The Boy I Love (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

I
N THE PARK
, H
ETTY
and Mick took shelter from the rain in the bandstand.

Breathless and laughing Hetty said, ‘Look at us! Two drowned rats.'

Mick frowned at her. ‘You're soaking. I don't want you to catch cold.'

‘I'm all right. Besides, what can we do? We'll just have to wait here until it stops.'

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have suggested going out.'

‘It wasn't raining when we set off.'

‘All the same.'

She smiled. ‘Did you watch the bands play here?'

Lighting a cigarette he said, ‘Sometimes. I came here once when I was on leave. I remember the band was playing
Keep The Home Fires Burning
as a girl handed me a white feather.'

‘Silly cow.'

He laughed, looking down at the cigarette. ‘I think it must have been a swan's feather. It was huge.'

‘I hated the girls who did that. Our Albert was given one and he was only sixteen.'

Clamping the cigarette between his lips, Mick wheeled himself to the edge of the bandstand. Looking out over the park he said, ‘Do you think it rains more than it used to?' He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘In France I used to think that the whole country would be washed away. I had a sergeant who believed the bombardments caused it to rain … I forget what his theory was now. Mad as a hare. I had him sent home, poor bugger. Sorry.' He smiled slightly. ‘Pardon my French.'

Hetty smiled back, thinking of Patrick and trying to see the likeness between him and this frail, dark-eyed man. Their similarity seemed insubstantial to her. She thought of Patrick's silences, his unpredictable moods, and her familiar disappointment in him made her sigh.

‘What are you thinking about?'

Hetty shook her head. ‘Nothing.'

‘I'm sorry I've kept you out so long. As soon as it lets up we can go home.'

‘I don't mind being here with you.'

‘No? It's cold, isn't it? It's cold and wet and the wind sounds as though it's going to blow the roof off and you're stranded with a cripple whose chair will probably sink into the mud as soon as we leave here.'

‘There's a path.'

He snorted. ‘Well, that's all right then.'

Laughing, she said, ‘You sound like Patrick when you get cross.'

‘I sound like him all the time.'

‘No you don't. You sound posh all the time. Patrick sometimes forgets to.'

‘Posh eh? My father used to tell us we sounded like …' He stopped and looked away.

‘Like what?'

‘Nothing. It doesn't matter. He was a pig of a man.'

‘That's a hard thing to say. He must have loved you.'

‘I wonder why people say that?' He wheeled himself back to the centre of the bandstand, turning the chair round to look at her. ‘Why do they presume such a thing? Probably because their own fathers and mothers love them. My father was a drunk who beat us with a leather belt. I don't think love was important to him.'

‘Wasn't he proud of you?'

‘Should he have been?'

‘Of course! My father's proud of you and he hardly knows you.'

‘Is he proud of Patrick, as well?'

‘Patrick wasn't a major.'

‘No. Patrick just did all the hard work.'

‘I suppose for the whole of the war you just sat around giving orders?'

‘I suppose I did.' He smiled at her. ‘And then they had the temerity to drop a great big shell on the nice cosy dugout I'd set up for myself. Unbelievable.'

‘Is that how it happened?'

‘It? You mean this?' He looked down at himself. After a moment he laughed. ‘I remember a second lieutenant finding me. He was covered in mud, from head to toe, but his face was so pale he looked like a ghost. He asked me if I was dead so I asked him if he was dead and he said no, he didn't think so. He wandered off then. I wanted to believe he'd gone to fetch help but he didn't come back. Two stretcher-bearers dug me out a couple of hours later.'

‘How could he leave you like that?'

‘He
was
dead, I think. In a way.'

‘You lay all that time?'

‘My legs were only broken … it wasn't as if … well, you know. All that came later.' He smiled. ‘Anyway. Now you know. You're the only one who does.'

‘Except Patrick.'

‘Pat's never asked.' The rain stopped. Throwing his cigarette down he said, ‘Let's go home.'

