by Sam Lock
I loved Mrs Gibson, and often wished that she could have lived with us in the house, so that, whenever I felt the need of it, I could have run to her for comfort. But she had a family of her own to care for and look after – Bill, her husband, and also her two sons, Tom and Paul, both of whom were a little older than myself and who used to treat me as if I were some kind of toy. By which I mean that they never called me by my name, and used to push me over whenever they felt like doing so – not in a rough or violent manner, but just playfully – and then laugh their heads off as they saw me scrambling to my feet.
We never became friends, exactly. There was always a distance between us. Perhaps, I used to think, it was because their mother worked for us, and because my father was quite a figure in the town – in that as well as being an alderman of the borough, he had at one time been a local justice of the peace – which, due to the small size of our community, I am sure must have impressed them. Yet it was through Amy’s elder son, Tom, that I first learned about sex: what its purpose was; how it functioned – which, until I was almost twelve years old, had remained a total mystery to me.
I can recall how some of the older boys at school – some of the prefects, perhaps – would flick at one another with their towels when changing after a shower or after a swim: either in the school’s new swimming pool, or sometimes, in summer, when they had gone for a dip in a nearby river where I would be watching them from the banks. And I had become conscious of the fact that as they were stepping out of their bathing costumes they would all be sporting erections, which they would then make jokes about and display proudly to each other; one boy having such an enormous one that he behaved in an almost lordly fashion among the rest, climbing on to a bench in the changing room, or on to one of the rocks that lined the river, to tower commandingly above them.
One day – this I remember as also being in summer, because the kitchen door was wide open and Amy was bewailing the fact that she was having to cook on the old, black range, and that the gas cooker she had been wanting had still not been installed – Tom, Amy’s son, arrived at the house on his bicycle.
As soon as he came bouncing in I knew that he had come to the house with a purpose, and I quickly learned that it was bound up with the news – told to him by his mother, no doubt – that I had been given a bicycle for my birthday.
He didn’t greet his mother. He just walked across the room and silently watched her kneading some dough. And she – Amy – didn’t greet him, which seemed to be a habit of their family. Then Tom suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Come on. We’re going out. For a ride. On our bikes.’
I looked at his mother anxiously. Not because I wasn’t allowed to go out, or for any reason such as that, but because I half feared that her son’s sudden insistence that the two of us should go off together had perhaps made her suspicious. Suspicious of what, I didn’t know. But she simply paused in what she was doing, then looked at us and said, in a very direct, simple manner, ‘Be back by four the pair of you. And if you’re going to the woods,’ she called out after us as we left, ‘don’t make yourselves too mucky.’
I said nothing to this in reply – not even goodbye. I just did what I knew by instinct I had to do; which was to collect my bicycle from the shed in our backyard, then join Tom, who had already opened the yard door and was waiting for me outside.
‘Come on!’ he repeated urgently, as he sprang swiftly on to his saddle and sped away; and I did my best to imitate and to follow him.
Why had Amy thought we might be going to the woods? I often wonder. Did she know things that other people didn’t know? Sometimes, when I used to look at her – moving about the house, perhaps; or pausing at one of the upstairs windows in order to clean an ear with one of her fingers (which was something she often did) – I had this sense of there being some mystery attached to her: that she was knowledgeable in some way that my parents were not; and that I wasn’t either, for that matter, and perhaps will never be.
As I have indicated, the town we lived in was quite small, and was situated in the south-west corner of England – in Somerset, in fact – and close to the open spaces of Exmoor. Which meant that immediately surrounding us there were deep country lanes and twisting, turning by-roads that led off in different directions: quite a few of them to the isolated farms and villages that were dotted about the area, and some to the moors, which passed between dense clusters of fir trees lining the road at either side that had been planted for their timber. And it was in the direction of one of these that Tom led the two of us on that sunny, summer day, at times more or less standing on the pedals of his machine as the road suddenly steepened and we left the town behind us.
Eventually, and after some effort, we reached the heart of one of these densely wooded valleys, where the road had quickly transformed itself into a shaded tunnel of green. Then Tom stopped, dismounted from his bicycle, and dragged it off with him into the woods.
Knowing I was meant to do the same, I trailed with my bicycle after him as he rapidly pushed his way down a steep incline that dipped towards a small river, the thin, silvery line of which we could clearly see below us. Around us the sturdy trunks of the trees soared to a great height before bursting into the dark spread of fir that had sought and had found the light; and that now formed a vaulted canopy above us.
About halfway down this slope we came to a narrow path, just visible among the riot of moss and fern that was flourishing here and there in great patches throughout the wood. And it was towards one of these that Tom made his way, as if heading for one particular spot with which he was familiar.
We had now left the path and I noticed that the ground beneath us was less damp; also that there was no longer any moss, only the tough, frond-shaped leaves of the wild ferns – some almost knee-high – that had now begun to envelop us, so that Tom was forced at times to push them aside to enable us to pass.
