‘Was he? Perhaps he had cause.’
Margot frowned at him. ‘Are you cross with me?’
‘No, of course not!’ He got up, crushing his cigarette out. She noticed again that his hands were shaking. ‘Come on. Let’s show them how to dance.’
Chapter Twelve
EACH SUNDAY MORNING PAUL walked Margot to church, kissing her goodbye at the churchyard gates before crossing the road to Parkwood. This was the fourth Sunday of their marriage. Already a pattern was emerging, a structure to his life of work, home and weekends spent working in Parkwood’s garden, neglected since he joined the army. Outside this respectable structure was the occasional evening he spent in Adam’s bed. Further outside the boundaries were his thoughts of Patrick Morgan.
Digging out a diseased rose bush, Paul exhaled sharply. He’d been afraid of seeing Morgan again, knowing that one day he could turn a corner and he would be there. He’d always imagined that if he did see him he would walk away in the opposite direction, terrified of the memories that would be stirred up. But, of course, reality was different. In reality he lay awake at night imagining seeking him out at that pub he’d mentioned. He imagined taking him to some quiet place, Parkwood, perhaps, when his father was out, somewhere safely private where Morgan could do just what he wanted with him.
The first time they’d met Morgan had saluted him, bringing himself smartly to attention and making him feel small and weedy, unwashed and stinking after four days and nights in the front line trenches. At that first meeting he’d been too exhausted to notice just how staggeringly beautiful he was. Only later did his skin bristle whenever he stood close to him. Whenever they lay together in the waste of no-man’s-land, beneath the once all-consuming fear, he felt protected.
Back in the relative safety of the trench he tried to believe that Morgan was only a competent sergeant, a hard man who cracked filthy queer jokes behind his back just as the other men did. In his heart, though, he knew what Morgan was; he gave himself away, at least to him. And to Jenkins, of course: Jenkins had an unwavering nose for queers.
Paul pulled at a dead rose and a thorn sliced through his gloves and into his finger. He cursed, tossing the glove down and sucking at the bright jewel of blood.
In Parkwood’s kitchen George cleaned the wound, tut-tutting as he dabbed on stinging iodine. He glanced up at him. ‘You should be more careful, I don’t want you getting a blood infection.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Oh, I know. No doubt you’ve seen worse. Had worse.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t stop me worrying.’
Paul drew his hand away from his father’s inspection. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t need to any more.’
George made a pot of tea and set a large slice of cake in front of him. ‘Mrs Calder made it. It tastes better than it looks.’
To please him Paul took a bite and surprised himself by finishing it. George smiled. ‘I’m impressed. Another slice?’ Watching as he ate he said, ‘You’re getting your appetite back, good. Only normal, in a boy your age.’
Paul laughed through a mouthful of cake. ‘You make me sound like a child.’
‘You are my child.’ George sipped his tea. After a while he said carefully, ‘Does Margot mind you not going to church with her?’
‘No. I think he minds, though.’
‘Whittaker’s a fool.’
‘Oh?’ Surprised, Paul said, ‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I don’t like the way he looks at you.’
Paul grinned. ‘Neither do I.’
‘I’m glad you think it’s amusing.’
Paul got up and went to the window looking out over the garden. The lawns sloped down to the summerhouse, bordered on both sides by flower beds and high brick walls. Behind the summerhouse, sycamores and horse chestnut cast shadows over the kitchen garden where brambles and dock had taken over, strangling the gooseberry and currant bushes. Some of the glass in the greenhouse had been broken and the ashes from his last bonfire were a blackened, solid mass.
Certain he would be killed, Paul had burnt Adam’s letters on that bonfire during his last leave. Calm, he threw the letters into the flames one by one. The wind blew charred fragments straight up into the sky and scattered endearments across the neighbours’ tidy gardens.
Coming to stand beside him George said, ‘The garden was too much for me when you and Robbie were in France. I hated seeing it go so wild knowing how much you loved it, the care you took with it when you were home. I just never seemed to have any time.’
‘Perhaps it needed a fallow time.’ He smiled at his father. ‘A rest from my fussing.’ He turned back to the garden. ‘You don’t mind me taking it over again, do you? I’m not intruding?’
