In The Tent

by David Rees

  And he would go to Confession. The cards don’t fall that quickly; the knitting takes a while to unravel into a mass of wool. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It would be easier, not so embarrassing, to find a church in another town. There was only the one at home, Our Lady Immaculate. Father Sullivan and Father Quinlan. They knew him too well. The Reverend Patrick Sullivan had baptized him seventeen years ago; from the Reverend Dermot Quinlan he had received his first Communion. One of them (which?) would soon know he was homosexual.

  How long is it since your last confession?

  Three weeks.

  What do you have to tell me?

  I’ve told lies. I’ve disobeyed my parents. I haven’t always said my prayers at night. I’ve had . . . impure thoughts.

  How often have you had these thoughts?

  Occasionally. And . . . impure deeds.

  By yourself?

  Yes.

  How many times?

  I don’t know. (How many times! What difference does it make? Why does he need to know?)

  Once a week? Three times? (Pause.) Every night?

  Once (it might be twice, perhaps, or three times before Saturday next) with somebody else.

  A girl?

  No.

  (Pause.) You must try hard to give up this sin, or it will destroy you. It can lead to madness. (Rubbish! If that was true, there would be no boys in the sixth form, or the fifth or fourth, and not very many in the third year either. They’d all be in a lunatic asylum.) It kills all moral fibre; it saps the strength. Are you sorry for these, and all your other sins?

  Now this is the real trap, the one from which there is no escape. If I say I’m sorry and I don’t mean it, I will be damned even more in God’s eyes than I am already. Confession doesn’t work unless there is genuine repentance. And Communion in a state of mortal sin... unthinkable. If I say no, then he will refuse me absolution until I am sorry'. I think, Father ... I may be tempted again.

  You must fight it. Fight it with all your strength.

  The temptation is hard to resist, Father. I ... enjoyed it. (No, he could never bring himself to say such a thing!)

  With the other boy?

  Yes.

  But are you sorry for what you’ve done?

  (Pause.) I . . . don’t know, Father.

  I can’t absolve you unless you are, unless you feel within yourself that you’ll make a real effort not to commit these sins again. Do you understand that?

  Yes.

  When you’re in a state of temptation think of our Saviour who died on the Cross for us; think of His mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary. Ask for their help; they will help you.

  Yes, Father.

  Now go, and come back to me when you think you can. Pray for me.

  It wouldn’t run quite like that, of course. Between the two of them they’d work out some formula; Father Quinlan (he was the easier, inclined to be absent-minded, particularly if he was looking forward to a day off with the scouts, or supervising a youth club social) would probably assume from the fact that he was there, kneeling and confessing his sins, that he was sorry anyway, and not press the point. But whatever happened, it would be a patched-up shoddy affair, indecent almost. More so than last night. That hadn’t been indecent! Ray falling asleep in his arms: the trust of it.

  I, like an usurpt town, to another due,

  Labour to admit you, but, oh, to no end

  These ‘A’ level texts, bits and bobs of them, apt and comforting. Nor ever chaste except you ravish mee: i.e. my true self, at peace, fulfilled, rejecting all doctrines, dogmas, tenets and texts that say what I am is evil.

  ‘You’re very preoccupied,’ said Aaron. ‘Snap out of it.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I’ve just asked you, twice, if you’d like to play chess. I’ve already beaten John and Ray; they’re in a different class. A lower class.’

  ‘I’ll thrash you.’ He suddenly felt happier.

  ‘With whose army? All the pouffs?’

  ‘In serried ranks assembled.’

  Aaron laughed.