Tom hadn’t looked back at me once; hadn’t turned to smile or to say a word – he just pushed silently on, knowing that I was dutifully following him. Then, when we reached a very remote part of the wood, but from where we could still catch glimpses of the river, Tom threw down his bicycle, removed the light tweed jacket he was wearing, threw that also upon the ground, then quickly stretched himself out upon it with his hands clasped beneath his neck.
Again I aped his action – or aped the first part of it, at least. A little clumsily this time, I am afraid, since I allowed my bicycle to tumble away from me and to make a noisy clatter.
‘Lie down,’ said Tom, a little gruffly.
Again I was obedient; not quite knowing why I should be, since, although I didn’t think of Tom as a friend exactly, I certainly wasn’t afraid of him or in awe of him in any way.
‘Close your eyes,’ he said, once I was lying next to him, staring up at the vast dome of fir that arched its way above us.
‘Close your eyes,’ he repeated, raising himself on to one elbow and then leaning across to look down at me.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘Just close your eyes.’ So I did; and from the noises he made I could tell that he had returned to his former position, and that the two of us now again lay side by side, surrounded by all that greenery.
It was a strange moment for me, for I had never been alone with Tom before and I had certainly never been with any other boy to such an isolated spot in the woods. I can still hear the distant sound of the river; the occasional flutter of some small bird as it darted its way through the trees above; and the slight ticking noise of some insect that I could hear was moving close to me; when – again by the sound of his movements – I could tell that Tom had once more raised himself on to one elbow, and was looking down at me again.
I was sure that his eyes were open, but the spell he appeared to have cast prevented me from opening my own. And it was then that he placed one of his rough-skinned hands upon my stomach and began unbuttoning my shirt.
I kept still, thinking that that was
what I was meant to do, and feeling oddly safe and secure in the belief that what Tom was doing, or what he was about to do, was in no way going to be harmful.
‘Push up,’ he said, as he suddenly flicked aside my unbuttoned shirt and began to pull down my trousers.
‘Push your backside up,’ he said, when he realised that I hadn’t understood what he had meant. ‘That’s right,’ he added, as I obeyed him.
‘Makes it easier,’ he said as he took hold of my trousers with both hands and pulled them down to below my knees, dragging my underpants with them.
And it was then that I became conscious of my having an erection; and that I was not different, as I had half feared I might be, from the boys I had seen at school. I still didn’t open my eyes, but as Tom took hold of my penis and slowly began to stroke it, I was suddenly overcome by an unusual sense of pleasure. Instead of being nervous, as I was inclined to be in situations that were new, I felt quite the reverse. I didn’t care where I was, or whether what Tom was doing might be right or wrong, I just felt that it was something he was meant to do: that it was something that had to happen; and that if Tom had not been doing it, then, at some other time, and in some similar private spot, someone else – some other boy – would be doing it instead.
Tom didn’t coax me to a speedy climax, much as I longed to be released. He first withdrew his hand in order to unbutton his own shirt and trousers. ‘You all right?’ he asked, as he pushed his slacks down over his thighs. ‘Yes,’ I muttered in reply, now half opening my eyes and squinting up at him and at the dark curl that had suddenly tumbled over his forehead; and he then took hold of one of my hands and drew it towards the fuzzy hair of his groin; then on to place it upon his own stiff penis, which he made us stroke together.
And so it was, and in the way I have no doubt that so many young boys first experience it, that I witnessed for the first time the quick relief of ejaculation, as Tom’s body began to shudder and then began to release its sudden spurts of sticky semen.
‘Now you,’ Tom murmured, as he rolled swiftly on to his side; and then, within seconds, brought me to a similar point of climax.
That afternoon in the woods is fixed permanently in my mind, the memory of it bound up with time for ever. How extraordinary it is, I sometimes tell myself, that we should be blessed with such powers of recall, and be able to preserve and store so many different sounds and images. For certainly animals cannot do that. They say that an elephant never forgets, and I have read somewhere, in some book, that one particular breed of goose is known to have memory patterns that can stay with them and affect their behaviour for years. But there are no signs, it seems to me, of animals being conscious of their reflections in the way that we are able to be. When I look into the eyes of a dog, for instance, or those of a cat, I see that the past and present are more or less fused into one and that their dreamlife is in some way continuous; and it is only their desire to hunt or to play, or to simply stretch and make themselves comfortable, that guides and governs the consciousness of the hours when they are awake.
II
I should be saying something now about my father. Having branded him a tyrant – which, although it is harsh, is none the less what he was – I wish I could be painting a fuller, more rounded picture of him. As yet, however, I cannot do that. For if I am to tell my story in a really honest fashion, then I shall need to be generous towards my father and not present him as having been simply some kind of ogre. I need to see his point of view, to believe that the negative effect he had upon me when I was small was not an intentional one. That he was not evil: but that he was simply lacking a certain quality of human decency; and that a concern for others – or at least for others who were close to him, such as my mother and myself – was something quite beyond him. But as I say, I cannot do that yet. The words simply aren’t there. They simply aren’t available. So that portrait, if I am to paint it, will have to wait.