‘Intruding? For goodness sake, Paul! This is your home!’
‘It’s your home, Dad.’
He heard his father sigh, knowing what was coming next. At last George said, ‘Why don’t you and Margot come and live here? It seems silly spending your money on rent when I’ve so much room.’
‘We’re happy where we are, Dad.’
‘Tanner Street isn’t the best place to bring up a baby.’
‘You sound like Whittaker. I’ll find somewhere better, in time.’
‘On a teacher’s salary?’ He hesitated before saying quickly, ‘Paul, please change your mind and finish your degree. You wouldn’t be away from home for that long and if you wanted to you could see Margot at weekends …’
‘If I wanted to?’ He frowned at him. ‘I don’t want to go away again. I’ve been away from home all my life.’ He turned from the window. ‘I have to go. I told Margot I’d meet her after the service.’
He was early; hymns were still being sung. Paul sat down on a bench outside the church to wait. He lit a cigarette, staring down at the gravel path, promising himself he would think about Patrick Morgan only for a little while, until the next hymn finished. The congregation drew breath and launched themselves into Jerusalem.
He thought about Patrick in evening dress, his tie loose, his cigarette held nonchalantly between his knees as he sat on the hotel steps. He could see that he had cut himself shaving; he could smell his beer breath, see that his teeth were white and straight and put his own to shame. There was a slight kink in his jet-black hair – with a gold hoop in his ear he would be a gypsy. He wore a signet ring on his little finger. He had always despised men who wore rings.
Paul flicked cigarette ash at the ground, remembering. They lay together in no-man’s-land, Morgan’s arm and hand heavy on his back and head, causing his helmet to cut into the back of his neck. He could hear him breathing, deep and steady as a fit man running, and he was afraid the Germans would hear. Their patrol was almost over. In a few minutes he would be drinking tea laced with rum, trying not to shake too obviously in case it disturbed the child sent to replace the last Second Lieutenant to have been killed. His teeth would chatter uncontrollably, causing Jenkins to make some bloody remark. Eventually the shaking and chattering would stop. The rum would make him feel light-headed. He had all this to look forward to, in a few minutes.
Morgan whispered, ‘All right, sir?’
Paul nodded into the mud. The weight on his back and head lifted. He signalled that they should move on.
There wasn’t any rum. Instead Hawkins saw to it that he was served tinned peaches and condensed milk, a reward for not being dead. Wide-eyed and silent, the replacement watched him eat until Paul paused, his spoon halfway between his mouth and bowl and dripping peach juice. Meeting the boy’s gaze Paul said, ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Davies, sir.’
‘Stop staring at me, Davies.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Behind the boy’s back Jenkins laughed. ‘Don’t mind Harris, old man. He’s aloof with everyone. I’ve been trying to crack a smile from him for weeks now – he’s just too serious-minded for ordinary chaps like us.’ He looked at Paul, eyebrows raised. ‘Can’t seem to see the joke, can you, Harris?’
>
‘Maybe you should explain it to me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’re that slow, Harris. You’ll catch on in your own time.’ He’d looked at Davies. ‘By the way, don’t call him sir. It rather goes to his head.’
In the churchyard Paul frowned. Of course it was inevitable that in remembering Morgan he should also remember Jenkins. A rook hopped and flapped across a grave and he watched it, telling himself he must stop thinking about both.
Jerusalem ended.
‘So, what next?’ Mick looked out over the park lake. Closing one eye he made a pistol of his hand, taking aim at a swan swimming towards them. As if it really had been shot, the swan dived into the water. He turned to Patrick. ‘Are we going home or are you going to go on staring into space like a love-sick girl?’
Patrick went on watching the birds on the lake. Thinking of Paul he said, ‘We’ll go home. It looks like rain.’
Mick began to wheel himself along the path. Over his shoulder he called, ‘You could always knock on his door, you know. Knock knock. Oh, hello, Mrs Harris. Is your husband at home? It’s just that I want to fuck him so badly I think I’m going to burst.’
Patrick had to run to catch up. Taking hold of the chair he swung it around so Mick faced him. ‘Why don’t you keep your filthy mouth to yourself?’
