Murder Most Fab (10 page)

We
walked in companionable silence until we reached one of the local landmarks: a
craggy, ancient burial mound, grassed over and dotted with rocks, ferns and
sheep droppings.

‘Is
this yours too?’ I asked as we climbed up it.

He
shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not sure. Probably.’

When we
reached the top we looked out across the woodlands to the marshes and the
still, grey sea in the distance.

‘So,
Johnny, what about you? What do you plan to do with your life?’ he asked. ‘Are
you going to be a gardener?’

‘I
don’t know, really. I’m not very good at anything. If I was a sheep I wouldn’t
have to do anything at all, just eat grass all day and sit in the shade in the
summer. That would suit me.’

‘You
could be a hippie. That’s the nearest you’ll get. Smoke grass and sit in the
shade.’

‘That
sounds nice, but I suppose I’ll have to earn a living somehow. Make some money
to look after my mother. We live together, just the two of us.’

Timothy
looked envious. ‘You’re lucky not to have it all planned out for you. You have
the freedom to do anything you like, be anyone you want to be. I have to fulfil
expectations, or else.’ He gazed out to sea, then talked quietly, intensely, as
if he was reciting a boring list. ‘It’s been drummed into me. Oxbridge, the law
or politics, marriage, children, keep the family name going, inherit the estate
continue the lineage … Everything must be just as it’s always been. Nothing
less will do.’

‘But
isn’t it nice to have money?’ I ventured. ‘It must be lovely to be rich.’

‘You’d
think so — but it’s strange how little it matters when you’re unhappy.’ He sat
down suddenly on the grass. ‘Do you have to rush off? Why not sit here for a
bit and talk to me? I’ve got nothing to do at home.’

I’d
have cancelled a date with Tom Cruise to be next to him for five minutes. I sat
down, already alive to his physical nearness in a way I had never been to
anyone else’s. I inhaled surreptitiously. He had a grown-up smell, a
combination of furniture polish and russet apples. ‘I’ve got nothing to do
either,’ I said.

‘What
makes you happy, then?’ asked Timothy, as if he already knew the answer.

‘Oh,
well …‘ I was desperate not to say anything stupid.

‘Have
you got a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Ever
had one?’ I shook my head, wondering where this was leading.

‘Have
you ever been kissed?’ he asked softly, looking away from me, fiddling with a
bit of flint and digging it into the ground.

‘No.’

‘Would
you like to be? Because I’ve got the strongest urge to kiss you right now.’ He
spoke casually.

A
delicious shiver ran right down me. ‘Feel free,’ I said. ‘Try it.’ At last he
turned to me.

We were
sitting close enough for him to kiss me from where he was, but he took his
time. First he smiled, then an arm reached behind me and stroked the back of my
head. He pulled me towards him, his face angling itself to the right slightly
so our noses didn’t bump. Just before his mouth touched mine, his blond curls
fluttered across my eyes like a dragonfly. I shivered as the kiss began. It was
the softest, sweetest feeling. At first his lips brushed across mine from side
to side. Then they pressed against me as he held my head firm. His tongue
darted quickly into my mouth, but once there it began to swirl and wiggle,
cajoling mine into activity too, until they were writhing about like two
lizards having a mudbath.

He
pushed me on to the rough grass, and in the process slid down to my neck, which
he bit and nibbled, not stopping even when I arched my back and giggled.
Breathless, I opened my eyes and the sky was a brighter blue than it had been
before.

After I
don’t know how long, he rolled off me and we lay panting side by side.

‘That’ll
do you for starters,’ he said, eventually.

Starters?
I thought. Already I knew that my life would never be the same again. The
implication that a main course might follow was, well, mouthwatering.

Timothy
jumped to his feet, as casually as if we had been sunbathing. ‘Come on,’ he
said. ‘I’ll drop you home, if you like.’

Once up
and strolling across the fields, we were again teenage boys who had only just
met. Back in the car I wanted to stroke his thigh or hold his hand, but somehow
I didn’t dare. The only hint of what had happened between us was the wink he
gave me when I jumped out in front of the cottage. ‘See you soon, Johnny,’ he
said with a big, open-mouthed smile.

Later that night I lay in
bed drumming on my lips with my fingers to bring back the electrifying tingle I
had felt on the knoll. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stop smiling even when I
did. I woke up with my face aching, my heart fluttering, after blissful dreams
of Tim kissing me, then kissing me some more. He filled my thoughts. I could
think of nothing but him. What would happen next? Had that kiss been a moment
of madness or the beginning of something wonderful? Never having been in a
romantic situation before, I didn’t know the rules. I just knew I wanted
another kiss.

The
week passed with me dreaming of Tim and writing his name over and over again in
biro on my school exercise books:

Timothy
Thornchurch, Timothy Thornchurch, Timothy Thornchurch … or ‘TT for JD’, our
initials enclosed in a heart. I was madly in love. I didn’t care about anything
else.

‘You’re
looking bright and cheerful, my little fig,’ my mother commented, the night
before I was due back at Thornchurch House. We were doing the washing-up
together and I felt as though I was floating a foot above the floor. ‘Your eyes
are shining, your cheeks are pink and … hold out your hand — yes, you’ve got
a tremor in your fingertips.’ She threw down her dishcloth and gripped my
shoulders. ‘Are you in love, my sweet?’ She searched my face for an answer and,
finding one, declared, ‘Praise the Lord!’

