The Boy I Love

by Marion Husband

  Sweeping up the bits of mince and sawdust she looked up as Patrick walked through from the back of the shop and turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’.

  ‘There. They’re too late for pork pies now.’

  ‘We’ve sold out anyway.’

  ‘Have we? Good.’ He smiled absently over his shoulder as he opened the till and began counting the takings. ‘You can go now, Hetty. I’ve left some ham and bread in the pantry for Mick’s supper. There’s an egg custard, too, if he wants it.’

  She carried the dustpan outside to the yard. From the shop she could hear Patrick humming under his breath. She frowned, picking up the tune at last – The Boy I Love. It played in her head as she fetched her coat and walked home.

  The baby had kicked and punched all day. Kicked and punched and danced on her bladder so that it seemed she had spent most of the afternoon watching spiders dart from the corners of the outside lavatory. Sitting in the kitchen, her hands fumbling with knit one, purl one, Margot watched the clock on the dresser, waiting for Paul.

  Her mother had spent the morning trying to teach her to knit, just as she had tried at the beginning of the war. Then there had been a misshapen balaclava her mother had unpicked and now there was this half-finished bootie, trailing grubbily from its needle. Paul would ignore it unless she said something and then he would kiss her and say it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to Paul, the price of food, the rise in their rent, the unrelenting contempt her father held him in – nothing. She sighed, looking down at the knitting and pulling at it in a desperate attempt to give it shape.

  Paul came in through the back door and kissed the top of her head. She caught his scent of outside and cigarettes as he placed his briefcase on the floor beside her. He went into the pantry, coming out with the tin of biscuits. Beginning to eat his way through them, he frowned at her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Mummy’s teaching me to knit.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten I’m going out tonight?’

  ‘I don’t usually forget, do I?’ She looked up at him. There were shadows under his eyes, contrasting darkly against the pallor of his skin. During his nightmares last night he had cried out so loudly the neighbours had hammered on the wall. Laying the knitting down she reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘I don’t mind you seeing your friend. He should come here, one evening, and then you wouldn’t have to go out in the cold. I could meet him … is he married? He could bring his wife.’

  ‘He’s not married.’ Paul drew his hand away from hers. ‘I’ll make a start on supper, shall I?’

  Outside the discreetly anonymous door at the back of the shop, Paul glanced up and down the alley before taking out his key and turning it in the lock. He locked the door behind him quickly and walked through the yard. Inside, he ran up the stairs. As always, he felt like a criminal.

  Patrick was smoking on the bed, his left hand trailing to the floor, his fingers twisting at the dull colours of the rag-rug. As Paul walked in he turned slowly to smile at him and Paul’s insides softened with the familiar mixture of love and lust. His beauty was astonishing. It always made him smile.

  ‘Hello, sir.’

  Paul knelt beside him and kissed his mouth. ‘Sergeant.’

  Touching his face Patrick brushed his thumb gently beneath his good eye. ‘You’re all right?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I am now.’ He made room on the bed and they lay side by side, passing the cigarette between them until it was finished. Eventually Patrick said, ‘I was thinking just now, I don’t know when your birthday is.’

  Paul laughed. ‘Why? Are you planning a party?’ He stood up. As he took off his jacket he said, ‘Your birthday’s in June. I remember you were sent a cake and you shared it amongst the men.’

  The men had sprawled in the long French grass, their faces lifted to the hot sun as they licked cake crumbs from their fingers. He had approached them, curious about their laughter, jealous of it. Wanting to be included, all he had done was kill the atmosphere as effectively as if he’d thrown a grenade amongst them. Patrick had scrambled to his feet and brushed the unseemly crumbs from his tunic. The sun behind his head had created a halo for him.

  Tugging at his tie Paul said, ‘Why do you want to know when my birthday is?’

  ‘Because I don’t know and I feel I should. There are all kinds of things I don’t know about you.’

  Paul began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘All right. My birthday’s in October. I’ll be twenty-four. I hate tripe and suet puddings but other than that I’ll eat anything. What else? Oh yes. Wednesday is my favourite day of the week.’

