The Boy I Love (3 page)

She hesitated. Paul got up and waited expectantly in front of her. It seemed rude to refuse him. Getting to her feet she said, ‘All right. A cup of tea would be nice.'

* * *

In Robinson's Department Store café
they were shown to a window table. As Paul passed other tables Margot noticed how heads turned to watch him go by, their conversations pausing only to resume in more hushed tones. She felt like a chief mourner at a funeral, ostracised from normal society. For a moment the urge to reach out and take his hand was so strong she curled her own hands into fists inside her mittens.

They sat down and he glanced at a menu. ‘Toasted teacake? How about muffins? They used to do marvellous cream cakes here. Éclairs, meringues, that kind of thing.'

‘Nothing for me, thank you.'

He closed the menu and placed it down beside him. ‘Just tea, then.'

‘You have something.'

A waitress hovered, pencil poised. Paul's fingers went to the eye-patch. ‘Tea for two, please.'

Margot took off her hat and gloves and placed them on the chair beside her. Self-conscious suddenly, she glanced out of the window to the street. Three floors below them, the lamps on the market stalls twinkled. A hurdy-gurdy man turned the corner into view. She could just make out the red of his monkey's fez as the man stopped his machine and began to wind its handle. She heard Paul strike a match and turned to look at him.

He was beautiful, as beautiful as she remembered Robbie to be, although his dark hair was cut brutally short, his skin pale against the black of the eye-patch. If she were honest she would say he was more beautiful than his brother. He made her feel large and solid. She looked down at the starched white tablecloth.

Paul said, ‘There's a monkey dancing in the street.' He was looking out of the window, his face reflected in the dark glass. ‘I think its owner only has one arm. Poor devil.' He turned to her. ‘I've been wondering what I should do for work. Perhaps I should ask him where I might buy a monkey.'

The waitress came back with the tea and Paul turned to stare out of the window again as she set out the cups and saucers. Margot waited until she had gone before asking, ‘What if there are no monkeys to be had?'

He turned to face her. ‘Trays of matches? Or newspapers. I could sell the
Gazette
outside the station.'

‘That spot's already taken.'

‘Then I don't know.'

‘What do you want to do?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What did you want to do before the war?'

He frowned as though trying to remember. At last he said, ‘I should go and give that man some money. He'll be freezing, he should get some hot food.'

Margot looked out of the window. The hurdy-gurdy monkey had climbed on to the man's shoulder; the music had stopped and they were walking away. An excited band of children ran after them and Margot found herself remembering the picture of Christ and the children in her father's study. She closed her eyes, the hot metal smell of the teapot making her feel suddenly sick.

Gently Paul said, ‘Are
you really all right, Margot?'

‘I'm pregnant.'

She half expected him to change the subject, to pretend not to hear just as her father had. Instead he said flatly, ‘Oh.'

‘Oh?' She almost laughed. ‘You said oh!'

‘Did Rob know?'

She looked away, unable to face his concern, wishing she hadn't told him but at the same time wanting to talk about Robbie's baby. She forced herself to look at him.

‘You won't tell anyone, will you?'

‘What will you do?'

‘Sit in a hot bath and drink gin? I tried, it doesn't work.'

The gin had tasted of perfume and had cost most of her savings. She hadn't allowed herself bath salts. The water was so hot she had cried out, half-drunk, self-pitying mews of pain as her feet were scalded. She'd grasped the side of the bath, arms quivering with the strain of supporting her bottom just out of the water. When she finally sat down she expected to see blood cloud between her legs. That evening, red-faced and giddy, she'd almost told her mother.

Hesitantly Paul said, ‘Margot … have you seen a doctor?'

‘Your father?' She heard her voice rise incredulously.

‘There are other doctors.'

‘I don't know any.'

‘Margot …'

‘Stop saying my name like that!'

‘What will your parents say?'

‘That God always listens? Do you think he does?'

‘No.' The sharpness in his voice made her look at him. He was paler than before. His hand went to the eye-patch, all five fingers checking its position. Just as sharply he said, ‘They'll send you off somewhere, won't they? The baby will be taken away?'

She thought of nuns, of the black crucifix on the white wall and the high, barred windows of a room she had imagined so often it had become real. A tear rolled down her face. She wiped it away quickly but he had already taken a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it across the table.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry.'