  That was all there was, a plaque in dire need of cleaning, on a modern wall. Site of south gate. King Henry VI here entered the city 16 July 1452. For centuries a prison. Demolished 1819. According to the guide-book it had been removed for a road improvement scheme, and this had also meant destroying Holy Trinity: one wall of the church, as Tim knew', was a wall of the gatehouse. But the church had been resurrected whereas the gate had not; or, rather, a grotesque mock Gothic edifice now stood there, its proportions dismal, its windows mean, and the superstructure on its roof—it could in no way be called a tower—was not sure if it was functioning as a turret or an imitation chimney. It seemed, however, that this horror would soon pass into oblivion, for its entrance was boarded up with sheets of corrugated iron; plaster was falling from its walls, and buddleia sprouted in every crack. It would be left to decay, Tim imagined, until it was beyond repair, then the Council would knock it down, having declared it ‘unsafe’. And there would not be, in its place, a third Holy Trinity.

  Exeter was particularly good at demolishing ‘unsafe’ buildings, John said. Tim looked at the huge pile of rubble beyond the church. Until last week this had been a row of seventeenth-century houses, the oldest of which dated from just after the Civil War. The Council had wanted to construct a fly-over, and the houses were in the way; so they bought up the whole terrace, then decided against the flyover. Years of neglect and vandalism had made the buildings dangerous, therefore down they had come. ‘There was a great deal of protest about it,’John said. ‘Articles in the newspapers and so on, but nothing can deflect our glorious Council from its mighty purposes.’

  Bulldozers were shifting the rubble. A fire blazed, burning up all the old wood. ‘Nothing remains,’ Tim said.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘This place. As it was.’

  ‘There’s the city walls.’

  It was not possible to walk on the top of them now; there were no steps, and, besides, the Inner Bypass had necessitated the removal of a large chunk of the ancient fortifications: through a space, wider than a gatehouse would have been, cars and lorries surged.

  ‘A blighted area,’ Tim said. ‘The abomination of desolation.’

  ‘Yes. People say the Council has pulled down more of Exeter than the Germans bombed in the war.’

  Even though there was no fly-over, there was a vast road complex, bristling with double yellow lines, traffic lights and direction signs. Cars stopped, moved forward, stopped again. In the middle was a piece of waste ground, where houses had stood long ago. It was now a parking lot, and at the far end was a modern pub.

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ said John. ‘I have to pick Lesley up.’

  ‘Strange you came to live in Exeter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So far from home.’

  ‘Not so far as Ron went. Yes, four years we’ve been here now.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a drink in that pub. What is it?’

  ‘The Acorn.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ll see you later.’

  Tim dodged in and out of the traffic. He shouldn’t have come, he kept thinking; it was all a bitter disappointment. Still, what did he expect? Exeter as it was in 1646? Fairfax issuing orders from the castle? At least some trace, some clue. But there was nothing, only these few sections of the walls. They looked unwanted, almost a nuisance, while the twentieth century rushed by, intent on its own frenetic business. The city’s coat of arms, which he had seen on the plaque, had a motto that was unintentionally ironic: ‘Semper Fidelis’. He hoped Ray, on his visit to the Alcázar, was finding something more rewarding. He’d ask Ray to dinner next week, and they could compare notes.

  It was quite mad; perhaps they were delirious from lack of food. When Aaron announced that he was going to swim in the tarn again, they all followed. Four naked youths, sloshing through mud in the pouring rain, yelling wild war-cries, screaming with laughter, diving into freezing cold wa
ter, shouting obscenities at the tops of their voices, hurling handfuls of mud, daubing each other with slime. Crazy! Then a final plunge to get clean, and a race back to the tent for towels, and jumping into the sleeping-bags for warmth to restore life. Giggling, shivering, teeth chattering. Their faces were blue and half-drowned, their skin shrunk and goose-pimpled. Tim ached from head to foot with the cold. But warmth, soon enough, seeped through, and his body relaxed. He felt exhilarated; refreshed, as Aaron had said yesterday. Yesterday, Tim would never have done this.

  John had voiced it aloud: we have such a bond between us. ‘Where shall we go for this piss-up?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘A five-course dinner,’ Tim suggested. ‘The Clarence.’

  ‘Mario’s.’

  ‘None of your Italian muck,’ Ray said. ‘What about the Spanish restaurant, La Pasionaria? The proprietor’s a mate of my dad’s. Paella!’

