Looking at it suspiciously she said, ‘I thought I’d had my bonus.’
He sighed. ‘Leave it, if you don’t want it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She readjusted the parcel in her arms. ‘It’s heavy.’
‘Would you like me to carry it home for you?’
She hesitated only briefly. ‘Would you mind? I don’t want to take you out of your way.’
He took the chicken from her. ‘You live on Tanner Street, don’t you?’ She nodded. ‘It’s on my way home.’
Her mother had made no preparations for Christmas, just as last year. The year before that Albert had been home on leave from the training camp, still yet to go to France, and they had decorated the house with paper chains and Chinese lanterns and lined his favourite pink sugar mice along the mantelpiece. Now the only thing on the mantelpiece was Albert’s shrine. Its candle leapt in panic as Hetty showed Patrick into the parlour.
‘Take a seat. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Really, Hetty, I should be getting along.’
‘Stay. Mam’ll want to thank you for the bird.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It was very generous. Now,’ she pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down. Shan’t be long.’
In the kitchen Hetty took the best willow pattern cups and saucers from the dresser and set them out on a tray. She worked quickly, afraid that if she took too long he would come and find her, making his excuses to leave. As the kettle boiled she cut a slice of the plain, yellow rice cake her mother made for her father’s bait, and then, as an afterthought, cut another slice. They would eat cake together. Hetty smiled to herself, her anger at his disappearing act that afternoon already forgotten in the novelty of having him in the house. Remembering the chicken, still wrapped in its newspaper, she patted it gratefully.
With everything laid neatly on the best doily, she carried the tray through, kicking the parlour door open with her foot. Patrick stood up at once, crossing the room quickly to hold the door open for her.
The little room seemed even smaller with him in it. Tall, broad men looked out of place in these little houses, Hetty thought; they were made clumsy by the mean proportions. Expecting him to knock over one of her mother’s china dogs she said, ‘Sit down, I can manage.’
As she poured the tea he said, ‘Is that your brother’s picture?’
Hetty glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘Yes.’
‘Were you and he close?’
‘Not really.’ She hesitated before saying quickly, ‘Not close like you and your brother.’
He laughed. ‘You think we’re close, Mick and I?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I always wanted a twin.’ She pushed the plate of cake a little closer to him. ‘I thought a twin sister would always be a friend, no matter what.’
‘Sometimes twins don’t get on.’
‘But blood’s thicker than water, isn’t it? And a twin, well …’
‘Their blood is thicker than most?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
He took a piece of cake that looked like a doll’s portion in his huge hand, and ate it in two bites. Finishing his tea he placed his cup back in its saucer. ‘I have to go, my twin will wonder where I’ve got to.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘Stay till Mam gets back, at least.’
He was already buttoning his coat. He smiled at her. ‘Happy Christmas, Hetty.’
She saw him to the door, standing on the front step and watching until he turned the corner out of sight. He’d been in the house all of fifteen minutes. No ground had been won. In the parlour she cleared away the cups, and noticed that he’d left his gloves behind. She lifted them to her nose, breathing in his familiar scent, before hiding them away.
Patrick and Mick spent Christmas day alone together, eating turkey and fried potatoes from their mother’s best china and drinking beer from her crystal glasses. Crackers were pulled in a series of loud bangs that had them both screwing their eyes up tight in a parody of fear. Mick wore a pink paper hat rakishly over one eye and read cracker mottoes in an exact impersonation of Father Greene. The room became hot from the many candles that dripped wax on to the mahogany sideboard and table and illuminated the sepia faces of the unsmiling dead: mother, father, two little sisters, a grandmother stuffed into black bombazine; all stared disapprovingly from their gilt frames.
In his own voice Mick said, ‘Here’s to us.’ Pouring the last of the port, he clinked his glass against Patrick’s. ‘God bless us, everyone.’
‘To the future,’ Patrick said.
‘Forget the past.’