She laughed, snivelling into his handkerchief. ‘I cry all the time. Haven't you noticed?'

‘Do you want to give the baby up?'

His handkerchief smelt of Robbie. She wanted to cover her face with it and weep great abandoned sobs that would have the fox-furred old ladies on the next table tut-tutting in disapproval. Instead she stifled her tears, making her sinuses ache.

Softly he repeated, ‘Margot, do you want to give the baby up?'

She looked down, watching her fingers crumple the handkerchief. ‘What else can I do? What? There's nothing else I can do!' Her voice rose and he seemed to cringe. Taking a breath she said, ‘I shouldn't have told you. I'd better go.'

As she made to get up he caught her hand. ‘Don't go.'

He sounded too much like Robbie, just like Robbie when he said, ‘Did I hurt you?' She remembered how he'd rolled on to his back, his fingers scrambling to button his flies. The uneven ground bruised her back through his coat; a smell like flour and water paste leaked from between her legs.

She pulled her hand away from Paul's, desperate now to get away. ‘I have to go.'

‘Then let me walk you home.'

She nodded, too concerned with the nausea watering her mouth to protest.

He'd decided almost as soon as she'd told him about the baby that he would ask her to marry him. All the way down the stairs from the café he wondered how she would react, although it seemed an obvious solution to him; he even felt a sense of relief. He thought about the ordinariness of being married, remembering the fellow officers who'd shown him their carefully staged photographs of their wives and babies. He remembered that occasionally he had envied them, imagining an easy, undemanding state of domesticity, safe and shameless. Their wives probably respected them, looked to them for support; at the very least there had been a settled air about such men, they'd seemed calmer and more self-assured, although some of them were younger than he was. Most of them spoke to him of their wives with smiling pride. He had written to one such wife, her photograph, salvaged from her husband's corpse, propped beside him. Struggling with inadequate sentiments, he had finally turned the photo face down, feeling as though he was trespassing in a world he knew nothing about. His letter was brief and no doubt of little comfort. By then, words had already begun to fail him; even his letters to Adam were becoming shorter.

He thought of Adam, his reaction. Perhaps he would see such a marriage as a smoke screen for their relationship, a trick to play on the gullible. He glanced at Margot and at once felt an overwhelming pity for her. He had an idea what kind of husband he would make.

The market traders were dismantling their stalls as they walked along the darkening High Street. Behind them someone dropped part of a stall's metal skeleton, the iron pole clattering to the pavement with a din like broken church bells. Paul felt his heart leap. Fighting the urge to throw himself to the ground, he stopped and lit a cigarette, shielding the match with cupped, shaky hands. Margot stopped too, glancing away in embarrassment when he caught her eye.

He smiled awkwardly. ‘Still not good with loud noises.'

‘Robbie told me about how poorly you were.'

Poorly.
That was a nice, Robbie, word. ‘Well, I'm better now. Officially.'

Looking along the street again she said hurriedly, ‘You really don't have to walk me home.' Quicker still she added, ‘Don't tell anyone, about what I told you.'

On impulse he took her hand. The words came on a rush of breath. ‘I could marry you.'

She stared at him. ‘You?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's ridiculous!'

‘Why?'

‘
Why?
We hardly know each other. Why
would you want to do such a thing?'

‘Why did you tell me?'

‘What do you mean? I don't know why!' She seemed lost for words. At last she said, ‘It wasn't so you'd propose! It wasn't that! I'd never have thought of such a thing.'

‘I would have, if I were you.' He glanced away, awkward now, his small store of bravado exhausted. He watched the market traders load their trucks, the clangs of metal poles punctuating the noise of her breathing. Eventually he forced himself to look at her. ‘I'm sorry if I've upset you. It seemed the best solution.'

‘You'd really marry me?'

‘Yes, if it meant we could keep Robbie's baby.'

Her face was white in the darkness, her relief obvious, and she stifled a cry with her hand. Putting his arm around her shoulders he held her as she wept.

