The Boy I Love

by Marion Husband

  Draping his tie around his up-turned collar he saw that his hands were trembling cigarette ash to the floor. He felt Patrick’s eyes on him.

  Patrick smiled. ‘Come back to bed? It’s early yet.’

  ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Patrick sprang from the bed and crossed the room. Holding him at arms’ length he frowned. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Nothing! All right?’ Paul shrugged him off. ‘Don’t talk about the past, that’s all. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I think it’s the only thing we have in common.’

  ‘We’re queer, isn’t that enough to have in common?’

  ‘No! That’s like saying – I don’t know – two men have lots in common because they’re on a sinking ship together … I want more than that …’

  Paul stepped past him but Patrick caught his hand. He led him back to the bed and made him sit down. Sitting beside him he took his other hand and held them on his lap. After a while he cleared his throat nervously. ‘I have a confession to make. I went with someone. A man I picked up.’

  Paul sighed, wanting only to get away. Patiently he said, ‘Patrick, you don’t have to tell me – and don’t feel guilty. I understand.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to be faithful?’

  ‘How can I ask that of you?’

  ‘I want you to. And I want you to be faithful to me, I don’t want there to be any other men.’

  ‘There aren’t.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’ Searching Paul’s face he said, ‘The man I picked up had a picture of you by his bed. He kept a box of your letters from France beside it.’

  Paul drew his hands away from Patrick’s. He tried to picture Patrick and Adam in bed in that squalid room and found himself wondering how the fastidious Patrick had brought himself to lie down on Adam’s sheets. He imagined the disgust that Patrick would have struggled to conceal once the sex was over. Feeling weary suddenly he lay down on the bed and pressed his hands into his eyes.

  After a while, aware of Patrick watching him, he laughed bleakly. ‘So, you slept with Adam. Well, ours is a small world, I suppose. Was it any good? He can lack imagination in bed, I find.’ He lowered his hands to look at him. ‘Although usually I forgive him – he tries so hard to be good.’

  ‘You still see him.’ Patrick sounded incredulous.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No!’ Patrick stood up. ‘No, for Christ’s sake! It was once, months ago, before you and I started meeting here. Are you still going to his house? How often? Do you love him?’

  ‘It’s none of your business, Patrick.’

  ‘Yes it is! Of course it is! I love you!’ Standing up he said, ‘Do you love him more than you love me?’

  Wearily Paul said, ‘Look, I have to go – I promised Margot –’

  ‘Promise me you won’t see him again.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Then what can I say, Patrick?’ Exasperated suddenly he said, ‘Anyway, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to me! Does he know about us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should I tell him?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Patrick. Listen, Adam’s just Adam, I’ve known him for years.’ He almost added that there was nothing between them any more because since Sunday it seemed true.

  Patrick slumped down on the bed. He held his head in his hands and looked so defeated that Paul knelt in front of him. He touched his knee. ‘Patrick? Come on, you knew I wasn’t a blushing virgin.’

  ‘Were there many before me?

  ‘A few –’

  ‘A few?’

  ‘Yes. I told you.’

  Patrick met his gaze. ‘Davies?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Second Lieutenant Davies, the poor little sod who could never take his eyes off you. Did you seduce him?’

  ‘Seduce him?’ Paul stared at him in astonishment. ‘For Christ’s sake, Patrick – you make it sound as though it was a fucking debutantes’ ball! Were we buggering each other between bombardments? Did I miss something?’

  Patrick bowed his head again. ‘I’m sorry. It was just a stupid rumour. I never believed it, not really.’

  ‘Not really? Do you honestly think so badly of me? You know what things were like over there – you know what the boy was like …’ He felt sick suddenly. He remembered how Davies always seemed about to cry, how he’d wanted to offer his usual hollow encouragement only to be repelled by his snivelling. Eventually he found he was unable to even look at him, afraid that the boy’s weakness might break his own puny resolve. He knew that Davies watched his every move. Ironically he’d believed he’d hated him. Agitated he got up and walked across the room, only to turn to face Patrick again. ‘What was said?’