Back outside the house Mick said, ‘Come in and get warm before you go.'

‘I should get back, really.'

‘Do you have to?'

She hesitated, thinking of the dull Sunday afternoon stretching ahead of her, her mother asleep behind the
News of the World
and her father retreated to bed. She wondered if Patrick was in the house and glanced towards its dark windows.

Mick laughed slightly. ‘I bought a cake.
Pat
bought a cake, actually. But it's cake, all the same. I was hoping you would share it with me.'

‘What kind of cake?'

‘I'm not sure, to be honest.' He smiled slowly. ‘Your favourite?'

‘Well, if it's my favourite.'

* * *

The cake was ginger, dry and crumbly, the kind of shop-bought cake her mother treated with contempt. Watching her eat it at the kitchen table, Mick said, ‘Perhaps it was the only cake left in the whole shop.'

She frowned at the half-eaten slice on her plate. ‘Now you've made me feel sorry for it.'

He laughed. ‘Then you shouldn't have such a soft heart.'

‘I haven't really.'

‘No? I think you have.'

She sipped her tea. Placing her cup down on the saucer she said, ‘There's a young couple moved in a few doors down from us. Really young they are – well, she is. They only got married a few weeks ago and she's pregnant – showing – you know.' Hetty sighed. ‘I asked her when the baby was due.'

Mick exhaled softly, ‘Oh.'

‘I know. I don't know what came over me to be so nasty …'

‘Don't worry, Hetty. She's newlywed, she'll be walking around with her head in the clouds no matter what anyone says to her.'

‘Harris, they call them. He's odd-looking, the husband.'

He gazed at her. ‘Is he? I heard that girls swoon when they see him.'

‘He's too thin. And he has a glass eye.'

Mick laughed. ‘That is quite horrible, isn't it? Poor thing.' Still smiling at her he said, ‘So, he isn't beautiful?'

‘That's a funny word to use about a man.'

‘His brother was beautiful. Now, if you'd seen Robbie Harris you would have swooned. All the girls did.'

‘I don't swoon.'

‘No. You're too sensible. Robbie and I were invited to a ball, once. Both brand new first lieutenants, fresh from the front, Christmas 1914. We were glamorous in those days – Rob was, anyway. He was fighting the girls off with a stick.'

‘I bet you were, too.'

‘Oh, I just stood close to him, basked in his glory.' He lit a cigarette, shaking the match out slowly. ‘He wrote to me when he heard I was wounded. Didn't stop writing until he was killed.' He laughed shortly. ‘And it wasn't as though I was swamped with letters from Patrick. I think the nurses thought I hadn't anyone in the world apart from Rob Harris.'

‘I would have written to you, if I'd known.'

‘Then it's a shame we didn't know each other. I could have put your picture by my bed and all the other men would've been jealous of me.'

She laughed, embarrassed, looking down at the cake crumbs on her plate. ‘They'd wonder why you didn't have someone prettier.'

The front door slammed. From the hallway Patrick called, ‘It's me.'

Mick rolled his eyes. ‘Who else?' He looked at her. ‘Before he comes in, tell me you'll come and see me next Sunday?'

Standing in the kitchen doorway Patrick smiled at her broadly. ‘Hetty! I didn't think you'd still be here.'

‘Well she is.'

‘You've had some cake. Good.'

Sharply Mick said, ‘The cake was awful.'

‘Was it, Hetty?'

‘Are you drunk?'

‘Am I? What do you think?'

Mick glared at him. ‘Perhaps you should go and lie down.'

‘No, I'm all right. I'll walk Hetty home; it's nasty out there. Are you ready, Hetty?'

‘There's no need.'

Patrick grinned at her. ‘Now, are you sure?'

‘I'm sure.' She edged past him but he followed her into the hallway.

‘Have you had a nice afternoon, Hetty?'

‘Yes, thanks.' About to go, she said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Morgan. Tell Mick I'll see him on Sunday.'

