The Boy I Love

by Marion Husband

  Jenkins had laughed so harshly he sounded like a mad man.

  Paul stopped along the alley that led to the Red Lion. He leaned against the coal-blackened wall and breathed in deeply in an effort to manage the panic rising inside him. In St Stevens, when he’d allowed himself to remember that raid, a nurse had found him curled into a ball on the floor of the common room, fellow patients gazing at him with mute acceptance. A doctor was fetched; there was the usual carefully suppressed exasperation with him when despite their coaxing he couldn’t speak, although he’d wanted to tell them that the guilt felt like a terrified animal trapped inside him. If he didn’t stay still enough to keep it contained its panic would kill him. Eventually they had carried him to bed. An injection was administrated.

  He pushed himself away from the wall and steadied himself. Taking another deep breath he walked inside the pub.

  In The Red Lion Patrick looked around for a familiar face and was relieved not to find any. Tucked away in one of the back alleys that ran off the High Street, the Lion was used mainly by the market traders and its Sunday afternoon trade was quiet. Two men stood at the bar; in the far corner a middle-aged couple nursed two halves of stout. From a room above the pub he could hear scales being practised on the piano, the same flat notes repeated over and over, jarring the pub’s sullen silence. At the bar the barmaid smiled at Paul as she handed him their drinks. Patrick watched her curiously and tried to work out if the interest she showed in Paul was merely professional friendliness or something more appreciative. The way others looked at Paul had always preoccupied him; whenever they were in public together his jealousy made sure he was never quite at ease.

  Paul sat down. He set the two pints of beer on the table and immediately lit a cigarette. He placed the open case between them. ‘I’m pleased you came.’

  Patrick took a long drink. Wiping his mouth he said. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. I thought you might be wary.’

  ‘Wary!’ He laughed dismissively. ‘Those two at the bar. Are they queer, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So why should they think we are?’

  ‘They might think I am.’

  ‘Of course they don’t.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t say things like that. You’re just like any other man.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Patrick looked away. The woman with the stout was rummaging in a large handbag and he watched her, wondering what might appear. A handkerchief. She blew her nose noisily.

  The man sitting next to her sighed.

  Patrick took one of Paul’s cigarettes, a cheaper brand than the one he smoked. He picked up the silver case, touched by the irony of something so expensive containing such rubbish. Turning the case over he read the inscription on the back, squinting at the ornately curling script.

  Paul said, ‘My father gave it to me for my twenty-first.’

  He read the inscription aloud. ‘“To Paul with my fondest wishes and love.”’ Weighing it in his hand he looked at him. ‘Your father?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  He placed the case down gently. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, I believe you.’

  Paul trailed his finger through the condensation on the side of his glass. Without lifting his gaze he asked, ‘How’s Mick?’

  ‘All right. He’s with his girl, Hetty.’

  ‘Does he know who you’re with?’

  ‘No!’

  Paul frowned at him thoughtfully. After a moment he said, ‘You’re lying. You do it so badly I can tell. He knows you’re with me.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything about you!’

  ‘He was great friends with Robbie, did you know that? They served together at the beginning of the war. I think he confided in him.’ After a moment he said, ‘Rob could hardly ever bring himself to confide in me. At school he avoided me like the plague. Didn’t want to be tarred with the same brush.’ He smiled at Patrick, only to look down at his pint again. ‘I couldn’t blame him, really.’

  ‘He should have looked out for you – if I’d been your brother –’

  ‘He did – once or twice, when I was getting my head kicked in.’

  ‘Christ!’ Patrick shook his head. ‘I would have made sure no one even touched you!’

  ‘What does Mick say about you seeing me?’

  Patrick considered lying to him again but found himself saying, ‘He says what you’d expect him to. He thinks you’ve corrupted me, of course.’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘I don’t take any notice! I don’t care what anyone thinks.’

