The Boy I Love (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

P
AUL GOT UP FROM
Patrick's bed. He was thirsty, a raging thirst that often came after sex and was made worse by supper's cheap, salty bacon. Naked, he went into the tiny room on the other side of the hall with its sink and single cold tap. Waiting for the water to run icy cold, he held on to the edge of the sink. Drops splashed his body, cooling him, and he stuck his face under the tap, swallowing greedily.

Patrick watched him from the doorway. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Paul brushed past him into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

Carefully Patrick said, ‘Paul? Come on, you know I hate it when you're like this.'

‘Like what? Too thoroughly fucked to talk to you? Just give me a minute.'

On the bedside table his own face looked out at him from a silver picture frame and Paul turned away to avoid its gaze. The photographer who'd taken the picture owned a magpie, tame as a canary, which had watched him from a perch behind the camera and talked in the high-pitched, grating voice of an effeminate inquisitor. The bird was a prop, showing off its metallic tail feathers in dull pictures of mothers and babies, soldiers and sweethearts. In France, in a photographer's studio, there existed a picture of himself and this bird, man and magpie holding the other's gaze as though spellbound. He hadn't wanted that picture, he'd remembered that birds were unlucky, and had bought only the one of him alone to send home. Keen to keep the magpie photograph, the photographer said it would be displayed in his window and titled
English Officer with Pica.

The mattress dipped as Patrick lay down and Paul tensed in case he should touch him. Patrick liked to hold him after sex, manhandling him roughly until he was comfortable, his body giving off too much heat and scent. Moving away from him he said, ‘I have to go soon.'

‘You've only just got here! You can't go.'

‘I daren't leave Margot for long. She could have the baby at any time.' He lit a cigarette. ‘I'll smoke this and then I'll go.'

Patrick sat up. Taking the cigarette from Paul he crushed it out between his fingers and tossed it on the floor. ‘We haven't finished yet.'

‘Yes, Patrick, we have.' He reached for his cigarettes again but Patrick caught his wrist, pinning his hand above his head.

‘No,
Lieutenant
, we haven't.' He kissed him, forcing his tongue deep into his mouth. Still holding his hand above his head, he reached down with his other hand and grasped Paul's cock. He pulled his face away. ‘You know how quickly I can make you hard again.'

‘Patrick, please. Let me go.'

Patrick smiled slowly. ‘You could always fight me off. Try it.' He gazed into Paul's face. ‘You're not putting up much of a fight, Lieutenant Harris. Now I think that's because you don't want to go anywhere.'

Paul grasped his hair, jerking his head back. ‘I said let me go.'

Patrick smiled. ‘Hair pulling, that's a girl's game, isn't it?'

Digging his fingernails into Patrick's scalp Paul pulled his head back even further. Patrick released him, only to move quickly to kneel astride his body. With a hand on each of Paul's shoulders he kissed his mouth lightly. ‘All right, if you're going to be in this mood I give in. You win.'

He lay down and lit two cigarettes. Passing one to Paul he said, ‘Thanks for helping Mick the other day.'

Paul laughed shortly. ‘We both made total fools of ourselves.' He thought of the way Adam had sneered at him, remembering that he had given him the same look the first time he'd seen him in uniform, as though he couldn't quite believe he would do something so brainlessly patriotic as join the army. ‘Christ,' he'd said. ‘All you need is to grow a moustache and you'll look like every other idiot in the country.'

On the High Street below the window a tram rattled by. The bed creaked as Patrick rolled on to his side to look at him.

‘You and Mick would get on, if you met properly, you have things in common.'

‘Like what?'

‘You were both good soldiers.'

‘He might have been.'

‘He was. And so were you.'

‘And so were you.' Paul got up and began to dress. Buttoning his shirt, he said, ‘The three of us, good, brave and true. We all had a topping time.'

Patrick laughed. ‘Do you remember when we came across that demolished shrine? You should have seen Bill Thompson's face when you flung the Virgin's head into the sky. He was so shocked. I don't know what shocked him most – that it was sacrilegious or that you were so angry. We'd never seen you angry before – poor little Collier almost burst into tears.' Patrick gazed at him. ‘It rained so heavily that day. I just wanted to get you away somewhere dry and quiet and calm you down. Somewhere away from that bloody smirking Jenkins.'

