The Last Weekend (19 page)

What they fail to foresee is how expert I will become at sleuthing. It begins the night they break it to me in the kitchen and stroll back to her hall of residence, not anticipating that I will follow at a safe distance, watch them go in and position myself in a clump of bushes with a clear view of her bedroom, and later (in the small hours and the bitter cold) creep up to the window and attempt to peer through the curtains. Irrespective of what I see (nothing), in my mind there’s no doubt that they’ve overcome the drawbacks of her narrow bed and have been fucking for hours. My one hope is that Ollie is (in his own words) playing the field and, once sated with her body, will grow bored and whistle her off. Indignant though I feel on Daisy’s behalf, I trust she will learn a useful lesson from this and recognise her rightful lover, the one who truly has her interests at heart.

I go on punishing myself — straining to keep a corner in the thing I love — not just that Saturday but for weeks afterwards. Every night I’m waiting in shadows when they arrive, arm in arm, at her hall of residence, Ollie having more or less moved in. Once the entrance door has swung shut behind them I head for my clump of bushes, reaching it in time to see the light come on in her room and one of them, usually Ollie, walk across to draw the curtains, the two wrinkled blue drapes meeting with disappointing efficiency in the middle. Any hope of catching them in flagrante is denied me, though I sometimes sneak up to the window ledge in the hope of hearing something, and on one occasion disturb the female student in the next room, who opens the window, leans out and seems less than convinced when I explain that I only stopped to tie my shoelaces. Thereafter, I stick to my clump of bushes, compelled to lodge there every night, even though my feet
are freezing, my heart is breaking, and my espionage affords no view of its targets.

I remember Daisy lying with her back to me and my arm curving round her body and how secure that made her feel. So secure that she took up with someone else.

My academic work suffers. But I’ve no interest in law anyway. And I’m not so eaten up with jealousy as to give up books: while I sit there in the bushes I read
Crime and Punishment
several times with the aid of a pencil torch purchased in Woolworths (my only sleuthing tool apart from the sleeping bag and brandy flask that get me through colder nights). Carousing students sometimes pass close by in the darkness and more than once I think I’ve been spotted, but no one comes to investigate. Campus security barely exists: I could store several tons of gelignite in the bushes and no one would notice. Indeed, had my two stalkees not been alerted to my presence, the vigil might have lasted indefinitely. (Is it the torch that gives me away? The print of my nose on the window-pane? Or have I become the subject of campus gossip?) Once again, though I hate to admit it, they go about their task with sensitivity, doubling back from the swing doors one night to intercept me on my way into the bushes, inviting me to Daisy’s room, setting aside their anger at being spied on, and explaining that — hurt though I must feel and sorry though they are to be the cause — it is time I accepted their relationship, because it’s deep, the real thing, love, and were it not for Daisy’s aversion to marriage (which Ollie, winking as he says this, hopes to cure one day) they would probably be engaged by now, for they know, as surely as anyone knows anything, that they’re in this together for life.

The word ‘marriage’ almost does the trick. I’ve been tortured by images of them fucking. By telling me their relationship is more than sexual, they remove the carnal sting.

The other thing that consoles me is Daisy saying, when Ollie wanders off to the kitchen to make us all coffee, ‘I’m late. My period, that is. Don’t tell Ollie I told you. God knows what we’ll do. I’m not ready to have a baby, can’t face an abortion and don’t believe in marriage — what a mess.’ To confide in me like that Daisy must genuinely be fond of me, I realise. And though I feel bitter that she rejected me, she helps me get over that, too, when we meet (unbeknown to Ollie) one day the following week, and discuss our relationship, and she puts me right about my various misapprehensions: ‘Ollie’s my lover, but you’re my friend. And that means — well, I don’t have to tell you. My period came, by the way. Phew.’

I don’t have to tell you.
What she means, I grasp at once, is that though she’s infatuated with Ollie it’s me to whom she feels closer and finds it easier to talk. Knowing that helps heal my torment.