  The piano practice stopped and Paul glanced up. ‘Every good boy deserves favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a scale, the first letter of each word represents a note, e, g, b, d, f.’

  ‘You play piano as well as all your other talents?’

  ‘Very badly.’

  Patrick smiled at him, holding his gaze for so long that Paul looked away, glancing quickly at the two men at the bar. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘You wanted to come here.’

  ‘I like pubs. And I don’t have any other drinking partners. Besides, I feel cooped up in the house, in school, in your little room. I needed a change.’

  Paul became silent, drinking steadily and smoking with his usual fixed concentration. In their room Patrick welcomed his quietness, it felt calming and easy knowing they would talk only if they wanted to. But today his silence had an edge to it, as though there was something preoccupying him that he didn’t feel he could share. Patrick shifted uncomfortably. There were times when he felt he would never know Paul properly just because of the difference in their class; he suspected that Paul behaved differently around the men he’d shared the officers’ mess with and that different Paul was out-going and talkative. He imagined if he had been a doctor’s son rather than a butcher’s Paul wouldn’t be so silent.

  Determined to make him understand that he wasn’t just a thick, taciturn butcher, Patrick cleared his throat. ‘Is there something wrong, Paul?’

  Paul jerked his head up to frown at him. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re quiet.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘Quieter.’

  ‘So? You’re all right with that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Patrick, don’t you start too! Why does everyone feel that I should be talking all the time? What is there to say, anyway? Bloody words – they don’t make the slightest bit of difference to anything!’

  ‘All right. I’m sorry.’ He looked so agitated that Patrick had the urge to take his hand. Instead he said gently, ‘Do you want another drink?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. I have to go. I have to go and talk to my father-in-law over lunch. Talking proves that you’re a good sort, apparently.’ Exhaling cigarette smoke he said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t lose my temper with you – you don’t deserve it.’

  Patrick smiled. ‘Is that you losing your temper, then? Blink and you miss it?’

  ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘A bit. We should have a ride out up on to the moors – you could practise having a good shout at some sheep.’

  ‘Is that all I’m fit for?’

  ‘No! It was a joke – are you feeling sorry for yourself now?’

  Paul drained the dregs of his beer and stood up. He touched his brow above his glass eye as though straightening an imaginary patch. It was a habitual, reflexive gesture that Patrick guessed he was hardly aware of performing, and as ever he felt soft with pity. He picked up the cigarette case and handed it to him, discreetly brushing his fingers. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday.’

  Paul nodded.

  Patrick watched him walk out, wishing that he could leave with him and that they could walk through the streets without any dirty-minded bastard suspecting anything. But they had to be careful, Paul was insistent on the amount of care they took. ‘Look at me,’ he’d once said to him, ‘and imagine what men like Thompson would
think if they saw us walking down the street together.’

  He knew Paul was right. Despite what he’d said earlier he knew it was a risk just sitting together in this pub. Patrick glared at the backs of the two men at the bar. Suddenly he hated everyone as much as they must surely hate him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  WALKING THROUGH THE CEMETERY from church her father asked, ‘Have you thought of any names for the baby?’

  ‘Grace, if it’s a girl.’

  ‘That’s nice, I like that. Grace.’ He smiled. ‘It’s pretty.’

  Margot glanced at the stone angel a little further along the path. ‘It was Paul’s mother’s name.’

  ‘Oh.’ He laughed emptily. ‘What about boys’ names?’

  Robert, she thought, Robert after his father. She would call him Bobby. Her father looked at her. ‘Margot? Did you hear me?’

  ‘We haven’t thought about boys’ names.’

  ‘No, well, perhaps when you see the baby a name will suggest itself. It’s often the way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Where is Paul this morning?’

  ‘Seeing a friend. Someone he knew in the army.’

  ‘And what’s his name, this friend of his?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Really? Haven’t you met him?’

  ‘No. He’s allowed his own friends, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, they weren’t very much in evidence at your wedding. I’ve never known a groom with so few guests.’