Chapter Three

‘D
EAR
L
IEUTENANT
H
ARRIS
,' PATRICK wrote. ‘Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.' He paused, tapping the pen against his lower lip. Should he congratulate him? He read the words again; they were too formal, too distant. And how should he address him now he had lost his army rank?
Dear Paul.
Patrick smiled to himself.
Dear Paul, remember me?

‘Mr Morgan!' From the front of the shop Hetty shouted, ‘Mr Morgan, we need more sausages.'

The shop was packed. A queue snaked past the window. Dull, patient faces stared in at the trays of pork pies and the grinning, winking plaster of Paris pig that was Morgan's High Class Butcher's
mascot. Putting the pen down, Patrick walked through from the back with the sausages and the queue shuffled forward. A few of the women smiled at him. He smiled back obligingly.

Pointedly Hetty said, ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan.'

Patrick looked to the next customer. ‘Mrs Taylor. How can I help?'

From beneath the rim of her black straw hat Mrs Taylor eyed him suspiciously. ‘Not like you to be so cheerful, Patrick Morgan.'

He thought of Paul, suddenly brought back to life by that short marriage announcement in the
Gazette,
and he smiled. ‘Mrs Taylor, today I've reason to be.'

At six o'clock Hetty turned the sign to ‘closed' and leaned back on the bolted door. ‘Oh my aching feet.'

Patrick laughed. Counting the takings, he glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Go home. Give them a good soak.'

‘I'll stay, if you like. Help you clear up.' Standing beside him she said shyly, ‘It's been a good day.'

He handed her a ten-shilling note.

‘What's this for?' She frowned at him.

‘Christmas bonus.'

‘It's too much.'

‘As you said, we've had a good day. Besides, you deserve it. I couldn't do without you.'

The note was folded into her skirt pocket. Without meeting his eye she said, ‘Thanks.'

He sensed her hesitation. Quickly, before she could say anything more, Patrick said, ‘See you bright and early in the morning?' He turned back to the till. After a moment he heard the door close and knew that she had gone.

Slamming the till drawer he thrust the money into a cloth bag, folding it so that it would fit neatly in the inside pocket of his coat. He wouldn't go home, not straight away. He'd go to the Castle & Anchor
and drink two pints, one after the other, and then a whisky to warm him. He would think about the letter he'd started. The excitement he'd been trying to disguise all day burst out of him and his laughter echoed off the white-tiled walls.

It had been Sergeant Thompson who first pointed out Lieutenant Paul Harris. Walking to the pub Patrick remembered how, on the day he joined Paul's platoon, Thompson had leaned close, lighting their cigarettes behind a cupped hand.

‘See that officer?' Thompson had nodded in Paul's direction. ‘Fucking little Nancy.'

A Very light lit the indigo sky, showing up Thompson's filthy smile. Patrick stared into the exploding darkness, excitement stirring inside him. Mirroring Thompson's leer he said, ‘Bent over for you, has he?'

Thompson threw back his head and laughed, ‘I'd split him in two, man.'

Smiling now, Patrick pushed open the door of the Castle & Anchor
and was bombarded with light and noise. He remembered Thompson naked in the de-lousing queue. He'd scratched his balls with all the casualness of someone who knows he's watched. Patrick had gone on watching, knowing he was above suspicion.

‘Patrick. What can I get you?' Maria held a polished glass up to the smoky light, squinting at streaks. ‘Pint?'

Patrick nodded. In the mirror behind the bar he saw that he was still smiling – an unfamiliar expression was suspended maniacally between the
S
and
T
inscribed in the glass. Placing the beer in front of him, Maria jerked her head towards a group of men in the corner of the bar.

‘Mick's holding court again.'

His smile disappeared. ‘Who brought him this time?'

‘Jack Watts, but he says he hasn't the strength to push him back home.' She laughed. ‘Mick organized a draw to see who'd get that honour.'

‘There's no need for that now.'

‘Oh, let someone else do some work for a change!' She turned to the bottles ranged in front of the mirror and poured a small measure of Scotch into a glass. ‘Here. On the house.' She glanced towards the group of men, wincing against their burst of loud, dirty laughter. ‘Go home, Patrick. Get a bit of peace before they wheel him back.'

He downed the Scotch in one. Picking up his pint he turned towards the still laughing men. ‘Wish us luck, Maria.'

She smiled grimly. ‘Good luck, pet.'

