Coming out of the class room Adam said, ‘Go and have a cigarette.’
‘No. I’ll go back and face them.’
Adam stopped him by placing a hand firmly on his chest. ‘Go and have a cigarette. You’re white as a sheet. They shouldn’t see you like this.’
‘Will you tell the head?’
‘I won’t have to, Paul. I think the whole school heard.’ He sighed. ‘Look, have a walk around the yard, calm yourself down, then come and see me in my office. We’ll talk.’
‘What about them?’
‘Leave me to deal with them.’ He touched his arm. ‘Go on, off you go.’
From the dugout doorway Jenkins said, ‘Davies is weeping again.’
Paul looked up from his supper of cold, tinned stew. Unwinding the scarf that covered much of his head and face, Jenkins sat down opposite him. ‘Do you ever feel like weeping, Harris?’
A shell exploded. Earth fell from the ceiling on to the table and Paul pushed his plate away. Standing up he said, ‘I’ll go and speak to him.’
‘It won’t do any good. Besides, why shouldn’t he have a good old blub?’
‘I don’t want the men seeing him like that.’
‘Then off you go and talk to him. I’m sure the poor mite couldn’t feel any worse anyway.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He’s scared of you, Harris! Absolutely terrified you’ll tear him off a strip for some minor infringement! Maybe you’re best leaving him to Sergeant Morgan, now I come to think about it.’
‘Morgan?’
‘Didn’t I say? Morgan’s taking care of him. It’s quite sweet to see, really, the big man sitting so quietly with the boy. Morgan had one of the men make him a cup of tea. Plenty of sugar, no doubt.’
‘Why didn’t you bring him in here? He shouldn’t be bothering the men. For God’s sake, they have enough to put up with!’
‘What’s really the matter, Harris? Scared you’ve got a rival for Morgan’s affections?’ Jenkins laughed. He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette, flicking the spent match on to the shiny gristle left on Paul’s supper plate. ‘There’s something about the Sergeant, isn’t there? Cut above. I don’t wonder you can’t keep your eyes off him.’
‘Why don’t you go to hell!’
‘Now, I could be trite and say we’re all already in hell.’ He gazed at Paul. ‘I had a quiet word with Davies. You know, the boy’s so innocent he hardly knew the meaning of the word pervert.’
In the schoolyard, Paul drew heavily on the cigarette. He remembered that he couldn’t bring himself to stay in the dugout with Jenkins and had gone out into the trench. The men were dark shapes huddled against the sandbags; he could smell the stew they were spooning into their mouths, a stink like over-boiled bones. That morning he had inspected their feet and Corporal Taylor had joked that he was like Christ, about to wash the feet of the disciples. Further along the trench Morgan crouched beside Davies, watching as the boy sipped from an enamel mug. He caught his eye and for a moment they’d stared at each other.
In the school playground Paul closed his eyes, sucking smoke deep into his lungs. The cigarette was finished, burnt almost to his fingers. In a few minutes the bell would ring and hundreds of boys would swarm outside, making him want to find somewhere to hide. Tossing the cigarette down he turned and walked back inside the school.
Adam said, ‘Sit down, Paul.’ He smiled too brightly. ‘Feeling better?’
‘I’m fine.’ He sat down, aware of Adam watching him from the other side of his desk. Attempting to smile back at him he said, ‘I’ve stopped shaking, anyway.’
‘That’s good. Right, I’ve given the whole class detention and the headmaster will cane Ramsey tomorrow. The boy will also apologise to you in person and in writing.’
‘That should prove embarrassing.’
‘I don’t care who’s embarrassed. We’re trying to instil discipline. Besides, he deserves to be embarrassed.’
‘Do I?’
Taking off his glasses Adam pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘I’ve made myself hoarse shouting at those boys. I don’t think I’ve been so angry in my life. All I could think about was that this is my fault. I should have realised you weren’t ready for this.’
‘I am ready, most of the time.’