‘It’s only the truth, isn’t it? Bugger the boy and forget him. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.’ He held his gaze for a while before manoeuvring the chair round and wheeling himself away.
Pushing the wheelchair along the street towards home, Patrick thought back to the time when he’d first realised he loved Paul. He remembered crouching close to a brazier as he brewed tea at the end of the trench furthest from the officers’ dugout with Collier huddled beside him, his baby face blank from exhaustion. The shelling had kept up all day; Lewis, Anderson and Smith had been killed. He’d liked Smith. Pouring tea into a tin mug he handed it to Collier who cupped it in both hands. Tea slopped over his boots as the mug rattled against the boy’s teeth. Patrick remembered thinking it would be better in a baby’s bottle – less would be spilled.
He’d looked up to see someone emerging from the officers’ dugout, adjusting the strap of his helmet tighter around his chin. Patrick stood very still, squinting into the darkness. From this distance all the officers looked the same. After a moment another emerged. The first officer turned to the second and adjusted the other man’s helmet, too. Patrick watched more carefully. The first officer could only be Paul; only Paul would care enough to do such a thing.
The two began to walk towards the brazier, stooping slightly to keep their heads below the sandbags. He watched as Paul turned and smiled reassuringly at the other man, Davies, the new Second Lieutenant. He looked down at his tea. The two passed by with only the briefest acknowledgement. A shell exploded. Paul shoved the boy against the sandbags, shielding his body with his own.
He wondered if he’d loved him from that moment, or earlier as he’d watched him adjust the boy’s helmet, if it was his tenderness or his bravery that made him feel as he did. Whenever he saw Paul he felt soft and sentimental, as though pity and desire had become confused. Perhaps it wasn’t even love he felt but something far more basic: an overpowering desire to fuck him. Lieutenant Paul Harris was by far the most fuckable man he’d ever seen. He wanted to keep him safe so that he might have him all to himself.
Mick said, ‘Why have you stopped?’
‘I need a cigarette’
‘Here. Give it to me. I’ll light it.’
‘I can light my own.’ His hands were shaking and he dropped the box, scattering matches over the pavement. He scrambled over the freezing flags, chasing matches that jumped away from him or fell between cracks. His fingers were clumsy, numb with cold, blotched pink and red and white like raw sausage.
As he stood up straight Mick held out his hand. ‘Give them to me.’ Lighting two cigarettes at once he handed one to him. ‘Do you want to know what I would do if I were you? I’d forget him.’
Patrick laughed harshly. ‘Would you? Fancy!’
‘All right – what are you going to do? It’s been weeks since that dance.’
‘Three weeks, that’s all.’
‘Three weeks. He knows where you work, Pat. He knows where you drink. Don’t you think if he was interested …’ He exhaled sharply, exasperated. ‘Jesus – I can’t believe I’m even talking about this, as if he was some coy bloody girl playing hard to get! For Christ’s sake, why can’t you just forget him? Carry on like this and one of us will end up in the condemned cell.’
Patrick turned his back on him. They had stopped outside the Church of the Blessed Virgin. Beside the porch was a statue of Mary cradling the crucified Christ in her arms, a larger-than-life-sized portrayal of misery. The sculptor had concentrated on the agony of Christ’s dying, his back arched so that each rib strained against the blue-veined marble skin. His arm stretched long fingers to the ground as his head lolled against his mother’s thigh. Mary raised her face to heaven, betrayed.
Sighing, Patrick said, ‘Do you want to go in and light a candle for Mam?’
Mick nodded, tossing his half-finished cigarette into the gutter.
On New Year’s Eve, on the steps of the hotel, he’d had the urge to brag, ‘The shop’s up and running again now. Of course, it’s in a good position – good passing trade, and I’m earning a reputation for quality … There are rooms above. Empty, private …’ Thank God he’d kept his mouth shut.