Ollie also helps, in more practical ways: one, by passing me his lecture notes, so I can catch up; two, by insisting we play golf or squash at least once a week; three, by telling me, over a drink, that if ever he breaks down Daisy’s resistance he wants me to be his best man.

I don’t become his best man because the pregnancy scare passes and Daisy rejects his proposals. But the significance of the invitation never leaves me. Best man, closest friend, deadliest rival.

One Sunday in the summer term the three of us hire bikes and explore the countryside as a threesome. Cycling along, Ollie recounts some of his adventures at Sandhurst, a series of hair’s-breadth escapes, miracles of endurance and disasters turned triumphs. Daisy, captivated, loves him for the risks he took and he loves her for being so girlishly, pliably impressed by them. Impatient and irritated (if he was such a fucking
military hero at Sandhurst, why did he quit?), I pedal away from their cosy little peloton and speed ahead, only to find Ollie coming after me. We race each other to the next village, where we stop at a pub, Daisy rolling in ten minutes behind us. Despite the difficulties, the outing’s adjudged a success, and we make plans for several more.

Under Ollie’s wing, Daisy becomes a swan. It’s her destiny. They’re a couple. I have to let go.

By the end of that summer, during which I work in a pub in Prestatyn and have sex with two women (one of whom likes to be roughed up), I reckon to be cured.

And I was cured, until Badingley.

‘Looks lovely,’ Em said. ‘What is it?’

‘Blueberry sorbet with rosemary oil and meringue grissini,’ Daisy said.

‘I don’t know how you do it.’

‘There are peaches or plums if you prefer.’

‘I’m fine with the sorbet.’

‘With or without the meringues?’

Em hesitated and I threw her a look. I didn’t mean to imply that meringues were a bad idea for someone who was or
ought to be
watching her weight, but I fear that’s how she took it, because her ‘With’ was spoken with defiance and she glared at me as she took the dish, as if to say, ‘Fuck you, I’ll eat what I like, what’s it matter if I’m half a stone heavier than the diet freaks recommend, surely enjoying myself is more important, we only have the one life, and being thin isn’t the same as being healthy, look at you, Ian, you’re down the gym half the week but when it comes to being virile …’ —
as if
to say all that but instead turning to Ollie and saying: ‘Has Ian told you about his disciplinary hearing?’

I hadn’t, of course. Nor did I intend to, what with Milo
present, a virtual stranger, and a sultry night in the middle of nowhere being the wrong time and place. Em only brought it up to get her own back for the look I’d given her. Or to punish me for not persuading Ollie to tell Daisy about his tumour (which she knew from my shiftiness I hadn’t). Or for ducking out of the global-warming argument. Or because she’d hardly seen me all day. Or for failing to give her a child. Whichever, it was malicious.

‘Sounds intriguing, Ian,’ Ollie said. ‘Do tell.’

I told, sensing the lightness drain from the evening as I did: Campbell Foster, his long record of misbehaviour, the bullying episode, my intervention, his defiance, my escorting of him to see Mrs Baynes, her lack of support, his mother’s complaint, the failure of the school governors to have the matter sorted before the end of term, which meant the case had been hanging over me for two months.

‘The governors meet on Wednesday,’ I said.

‘Ian’s last free day before term begins,’ Em added.

‘Unless they suspend me,’ I said, ‘in which case I’ll be free for some time.’

‘Poor Ian,’ Daisy said, ‘what an ordeal.’

‘Sounds like you need a good lawyer,’ Ollie said.

‘When you say you “escorted” him,’ Milo said, ‘how exactly?’

Bastard for asking. Pale moths flew at the flames and fell away. I’d a feeling of being spied on from the darkness, by some loony with binoculars and a gun.

I explained that I’d taken Campbell by the ear: not grabbed, squeezed, pinched, pulled, yanked or any of the words since used by others, but — as was the case — taken.

‘You didn’t belt the little bleeder?’ Ollie said.

‘Of course not.’

‘You do have quite a temper sometimes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. I did know
what he was talking about but to connect the two events was absurd.