The mention of Jenkins's name made Paul's heart race. Trying not to think about him, he fixed on the memory of that day, how they had been marching all afternoon in the rain before they came across the shell-blasted shrine to the Virgin. He had been at the head of the platoon and had stopped to make sure no one was lagging too far behind. Rain dripped from his helmet and the waterproof cape he wore; he was blinded by rain, made invisible by it. On either side of the road the poplar trees were no more than a grey colour wash, the fields beyond a flood plain. Hunched against the downpour the men filed past him. He'd called out encouragement and sounded like a parody of himself; the little reserve of strength he had left had dwindled almost to nothing. Jenkins had been with the platoon a month. A month had been all the time he'd needed to demolish him.

Draping his tie around his up-turned collar he saw that his hands were trembling cigarette ash to the floor. He felt Patrick's eyes on him.

Patrick smiled. ‘Come back to bed? It's early yet.'

‘I have to get back.'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake!' Patrick sprang from the bed and crossed the room. Holding him at arms' length he frowned. ‘Have I done something wrong?'

‘No.'

‘Then what is it?'

‘Nothing! All right?' Paul shrugged him off. ‘Don't talk about the past, that's all. I don't want to talk about it.'

‘I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes I think it's the only thing we have in common.'

‘We're queer, isn't that enough to have in common?'

‘No! That's like saying – I don't know – two men have lots in common because they're on a sinking ship together … I want more than that …'

Paul stepped past him but Patrick caught his hand. He led him back to the bed and made him sit down. Sitting beside him he took his other hand and held them on his lap. After a while he cleared his throat nervously. ‘I have a confession to make. I went with someone. A man I picked up.'

Paul sighed, wanting only to get away. Patiently he said, ‘Patrick, you don't have to tell me – and don't feel guilty. I understand.'

‘Don't you want me to be faithful?'

‘How can I ask that of you?'

‘I want you to. And I want you to be faithful to me, I don't want there to be any other men.'

‘There aren't.'

‘Is that the truth?' Searching Paul's face he said, ‘The man I picked up had a picture of you by his bed. He kept a box of your letters from France beside it.'

Paul drew his hands away from Patrick's. He tried to picture Patrick and Adam in bed in that squalid room and found himself wondering how the fastidious Patrick had brought himself to lie down on Adam's sheets. He imagined the disgust that Patrick would have struggled to conceal once the sex was over. Feeling weary suddenly he lay down on the bed and pressed his hands into his eyes.

After a while, aware of Patrick watching him, he laughed bleakly. ‘So, you slept with Adam. Well, ours is a small world, I suppose. Was it any good? He can lack imagination in bed, I find.' He lowered his hands to look at him. ‘Although usually I forgive him – he tries so hard to be
good
.'

‘You still see him.' Patrick sounded incredulous.

‘Do you?'

‘No!' Patrick stood up. ‘No, for Christ's sake! It was once, months ago, before you and I started meeting here. Are you still going to his house? How often? Do you love him?'

‘It's none of your business, Patrick.'

‘Yes it is! Of course it is! I love you!' Standing up he said, ‘Do you love him more than you love me?'

Wearily Paul said, ‘Look, I have to go – I promised Margot –'

‘Promise me you won't see him again.'

‘I promise.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Then what can I say, Patrick?' Exasperated suddenly he said, ‘Anyway, what does it matter?'

‘It matters to me! Does he know about us?'

‘No.'

‘Should I tell him?'

‘Oh for God's sake, Patrick. Listen, Adam's just Adam, I've known him for years.' He almost added that there was nothing between them any more because since Sunday it seemed true.

Patrick slumped down on the bed. He held his head in his hands and looked so defeated that Paul knelt in front of him. He touched his knee. ‘Patrick? Come on, you knew I wasn't a blushing virgin.'

‘Were there many before me?

‘A few –'

‘A few?'