Lying on his back in bed, Patrick slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas, resting his palm flat over the warmth of his groin. He curled his fingers into his pubic hair, tugging the curls straight. He would allow the fantasy to build slowly. First, Paul in uniform, cap and polished boots, tapping a swagger stick against his thigh. Holding the image for a while he smiled, watching this fancy-dress Paul walk up and down outside the shop, waiting for him, of course, anxious, impatient. Once in the room upstairs he would hold Paul’s gorgeous little face between his hands and kiss him roughly, backing him hard against the wall and tugging at the buttons of his tunic as Paul groaned, his eyes big with fear. It would be his first time.
Patrick’s fist closed lightly around his cock. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling. Of course Paul wasn’t interested in him, Mick was right. He thought of him, dancing with his pretty wife, smiling into her eyes as though he loved her. Rolling on his side he cursed and brought himself to a quick, unsatisfactory climax.
Chapter Thirteen
HETTY SAID, ‘ME MAM’S poorly. She won’t be able to see to Mr Morgan this dinnertime.’
She watched as Patrick went on jointing the pig. Its head sat on the counter beside him, its soft, dead eyes watching her above its broad grin. Wondering if he had heard she started again.
‘I’m not deaf, Hetty.’ He glanced at her. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
‘A bad cough – she didn’t want Mr Morgan catching anything.’
‘No, of course.’ He sighed, laying the cleaver down gently. ‘He’s expecting her. I don’t like leaving him on his own all day.’
As she’d planned to she said, ‘I’ll go, if you like, the shop’s quiet.’ Even to her own ears she sounded reluctant and she expected him to dismiss the idea at once.
Instead he asked, ‘Are you sure?’
Already anxious, she managed to smile. ‘As long as you can spare me.’
‘I’ll pay you the same rate as your mother, on top of your normal wage, of course.’ He turned back to the carcass as though the matter was settled. ‘Twelve thirty, then. The key’s underneath the lion. Let yourself in.’
Between outbreaks of coughing her mother had said, ‘If he’s left soup for him see that it’s piping hot. He’ll only make you heat it up again if it isn’t. And he likes his tea strong, almost black. Don’t chatter – he hates it. Set his tray with the good silver and a serviette. You’ll find them in the third drawer of the dresser in the back room, all sta
rched and ready.’
‘I won’t remember all that.’
‘Yes, you will. He’ll soon tell you, anyway. Soon lets you know when it’s not right.’ She smiled a rare, soft smile. ‘He’s a gentleman. Such good manners.’
‘Except when you serve him liver.’
Her mother sighed. ‘Aye, well. We can all lose our tempers sometimes.’
Crouching beside the hideous lion, Hetty fumbled for the key, shuddering at the woodlice that scattered in panic from her fingers. Nervously she opened the front door, squinting into the gloom as she stepped into the hall. ‘Hello? Mr Morgan …?’
A door at the end of the hallway opened, banging against the wall as Mick wheeled himself towards her. He frowned, stopping a few feet away. ‘Hetty? What are you doing here?’
‘Mam’s poorly. I’ve come instead. If that’s all right?’
For a moment he seemed lost for words. He took off the glasses he was wearing, folding them into his shirt pocket and closing the book on his lap. Taking out his cigarettes he lit one, exhaling a long plume of smoke before finally looking up at her. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the shop?’
‘He’s spared me.’
‘Right. Well, good …’ He wheeled himself towards her, awkwardly pushing open another door and waving her through. ‘Please, come in. Sit down.’
This was a different room from the one she’d been shown into last time. The other room was cramped, busy with wallpaper and furniture and bric-a-brac. This room was empty except for a desk, a bookcase and a single armchair. There were no pictures or photographs, only the spines of books to look at, rows and rows so that the bookcase was full and still more were stacked on the mantelpiece and floor. Despite her nervousness Hetty asked, ‘Have you read all these?’
‘There were one or two I couldn’t finish. Take your coat off, Hetty – sit down. Would you like a drink? Is it too early for a drink?’
He looked younger. His hair was washed but not combed and there was a stain of something that looked like jam on his collarless shirt. The tartan blanket that usually covered him from the waist was missing, the legs of his grey flannels neatly folded and tucked beneath his thighs. Realising she had been staring she looked away quickly, unbuttoning her coat and draping it over the back of the armchair. ‘I’d best get on, Mr Morgan, you’ll be wanting your dinner.’
The Boy I Love Page 11