  ‘That’s funny. Wednesday is my favourite, too.’ After a while Patrick said, ‘You haven’t told me anything yet.’

  Paul thought of all the things he might tell him: that he had made a better soldier than he had thought he would, or that he was terrified of being blind again. He could confess that he was afraid he would make a bad father, or that every day when he went into school he was sure he would be sacked. He could tell him about Jenkins, of course, although Patrick knew all about that. When he’d first started visiting him in this room he’d imagined he would find the courage to talk about what he’d done, but the time he spent with him had become too precious to be ruined by the past.

  Aware of Patrick waiting for a reply he said, ‘My earliest memory is watching my grandfather planting roses in our garden. He died when I was twelve and I still miss him. When I’m gardening I imagine he’s there with me.’ He smiled. ‘There you are – I like gardening. You didn’t know that.’

  He finished undressing and lay down beside Patrick. Taking his hand Patrick said carefully, ‘When did you realise you were different?’

  ‘Different? Is that what we should call it?’ Paul smiled at him. ‘I can’t remember. I always knew, I think. What about you?’

  Patrick was silent for a long time. At last he squeezed Paul’s hand tightly. ‘There was a man my father called a nancy-boy in the shop where he bought our school uniforms. He was so arch, you know? Flapping and mincing about.’ He laughed shortly. ‘I was fifteen and I knew I wasn’t anything like that. I wasn’t like him and I wasn’t like Mick. I didn’t seem to fit at all.’

  Standing up Patrick began to undress. ‘I used to tell myself that I’d change, get married, eventually, putting the idea off until some time in the future when everything would be all right. I even went to a prostitute, once.’ He smiled at Paul over his shoulder. ‘Seeking a cure, I suppose. I didn’t think much about marriage after that.’ He took off his shirt and tossed it down. ‘Then I saw you. I saw you and I thought – he’s like me, a queer who’s not a flapping, mincing nancy-boy.’

  Naked, he knelt beside Paul, his hand going to cup his face. ‘Tell me about the first man you went with.’ His eyes were dark and unreadable and Paul frowned, grasping his wrist to lift his hand away. Patrick said softly, ‘What was he like?’

  Paul got up and fetched his cigarettes from his jacket. Lighting one he heard himself say calmly, ‘He was my French teacher. He buggered me on the floor of his study. He didn’t bother to undress me. He didn’t try to make it easy. He just fucked me. Afterwards he couldn’t look me in the eye. I speak

  French well, though, my French is pretty good.’

  Patrick gazed at him from the bed. ‘I’d like to kill him.’

  ‘The Germans saved you the bother.’

  ‘I wanted there to be someone who did undress you, who was tender and careful.’

  Paul thought about Adam, that first time when they had undressed each other. Adam’s eyes had never left his as though he was afraid he was about to be stopped. Paul drew heavily on the cigarette. Looking at Patrick he said, ‘There was one boy. He was the same age as me, nineteen, a Second Lieutenant, like me. We’d both been gassed. The hospital where we were sent was by the sea. We walked through sand dunes, far away where we wouldn’t be found. It was July and he was pale as winter. We had to be careful with each other because everyth
ing hurt so much – the sunshine, the grass, even the salt in the air. I think we both just wanted to be comforted by someone neither of us had to talk to.’

  He tossed his cigarette into the fire and lay down on the bed again. Rolling on his side Patrick pulled him into his arms and held him tightly.

  Jenkins’s teeth were chattering and he was crying and wouldn’t stop and Paul pushed him back against the ladder scaling the side of the trench. All the others had climbed it and were crawling towards the German line. But Jenkins went on shaking and crying and Paul held his face between his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes.

  He started and grabbed at the sheets to stop himself falling. He felt Patrick’s arms around him, hugging him more tightly. ‘I’m here, it’s all right.’

  ‘How long have I slept?’