  ‘Not Spanish muck, either,’ John said. ‘The Clarence.’

  ‘And booze,’ said Aaron. ‘Lots of vino.’

  ‘And a disco afterwards.’

  ‘No, not a disco. This is for us. Us four only.’

  ‘Back to my house,’ Tim said, ‘and listen to records.’

  ‘Why not? We’ve never been there,’ Aaron said.

  It was settled. Whatever happened, Tim thought, he had three real friends. For the time being. When—if—they returned to normal life, maybe the comradeship might slowly disappear. John and Aaron would drift back to the routines of their usual existence, Ray . . . nothing would ever be the same again with Ray.

  ‘Can’t you turn the transistor up?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘Battery’s going,’ Ray said. ‘By tomorrow it will be kaput.’

  ‘Turn it off, then. We won’t get any more news now.’

  ‘I hope they don’t interview my mother.’

  The thought of the four women anxiously waiting at Ambleside made them all silent and depressed, and the silence meant they could not divert themselves from their hunger; it was becoming acute now, a gnawing griping pain inside. There was constant excess saliva in Tim’s mouth, worsened by the visions of food that would not stop passing in front of his eyes. Once he really imagined he saw a frying-pan, sizzling with bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms: I’m going weak in the head, he thought; that was an hallucination. Peaches. Roast beef. Cheese: Brie, Cheddar, Danish blue. Golden syrup pudding. His stomach had a life of its own; it was like horny fingers clenching and unclenching.

  It was astonishing what Ray had said: ‘So am I.’ Tim had never once suspected it. Was it true? Was it only because he was feeling randy and thinking that that was the best thing to say to get Tim to agree? No. He had sounded sincere. Nothing about him had previously suggested he was like that. He was a pretend-man even more than Tim. Tim knew other boys thought he was queer; he didn’t like games, didn’t go out with girls and usually ignored them at school, kept much to himself. But Ray! He was Aaron’s lieutenant, looked up to him, executed his orders; he often went out with girls, sometimes as a foursome with Ron and partner, danced at discos. Only the other night, at the pub at Borrowdale, he had been chatting up that blonde from the youth hostel. And it was Ray, that afternoon last week, in the classroom, who had objected the most about Tim coming on this trip. Incredible! He was far worse a pretend-man, then; covering up every trace of it, a life of total deceit and hypocrisy. At least Tim didn’t go to such lengths. Not that he exactly announced ‘I’m homosexual’ to all and sundry, but, if he suspected other people had guessed, he didn’t alter his behaviour to prove he wasn’t.

  If you could tell someone was homosexual by their manner of dress, or behaviour, the way they walked (and Tim already doubted this; he was convinced he was in no way effeminate himself), then Ray was living proof that such a theory was nonsense. Physically tough and mature, deep bass voice, hairy (though that, of course, might be simply because he was Spanish), a very animal boy: good at all games, first eleven football, like Ron. Totally masculine. Tim thought hard: no, he was sure there was nothing he had missed in Ray that indicated what he was.

  And then the question of parents, upbringing. Tim had read things on the subject, searching for reassurances and explanations, and the books usually said it was caused by one’s mother wearing the trousers, or being too loving and over-protective, or Dad being absent or a weak character. It didn’t altogether fit his own family, though he could see a few parallels. He didn’t love either of his parents much, but that just made him feel guilty: he couldn’t see why it should force him to prefer a man, sexually. Maybe one day it would all be clearer; growing up constantly involved new insights, not always pleasant ones, into Mum and Dad. Perhaps eventually he would be able to see how this theory included his own upbringing. Or not, as the case might be. His mother’s desires to see him succeed, educationally, he thought pathetic rather than bossy (though it didn’t stop him acting out her wishes) and Dad could certainly throw his weight around if he wanted to. Fold your flannel in four. Even at seventeen, a year off legal adulthood, it was still more than he felt his life was worth to disobey.