‘You should see yourself, Paul. You look worse now than when you first came home. And you are still shaking.’ Frowning he said, ‘Perhaps you should take a day or two off.’
‘No. Things will be better tomorrow. I can’t put off facing them.’
‘I hate seeing you like this. Listen, why don’t you come and see me tonight? We’ll talk some more.’ He stood up and walked around the desk. Holding the door open for him he said, ‘Seven o’clock?’
In Adam’s bed Paul thought about Second Lieutenant Davies. In October 1918 a sniper had shot him in the head. His had been a quick, painless death – a second’s carelessness and then nothing. He had written to the boy’s parents and said that their son had always been brave. Reading over his shoulder Jenkins had laughed.
Adam propped himself up on his elbow. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened today?’
Paul closed his eyes, remembering how helpless he had felt as the first thuds of desk lids broke the unnatural quiet of the class, increasing in speed until the noise grew louder and louder. All the boys had looked at him, all of them smirking. He wondered if it would have been worse if one of them had looked ashamed. At last he said, ‘It was a prank, that’s all. Do we have to make so much of it?’
‘Yes, if it’s the only way I can get you to come and see me.’
‘So am I here for a fucking or a bollocking, then?’
‘Don’t talk like that. God, you’re a crude little sod, sometimes.’ He sighed. ‘You were an officer, Paul. Why can’t you cope with a few thirteen-year-olds?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe because the school hasn’t issued me with a tin hat and a machine gun.’
Adam was silent for a while. At last he said quickly, ‘The head wants to give you your notice. I’ve persuaded him to give you another chance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘For Christ’s sake try and sound a bit more grateful.’
‘I am. Really.’ He managed to smile at him, although the shame of almost losing his job had his heart racing.
Adam laughed bleakly. ‘Do you want to show me how grateful you are?’
Paul closed his eyes as Adam pushed him on to his stomach and entered him roughly. He wondered when they had stopped making love, when Adam had given up on tenderness for this quick, angry fucking. Adam called out triumphantly and the bedstead rattled against the wall like the clatter of desk lids.
Chapter Twenty
MICK SAID, ‘I HATE Sundays. I’ve always hated Sundays, the way they drag. Patrick looks forward to them, he had quite a spring in his step this morning. Of course, it’s his day of rest, whereas I rest every day.’
Hetty looked up from the book she’d been reading to him. ‘I knew you weren’t listening. Do you want to hear how it ends?’
‘Not really.’ Throwing his cigarette stub into the fire he said, ‘Do you ever see your new neighbour? You know that young girl – Mrs Harris. Has she had the baby yet?’
‘I see her sometimes, and no, she hasn’t had the baby yet. She came in the shop. Patrick gave her free liver.’
Mick raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he?’
Hetty sighed. Closing the book she said, ‘I think he took a fancy to her. I suppose she is pretty. And it’s not as if she’ll be a good customer – poor as mice, her and that husband. All make-do-and-mend. She peered into her purse as though it was a big, black, scary hole.’
Mick laughed but his eyes remained questioning. ‘Do you see much of her husband?’
She frowned at him. ‘Why?’
‘I knew his brother, I told you.’
‘I did hear one thing about him. Mrs Shipley who lives next door to them told Mam how he makes
such a row in the night she has to bang on the wall with her shoe, says he sounds like he’s back fighting the war single-handed. She says her Fred is ready to go round there and throttle him, one eye or not.’
Mick lit another cigarette. ‘What did her Fred do during the war? Don’t tell me. Reserved occupation.’
‘He was too old to be called up.’
‘Lucky him.’
‘It can’t be easy being woken night after night.’
‘No. It’s not easy.’ He stared into the fire, his mouth set in a thin, angry line. After a while he said, ‘It must be hard on the boy’s wife.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so? Can’t you imagine how frightening it must be for her? For God’s sake, can’t you empathise even a little?’
Returning his angry gaze Hetty said, ‘Maybe I just think she’s lucky to have a husband and a baby on the way.’