I
blushed violently. While I longed to talk about Tim, I was agonized by the
thought of admitting that I was in the grip of a full-flown passion.

‘Who is
she?’ asked Mother. ‘Anyone I know?’

I shook
my head, still scarlet and unable to say a word. I knew she wouldn’t mind a bit
if I said it was a he, rather than a she, but I still couldn’t bring myself to
say anything.

She
smiled kindly. ‘Oh, darling, how lovely. Isn’t it gorgeous? Like a delightful
itch you just long to scratch, even though it’s so nice it hurts. Well — enjoy
it. And remember what Laurence Hope says.

‘For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,

To take what fate or the gods may give,

To ask no question, to make no prayer,

But to kiss the lips and caress the hair
…‘

The following Sunday I
arrived at Thornchurch House at nine a.m. on the dot.

‘You’re
keen,’ said the head gardener. Little did he know. Clearly impressed, he asked
if I’d like to work full-time during the summer. This seemed a very good idea
and I accepted with alacrity. He put me to work clearing out an old barn and
stacking some elm logs ready for winter. The barn was situated away from the
main house, but although I kept a lookout there was no sign of Tim. It wasn’t
until mid-afternoon, feeling bereft as I swept the last of the sawdust and
twigs into a neat pile, that I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

I spun
round and there was Tim, wearing white cricket trousers and a creased grey and
white striped shirt. He looked beautiful, of course, even more so than I
remembered. He was squinting in the sunlight, and his skin was peach-like, with
a dusky golden glow. He gave me a big, crooked smile with a sapphire flash from
his eyes, and my stomach did eighteen somersaults in quick succession.

Despite
my reaction to his presence, I tried to appear casual and not as though I had
dreamt of him every waking moment —and sleeping moment, come to that — since he
had kissed me.

‘Oh,
hello, Tim,’ I said lightly, as though he was the last person I’d been
expecting to see. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m
good, thanks. Exams all done. It’s holiday time!’ He did a mad Aboriginal dance
to show how happy he was.

I
laughed. ‘Holiday for some,’ I said. ‘I haven’t broken up yet. And then I’m
going to be working all summer.’ Tim’s face fell. That was a good sign, I
thought, heart racing. I added meaningfully, ‘Here in the gardens.’

‘Cool,’
said Tim. He gave a contented smile, as if a plan was falling nicely into
place. He stepped forward and gave my shoulder a gentle push. I felt the heat
of his hand, and the desire behind it. ‘You finishing soon?’ he asked.

‘Five
o’clock,’ I answered.

‘Meet
me in the old summerhouse down by the pond?’

‘Sure.
See you then!’ I smiled back at him. His touch had made me giddy with
excitement. I turned back to my sweeping to hide my burning cheeks. I heard him
chuckle as he left. ‘See you later, Johnny.’

The
next two hours were the longest of my life. I willed the time to pass but it
seemed to take for ever. At last the head gardener dismissed me and I slipped
away, not to the gates but towards the pond and the old summerhouse.

When I
got there Tim was waiting, sitting on the creaking old veranda, swigging from a
bottle of red wine.

‘Try
some of this,’ he said, without any preamble. ‘It’s Daddy’s Beaujolais. It’ll
put hairs on your chest.’

Nervously
I sat next to him on the rickety wicker sofa and took a swig from the dark
bottle. I’d never drunk wine before and I choked on the bitter taste, then
pulled a face and wiped my lips on the back of my hand.

‘It
should be accompanied by venison or pheasant,’ Tim pointed out. ‘Would you
rather have a cigar?’ From his trouser pocket he produced an expensive-looking
packet and shook it until a fragrant brown cigar popped out. ‘Daddy’s too, from
Cuba. Rolled between a virgin’s thighs, allegedly.’

I took
the cigar and sniffed it. It smelt rather woody and luxurious, but I had the
feeling it wouldn’t be quite so fragrant when it was alight. ‘No, thanks. I
expect I’ll only cough again.

Tim
took it from me and held it between his teeth while he lit a match. He sucked
and chuffed on the cigar until we almost disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke.
With the Beaujolais in his other hand, he smoked and drank alternately as we
sat in silence.

I
watched intently, impressed by his expertise.

‘Now
you,’ he ordered.

‘I’m
game,’ I said uncertainly.

‘That
you are, Johnny-boy,’ said Tim, handing me the bottle and the cigar. As he did
so our fingers touched. He looked at me and smiled. ‘Remember me?’ he asked.

A few
minutes later I was floating pleasantly, intoxicated for the first time in my
young life. Tim seemed to pick his moment. As I sank into the damp cushions and
my eyes began to close I became aware of him leaning across me.

‘Now
you’ve relaxed a bit, I can give you what you came for,’ he said. Then he
kissed me, far more urgently than the first time.

He pushed up my T-shirt
and pulled down my trousers; two moves, swiftly enacted to seem as one. He
dragged me inside the summerhouse where an old mattress glowed in the dull
light. We kissed, caressed and unwrapped each other. I cannot deny that I
gasped and cried my way through my first experience of gay sex. Tim was
insistent and considerate, telling me to relax and announcing what was going to
happen next, as if he were a doctor. Alarm gave way eventually to enjoyment.

‘Good
lad,’ Tim breathed in my ear, as he built to a crescendo and my cries became
sighs.

Now I
understood, at last, what it was all about. With the sense of drama that only
an adolescent can articulate, I wrote in my diary that I had ‘discovered the
meaning of life’. This much was sure: I had come home. There was no looking
back now.