‘Yes. I told you.'

Patrick met his gaze. ‘Davies?'

‘What?'

‘Second Lieutenant Davies, the poor little sod who could never take his eyes off you. Did you seduce him?'

‘
Seduce
him?' Paul stared at him in astonishment. ‘For Christ's sake, Patrick – you make it sound as though it was a fucking debutantes' ball! Were we buggering each other between bombardments? Did I
miss
something?'

Patrick bowed his head again. ‘I'm sorry. It was just a stupid rumour. I never believed it, not really.'

‘Not
really
? Do you honestly think so badly of me? You know what things were like over there – you know what the boy was like …' He felt sick suddenly. He remembered how Davies always seemed about to cry, how he'd wanted to offer his usual hollow encouragement only to be repelled by his snivelling. Eventually he found he was unable to even look at him, afraid that the boy's weakness might break his own puny resolve. He knew that Davies watched his every move. Ironically he'd believed he'd hated him. Agitated he got up and walked across the room, only to turn to face Patrick again. ‘What was said?'

‘That you and he … it was rubbish, everyone knew it was a lie – I shouldn't have said anything, it was only because I felt so jealous –'

‘What was said!'

Patrick hesitated. Avoiding his gaze he said quickly, ‘That you were found together, in your bunk. It was nonsense, of course it was. Jenkins was a liar – no one believed what Jenkins said.'

Jenkins. Afraid his legs would buckle he leaned against the wall. Patrick got up and stood a few feet from him. Cautiously he said, ‘Paul? Are you all right?'

Paul wanted to say yes, that there was nothing to worry about, that he could push Jenkins from his mind if he really tried hard enough, but the words wouldn't come. Jenkins was suddenly alive and in their room. Wanting to run, instead he felt Patrick pull him into his arms as though he thought he was going to fall.

At first the pains made her smile. At last something was happening and Margot paced round and round the kitchen table, occasionally using a chair to support herself through a contraction. She looked at the clock. Soon Paul would be home and he could ask their next-door neighbour to fetch the midwife. Excited and afraid at once, she stopped pacing to double up against a stronger pain. Her waters broke.

Margot stared at the stain spreading over the floor, truly scared now. She remembered what she'd discovered in the book on pregnancy and knew that she needed help. Between pains, she slowly made her way next door.

‘Mam!' The child who answered her knock stared at her as he shouted for his mother. Supporting herself against the doorframe, Margot tried to smile at him. From the kitchen came the smell of steak and kidney pie and a woman wiping her hands on an apron. The woman frowned. ‘What's up?'

‘I think my labour's started.'

The child giggled, covering his mouth with his hand, and the woman clipped him round the head. Taking her arm she said, ‘Come on, love, let's get you home. You'll be all right, I'll look after you.' She turned to the boy. ‘Run round to Miss Rowe's, tell her to come straight away. You hear? Straight away.'

Helping her up the stairs her neighbour said, ‘Where's that lad of yours?'

Margot gasped for breath, lowering herself painfully on to the bed. Finally able to speak she said, ‘He should be here soon.'

‘Do you want me to send Alfie to look for him when he's fetched the midwife?'

Another pain came and she clenched her body against it. As it passed she said, ‘He'll be here … I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.'

‘Moira.' She smiled. ‘Do you think that daft husband of mine has had the sense to turn the gas off on that pie?'

‘I'm so sorry to be a nuisance.'

Moira laughed. ‘Don't you worry about it!' Closing her eyes tight Margot felt the other woman's arm around her, helping her up the bed. ‘Don't hold your breath, love, try and breathe, it'll soon be all over.'

Patrick led Paul to the bed and made him lie down. Kneeling on the floor he said, ‘I thought you were going to faint. Are you all right?' When Paul didn't answer he said helplessly, ‘Maybe have a sleep, eh? You'll feel better.' Paul closed his eyes and Patrick sat back on his heels, ready to watch over him on his knees all night as a penance for his jealousy, and for being such a fool as to mention that little bastard's name.

He remembered how Jenkins had whispered, ‘I can't do this, Harris. I can't.'