  ‘I think most of them are dead, Daddy.’

  He was silenced and she hoped that she had shamed him. As they passed Grace Harris’s grave a magpie flew low over the path in front of them, followed swiftly by its mate. Her father laughed a little. ‘The male magpie never lets his mate out of his sight, did you know that? They’re extremely jealous creatures, magpies.’

  She looked at him. ‘Are you saying I should never let Paul out of my sight?’

  ‘That would be rather difficult, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed, stopping to face her. ‘Are you happy, Margot? If I thought you were happy then I wouldn’t mind him so much.’

  ‘I’m happy.’

  ‘Then why do I never see you smile? Heaven knows the last time I heard you laugh.’

  ‘I’m tired. The baby makes me tired. And sometimes there isn’t a lot to smile about, but that’s nothing to do with Paul.’

  ‘Then what is it to do with? That dreadful little house?’

  ‘No! It’s not dreadful!’

  ‘You’re very loyal. I just wish he could do better for you.’

  ‘He works hard.’

  They reached the vicarage. From the open kitchen window came the smell of roast beef and the clatter of pots and pans. She turned to her father. ‘Please, please don’t be horrid to him over lunch.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Am I horrid? Then I’ll try not to be.’ He smiled half-heartedly. ‘I’ll make a special effort on my birthday.’

  The Reverend said grace and Paul closed his eyes and bowed his head and said Amen when it was over, and when he looked up Margot smiled at him, pleased. Beneath the table she ran her foot up his shin and he imagined spending the afternoon in bed with her, as they often did on Sundays.

  The Reverend said, ‘So, Paul, who is this friend of yours Margot has told us about? An army friend, she says?’

  He wondered if he should lie, make up a fictional character – a lieutenant he’d known since 1915, a fellow officer he had fought side by side with, through thick and thin. He could have a slight limp from an old wound; he would be easy to construct – a composite of all the second lieutenants he had ever seen killed. Swallowing a mouthful of roast potato he said, ‘You probably know him. He owns a shop on the High Street. Patrick Morgan, of Morgan’s Butchers?’

  The Reverend raised his eyebrows. ‘A butcher? And he was an officer, was he?’

  ‘No, a sergeant.’

  ‘I didn’t think officers and sergeants mixed.’

  ‘Well, we’re neither officer nor sergeant, now.’

  ‘Morgan …’ Margot’s mother frowned thoughtfully. ‘Wasn’t it the Morgans who were killed in that dreadful accident?’

  Paul glanced at her. ‘Their car was hit by a coal wagon.’

  ‘That’s right! Dreadful, quite dreadful. And their sons were away in France, weren’t they? I remember reading about it in the paper. So sad.’

  Daniel said, ‘If it’s the man I’m thinking of he was a rogue. The council wanted to close his shop as a danger to public health – the place was absolutely flyblown. Always seemed to have money, though. Something underhand going on, no doubt.’

  Evenly Paul said, ‘You don’t know that, sir.’

  ‘Common knowledge.’

  Paul thought of Patrick’s fierce hated of his father and wondered why he was defending him. All the same he said, ‘But you don’t have any evidence.’

  Daniel snorted. ‘When a man whose only visible means of support is a disgusting butcher’s shop dresses his wife in mink and drives a fancy little car, then I would say the evidence is staring one in the face.’

  ‘Perhaps he inherited money.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, boy.’ He looked at Margot. ‘I hope you don’t shop there. I don’t want your and the baby’s health risked by tainted meat.’

  Margot blushed. ‘It’s really very clean, now.’

  ‘All the same. Old habits die hard – there are plenty of other butchers on the High Street.’

  Paul placed his knife and fork down. Turning to Daniel he said, ‘He’s a friend. Are you suggesting I shouldn’t trust him to sell my wife decent meat?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘Don’t dare blaspheme at my table! I know you don’t believe in anything beyond your own comfort and convenience, but the rest of us do.’