  ‘That you and he … it was rubbish, everyone knew it was a lie – I shouldn’t have said anything, it was only because I felt so jealous –’

  ‘What was said!’

  Patrick hesitated. Avoiding his gaze he said quickly, ‘That you were found together, in your bunk. It was nonsense, of course it was. Jenkins was a liar – no one believed what Jenkins said.’

  Jenkins. Afraid his legs would buckle he leaned against the wall. Patrick got up and stood a few feet from him. Cautiously he said, ‘Paul? Are you all right?’

  Paul wanted to say yes, that there was nothing to worry about, that he could push Jenkins from his mind if he really tried hard enough, but the words wouldn’t come. Jenkins was suddenly alive and in their room. Wanting to run, instead he felt Patrick pull him into his arms as though he thought he was going to fall.

  At first the pains made her smile. At last something was happening and Margot paced round and round the kitchen table, occasionally using a chair to support herself through a contraction. She looked at the clock. Soon Paul would be home and he could ask their next-door neighbour to fetch the midwife. Excited and afraid at once, she stopped pacing to double up against a stronger pain. Her waters broke.

  Margot stared at the stain spreading over the floor, truly scared now. She remembered what she’d discovered in the book on pregnancy and knew that she needed help. Between pains, she slowly made her way next door.

  ‘Mam!’ The child who answered her knock stared at her as he shouted for his mother. Supporting herself against the doorframe, Margot tried to smile at him. From the kitchen came the smell of steak and kidney pie and a woman wiping her hands on an apron. The woman frowned. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I think my labour’s started.’

  The child giggled, covering his mouth with his hand, and the woman clipped him round the head. Taking her arm she said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home. You’ll be all right, I’ll look after you.’ She turned to the boy. ‘Run round to Miss Rowe’s, tell her to come straight away. You hear? Straight away.’

  Helping her up the stairs her neighbour said, ‘Where’s that lad of yours?’

  Margot gasped for breath, lowering herself painfully on to the bed. Finally able to speak she said, ‘He should be here soon.’

  ‘Do you want me to send Alfie to look for him when he’s fetched the midwife?’

  Another pain came and she clenched her body against it. As it passed she said, ‘He’ll be here … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Moira.’ She smiled. ‘Do you think that daft husband of mine has had the sense to turn the gas off on that pie?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to be a nuisance.’

  Moira laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about it!’ Closing her eyes tight Margot felt the other woman’s arm around her, helping her up the bed. ‘Don’t hold your breath, love, try and breathe, it’ll soon be all over.’

  Patrick led Paul to the bed and made him lie down. Kneeling on the floor he said, ‘I thought you were going to faint. Are you all right?’ When Paul didn’t a
nswer he said helplessly, ‘Maybe have a sleep, eh? You’ll feel better.’ Paul closed his eyes and Patrick sat back on his heels, ready to watch over him on his knees all night as a penance for his jealousy, and for being such a fool as to mention that little bastard’s name.

  He remembered how Jenkins had whispered, ‘I can’t do this, Harris. I can’t.’

  They had just started out on a raid. Patrick saw Paul signal for him to stop and motion that he and the other men should stay where they were. Halfway across no-man’s-land, Patrick tried to ignore the whispering going on between Paul and Jenkins and concentrate on the sequence of events he and Paul had planned that would give them the best chance of surviving the night. Jenkins had sat with them and Paul had patiently tried to explain each stage to him. He wouldn’t listen. It was as if he didn’t believe he would actually be made to do any of it. Patrick could see Paul despairing; he knew as well as he did that if they didn’t work together it was more likely that one of them would be killed.

