The Boy I Love (8 page)

‘What?' He opened his eyes to look at her.

‘You all say it. I say
it happens
and you say
not to me it
doesn't.
'

She had been kneeling at his side on the bed and she got up, the flimsy robe she wore falling open. A trickle of blood ran down her thigh and she drew the robe tighter around her. All the same he caught her scent, his mother's scent, ripe and fecund and suffocating. He gagged, stumbling to the basin in the corner of the room, vomiting Dutch courage under the grinning eye of dragons.

Chapter Nine

H
ER FATHER HAD A
new curate: a stocky, cheerful redhead who shook Paul's hand too vigorously, studying his face as though trying to decide which eye was real. As the curate, Martin Peters, asked Paul if he had accepted Jesus into his life, her father smiled at Margot as though some need for revenge had been partly satisfied.

Taking her to one side her father said, ‘Your mother tells me he's found a job. Will he cope with a class full of boys, do you think?'

‘Of course he will.'

‘Well, I hope so, Margot. I hope he can take care of you.'

‘He can.' She looked at Paul. Without thinking she said, ‘Isn't he like Robbie? He even laughs like him.'

He frowned. ‘I don't see Robbie in him at all. Robbie was a fine boy. And perhaps you've forfeited the right to mention his name.'

Humiliated, she looked away so he wouldn't see her eyes fill with tears. Her father sighed heavily.

‘Have you a handkerchief? Then use it. We have a guest, please don't embarrass him.'

Margot walked out through the French doors into the garden, ready to cry as much as she liked. Once outside though she only felt childish, shivering in the cold without even a cigarette to occupy her. She glanced back into the brightly lit dining room. Her father stood with the curate and Paul, his expression still pained and angry. After a moment he touched the curate's arm, excusing himself.

Standing beside her in the garden he said, ‘I'm sorry. Of course you can talk about Robbie if you wish.'

Unable to speak she smiled tearfully, taking his hand.

‘Oh, you're cold!' He rubbed her fingers. ‘Let's go in.'

‘Not yet.'

‘Don't cry, Margot. I'm sorry.' Exasperated he said, ‘I'm just so angry still.' He looked back at Paul. ‘What he did to you makes me angry. But I'm trying. I'm trying to get over it.'

‘He's not as bad as you think – I really like him …' She thought of the night in the seaside pub and blushed.

‘Like! You should be head over heels in love with him. Instead you're crying alone in the garden.'

Quickly she said, ‘He's taking me to the New Year Dance at the Grand tomorrow.'

‘And so he should! Now, dry your eyes and let's go in. Your mother's serving the tea.'

The curate reminded Paul of a sailor he had once fucked in the lavatories on Darlington Station. The sailor had a short, stubby cock nesting in the most vividly coloured pubic hair he'd ever seen. His skin smelt of hot, dry canvas and a mermaid tattoo swished her tail over his coccyx. He thought often about that mermaid. He was thinking about it now as the curate said, ‘I'm afraid I spent the war in Blighty. Spent a lot of time pushing paper around in the War Office.'

The sailor hadn't been wearing underpants. He still wondered why this had seemed shocking. The mermaid had long, golden hair, of course, her tail undulating as he fucked him. Suddenly ashamed, he closed his good eye, leaving only the glass eye to look at the curate.

‘Paul?' Margot slipped her hand into his, squeezing his fingers hard. She laughed awkwardly. To the curate she said, ‘His eye gets tired.'

‘Yes, of course. I understand.' They both blushed.

Placing a trifle in the centre of the table her mother called, ‘Now, everybody, come and sit down. Help yourselves to tea.'

‘Have some more trifle, Paul.'

Paul smiled at his mother-in-law. ‘No, thank you, Iris.'

He hadn't used her name before and she smiled back at him, pleased. Her plump, pink hands reached for the curate's bowl and spooned in another wobbling helping of raspberry sponge and yellow custard. Still smiling at Paul she said, ‘You won't say no, will you, Martin?'

‘No indeed, Mrs Whittaker.'

‘Paul's about to become a teacher, Martin, we're very pleased.'

‘A teacher?' He raised his eyebrows at Paul. ‘That's important work.'

