ham and pork pies. ‘Are you hungry? I thought we'd have a Sunday tea, a proper Sunday tea like Mam used to make. I've made a blancmange, there're tinned pears, too.'

‘Did you know his wife's expecting a baby?'

Patrick placed the plate of bread on the table. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘And doesn't that concern you at all?'

‘No.'

‘For pity's sake, Pat! Have you seen that poor girl lately?'

Patrick turned to face him. ‘What do you imagine is going to happen, Mick? That he'll leave her? That we'll set up home together and humiliate her by walking down the street holding hands? He sees me for a couple of hours a week, the rest of the time he's with her.'

‘It's still adultery, Patrick. And what if you're caught together? You'll both go to prison.'

‘They won't catch us together.'

‘People talk …'

‘Talk!' Scornfully he said, ‘I don't give them anything to talk about, Mick. You do, though. They talk about you and Hetty. Perhaps you should care more about her reputation than mine.' He poured out the tea. ‘Come and sit at the table, have a ham sandwich.'

Mick ate in silence and from time to time Patrick studied him. It must have been seeing Paul's wife that triggered this righteous anger. For a moment he felt sorry for the girl, a feeling immediately taken over by his jealousy of her.

Pushing his plate away Mick lit a cigarette. ‘I made a fool of myself today. Someone called me a freak so I tried to throttle him.'

‘How is that making a fool of yourself?'

‘Oh for Christ's sake – look at me, Pat! Picking a fight when I'm stuck in this bloody thing? I just made a show of myself. A fucking freak show.' He bowed his head, turning a box of matches over and over on the table. Softly he said, ‘Do you remember when Dad burnt all my notebooks? Everything I'd ever written thrown on the fire, page by page. He made me watch, remember? My nose all bloody from the beating he'd given me. I felt like a freak, then. A freak for writing and a freak for not standing up to him.'

‘We were sixteen, Mick. Don't you remember how frightening he was?'

‘I felt so angry. So angry and all I did was stand there because I was so bloody scared of him. I never wanted to feel so helpless again. But now, here I am. Worse than helpless.' He laughed bleakly, stubbing out the cigarette. ‘Do you know what the worst of it was? Your little
friend
Harris had to step in to save me, made me realise what an arse I was making of myself.' He glanced at Patrick. ‘Quite commanding in his way. I could almost understand what you see in him.'

‘What? In a whey-faced little pansy?'

‘Well, he does look like he needs a bloody good dinner inside him. Is he ill? He looks ill.'

‘He's fine.'

‘Just so long as you can bugger him, eh?'

Patrick stood up and began clearing the table. Catching his arm Mick said, ‘You'll be careful, you and him, won't you? Promise me you'll be careful.'

‘I promise.'

He nodded. Releasing his arm Mick said, ‘Leave this now. Let's go out for a drink. I feel like getting pissed.'

Chapter Twenty-four

H
ETTY WATCHED HER MOTHER
wrap the matinee jacket and bootees she'd crocheted. ‘There,' Annie said. ‘That's neat enough, isn't it? You'll take it round to her later, won't you? Doesn't harm to be neighbourly.'

Hetty sighed. Reluctantly she said, ‘Yes, all right. But you should take it, it's your hard work.'

‘She'd rather have someone her own age to talk to. I wouldn't know what to say to someone like her.'

‘She's not royalty, Mam. Her dad's only a vicar.'

‘All the same.' Annie looked at her. ‘The major told me you're going to see him this evening?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's nice, he gets tired of being on his own.' She smoothed the brown paper she'd used to parcel the baby's clothes. ‘He seems to like you – it was
Hetty this
and
Hetty that
when I was giving him his dinner.'

Cautiously Hetty said, ‘You like Mick, don't you?'

‘The major? He's a gentleman.' Annie picked up the parcel and put it on the dresser. ‘Set the table for us, pet. Your dad will be home for his tea soon.'

In her bedroom Hetty lay down on the bed. She remembered the first and last piece of advice her mother had ever given her. It had coincided with her first period: ‘
Never lie down with a man until you're married.
' She'd learnt more from dirty jokes amongst the girls at the sugar factory. She thought of Milly Jackson, weeping in the factory yard because the lad she had gone with had been killed at Ypres. Over and over she'd stressed that she'd only done it with him once. Only once and now he was dead and she was expecting. The small band of women gathered round her tut-tutted in commiseration, not so much for the death of her lover, more for the fact she'd been so unlucky.
Once!
Behind the weeping girl's back the women smirked at each other.

She had lain down with Mick three times. After the second time they made love she had forced herself to look properly at his legs. The stumps looked as though they had been patched over with ragged scraps of flesh, each placed haphazardly on top of the other, the healed skin forming a mass of protective scars. She had touched his left thigh gently, just above where his leg had been amputated, watching his face. He had only smiled his extraordinary smile.

She knew why her mother didn't guess what was going on between them. To Annie he was a neutered man, one whose potential for getting a girl into trouble had been taken away along with his legs. Besides, no normal girl would want to
lie down
with a cripple. But when they were together his wheelchair was forgotten, although she knew that if it hadn't been for the chair she wouldn't have climbed into his bed until they were married. She closed her eyes, appalled all over again at the wanton way she behaved when she was with him and the excuses she made to herself. Nothing was normal, the war had seen to that, so she slept with Mick because she wanted him, because the opportunity was there and no one suspected enough to call her a slut. And because she loved him, of course. She opened her eyes, listening to her mother's bangs and clatters from the kitchen. She loved him, and that wasn't an excuse, it was a reason.