Patrick closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

‘I'm
Mr Morgan
now and you are
Mick
. Now, what does that tell us?'

Mick sighed. ‘Do you want to tell me what's happened?'

Patrick sat opposite him and hacked off a piece of cake. Through a mouthful of dry crumbs he said, ‘You tell me what's happened.'

‘I wouldn't like to guess.'

Patrick laughed, spraying ginger cake. ‘You usually do.'

‘You went to the pub. You drank too much then went to the toilets behind the Parish Church and buggered some poor, furtive bastard who's now trying to hide his shame from his wife and children. There. How accurate was that?' He pushed himself away from the table and manoeuvred his chair to the door. ‘I'll be in my room.'

Alone, Patrick sat down. He could still feel Paul's weight across his arm, still smell and taste him. He thought of the hole in the ceiling and the mattress's damp stink. Tomorrow he would start on the job of making the room presentable. He smiled to himself. For the first time in his life he felt truly happy.

Into the darkness Paul said quietly, ‘Margot, would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?'

‘I'm all right.'

‘You're crying.' He touched her shoulder and she jerked away from him.

‘Go to sleep.'

‘I can't. Not when you're upset like this.'

She sat up suddenly, pulling the covers away from him and clasping them to her chest. Through her tears she said angrily, ‘You still stink of beer. Breathing beer all over me. How could you get drunk like that?'

‘I wasn't drunk.'

‘Well, Daddy thought you were! He could smell it, too. And you lit a cigarette in front of him when you know he hates it!'

‘And I put it out again, as soon as he asked.'

‘I've never seen him so angry … I thought he was going to hit you.'

Paul laughed despite himself. ‘So did I.'

‘It's not funny. Why couldn't you just be on time? Why did you have to go to a pub and get drunk? You're just making him hate you.' Tears ran down her face and he sat up and put his arm around her shoulders. She shrugged him off. ‘He hates you and now he thinks you're a drunk as well.'

‘I'll go and see him tomorrow, after school. I'll tell him …'

‘What? What will you tell him?'

‘I don't know. That I'll never do it again?'

Wiping her eyes she said, ‘He wants you to come to church with me on Sundays.'

‘No, Margot.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'd feel like a hypocrite.'

‘That's just a fancy word for saying you can't be bothered.'

He lay down again, groping for his cigarette case and matches on the bedside table. As he lit one he thought of Patrick Morgan refusing to chain smoke like him. He thought it almost pointless to take or leave cigarettes like that. Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply, picturing Morgan's face as he kissed him.

‘Paul?' Hesitantly she said, ‘If you came to church with me it would make things easier. It would show Daddy that you respect him.'

Daniel had seemed calm. He had stood up when he walked into the room, seeming to assess his breathlessness and his still soaking clothes as proof only of his stupidity. Then he had caught the smell of brown ale on his breath and the colour left his face.

‘You've been drinking,' he'd said, and his voice had quaked with anger. ‘What kind of a man are you?'

Paul felt Margot's hand close tentatively around his. After a while she said, ‘Would it be hypocritical to sing a few hymns and close your eyes during prayers?'

He got up. Shrugging on his dressing gown he said, ‘I'm going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?'

‘No.' Pulling the covers over her she turned her back on him.

Downstairs, waiting for the kettle to boil he smoked another cigarette and thought about Morgan, just as he had thought of him all afternoon. All afternoon he'd been aroused by thoughts of him, even as Daniel ranted and Margot wept. He thought of Wednesday and smiled in anticipation.

Chapter Eighteen

April, 1920

F
ORGIVE ME
, F
ATHER
. I
T
'
S
been six months since my last confession …

Patrick sighed. He could begin with small sins and work up or he could begin and end with Paul. He glanced towards the confessional box and the few waiting penitents. In the aisle the younger priest genuflected and walked quickly from the church. At least he wouldn't be hearing his confession. He smiled, imagining the boy's jug ears burning crimson.