‘Isn't it?' Iris beamed. ‘I do think you'll make an awfully good teacher, Paul.'

‘Do you, dear?' Reverend Whittaker frowned as though surprised. ‘What makes you think so?'

‘Daddy …'

Whittaker ignored Margot's anxious look. ‘I think teaching is going to be quite a challenge for him.' He turned to Paul. ‘Perhaps you should think about a less demanding career.'

‘What would you advise, sir?'

‘Clerical work? I don't know. What has the army equipped you for?'

‘Oh, Daddy. Please …'

‘No, Margot, let Paul answer. He's always so quiet, listening, watching.' He laughed shortly. ‘We hardly know anything about you, boy, nothing at all, in fact.'

‘What would you like to know, sir?'

‘Don't call me
sir.
Are you deliberately trying to anger me?'

Coldly Iris said, ‘What should Paul call you? Father? Reverend? Or Daniel, even?'

Whittaker stood up, tossing his napkin down on the table where it knocked over a jug of cream.

Paul set the jug upright again and used the napkin to mop up the spill. No one else at the table moved as Whittaker turned and walked out, slamming the door.

The curate laughed nervously. ‘Oh dear. I'll go after him.'

‘Yes,' Iris snapped. ‘Go after him. I'm sure none of us can be bothered to.' She turned to Paul. ‘He liked your brother, I'm afraid. He liked him very much.'

Paul said, ‘We should take this cloth off the table before the cream stains.'

Quickly Margot said, ‘Don't worry about that, Paul.'

Iris stood up. ‘No, Margot, Paul's right. Help me clear the table.' She touched his hand. ‘Why don't you go and have a cigarette? We can manage here.'

In a ruined church in a village close to Arras, Jenkins had sat down beside him. ‘If you could eat anything, Harris, anything in the world, right now, what would it be?'

Walking along the path leading from the vicarage to his mother's grave, Paul remembered how Jenkins had reminded him of the hunger he'd been trying to ignore all day. Knowing Jenkins wouldn't leave him alone until he replied, he'd said, ‘I don't know. Anything.'

‘God – you've no imagination have you, Harris? You're no fun at all! Think about it, man! I know what I'd have – my mother's mince and dumplings. Custard for dessert. Just very thick custard, skin an' all. Mother's brilliant at custard.' After a moment he said, ‘Your mother's dead, isn't she?'

Above their heads starlings darkened the sky, ready to roost amongst the charred rafters. Jenkins looked at him questioningly. ‘That's right isn't it? I seem to remember you had a dead mother. What was that like, having your mother die on you?'

Brusquely Paul said, ‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know? Really? Your mother dies and you haven't a thing to say about it?' He moved closer to him, his forehead creased in mock puzzlement. ‘And I would have thought you were quite the Mummy's boy, Harris. Yet you don't seem to care about her at all. You really are the limit, aren't you?'

He had wanted to keep silent to prove to himself that he didn't always have to rise to Jenkins's bait. Instead, hating the pompousness in his voice he said, ‘She died when I was born.'

‘Oh.' Jenkins turned away. Huddling further into his trench coat he stared straight ahead at the overturned altar. ‘You killed her, then.' He laughed suddenly, making Paul jump. ‘You know, Smith's custard tastes of onions. Christ knows what he does to it.'

They'd been marching to the forward trenches. Hawkins had seen the church and allowed them to stop for ten minutes. The men sprawled out on what was left of the pews, some sleeping, others staring into the spaces the shells had made, their faces grey with exhaustion, their uniforms caked in drying mud. From time to time one of the men coughed harshly, breaking the unnatural quiet as the crucified Christ looked down on them, his face and body taken up with his own agony. Paul stared at the cigarette smouldering between his fingers. The food Jenkins had conjured made his stomach growl with hunger and Jenkins glanced at him, and patted his knee before getting up. Paul kept his head bowed feeling every inch a coward as Jenkins stood over him. He heard him snort and flinched as Jenkins nudged his foot with the toe of his boot. ‘Come on. Best foot forward, eh? Before you burst into tears.'