  ‘Not long.’ Patrick was silent for a while. At last he said, ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I had no right to ask you those things.’ He got up and lit the candles on the mantelpiece. In the soft light his honey-coloured skin became flawless. Paul couldn’t see the moles on his back, or the raised, white scar that disfigured his thigh and was a permanent reminder of the Somme. He watched the shadow of Patrick’s body, his muscular arms and shoulders, fold into the corner of the room, the candles flickering in the draught he caused. He thought of how Patrick was the only person in the world who knew how wicked he was and yet he didn’t seem to mind.

  He said, ‘I wish we hadn’t met in France.’

  Patrick climbed back into bed. He reached for Paul’s hand. ‘We wouldn’t have met at all if it hadn’t been for the war.’ He looked at him. ‘Unless you’d walked in the shop and suddenly fancied a bit of rough.’

  ‘I think I probably would have been too scared.’

  Patrick laughed. He began to kiss Paul and his mouth moved down his body until his lips closed around his semi-erect cock.

  Every Wednesday evening after he’d kissed Patrick goodbye, Paul went to Parkwood to bathe. George frowned as he ushered him through to the warmth of Parkwood’s kitchen. ‘Are you all right? You look exhausted.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  George peered at him anxiously. ‘You look awful. Such dark rings under your eyes … are you sleeping?’

  Paul went to stand in front of the fire. On the mantelpiece his own face looked out at him from his wedding picture. Avoiding Margot’s eyes he glanced at George. ‘Don’t look so worried, Dad, I’m all right.’

  Pouring him a measure of Scotch George handed him the glass. ‘Sit down. Drink this while I run the bath.’

  The French master had been called Mr Rouse; his fingernails had been too long and his breath had smelt of peppermints. One Friday afternoon he’d kept him back after the class. ‘Have you fallen out with the other boys, Harris?’

  In the bath, Paul winced at the memory. How could the man not know that masters weren’t supposed to notice such things? It had been one of the few occasions he remembered blushing.

  Rouse blushed, too. ‘I only ask because you always seem to be on your own. It seems quite hard on you.’ He laughed, embarrassed. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Paul gazed at him, his colour returning to normal. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  Hurriedly, Rouse said, ‘You know, your French is very good. I have some books in my room that may help you progress even further, if you’re interested? If you’re at a loose end you could come and have a look at them.’

  Paul remembered how the man’s voice had quavered a little, how he had cleared his throat and looked away to the window and the fourth form playing cricket on the school field. He heard the thwack of the ball on the bat and the applause as the batsman was caught out. Rouse breathed heavily, waiting.

  ‘What time should I come, sir?’

  Paul submerged himself in the water, counting seconds as he concentrated on not breathing. He wouldn’t think about the scratch of those long fingernails, or the sweet shop taste of his breath. He wouldn’t remember that afterwards the man had wept with shame, or that Jenkins had caught him coming out of his rooms. Jenkins had grabbed his arms, pinning him against the wall.

  ‘Extra tuition, Harris?’

  ‘Let go.’

  Jenkins wrinkled his nose. ‘What’s that smell?’ He made a show of disgust. ‘Harris, you stink of old queer! You disgusting, filthy little pervert. I think we should get you cleaned up, don’t you?’

  Two of Jenkins’s friends appeared from the shadows. Jenkins smirked at them. Pushing Paul ahead of him he said, ‘Let’s go.’

  He remembered that when they stripped him he imagined he actually did stink and a part of him felt that this was one punishment at least that he deserved. The bath water had been freezing; the other two had held him down as Jenkins took a toilet brush to his genitals. He’d been sore for days, imagining everyone could smell the stink of bleach every time he undressed for bed. Jenkins made sure all the boys in their dormitory knew what he’d done. The rumours spread around the school. He’d contemplated suicide.

  Paul broke to the surface, gasping for air. The water was becoming cold and he got out of the bath and dressed. Catching sight of his reflection in the steamed-up mirror he turned away quickly, hating the sight of himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE LIVER WAS ARRANGED on a tray, sprigs of bright parsley tucked between its folds, blood tingeing the tight green curls. Liver was cheaper than chops or ham. Standing outside the butcher’s shop window, Margot thought of the few coins she had left in her purse. She watched a bluebottle crawl across the snout of the model pig. If the fly landed on the liver she would buy something else. The fly took off and flew out of sight. Margot sighed. They would have liver for supper, just as the doctor ordered.