‘Seconded.’
‘Although it had its moments.’
Thinking of Paul asleep beneath the lilac tree, Patrick nodded. ‘It did.’
Mick frowned at him, his dark eyes smiling questions. ‘It did, did it? Tell me more.’
‘You first.’
‘Nothing to tell.’ Mick looked down at his glass, swilling its contents and splashing a ruby stain on the white tablecloth. ‘Major Michael Morgan has never been kissed.’ He glanced up at him. ‘There. Tell the truth and shame the devil.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No?’ He laughed. ‘Well, it is hard to believe, me being so handsome an’ all.’
‘Never?’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Reaching across the table Mick pinched his cheek. ‘Don’t look so appalled, Patty. It’s not so terrible, is it? I just never got around to it. Too busy being promoted.’
Mick drained his glass then wheeled his chair away from the table and over to the fire. Taking off the paper hat he screwed it into a ball and tossed it into the flames. The fire flared, sending flimsy charred scraps up the chimney. On the mantelpiece their parents scowled from their wedding portrait. Reaching behind it, Mick produced two cigars. ‘So,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me who made your war bearable.’
Patrick drew out the ritual of trimming his cigar and lighting it, sitting back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. He blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Mick watched him, smiling indulgently until he said at last, ‘Did I know her?’
‘Her!’
‘Him, then.’
Patrick studied the tip of the cigar, a good, Havana cigar, the best that could be bought in Thorp. It was sweet and delicious. He poured himself some of the brandy used to fire the pudding, offering the bottle to Mick who shook his head. Taking a large sip Patrick said, ‘I think Hetty’s sweet on me.’
Mick laughed. ‘Poor thing. Well, when she gets tired of barking up the wrong tree, send her home to me.’
Patrick thought of Paul outside the church with his new wife. ‘Perhaps I should get married.’
‘And perhaps I’ll grow new legs, but it wouldn’t be what you’d call natural, would it?’
Patrick drained his glass and poured himself another. Knowing Mick was watching him he snapped, ‘I can get drunk, can’t I?’
‘As long as you can stand to put me to bed later.’ Mick held his gaze and Patrick laughed drunkenly.
‘Have I ever let you down? Ever? Remind me.’
Mick drew on his cigar. ‘You’ve never let me down. Never. Not yet.’
The room had become even warmer. If Patrick squinted the candle flames danced and the frozen faces of his family blurred into one. He had meant to burn the photos, along with the rest of his mother’s favoured possessions, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it, his own superstitions surprising him. Getting up, he took his parents’ wedding photograph down, slamming it on the table in front of Mick.
‘When I heard they were dead I told the officer who broke the news, “I’m an orphan.” I laughed – we both laughed. It was bloody ironic.’
Mick picked up the photograph and frowned at it. He looked at him. ‘You laughed, eh?’
‘Didn’t you?’ He felt drunk, more drunk than he’d ever been in his life. He thought of Paul walking towards the
church with that unknown runt of a man and jealousy swept over him. Because he was drunk he said thickly, ‘Paul Harris got married yesterday.’
‘So?’
‘So nothing, I’m just telling you.’
‘I knew his brother, Rob.’ Mick gazed at him. After a while he said, ‘Paul was the very pretty one, wasn’t he? I mean, Rob was handsome, but Paul … it’s a wonder he got past the recruitment sergeant. Crying out to be gang raped, that one.’ He smiled slowly. ‘You wear your heart on your sleeve, Patty. So, I’m listening, tell me about Paul. How you met, his first words to you, everything.’
‘Fuck off.’
Mick held his hands out to the fire. ‘It’s cold in here, isn’t it? I’m always freezing cold.’
‘Have a brandy, that’ll warm you.’
‘I’ve had enough. How did you know he got married?’
‘It was in the paper.’ Patrick hesitated. Sullenly he added, ‘I went to the church. I watched him as he went in and waited until he came out again.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Mick turned back to the fire. ‘Be careful.’