Crouching now at his mother's grave, Paul rested his hand on the angel's hip as he took the dead chrysanthemums from the urn at her feet. He turned away from the stink of their water, holding the slimy, dripping stems at arm's length as he carried them to the bin. Walking back to the grave, he pulled up a dandelion that had braved the cold, raking back the disturbed chips of white stone with his fingers. The angel wept into her hand, and he remembered his grandfather standing here next to her, weeping for his daughter. As a small child he'd imagined that the old man and the angel were trying to out-grieve each other.

‘Paul?'

He turned around and Margot smiled at him shyly. She stepped towards him. ‘I was looking for you.'

‘The flowers had died. I didn't want to leave them for Dad.'

She stepped closer. ‘Are you all right?' She stood across the grave from him seeming to read and re-read the names and dates inscribed on the stone. At last she said cautiously, ‘Let me tell them about the baby.'

‘No.'

‘I want him to like you.'

‘He wouldn't have liked me anyway.'

‘That's not true! He liked Robbie.'

He looked at the angel, imagining the bodies of his mother, brother and grandfather buried beneath her feet, only to remember other bodies at the side of a French road, a neat row covered in blankets. Care had been taken for those particular dead; nothing for the camera to see but small differences in the lengths and sizes of the corpses. His men stood behind their shovels, posing solemnly, and the photographer, fussing over his equipment, caught his eye and smiled at him, queer to queer. Paul had only stared back, angered at the man's lack of respect for the dead, hating that he should capture their images inside the camera's black box. Even now he worried whether faces had been sufficiently well hidden.

He grasped the angel's wrist, wanting to pull her hand away from her face. The stone was worn, as though other fingers had worried it. He thought again of Jenkins. He remembered sitting in that ruined church, glancing at him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, trying to work out if his growing paranoia was justified. Whether it was or not, he'd decided then that the only defence against him was to be silent, to give nothing of himself away.

The familiar paralysing guilt returned. He closed his eyes, appalled all over again at his own wickedness.

‘Paul? I think we should go home.'

He had forgotten Margot and looked up in surprise. She smiled anxiously and took his hand. Curling it up in her mittened fist she led him towards the cemetery gates.

Chapter Ten

H
ETTY
'
S FATHER SAID
, ‘
DO
you think they should be taking that crippled lad out on a night like this?'

Her mother sniffed. ‘He'll catch his death. I just hope he wraps him up warm.'

Smoothing down her freshly washed, misbehaving hair, Hetty said, ‘Do I look all right?'

‘You'll do.'

Behind her mother's back her father winked at her. ‘She'll do, will she, Mother?'

‘If she has to go at all.'

‘Dancing at The Grand!' Joe shook his head in mock amazement. ‘My little Henrietta.'

There was a knock on the front door and Hetty jumped. Wearing a dress in the new, shorter style and new, heeled shoes instead of her usual button boots, she felt less like herself than she had ever done in her life, her chilly ankles indecently exposed. Even her underwear was new and too scratchy; the new-fangled, flesh-toned silk stockings she'd squandered her savings on seemed to rustle with each move she made. Too late to change into something else, she wished she'd worn at least one thing that was soft and quiet and reassuringly hers.

Hetty felt the cold air as her father opened the door on to the street. Her heart beat faster as she heard him invite them in. Nervously she went to the door herself, finding the three of them on the pavement, a gang of neighbours' children gathered around Mick's chair.

Mick smiled at her. ‘Hetty. You look lovely. All set?'

The wheelchair made Joe awkward and he grinned too broadly. ‘Doesn't Major Morgan look smart, Hetty?'

‘I'm not a major any more, Mr Roberts. Please, call me Mick.'

Tersely Patrick said, ‘Are you ready, Hetty?'

‘Yes.' She smiled as brightly as her father had.

‘Have a nice time, pet.' Joe squeezed her arm. ‘Burst a few of those midnight balloons for me.'

Mick lit a cigarette and handed it over his shoulder to his brother before lighting one for himself.

‘What do you think, Hetty, quails' eggs on the buffet or pork pies? How grand is The Grand these days?'

‘I don't know.' She stumbled beside them, her shoes pinching. Mick exhaled sharply.

‘Patrick. Please, it's not a race.'

Patrick slowed a little.