  He didn’t know the Suñer family of course, but he had seen them once, and the fanatical grandparents, at Open Day. He hadn’t taken a lot of notice of them, but he did remember Ray showing his father around. Just like any other father and son. Nothing had registered, but he hadn’t been looking for clues then. Ray certainly seemed very proud of his family, a close-knit tribe Tim imagined, like immigrants usually were: he talked far more about them than people at school normally did, ignoring, for the most part, all the insults about Spain. No. No clues. If only they could talk! His curiosity was intense; the day had passed without either of them exchanging a word of any significance. And it was necessary to talk soon, before they returned home, in case Ray tried to slough him off when he was back with his family and friends. Would he do that? Tim doubted it, though it was possible. A sense of shame might make him. He was determined not to let him slink out of it, not after last night.

  What on earth had driven Ray to reveal himself? Sexual frustration? Something more than that, probably. Was he, too, going through a great crisis? It ought to be easier for Ray: he had no religious problems. Were there problems of which Tim had no inkling? The Spanish thing, virility; if you could not produce sons—he remembered something in Hemingway—people said you had no cojones. No balls, no spunk. Was it that? Or because he was so far in with Aaron and his crowd that there was no going back on the role he’d chosen to act? Yet now he had complicated matters for himself; he’d shown Tim what he was.

  He was sure Ray was still awake. If only he could fall asleep himself, then there would be no decision, no sin, tonight at least: he might then feel easier in his mind, tomorrow. But sleep would not come.

  ‘Tim! Are you awake? Tim!’

  He would not answer. It was so easy not to. ‘Yes,’ he heard himself whisper.

  ‘Come in with me tonight.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because I don’t want to was all he needed to say. ‘You come here.’

  Ray silently moved his sleeping-bag and undid the zips.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Anthony dashed up the stairs, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. The pistol hung from his right hand. ‘You must all go,’ he said, wearily. ‘At once. I need this place now.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m escaping arrest. There’s a warrant signed by Sir Thomas Fairfax himself.’

  ‘But the proclamation said no prisoners, no hostages!’ Tim cried.

  ‘I shall speak to him,’ said Saint-Hill. The others looked at him: the idea was ridiculous.

  ‘What crime have you committed?’ Jake asked. ‘Hoarding food. Selling it at exorbitant prices for personal profit. It’s not true, of course. A gross exaggeration.’ There was an awkward silence, then Saint-Hill burst out: ‘I shall speak to the Governor all the same!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. Go on,
get out, all of you.’ He waved his pistol at them. ‘Tim, bring me something to eat this evening. And . . . my music, and my lute. If it’s still there.’

  ‘What do you mean, if it’s still there?’

  ‘Fairfax’s men have wrecked the place. I don’t know what they thought they’d find.’

  ‘Have they guessed where you are?’

  ‘No.’

  There was another silence; Anthony frowned, lost in his own thoughts. Jake went downstairs; Tim and Saint-Hill followed, more slowly. ‘I think it’s safe,’ Jake said when they were outside. He shut the door of the tower and locked it, then gave the key to Tim.

  ‘Where will you stay now?’ Saint-Hill asked. ‘Out of the question to return to the gatehouse. In any case, the new administration will want it for their soldiers. You’re welcome to stay with me.’

  ‘Or me,’ said Jake.

  The two men argued over this for a while, somewhat to Tim’s amusement, for Saint-Hill was becoming quite waspish; then they asked him to choose, rather like two small boys squabbling over the one child left to make up one or other side in a game. ‘I’ll go with Jake,’ he said.

  Saint-Hill stumped off. Jake led the way through a maze of courts and alleys to a part of the city that was strange to Tim, arriving eventually outside an old half-timbered house in Parliament Street (prudently named, Tim thought) which was said to be the narrowest street in the world. ‘This is home,’Jake said. ‘The family business. We are in the cloth trade, or were, in better times.’ Tim was impressed. The house, though little, was cheerful and well-furnished: it had an air of being looked after and loved. At the back was a neat garden, its walls covered in creepers which were a mass of autumnal reds and browns.