‘Even a husband whose screams wake the neighbours? Will any husband do, Hetty?’
‘Not any, no.’
He flicked cigarette ash at the hearth. Without looking at her he said, ‘I’m tired. Perhaps you’d better go home.’
‘I thought you wanted to go for a walk in the park?’
‘I hate that park, it’s full of bloody women who can’t keep their little brats from staring.’ He looked at her at last. ‘I think you should go, now. Thank you for coming to see me.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘No? Do you want to read me another chapter of that terrible book? Or we could play cards. There’s such a lot to keep you here, isn’t there?’
‘There’s you.’
‘Me?’ He manoeuvred his chair back, turning it round to face the window. Staring out over the garden he said, ‘You shouldn’t let me keep you, Hetty.’
‘Why not?’
He looked at her. At last he said, ‘Because I think I’m in love with you. I am in love with you – and that’s terrible because what business do I have falling in love? A great bloody useless lump like me?’ Turning back to the garden he said, ‘I thought your company would be enough. It isn’t. It’s too bloody painful.’
‘What if I was in love with you?’
‘Are you?’ He frowned.
‘Yes.’
‘But what’s the point in that? I’ll never be any good for you … and people look at me and think … they think …’
‘I don’t care what they think.’
‘I do! They think I don’t have normal feelings, and if I do …’ His face twisted into an angry smile. Bitterly he said, ‘Well, no one likes to think about it, do they?’
She crouched beside him. ‘I do love you. I have for ages now.’
He gazed at her. ‘You love me?’ He searched her face, his eyes intense. Cupping her cheek with his hand he said, ‘I can’t have you love me, Hetty.’
She kissed him, gently at first, until she felt his resistance give. He groaned softly, his hand going to the back of her head and his fingers knotting in her hair as his tongue searched out hers. As he pulled her closer to him the arm of the wheelchair pressed against her and she drew away. She laughed a little, frustrated. ‘I can’t get close enough.’
He pressed his hand against her cheek. ‘Maybe you should go.’
‘Do you really want me to?’
‘No. But if you stay …’ Desperately he said, ‘I just want to hold you so badly.’
‘I know. I want that, too.’
‘I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.’
‘I won’t.’
‘If we just hold each other, that’s all.’
She nodded, impatient with desire. ‘That’s all.’
He laughed as if he couldn’t believe the passion in her eyes. Softly he said, ‘Help me on to the bed.’
Margot watched Paul shave at the kitchen sink. Earlier, he had taken his eye out and cleaned the socket while the eye watched from a glass of water. The eye didn’t produce tears and throughout the day he would drop water into it to prevent the socket from becoming dry. Usually he did all this in private but this morning it seemed he had forgotten she was there.
The Sunday Post was spread out on the table in front of her. She had been pretending to read the same article for the last ten minutes. Turning the page she said, ‘You promise you won’t be late?’
He glanced at her, razor poised. There was a line of soap on its blade and he rinsed it off. ‘I promise.’
‘Because you know what Daddy’s like. And it is his birthday.’ After a moment she said cautiously, ‘You’ll make an effort, won’t you?’
Looking in the mirror he’d propped up on the window ledge, he dragged the razor across his cheek.
‘I know you don’t want to go, Paul.’
He smoothed back his hair with both hands. Catching her reflected gaze he said, ‘I’ll be there, don’t worry.’ He shrugged his jacket on. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to church?’
‘I’m sure. Go and see your friend, have a nice time.’
After he’d gone Margot went into the front parlour and lifted the lace curtain away from the window to watch him walk towards the High Street. Letting the curtain fall, she thought of thin French actresses and looked down at her own mountainous body in despair.
Paul walked to the Red Lion pub where he had promised to meet Patrick. There was a group of young lads on the corner of Tanner Street and he felt his heart beat quicken. He wished often he didn’t look so obviously like a frail little queer. He tried to walk a little taller and resisted quickening his step as he passed the youths. Not one of them looked twice at him and he wanted to laugh at his paranoia but it was too depressing. He thought of the boys at school and wondered what they had in store for him next. He knew he was completely at their mercy, just as he had been at Jenkins’s.