  Iris sighed. ‘Oh please, you two. Must you bicker every time you meet?’

  ‘Asking him to show a little respect isn’t bickering, Iris.’ Daniel frowned at Margot. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No!’ Tears stood in her eyes. ‘Why can’t you just try to get on! Why can’t you just be quiet!’ Pushing herself away from the table she ran from the room. Paul got up to follow her but Iris motioned that he should sit down.

  ‘I’ll see to her. Finish your meal.’ She looked at Daniel. ‘Try not to fight.’

  As she closed the door behind her Daniel said, ‘I have never known my daughter to be so unhappy. She was happy with your brother, but you knew that, didn’t you? As soon as I set eyes on you at that wretched party I could see how jealous you were of their happiness. You must have hated Robert. You must have hated him as much as you have contempt for my daughter. You pretend to Margot that you love her but that’s all it is, pretence – men like you don’t love anyone. You can’t!’

  Paul laughed, astonished, even as his stomach contracted with fear. ‘Men like me?’

  ‘Do you honestly imagine I don’t recognise what you are? I’d rather Margot gave the baby up than be married to a creature like you.’ Whittaker was staring at him. He leaned across the table, bringing his face up close to Paul’s. Exhaling a sharp, sour breath he said, ‘When I think of all the decent boys killed …’

  Paul looked down at his plate, his fingers going to the glass eye. He thought of the decent men, the ones he could remember, those who had stayed alive long enough to make an impression on him. Then there was Jenkins, of course.

  He heard Daniel laugh contemptuously. ‘You should look in a mirror before you set foot in my house again. Take a good, hard look at yourself.’

  The door opened and Margot’s mother came in. To Paul she said, ‘Margot would like you to take her home.’

  Paul got up too quickly and swayed dizzily. His legs were shaking and he leaned against the table for a moment. Iris said, ‘Are you all right, Paul?’

  Daniel snorted. ‘He’s fine, Iris. Nothing for anyone to worry about any more.’


  Paul looked at his father-in-law; he was gazing at him evenly, his eyes still dark with anger. Robbie had admired this man, in his letters he’d called him compassionate. Nothing gung-ho about the Reverend, Robbie wrote. He seems to understand what’s going on out there.

  Returning to his meal Daniel said, ‘Take Margot home. Make sure you look after her.’

  Margot woke from a dream about the baby in which Paul had stood in her father’s pulpit and announced to a packed church that the baby wasn’t his. He’d only been pretending to be married. He would rejoin the army, he said, the war wasn’t over. He had two eyes again.

  Lying still on her back she stared at the ceiling, listening to the Sunday silence. Earlier Paul had drawn the curtains against the afternoon sun and now a pale grey light filtered through the thin material. In the corner of the room was the crib Paul had bought from Parkwood. Made from dark oak, it had rockers and a canopy carved with Tudor roses. It was very old, he said. It smelt of empty churches and was too big for their little room. This afternoon she’d told him it was ugly and threw her hairbrush at it. She had wept and hadn’t allowed him to comfort her.

  Her throat still felt raw from crying. By her side was the crumpled, snotty handkerchief she’d clasped in her fist as she drifted uneasily to sleep. On the bedside table a cup of tea had formed a milky skin; a sandwich curled its corners to reveal a creamy sliver of fatty ham. He’d thought she might be hungry because she had left most of her lunch. She had resolutely ignored this small act of peace-making.

  Thinking about the dream Margot remembered that all the faces in the church had been those of strangers and that Paul had been in uniform. She’d thought how handsome he was as she stood at the back of the church. He’d looked straight at her and smiled as he disowned their marriage.

  Margot closed his fist around the sodden hanky, afraid that she was about to cry again. Her mother had said it was the baby that made her cry, her body playing rotten tricks. Things would seem so much better when the baby was born. Stroking her hair, hush-hushing her, Iris had told her to be brave.