The candles blazed around us like a theatre set, with me in the spotlight, centre-stage.

‘With a name like that, Campbell’s black I take it?’ Ollie said.

‘We’re a multi-ethnic school. It’s of no relevance.’

‘You aren’t being accused of racism?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said.

‘Not exactly?’

‘There are no grounds. But it could come up.’

‘That’s outrageous,’ Daisy said. ‘If there are no grounds, how can it come up?’

‘That’s what local authorities are like these days,’ Ollie said, with weary familiarity. ‘Political correctness, et cetera.’

‘It’s not the local authority,’ Em said, taking it personally because she works for one. ‘There’s been some previous history with the boy.’

‘Ian told us that,’ Daisy said, on my side. ‘He’s obviously a troublemaker.’

‘I mean some previous history between him and Ian,’ Em said, dragging me deeper in.

I avoided looking at Em. She should have kept her mouth shut. But I didn’t want to seem ruffled.

‘Long story,’ I said, and told it.

For the past few years I’ve run the football team at school

– which is ironic when you consider that ball smacking me in the face when I was five, but in a school with only one male member of staff, who else was there? It took me ages to get permission to start a team. Even then I met resistance. The only games allowed at school were non-competitive games

– ‘cooperative games’ as they were called by Mrs Baynes, to whom individualism was taboo. I won her round with talk of
teamwork, mutual encouragement, morale-building, an equal role for boys and girls, everything short of doing without goalposts. And because the kids themselves were strongly in favour, along with their parents (the boys and dads anyway), football was installed on a trial basis. My role as coach was to develop ‘standards of excellence', while pretending every kid was equally good — the great fear being that someone might be emotionally ‘injured'. At first I stuck to training (heading, passing, keepie-uppie), but the kids grew bored without a game so for the last ten minutes it would be Reds against Blues, with even sides and debatable refereeing decisions to ensure a draw — a ‘joint win', as Mrs Baynes called it. She once came along to watch and told the kids to think of themselves as ants, prospering by working together. To teach humans to emulate ants struck me as unhelpful. But I played along, so the kids could play football.

‘Team football’ flourished, until it came to picking a football team. The non-competitive ethos had all but obliterated school teams from the area, but a few remained and I arranged half a dozen fixtures. Mrs Baynes was anxious: how would the children feel were they to lose? How would they feel if they weren’t selected in the first place? Every child who wanted to play must be included, she said. In a school of 160 pupils that wasn’t practical, so we compromised by keeping the team to Years Five and Six, with the rest of the school assured their time would come. By Year Six, most girls have outgrown football, and most boys without talent realise it and opt out. So in the end, for our first fixture, we had a team of eighteen, which with a flexible use of substitutes worked fine.

In my experience black kids are better footballers than white kids: stronger, faster, more agile, more adept with the ball. And one of the best footballers to come through our school was Campbell Foster, who would have been good
enough to play for the school at seven had we allowed it. Unfortunately, he was also horribly selfish with the ball. And when things weren’t going his way, he would lose interest, sulk, walk off, abuse his teammates, and (literally) score own goals. At the start of his final year last autumn, I had great hopes of him nonetheless and made him captain for the first game. (We have a rota system for captaincy, as you might expect, but I meant it as a vote of confidence and he knew it.) If we had won that game, he might have prospered, but we lost by the odd goal, largely because at crucial moments Campbell refused to pass, as I made a point of explaining to him afterwards. For the next game I was referee as well as coach, a not unusual case of doubling up, and substituted Campbell early on for dangling from our opponents’ goalposts and refusing to come down (we were losing three—nil at the time). I gave him a talking-to after that and it seemed to help: thanks to his goals, our next two games were victories (a word I tried to avoid with Mrs Baynes, who preferred to speak of ‘advantageous score margins'). But in the next game, I sent him off when he punched an opponent. Campbell claimed the other boy had hit him first. But even if he did, that was no cause for retaliation, and as a punishment, I didn’t pick him for the sixth and last game of the season — back in March, three months before the incident in the playground.