Paul had laughed at him. ‘You'll be on your knees flogging yourself from now until Christmas. Are you sure you've thought this through?'

‘No one gets flogged.'

‘Pity. Well, do what you have to. It seems pretty pointless to me.' He frowned. ‘Unless you don't intend to fuck me again.'

‘Don't call it fucking.'

‘Patrick, the priest will say go and sin no more or whatever it is they say. If you won't take any notice of him why bother unless you want to end it?'

‘Of course I don't want to end it! I love you, for Christ's sake!'

Paul had sighed, covering his face with his hands. The sheet had gathered at his waist, exposing his chest, and Patrick had reached out, circling his nipple with the edge of his thumbnail. Paul lowered his hands. ‘Will you keep going back to confession, week after week? Turn me into a sin you need absolution from?'

Patrick had kissed his mouth gently. ‘No. You're not a sin.'

‘A sinner, though.'

‘No!' Exasperated, he'd held Paul's face between his hands and forced him to meet his eyes. ‘You're the best person I know. Have known. Ever.'

Paul had grasped his wrists to lift his hands away. ‘Ever and ever, cross your heart? How many people have you known, Patrick?'

‘Armies of them.'

Paul gazed at him intently. ‘Tell me again.'

‘What? That I love you? You know I do.'

‘No …' He'd laughed a little. ‘I know you
love
me.' At last he'd added softly, ‘I love you, too.'

The narrow door to the confessional opened. Realising he was next in line Patrick got up and walked out into the spring sunshine.

The day after their meeting in the Castle & Anchor, Patrick had fixed the leak in the shop roof and thrown the old mattress away. He had taken the brittle, yellowing posters down and painted the walls the colour of milky Camp coffee. From Ellen Avenue he had brought his parents' feather bed and covered it with a Paisley silk shawl. The chimney was swept. Every Wednesday afternoon, after Hetty had gone home, he would light the fire and lie down on the bed to wait, his fingers worrying the shawl's silky tassels as he watched the shadows lengthen on the ceiling. Paul always arrived on time. After three months of Wednesdays his heart still raced when he heard his light, quick steps on the stairs.

Walking back now to the shop through the Wednesday market, Patrick stopped at the sweet stall. Remembering that his lover had a sweet tooth, he bought half a pound of chocolate caramels.

Paul said, ‘What are you giggling at, Wilson?'

‘Nothing, sir.'

It was the end of the school day, the boys noisily jostling one another to get out of the classroom as quickly as possible. Stepping in front of Wilson, Paul held out his hand. ‘Show me.'

‘It's nothing, sir. Honestly.'

Paul snatched the folded piece of paper from his hand. Looking at it he crumpled it and threw it in the waste paper basket beside his desk. ‘You can go.'

‘I didn't draw it, sir.'

‘Get out of my sight.'

The boy dodged past Adam who smiled at Paul from the classroom door. ‘What was all that about?'

‘Do you want to see? It's not a very good likeness, but I think the huge, dead, staring eye will give you a clue who it's suppose to be.'

‘Oh. Well, we can all expect that kind of thing. Best to rise above it.' Stepping inside the classroom he closed the door behind him. ‘So, how are things? Are they behaving themselves, apart from that? There's nothing you're concerned about?' He laughed, embarrassed. ‘No advice needed?'

‘There is one thing you can tell me – how do you get through the day without a very stiff drink?'

Adam sighed. ‘Look, Paul. As head of the English department, the headmaster's asked me to have a word with you.'

Paul glanced at him while packing exercise books into his briefcase. Adam smiled awkwardly. ‘He told me that he passed your class the other day and had to come in.'

‘Yes, he did. I had no idea he could shout so loudly.'

‘Apparently he had to, because of the noise your class was making. He told me you'd lost control.'