Last night he’d dreamt of Jenkins again and woke in a sweat to find Margot standing over him, her hair dishevelled from sleep and her eyes wide with fright. ‘You were swearing!’ She gazed at him in disbelief that he could use such terrible words. ‘And who’s Jenkins?’
‘No one.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘No one, come back to bed.’
No one. Paul lit a cigarette as he turned the corner on to
Skinner Street. If only.
Jenkins crouched beside him and sang softly, ‘The boy I love is up in the gallery, the boy I love is …’
Paul had been asleep on his bunk. Startled, he’d sat up, fumbling in his haste to fasten his tunic buttons. He searched his pockets for a cigarette, appalled to see that his hands were shaking as he struck a match.
Jenkins laughed. ‘Lord, you’re uncivil! Aren’t you going to offer me one of those? Isn’t that the done thing?’
As Paul made to get up, Jenkins placed a hand on his chest, pushing him down again. ‘Hawkins asked me this morning if I knew what was wrong with you. Said you’d been behaving strangely. I wonder if he knows just how strange you are. Perhaps I should have a quiet word with him, put him in the picture.’
As if on cue, Hawkins came in. He frowned from Jenkins to Paul. ‘Harris, have you told him yet?’
Paul scrambled out of his bunk, trying to avoid brushing against Jenkins who, as usual, stood too close to him. Straightening his tunic he said, ‘No, sir, not yet.’
Hawkins grunted. ‘All right, I’ll do the honours.’ He looked at Jenkins. ‘You and Harris and twenty of the men are going on a little raiding party. Top brass want us to catch a Fritz prisoner.’ He grinned at Paul. ‘They imagine we can find out a few of their secrets, eh, Harris?’
‘Yes, sir.’
To Jenkins he said, ‘I wouldn’t normally send the two of you but I think you can learn from Harris’s experience. So mind you take notes, Jenkins – you’ll be doing it on your own next time.’ Hawkins sat down at the table. ‘Be a good chap and go and tell Johnson to fetch me a cup of tea, would you, Jenkins?’
When he’d gone, Hawkins looked at Paul. ‘Do you think he’ll manage?’
Hawkins frowned at him. ‘I’m worried about you. I hope you’re not coming down with something.’
‘No, sir, I’m fine.’
‘Fine! You always say you’re fine, thank God!’ He sighed.
‘I’m sorry I’ve had to foist Jenkins on you, Paul. But he has to start pulling his weight some time.’ After a moment he laughed. ‘The bugger went very white, didn’t he?’
Crossing the High Street close to Patrick’s shop, Paul remembered just how white Jenkins had gone. He had wanted to feel gratified but instead he had felt sick at the thought of having to rely on him if anything went wrong. The only comfort was knowing that Patrick would be with him. Later that night as they prepared for the raid, he’d caught Jenkins watching him as he cleaned his pistol.
‘Morgan’s going on the raid.’ Jenkins grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn to look at him. ‘If Morgan’s going you don’t need me – you can tell Hawkins you don’t need me!’
Jenkins’s face was twisted with fear and anger. Unable to cope with his fear as well as his own Paul shook off his grasp and turned back to his gun.
‘Did you hear me, Harris? Tell Hawkins you’ll do it on your own – you and bloody Morgan!’
‘He won’t listen to me.’
‘He will! You’re his blue-eyed bloody boy! He will listen!’
Paul stared at him. He felt as though he was seeing him properly for the first time in his life. He had only ever looked at him obliquely and always with a creeping sense of his own cowardice for not facing up to him. He saw how ordinary he was, rather plain and pasty-faced beneath his veneer of arrogance. For a moment he felt sorry for him. ‘Listen, you’ll be all right. It’s really not as bad as you think it’s going to be, once you’re out there. Just stay close to Morgan and me –’
The Boy I Love Page 18