In confession he'd told Father Greene he hated his twin brother. Behind the intricately carved screen the priest had remained silent for a while before sighing, ‘You must pray for patience, Patrick. Remember Mick's difficulties.' There had been no penance. He had wanted a penance. Greene's leniency had seemed like an insult.

I don't hate him, Patrick thought as he sat beside his brother's wheelchair. Not hate, exactly. Mick grinned drunkenly at him, lifting his glass and clinking it against Patrick's.

‘I'm pissed.'

‘I'd never have guessed.'

Leaning towards him Mick said in a loud, mock whisper, ‘I also
need
a piss.'

Men on either side of them shifted uncomfortably. Patrick finished his pint and stood up, manoeuvring the chair around the table, careless of feet that weren't quick enough to get out of harm's way. As he wheeled him towards the pub doors, Mick turned back to his drinking partners. Putting on a high-pitched, frightened voice he called, ‘Help! The bastard's kidnapping me!'

Awkward laughter followed them into the street, where Patrick stopped and walked around the chair to button Mick's coat against the cold.

Sullenly Mick said, ‘I said I wanted a piss. I didn't say I wanted to go home.'

Patrick looked up at him. ‘Don't call me a bastard in front of other people.'

‘Can I call you a bastard at home?' He groped in his pocket and took out cigarettes. Without offering them to Patrick he lit one and blew smoke into his face. ‘Can I call you a bastard now?'

Patrick began pushing the chair towards home. ‘Did Hetty's mother come?'

‘That useless bitch, she knows I hate liver and onions. I threw the disgusting mess at the wall.'

Patrick sighed and wondered if he really had, and if Annie had stayed long enough to clean it up. Carefully he asked, ‘Did she stay?'

Reading his mind Mick said, ‘Don't worry, Jack's dog ate it. Cleaned up better than that old hag would.'

‘What will we do if she refuses to come back?'

Mick hunched further into the chair. After a while he said, ‘I can look after myself.'

Patrick stopped at number six, Ellen Avenue, unlatching the gate and wheeling the chair up the black and white tiled path of their Edwardian villa. Stooping for the key hidden beneath the smiling Chinese lion that guarded the front door, he turned to Mick.

‘Hungry?'

Mick nodded.

‘Scrambled egg and bacon, how's that sound?' He tipped the chair back, lifting its front wheels over the step, and pushed his brother into the dark house.

Preparing supper, Patrick added up the months since he'd last seen Paul. It had been thirteen months in all, over a year of missing him.

He'd been one of the lucky ones, discharged only five months after the end of the war. He'd returned to Thorp, to his childhood home, empty since his parents' deaths in a road accident a year earlier. Walking through the house he'd thrown the windows open, imagining he could still smell his father's brassy scent, that odd mix of fresh blood and copper coins. In the garden he'd made a bonfire of their clothes, even the brushes and combs on the dressing table that were still matted with his mother's hair. As he'd carried bundles of their belongings to the fire, he'd fantasised that he was preparing the house for Paul's return, that they could live together quietly and that no one would think it unnatural or improper that he should take care of him.

As it was, he brought Mick back from hospital, to a house cleared of their parents' effects. Even the ashes of the bonfire had been raked over.

He'd begun on the shop next, scrubbing away the stink of its neglect with bleach and boiling water. A pile of sacks squirmed with maggots, the rotting hessian disintegrating under his brush. Maggots and all were swilled down the yard drain, along with the sweetly rotten residue from a butcher's shop that hadn't been properly cleaned since he'd joined the army in 1915. He saw a rat escaping beneath the yard wall and, sure there'd be more, laid down poison, his lip curling in disgust as he remembered the rats in France.

When the first batch of pigs was delivered the flurry of activity attracted old business associates of his father, the pretence of paying their respects a thin cloak for their curiosity. The animals' squeals drowned out their rheumy-eyed reminiscences and he'd allowed them to drone on about how sorry they were about his parents. Some even bothered to be sorry about Mick, too. As he poleaxed pigs, as he disembowelled and dismembered, he wanted to tell them to save their breath, he wouldn't do business with any of them: they were all too tainted by association with his father.