  The shop was empty and she walked up to the counter decisively, already taking out her purse. The butcher smiled. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Half a pound of liver, please.’

  He went on smiling at her. At last he said, ‘It’s Mrs Harris, isn’t it? Lieutenant Harris and I were in the same regiment. I remember seeing you at that dance at New Year. Are you well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She looked down at her purse again, disconcerted by his steady gaze. ‘Half a pound of liver, please.’

  As he weighed the liver he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Would you like anything else?’ He placed the small, neatly wrapped parcel on the counter in front of her. ‘Some bacon to go with the liver, or a nice chop, perhaps?’

  She fumbled for coins. ‘No, thank you. How much is that?’

  ‘Free to new customers.’

  ‘Free?’

  He smiled. ‘Free.’

  She put her purse back in her handbag, thinking of what she could buy with the money saved. Glancing at him she said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  She remembered Robbie saying, ‘I had a letter from Paul this morning, about a piglet. Apparently his men chased the creature round an orchard, butchered it and then roasted it on a spit. He drew pigs in the margins, all curly tails and snouts.’ He’d laughed. ‘The letter was all about nothing, really. You’d think he was at a Boy Scout camp.’

  Walking home from town, Margot remembered that Robbie said, ‘I never thought he’d make much of a soldier. At school he was always such a fearful little thing. Odd, really, how he’s turned out.’

  Not really interested, she’d asked, ‘And how has he turned out?’

  Robbie was silent for a while. At last he said, ‘Have you heard of Stoics, Margot? Nothing mattered to them, everything was accepted as it was, as though they’d risen above human feeling and emotion and nothing could touch them. Insane, really, if you think about it, but that’s how Paul is. Doesn’t complain, doesn’t question. The perfect junior officer.’

  She laughed. ‘I think you mean he’s brave.’

  ‘It’s a kind of bravery, I suppose.’ He’d sighed, squeezing her hand. ‘I suppose I thought he was more intelligent than to accept it all without doubt.’


  At home Margot slipped the liver on to a plate. She touched it gently, thinking of the piglet Paul’s men had caught in an orchard in France and imagined its insides slopping on to the grass. The handsome butcher had probably played a big part in the slaughter.

  She went upstairs and lay down on their bed. Taking Paul’s pillow she held it to her, inhaling the faint smell of him. The baby had been still for a while and she pressed her hand against her side. She felt a tightly bunched fist push against her palm and was reassured. Robbie’s baby would be strong like him; she imagined a bold little boy, nothing like Paul – she couldn’t imagine he would be anything like Paul.

  Closing her eyes she thought of Robbie walking through the graveyard, remembering how she would watch him from her bedroom window, willing him to stop and look back. He never did. He kissed her goodbye cheerfully, called her his sweet girl and didn’t look back, making her wonder if he thought about her at all when she wasn’t with him. She tried to imagine his body beside her each night, his cries waking her instead of Paul’s, but all she could see was his back as he walked away. Soon she would forget what he sounded like and only photographs would bring back his face. Softly she said his name, letting it go into the silence.

  From the classroom doorway Adam bawled, ‘Quiet! You will all be quiet this instant! Ramsey – sit down at once, boy!’

  Ramsey sat. The banging of desk lids stopped and all the boys looked straight ahead, their backs straight as their faces. Adam stepped forward and a few in the front row flinched.

  ‘Mr Harris,’ Adam said. ‘Would you wait for me outside, please?’

  In the corridor Paul leaned against the pea-green wall, the noise still ringing in his ears. It had started quietly at first, soft thuds that could almost be ignored; then Ramsey had stood up and begun to conduct his orchestra of desk lids and the boy’s flaying arms had brought the level of noise to a deafening climax. They couldn’t hear his feeble requests for them to stop and he knew they would’ve ignored him even if they had. For those few minutes he was back in boarding school, singled out for special punishment. As the noise became louder it was all he could do to stop himself crying.