Hetty had often imagined holding her wedding reception in The Grand Hotel. She had thought carefully about the reception, the cold hams and salad, the trifle bobbled with whipped cream. There would be roses in tall vases and a cake with four tiers. Lately she'd imagined Patrick in a morning suit, a carnation in his buttonhole, brilliant white against feathery green fern, matching her trailing bouquet.

They stopped at the hotel steps. There weren't many; Hetty counted each one as she stood beside Patrick, five in all. Patrick drew on his cigarette heavily as he too seemed to count the steps like an athlete gauging the size of the challenge. Turning the wheelchair around so that Mick faced away from them he said, ‘Ready? Here we go.'

That afternoon, for the first time as a married man, Paul had visited Adam. They'd gone to bed at once, Adam leading him wordlessly up the stairs. Afterwards Adam held him too tightly. Paul could feel his breath against his shoulder as Adam whispered, ‘Do you love me, still?'

He hesitated a fraction too long because he felt Adam's body stiffen and knew that he was holding his breath. For a moment he felt as though he could kill him simply by remaining silent and so he said quickly, ‘I love you, of course I do.'

‘Of course?' Adam's laugh was strained. ‘Your marriage hasn't changed anything?'

‘No.'

Adam hugged him even closer. ‘I've been so jealous these past few days, thinking of you and her.'

Paul struggled from his arms and turned on his side to face him. Desperate suddenly to reassure him and ease his own guilt he said, ‘Don't be jealous. I don't want you to think like that.'

‘Like what? It's normal, isn't it? My lover sleeps with someone else every night, therefore I'm jealous.' He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his hand across his face. ‘I thought this Christmas we'd be together. For the first time in years I thought we could spend Christmas together.'

‘I'm sorry, Adam.'

‘Yes.' He sat up and put his glasses back on. Sitting on the edge of the bed he glanced at him over his shoulder. ‘You're sorry, I know.'

Paul reached out, placing his palm flat against his back. Adam's skin was soft as a child's, and so white it was almost translucent. In the summer the freckles on his arms would darken and auburn would show in his hair. In the sun he would burn easily and if they placed their arms side by side his own skin would appear dark as an Indian's in comparison. Moved to tenderness, Paul sat up and slipped his arms around his waist. He kissed his shoulder and Adam turned to look at him.

‘Remember our first Christmas?' Adam laughed shortly. ‘God, I was nervous! If it hadn't been for you taking charge … I never could quite believe my luck, you know. 1914. Best Christmas of my life.'

‘Mine too.'

‘It could be like that again, you know.'

Paul laughed. ‘Could it?'

‘Yes!' Adam twisted round to face him. Becoming animated he said, ‘Make an excuse to her – we could spend a whole day and night together. We could make up for all that time we lost.'

Paul lay down on the bed. He held his arms out. ‘Lie down, eh? Let me hold you before I have to go.'

Adam lay down, resting his head on his chest. ‘You don't take me seriously.'

‘Things have changed, that's all.' Paul lifted his head to smile at him. ‘I'm not sixteen any more, Adam.'

‘Don't I know it.' He sighed. ‘At least we'll be together at school, eh? At least we have that.'

Paul stroked his hair, thinking of his interview with the headmaster, the sense of panic he'd felt as he'd accepted the offer of a job. Perhaps he'd been too hasty, there had to be other work he could do. Shop work, he thought, and tried to picture himself behind a counter in Robinson's, earning even less money than the school offered. It would be difficult enough to keep a wife and baby on a schoolteacher's salary, impossible on a clerk's. And of course it would be different teaching boys rather than being one of them. At least he wouldn't be entirely at their mercy.

He let his hand rest on Adam's head. ‘At school – you'll show me the ropes? Make sure I'm not too much of a new boy?'

‘You won't need me to mother you! Standing up in front of a class of twelve-year-olds?' He laughed. ‘Christ – it's nothing compared with everything you've been though.' Smiling up at him he said, ‘You're not worried, are you?'

‘No. I suppose not.'

‘I can't wait. Seeing you in the staffroom, being able to talk to you without worrying about what other people might be thinking. I don't think I've ever been in a normal situation with you.'

‘Normal?'

‘You know what I mean.'