Paul looked down at the briefcase: twenty essays on
The Merchant of Venice
to be marked. Shylock's pound of flesh seemed nothing; it would be easy to survive such a wound. He felt Adam's hand light on his arm. ‘Yes, he's right. I lost control of the little bastards.'

‘And it wasn't just that lesson, was it?'

‘Adam, what has the head told you to tell me?'

He coloured. ‘That I'm to keep an eye on you.'

‘Nice choice of words. Anything else?'

‘Paul …' Sighing, he said, ‘I know you're not happy.'

‘Do I have to be happy? Are any of the old duffers in the staffroom happy? There's not much sign of life in there, let alone happiness.'

‘All I'm saying is perhaps you need to think about what you really want to do. Teaching is a calling, after all.'

‘And no one called me, eh?' Snapping the briefcase closed he made to pass.

Adam caught his arm. ‘I miss you, you know.' Awkward still, he repeated, ‘I miss you.'

Paul avoided his gaze. ‘I have to think about Margot. And it's not as if we never meet.'

‘Three, four times a month if I'm lucky? She should let you out more.'

‘She's my wife, not my bloody jailer.' He fought down his irritation, desperate to get out of the school gates so he could have a cigarette. Two cigarettes, one quick after the other. He felt for the case in his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the smooth patch his fingers had worn in the silver.

‘Adam, I have to go.'

‘Right, of course. I'd walk home with you, but I have work to do.'

Paul touched his arm as he brushed past. ‘Goodnight, Adam.'

Lighting a cigarette as soon as he got outside the gates and the possible sight of the head, Paul hesitated, imagining going back inside the school and finding Adam. Adam's new Head of English office was tiny but it had a lock on the door and a window with a thick, dark blind. The fucking could be over in a matter of minutes, the holding and reassuring would take half an hour or less. It would save having to tell more lies to Margot; it would save an evening in Adam's bed, listening to talk of timetables and staffroom gossip. For a little while it would save him from the constant guilt. He drew deeply on the cigarette, thinking about throwing it down to the ground and returning to the dank atmosphere of the school. He thought about Patrick, of being held in the warm, quiet peace of their room, and the cigarettes he could smoke without any guilt at all. He glanced at the barred windows of the school and walked away.

* * *

Hetty swept the shop floor, thinking of Mick. Tonight, as she did most Wednesdays and Sundays, she would tell her mother she was going to the picture house with Elsie and walk instead to Ellen Avenue, letting herself in with the Chinese lion's key and calling his name into the gloom. He would come out from his room, smiling his dazzling smile and she would have such an urge to kiss him it was indecent. He would take off his glasses, folding them into his pocket, and push his fingers through his unruly hair as though he was transforming himself into someone else for her. He would say her name gently, as though surprised that she should have kept her promise and turned up to see him again, as if she could stay away. He was all she thought about; he made weighing sausages and scrubbing bloody trays and standing on her feet all day bearable, because at the end of it all she could go and see him and he would smile as if she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. In his room she was always aware of his bed behind them, so conscious of it her skin tingled. She wondered if there was something wrong with her to want him so badly.

Sweeping up the bits of mince and sawdust she looked up as Patrick walked through from the back of the shop and turned the sign on the door to ‘closed'.

‘There. They're too late for pork pies now.'

‘We've sold out anyway.'

‘Have we? Good.' He smiled absently over his shoulder as he opened the till and began counting the takings. ‘You can go now, Hetty. I've left some ham and bread in the pantry for Mick's supper. There's an egg custard, too, if he wants it.'

She carried the dustpan outside to the yard. From the shop she could hear Patrick humming under his breath. She frowned, picking up the tune at last –
The Boy I Love.
It played in her head as she fetched her coat and walked home.

The baby had kicked and punched all day. Kicked and punched and danced on her bladder so that it seemed she had spent most of the afternoon watching spiders dart from the corners of the outside lavatory. Sitting in the kitchen, her hands fumbling with knit one, purl one, Margot watched the clock on the dresser, waiting for Paul.