But what I can write about – and what, indeed, I must – is this business of stealing, which I have mentioned twice, and which I have also said is still a part of my life. This, I must quickly add, is not something of which I am proud. I never speak to people about it; never boast to others about the skills I have developed over the years in the art of taking things that do not belong to me. Yet here I am in this flat, surrounded by all my spoils – or by quite a lot of them, at least. And attached to each purse, each bag, each book (I have a particular obsession regarding these), there is a memory; so that if I just look at them, or if, as I occasionally do, I handle them or touch them, the moment when I stole them then returns. Everything – the place, the time, the excitements caused by the compulsion in my mind – flies back to me out of the past, and lives again in the present.
For instance, once, on a train, I noticed a purse lying free on a seat that appeared to have tumbled accidentally out of its owner’s bag or pocket. And the moment I saw it – silently, passively waiting, as if fixing itself in my mind – I knew that I would soon have to find a means of making that article mine.
This was on a train going to Salisbury, as I recall, where I was intending to spend a few days with a friend; and this too was in the summer, because although it was already late in the day, the sun had not yet set, and there were low beams of sunlight streaming in through the carriage windows. I must have been in my early twenties at the time, and the compulsion from which I suffer had not yet begun to possess me in the way that it possesses me today; but I can still sense the thrill, the excitement, the almost electric vibrations in my mind, as I worked out within seconds what I must do; and as I then rose hurriedly from my seat, and made my way along the aisle of the carriage, as if on my way to the toilet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to an elderly gentleman, as I deliberately knocked against his shoulder.
‘It’s quite all right,’ he replied, in a very friendly manner. He looked up at me, and I smiled graciously in return; then at the lady who sat facing him, and who, I had quickly decided, must be the owner of the purse.
‘Just tripped,’ I said. ‘So sorry,’ as I affected to regain my balance.
‘It’s quite all right,’ the man repeated, again with a smile, and I bent quickly down in the aisle and pretended to be fixing the lace of one of my shoes.
‘Is something wrong?’ the lady asked.
‘Not really,’ I answered, with a quick grin, and with one swift movement of my hand I pushed the purse close to the seat’s edge, then caused it to fall on to the floor; which neither the man nor the woman seemed to notice: the sound of it being smothered by the general rattling noise of the train, and the sight of it by the fuss that I had been making over my shoe.
I knew, for this was something I had learned, that what I must not do was to take the purse immediately. That I had simply to be patient and wait for the train to stop. If the purse had not been missed by then, I felt sure that the owner would leave the train without it and that the prize would become mine.
Which is exactly what happened. By chance my timing had been perfect, in that I had happened to make my way to the toilet as the train was about to arrive at Salisbury, which had helped to make my action seem a natural one. On my return, as I made my way back to my seat, I again smiled at the elderly couple, in order to divert their attention a second time, and so prevent their being able to gather themselves together before the train came to a halt. Which meant that they had to more or less scramble out of the carriage, the man having hurriedly brought their suitcases down from a luggage rack.
From the shadow of the train’s half-curtained window I sat watching them as they moved off along the platform, chatting brightly to each other, and threading their light summer raincoats through their arms. They were looking ahead for someone they were obviously expecting to meet them; then, on seeing them, they hurried along more quickly.
At last, when the carriage was finally empty, I went to collect my trophy; stuffed it into my pocket; stepped confidently out of the carriage, then made my way w
ith steady strides towards the station’s exit.
My friend, Thelma Rillington, came to visit me the other day. I’ve asked her if she would mind ringing me first, but she mostly ignores that. She just came bouncing in with a thousand shopping bags in her hands and over her shoulders; then plonked herself down on my bed, which also serves as a sofa.
‘My God!’ she said, as she made herself comfortable, pushing a cushion out of the way. ‘How on earth you can live like this, Eddie, I don’t know. You’ve got so many things!’
‘I like things,’ I answered defensively.
‘Oh, darling, I know you do. Everyone knows you do.’
‘And at least it’s tidy.’
‘Well, yes – it is,’ said Thelma with a slight scowl, as she glanced about the room, ‘I suppose.’
‘What do you mean, “I suppose”?’ I replied aggressively.
‘Now, sweetheart, don’t get touchy. It’s not good for the heart, you know. Shall we have a drink – a coffee?’
‘If you want a coffee, go and make it yourself,’ I said, hoping to make her conscious of the annoyance I felt, but knowing it was something she wasn’t good at.
‘Oh, it’s going to be one of those days, is it?’ Thelma replied, as she pushed herself up out of the sofa and headed towards the kitchen.
‘Look, Thelma,’ I called out, ‘I didn’t ask you to call round – did I? And you didn’t ring or anything. So why should you assume that I’m glad to have you here?’
‘Oh, ducky, don’t be like that,’ she said, appearing in the kitchen doorway with the coffee pot in one hand. ‘You know you like seeing me.’
‘But that’s not the point,’ I answered, still sore at her and at her habit of taking over the place. ‘The point is that I might have had someone with me – mightn’t I?’