Paul resumed stroking his hair, remembering the first time they'd met and whether that situation could be considered normal. The day he left school for good Robbie and George had met him off the train, bringing Robbie's new friend Adam along for the ride. He remembered being light-headed with the relief of never having to see Jenkins or his gang again, that he'd greeted his father and brother with uncharacteristic joy, like a long-jailed prisoner finally released. Some of that joy had spilled over to Adam, who'd seemed bemused by this manic boy. They'd shaken hands and for a moment Paul had become still, the noise of the station retreating. Adam had held his gaze, his hand dry and cool in his. Paul remembered some detached part of himself noting how handsome he was.

Adam shifted in his arms, drawing him closer. ‘How will I be able to keep the pride from my face when I introduce you in the staffroom? Half of the old crocks will fall in love with you at once, of course.'

‘Only half?' Paul gently disentangled himself from his embrace and got up. Beginning to dress he said ‘I think you have a skewed idea of my attractiveness, Adam.'

‘No. I just think you're the most gorgeous boy that ever lived.'

Buttoning his flies Paul looked up at him. ‘You'll be all right tonight, won't you?' Hesitantly he said, ‘You could still come with us, if you want. Margot's friends will be there, you wouldn't be out of place.'

‘Yes I would. Besides, I hate dancing. And dancing with her friends … Christ! I'd rather have my toenails pulled out.'

Dressed, Paul leaned over the bed and kissed him. ‘Goodbye, Adam.' He kissed him again, drawing away as gently as he could when Adam curled his fingers into his hair. Paul remembered how much he'd looked forward to this afternoon in his bed. Now the sex was over with he couldn't wait to get away, wanting only to be alone. He thought of Margot waiting for him to take her to the hotel's dance and sighed miserably.

Adam caught his hand. ‘When you're dancing with her remember I adore you.'

The dress Margot had worn for her birthday party didn't fit any more. She had tried it on but the buttons along the side seam wouldn't fasten, the material stretching obscenely across the bump even when she breathed in. Now the dress lay in a blue silk puddle on the floor and she realised she had nothing else to wear for the dance that night.

She stood aimlessly in front of her open wardrobe, staring at clothes she had riffled through again and again as if a suitable dress might magically appear. At last she reached for the old-fashioned long black skirt and pale green blouse she had worn to the memorial service. The skirt would have to be held together at the waist with a safety pin.

Laying this dismal outfit on the bed she sighed. She was twenty and would look forty. Paul, wearing the evening jacket now hanging alongside her clothes, would look young and dashing and all heads would turn towards him. They would wonder what he saw in such a dowdy girl.

It was easy to imagine that there had been a sophisticated, older woman in his past. Paul had a gentleness that she imagined could come only from experience; that night in the pub he was slow and careful, making her feel she was as much in control as he was. Robbie, on the ground beside the Makepeace tomb, had acted so quickly that the shock had made her frigid. Although his kisses had softened her, even though she instinctively opened her legs, no one had explained the mechanics of it, that penetration had to be forced to overcome her body's resistance. She'd felt something give inside her and heard Robbie's gasp of triumph. Frightened, she'd laid still and stiff beneath him, hating the way he screwed his eyes tight closed as though he was the one being hurt. It was over quickly, that one and only time with Robbie. She had bled a little and in her innocence the idea of pregnancy hadn't even occurred to her until she'd realised she hadn't bled since.

After that night in the seaside pub, Paul had moved into her room, although he hadn't made love to her again. Lying beside him as he slept his troubled, talkative sleep, she worried that he might be repelled by her pregnancy; she felt huge beside him, fat and unlovable although he treated her with the type of kindness that could easily induce self-pity. She had an idea that Robbie would have been sterner with her. She wondered if Paul would be easier to love than his brother, suspecting that he might be.

Going to the window she looked out on to the street, straining her eyes against the dusk to see him. She had expected him home an hour ago and she began to worry. He still seemed frail to her; he may have fallen or fainted, he may have stepped out blindly in front of a tram. She exhaled sharply, afraid all over again for her future.

He appeared then, as though she had conjured him, walking quickly. Margot stepped back from the window. She would pretend not to have noticed the time. Drawing the curtains she began to dress for the dance.