With Hetty newly employed behind the shop counter, Patrick went to bed and slept for fifteen hours. He'd dreamt of Paul, bloodied and disfigured in Thompson's arms.

Patrick arranged bacon and scrambled egg on to plates. About to call Mick, he hesitated, thinking of Paul's marriage announcement in the paper. The wedding was to take place on Christmas Eve, a week away. There was nothing to stop him going to the church. He would see him, even if only from a distance. Wondering why he hadn't thought of it before, he smiled to himself. His appetite killed by excitement, he spooned more of the eggs on to Mick's plate and called his brother to the table.

‘I dreamt my legs grew back last night.' Mick looked up from mopping bacon fat from his plate with a slice of bread. ‘I dreamt Mam was still alive and when I saw her I just got up and walked.' As though he had just thought of it he said, ‘Let's visit the grave tomorrow. Take some flowers.'

‘If you want.'

Patrick began to stack the plates as Mick lit a cigarette and deftly manoeuvred his chair away from the table and over to the fire. Reaching up to the mantelpiece he took down a book and began to read. He became absorbed almost at once, his expression becoming softer and losing the anger that so often animated his face. About to carry the plates through to the kitchen Patrick asked, ‘Can I get you anything?'

Mick barely glanced at him. ‘Nothing, thank you.'

‘Call me when you want to go to bed.'

In the kitchen Patrick held a plate under the running tap, remembering Paul sleeping beneath a lilac tree. He remembered squatting beside him, watching as his chest rose and fell, fighting the urge to kiss his mouth, to run his hands beneath his shirt. He breathed the scent of white lilac blossom, heavy as gas on the warm air. Grass grew high, brushing pollen against his puttees and his cock's aching hardness. He groaned.

Paul woke, squinting against the sun. Drowsily he said, ‘Sergeant Morgan?' His hand went to shade his eyes as he sat up. He frowned. ‘Morgan?'

‘Captain Hawkins wants you, sir.'

He knew he sounded sullen. His Thorp accent made even ordinary words sound like a threat. Paul had fallen back on to the grass, pushing his hand over his face as if to rub the sleep away. ‘I'll be along in a moment, Sergeant.'

Patrick hesitated, still squatting at his side. Paul had frowned up at him. ‘Was there something else?'

Patrick loosened his grip on the still running tap. It had left a star shaped imprint on his palm and he pressed it hard against his erection. Thinking about Paul he could bring himself to climax in no time, come right here at the kitchen sink and swill the evidence straight down the drain. Remembering Mick in the next room he turned off the tap and began on the day's dirty dishes.

Hetty said, ‘What do you want for Christmas, Mam?'

‘Peace and quiet.'

‘What would you like really? I've seen a lovely scarf in Robinson's.'

Her mother grunted, ‘You keep your money.'

Hetty fingered the ten-shilling note in her pocket. The scarf was thick and soft, a rich navy blue; it would go with her mother's wardrobe of black; it wouldn't upset her invented rules of mourning. All the same she knew her mother wouldn't wear it. Taking the note out, she placed it on the kitchen table.

‘He gave me this as a bonus.'

As her mother held the money up to the light Hetty laughed. ‘He's a butcher, Mam, not a master forger.'

She placed the note down on the table again where it looked dull and insignificant against the bright greens and reds of the new oilcloth. ‘It's got something nasty stuck to it.'

Hetty hadn't noticed the small clump of sausage meat sticking to one corner. She picked it off. ‘It'll still spend.'

‘Then spend it on yourself.' She turned back to the stove where her husband's supper of mince and onions was boiling noisily.

‘What about Dad. What would he like?'

Her mother laughed harshly. ‘A crate of beer?' Looking at the clock on the dresser she said, ‘He promised he'd be home by now. He'll be sat in that pub, laughing and joking. How can he laugh and joke, eh? How can he behave like … like …'

‘It's his way of coping, Mam.'

Her mother stared at her scornfully. ‘
Coping
! How do I cope, eh? How do I cope with it?'

Badly, Hetty thought. Next to the clock her brother Albert's photograph was draped in a square of black crepe. In the parlour a candle was kept burning in front of another, larger photo of Albert in uniform, a crucifix propped against the ornate frame. Bertie's shrine, her father called it once, and never mentioned it again.