Her mother had spent the morning trying to teach her to knit, just as she had tried at the beginning of the war. Then there had been a misshapen balaclava her mother had unpicked and now there was this half-finished bootie, trailing grubbily from its needle. Paul would ignore it unless she said something and then he would kiss her and say it didn't matter. Nothing mattered to Paul, the price of food, the rise in their rent, the unrelenting contempt her father held him in – nothing. She sighed, looking down at the knitting and pulling at it in a desperate attempt to give it shape.

Paul came in through the back door and kissed the top of her head. She caught his scent of outside and cigarettes as he placed his briefcase on the floor beside her. He went into the pantry, coming out with the tin of biscuits. Beginning to eat his way through them, he frowned at her. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Mummy's teaching me to knit.'

‘You haven't forgotten I'm going out tonight?'

‘I don't usually forget, do I?' She looked up at him. There were shadows under his eyes, contrasting darkly against the pallor of his skin. During his nightmares last night he had cried out so loudly the neighbours had hammered on the wall. Laying the knitting down she reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘I don't mind you seeing your friend. He should come here, one evening, and then you wouldn't have to go out in the cold. I could meet him … is he married? He could bring his wife.'

‘He's not married.' Paul drew his hand away from hers. ‘I'll make a start on supper, shall I?'

Outside the discreetly anonymous door at the back of the shop, Paul glanced up and down the alley before taking out his key and turning it in the lock. He locked the door behind him quickly and walked through the yard. Inside, he ran up the stairs. As always, he felt like a criminal.

Patrick was smoking on the bed, his left hand trailing to the floor, his fingers twisting at the dull colours of the rag-rug. As Paul walked in he turned slowly to smile at him and Paul's insides softened with the familiar mixture of love and lust. His beauty was astonishing. It always made him smile.

‘Hello,
sir.
'

Paul knelt beside him and kissed his mouth. ‘Sergeant.'

Touching his face Patrick brushed his thumb gently beneath his good eye. ‘You're all right?'

‘Are you?'

‘I am now.' He made room on the bed and they lay side by side, passing the cigarette between them until it was finished. Eventually Patrick said, ‘I was thinking just now, I don't know when your birthday is.'

Paul laughed. ‘Why? Are you planning a party?' He stood up. As he took off his jacket he said, ‘Your birthday's in June. I remember you were sent a cake and you shared it amongst the men.'

The men had sprawled in the long French grass, their faces lifted to the hot sun as they licked cake crumbs from their fingers. He had approached them, curious about their laughter, jealous of it. Wanting to be included, all he had done was kill the atmosphere as effectively as if he'd thrown a grenade amongst them. Patrick had scrambled to his feet and brushed the unseemly crumbs from his tunic. The sun behind his head had created a halo for him.

Tugging at his tie Paul said, ‘Why do you want to know when my birthday is?'

‘Because I don't know and I feel I should. There are all kinds of things I don't know about you.'

Paul began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘All right. My birthday's in October. I'll be twenty-four. I hate tripe and suet puddings but other than that I'll eat anything. What else? Oh yes. Wednesday is my favourite day of the week.'

‘That's funny. Wednesday is my favourite, too.' After a while Patrick said, ‘You haven't told me anything yet.'

Paul thought of all the things he might tell him: that he had made a better soldier than he had thought he would, or that he was terrified of being blind again. He could confess that he was afraid he would make a bad father, or that every day when he went into school he was sure he would be sacked. He could tell him about Jenkins, of course, although Patrick knew all about that. When he'd first started visiting him in this room he'd imagined he would find the courage to talk about what he'd done, but the time he spent with him had become too precious to be ruined by the past.

Aware of Patrick waiting for a reply he said, ‘My earliest memory is watching my grandfather planting roses in our garden. He died when I was twelve and I still miss him. When I'm gardening I imagine he's there with me.' He smiled. ‘There you are – I like gardening. You didn't know that.'