‘I’m so fucking careful he’s forgotten I exist.’
‘Are you going to remind him?’
Patrick stared down at his drink. He thought about the letter he’d written and hadn’t sent, a stiff, formal letter as though he was still playing sergeant to his officer. It wouldn’t do at all. He had to be bolder. Remembering Paul asleep beneath the lilac tree he said, ‘Yes, I’m going to remind him.’
Not wanting to disturb the pain expanding inside his head Patrick lay stiff and still in bed. He could hear Mick snoring and he opened his eyes only to close them again against the winter sunlight. He was still dressed, stinking of yesterday’s cooking and cigar smoke. Reaching out, his hand covered Mick’s. He had put him to bed only to fall asleep beside him.
Mick stirred, crying out soft, unintelligible commands and flinging out his arm so it rested on Patrick’s chest. Patrick lifted it aside and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hangover carefully in both hands. Slowly, more and more of last night’s conversation came back to him and he groaned. Mick always had to know everything – everything had to be told, discussed, resolved; there’d never been a single thing he could keep to himself.
For a while he watched his brother sleeping, making sure dreams no longer disturbed him. At last he stood up gingerly, going to close the curtains so that he’d sleep on.
Chapter Seven
THE HEADMASTER HIMSELF SHOWED Paul around the school.
‘Of course you realise you’ll be teaching only the most junior boys.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The school smelt as his own school had, of sweaty plimsolls and damp gabardine and Paul wished he could smoke as he struggled to keep up with the headmaster’s impatient quickness. A cigarette would at least be a distraction, something to keep the memories at bay. He remembered Jenkins lying in wait at the end of long school corridors and the bowel-loosening fear of what he might have in store for him. The memory made him feel ashamed but he willed himself forward, even as he imagined himself running back the way they had come, the startled headmaster staring after him.
Adam had arranged this interview with the headmaster. The man had opened the school especially for him, taking a day from what he called “the wasteland” between Boxing Day and New Year to interview him. He raced a few steps ahead of Paul, his shoes squeaking on the parquet floor of the corridors and from time to time he flung open an empty classroom door, briskly shouting out its form number. To Paul each room appeared identical to the last: rows of desks facing a huge blackboard, the teacher’s desk raised on a low platform. He tried to picture himself behind such a desk, controlling thirty or so boys. Half of them would be on his blind side. Perhaps he could rig up a mirror.
In the headmaster’s study Paul watched him shuffle through his references before tossing them down on his desk. The reference Adam had written was on top and he tapped it with his index finger, smiling at Paul.
‘Our Mr Mason thinks very highly of you. He seems to think you’ll make a very good teacher.’ He sat back in his chair, putting on a show of studying him. At last he said, ‘In the army for how many years?’
‘Three, sir.’
‘And you’re quite well, apart from …’ He waved his hand vaguely around his own left eye.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, that’s good. A lot of my staff are past retirement age – certainly not as fit as they used to be. But with so many of you youngsters away … to be blunt, we need fresh blood pretty desperately. I’ve got classrooms full of boys with no one to teach them.’ He got up and went to the window that looked out across the playing field. ‘You were in university for a short time, before the war?’
‘I was taking a medical degree.’
‘Yes, quite. Well, you’re certainly educated. In normal times, of course, I would expect more, but these aren’t normal times …’ He sighed as though the seriousness of the decision he was about to make weighed heavily. At last he said, ‘I’m sure we can work something out, come to some arrangement … term begins again on January sixth.’ He looked at Paul over his shoulder. ‘Shall we see if we suit each other?’