Margot Harris smiled over the little jacket and held up each bootie in turn to admire it. She smiled as she folded the garments back into their paper and reminded Hetty once again to thank her mother for her kindness.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' Margot began to get up but her movements were awkward and Hetty stood up quickly.

‘I'll make it.'

‘Oh, don't bother. I hate tea these days, I don't think we even have any milk, anyway.'

‘Would you like a glass of water?'

‘I'd like a cigarette but I've none left. I'm desperate for Paul to come home just so I can smoke his.'

‘You smoke?'

‘Awful, isn't it? I don't think Paul minds.' She glanced around the untidy kitchen. ‘He doesn't mind anything, really.'

Hetty sat down again. After an awkward silence she said, ‘It was good of Paul to help us on Sunday.'

‘Your friend didn't think so.'

‘Mick was upset, I'm sorry he was so rude.'

Margot laughed oddly. ‘I didn't want him to step in like he did. I wanted someone else to do it. But it seems he
has
to take responsibility for everything.' She creased her face suddenly, pressing her hand to her side. ‘Ouch. Little monkey's never still.'

‘Are you all right?'

‘I think so.' She smiled. ‘Don't look so worried.'

‘Do you want me to stay until your husband gets home?'

‘There's no need. I've got days to go yet.' Shyly she added, ‘But stay, if you like, I don't have many visitors. I'm sorry I can't offer you any tea.'

‘That's all right.' Nodding at Margot's bulging waist she said, ‘Do you think it's a boy or a girl?'

‘A boy, he kicks so hard. Here.' Taking Hetty's hand she pressed it against her body. Hetty felt a balled fist punch at her and she laughed, meeting Margot's gaze.

‘You must be excited now it's so near.'

‘Yes, I suppose I am. Paul is.'

‘He looked so proud of you on Sunday.'

‘Did he?' She looked down, picking at a snagged thread in the tablecloth. ‘Well, I'm proud of him.' Looking up she asked, ‘Have you known your friend long?'

‘Mick? Not long, really.'

‘I remember him at that dance at New Year, he looked so striking in his dinner jacket.'

‘Mick likes expensive clothes. I think he misses his uniform.'

‘I think Paul does, too.' Margot opened the paper and drew the baby's jacket towards her. Her fingers worried the lacy stitches around the jacket's hem. ‘What's Mick's brother like? Paul sees quite a lot of him.'

‘Patrick?' Hetty paused, not sure how she might describe him. She realised that despite working for him for almost a year she barely knew Patrick Morgan. Besides, since getting to know Mick she took no notice of Patrick, he seemed like a poor imitation in comparison.

Margot looked up at her. ‘Patrick, yes. Tell me what he's like.'

Hetty was surprised by the sharpness in her tone; it was as though she was desperate to know. Disconcerted, Hetty said, ‘We don't speak very much. He's quiet. He keeps himself to himself.'

Margot nodded and seemed to accept this poor description. At last she said flatly, ‘He seems nice, anyway. Kind. A nice, kind man.'

The back door opened and Hetty looked up as Paul Harris walked in. He smiled in surprise. ‘Hello, there.'

‘Paul, this is Hetty, we met on Sunday in the park.'

‘Yes, of course. How are you, Hetty?' He kissed his wife's cheek. ‘Hello, sweetheart.'

Margot gave him such a shameless look of love that Hetty glanced away, embarrassed. Making an excuse she left.

Paul said, ‘I promised I'd go for a drink with Patrick tonight, but if you like I'll stay here with you.'

‘If you promised you should go.' She was frying bacon. ‘You shouldn't break promises.'

‘Not a promise, exactly. And I worry about you … look, why don't I walk you to your mother's? You can spend the evening with her and I'll come and collect you on my way home.'

‘I'd rather be on my own – I'd know if the baby was coming tonight. In that book I borrowed from your father it says a woman knows instinctively …' She blushed. After a moment she said, ‘Go, you know you always enjoy it.'

Paul laughed strangely and she frowned at him. ‘You do, don't you?' When he didn't answer she prompted, ‘You do enjoy seeing him, don't you?'

‘For God's sake, Margot!' He gazed at her angrily. ‘If you don't want me to go, I won't, it doesn't matter.' He lit a cigarette, his movements quick and impatient. Exhaling smoke he said harshly, ‘You should go to your mother's, stop me worrying.'

She set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. ‘All right, I'll go to Mummy's. If you're going to make such a fuss I'll go.'

‘It will be a change for you.'

‘Will it? A change to listen to her telling me how disappointed she is in me?'

He rested his cigarette on the ashtray as he began to eat, ready to smoke between each mouthful. ‘Your mother's not that bad.'

She sat down. After a moment he pushed his half-eaten meal away and lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last. Wearily he said, ‘Stay here, if you want, I'll only be gone an hour, two at most.'

‘Aren't you going to finish your supper?'

‘I'm not hungry.' He got up. ‘If you don't mind I'll go now.'