They had been married five days. Every night Margot lay stiffly in bed, waiting and listening. Every night Paul sat downstairs, reading and endlessly smoking until midnight or later when she would hear him climb the stairs. As he reached the landing her heart would pound so hard she imagined he could hear it. She wondered if he would stop and tap on her shut-tight door and she would tense, listening intently as she slowly counted to ten. It usually took around ten seconds before she heard his bedroom door close behind him. It seemed sometimes that he listened, too, standing outside her door as shy and awkward as she was, so that idiotically she had begun to imagine ways to seduce him, knowing she was too clumsy and gauche to make a success of such absurd plans. She remembered how tightly he had held her that evening in his father’s house; she should have kissed him then and got it over with.
He had gone out that morning in his wedding suit, washed and shaved and shoes polished. As he’d combed his hair in the mirror above the sitting room mantelpiece he’d caught her watching him and smiled at her reflection.
‘How do I look?’
She had blushed, caught out in her act of spying, wondering if he realised how beautiful she thought he was and whether he would be offended by her use of such an unmanly word to describe him.
The house still smelt of paint. She wandered from sitting room to kitchen and back again, half-heartedly dusting the furniture Paul had brought from Parkwood: a table that dominated the little room, a sideboard intricately carved with bowls of fruit and flowers, empty apart from a cheap, wedding-present tea-set. The furniture was even more depressing than the dark, poky house and she trailed upstairs, only to pause outside the closed door of Paul’s bedroom.
Telling herself she didn’t want to intrude on his privacy, she hadn’t been in his room, shy of his underwear, his pyjamas, his shaving things, everything that made him real and ordinary and disappointed. Now boredom mixed with curiosity and she opened the door, hesitating only a moment before going in.
The room was freezing, the curtains drawn back and the window open. He had made the bed, turning back the sheets and blankets as she imagined he had been taught to in the army, so neat and precise it looked as though a ruler had been taken to the edges. Beside the bed a book lay open, face down on the floor, a stack of books beside it, bookmarks inserted between the pages. On top of the books was an ashtray containing a single cigarette stub and a spent match. His clothes, his shoes, everything was put away. The only things to be shy of were books and cigarettes.
Sitting down on the edge of his bed, she remembered watching Paul at her birthday party. Standing next to her, watching too, her friend Edith – older and more worldly than she – had said, ‘He’s so handso
me, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so.’
Still looking at Paul, Edith smiled. ‘He’s probably having a passionate, unhappy affair with a Parisian actress. She’s very neurotic and threatens to kill herself if he ever leaves her.’
Margot laughed, but was ready to believe that some beautiful, willowy French woman would throw herself at his polished boots. When Robbie came back with their glasses of punch he frowned.
‘That’s Paul over there. What’s he doing on his own?’
‘Smoking.’ Edith grinned and Robbie turned his frown on them.
‘He looks lost. Has he been introduced to anyone?’
‘He’s only just arrived.’
It was the first time she had seen Rob angry. Coldly he said, ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’
Her father had brought the gramophone out of the house and Edith and her other friends were gathered around it. Across the lawn she watched as Robbie embraced his brother, only to hold him at arms’ length as through inspecting the correctness of his uniform. She heard them both laugh and as one they turned to her. She looked down, her face burning, knowing she had been the subject of their laughter. In a moment they both stood in front of her.
Robbie was smiling now. ‘Darling, this is Paul, my brother.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Margot.’ Paul glanced towards the makeshift dance floor laid out on the lawn. The gramophone had begun to play a waltz and he smiled at her. ‘Would you like to dance?’
She was still blushing, aware of everyone watching them as he led her on to the floor. With his back to the on-lookers he bowed slightly. Only she could see his grin. Holding her in his arms he said quietly, ‘Are they watching?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Happy birthday, by the way.’
She had tried to keep a little distance between them, keeping her body stiffly away from his so that she danced badly. All the same, she remembered that he had a pimple on his chin, that there were dark rings under his eyes, that his wrists protruded stick-thin from the sleeves of his tunic. He had smelt of coal tar soap and cigarettes and seemed too frail to wear a uniform. She had thought him vain and arrogant and was glad when the dance was over.
The Boy I Love Page 6