  Even before they set out Patrick knew the venture was doomed. The men could see Jenkins working himself up into a state before they’d even left the trench and it made them jittery to imagine that an officer might bugger their chances. Sensing their disquiet, Paul had talked to the men individually, knowing each one well enough to personalise the reassurance. To him he had said only, ‘Is there anything you feel we need to discuss again before we go, Sergeant?’ He had shaken his head. He had known Paul wouldn’t reassure him: they were in this together as equals.

  Paul climbed the ladder over the top of the trench, followed by the men and then Patrick himself. Jenkins’s fear radiated from him like a bad smell; when his turn came he froze on the first rung. After a moment Paul scrambled back down into the trench.

  Patrick heard Jenkins’s frantic whispering and crawled back. He peered down to see what was going on. In the darkness Paul’s face was white but his hand held his pistol to Jenkins’s temple steadily. Snivelling, Jenkins climbed the ladder.

  In no-man’s-land between the trenches, Collier turned to look at him and Patrick tried to reassure him with just a movement of his eyes. Pressing his body into the ground with an idea of muffling the terrible noise his heart was making, he saw that the rest of the men were still and silent as the ground itself. He thought of the bodies left after a battle and felt his flesh crawl as though the worms had made an early start on him. He began to pray, picturing the crucifix that was safe beneath his uniform.

  Paul and Jenkins began moving towards him and Paul signalled that they should move on again. Again Patrick began to visualise the plan. He saw himself cutting the German wire and moving closer and closer towards their trench. He pictured the layout of the land they were crawling through and knew that in a few yards it would begin to slope. To their left was a shell hole marked by rusted wire and the ragged scraps of cloth that clung to the barbs. On windy days the cloth would flap like birds desperate to escape a trap and the eye was deceived into believing that there really was something alive in the waste the shells had made. Now, though, the air was still and the only movement he could see was that of the dark outline of the man ahead of him.

  After a few feet he sensed something was wrong and looked back. Jenkins had stopped crawling. Once again Paul signalled that he and the others should stop, and once again he heard the same, frantic whispering. Patrick decided he would rather know what was going on than wait helplessly. He shuffled back until he found himself next to Paul.

  With his mouth close to Patrick’s ear Paul whispered, ‘I can’t get him to move!’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Before Paul could answer Jenkins was on his feet. In a half crouch he ran back towards their line.

  The sniper’s shot was too low. It hit Jenkins in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet and into the shell hole. Paul stared after him. After a moment he dropped his head to the ground, banging his forehead against the frozen mud and Patrick was scared he was about to lose his nerve, too. But at last he looked up. ‘They’ll know we’re out here now. You and the men go back. I’ll get Jenkins.’

  ‘I’ll help you, sir.’

  Paul held his gaze and Patrick began to worry that he would insist on the order. At last, to his relief, he nodded. ‘All right. Send the others back first.’

  Kneeling beside Paul, Patrick kissed his head lightly. He remembered how Jenkins used to hum The Boy I Love under his breath whenever Paul was in earshot and how Paul would pretend not to hear although Patrick could see his body tense as well as Jenkins could. Often he thought about killing him, how, with a carefully planned accident, he could spare Paul his torment. His thoughts became elaborate fantasies in which Jenkins’s death was replayed over and over. He told himself that one more death in the scheme of things wouldn’t matter and, despite his creeping doubts, that fantasies didn’t matter at all.

  When he’d given the order for the others to return to their trench, Patrick had crawled back to the shell hole. He’d wondered at his heart’s capacity to go on beating at such a pace and couldn’t imagine it ever recovering to a normal beat. When the single shot sounded he thought for a moment that he was hit and he’d rolled into the shell hole, afraid of the pain to come. He’d found himself next to Jenkins’s body. He remembered crossing himself cursorily, a habit he had thought he’d forgotten. He felt he should have said a prayer but he knew there was no point. Already the mud had begun to claim Jenkins; he might have been dead for centuries.

  Paul placed his pistol back in its holster and looked at him as though challenging him to speak. He kept silent. After a moment, Paul leaned across the body and closed Jenkins’s eyes.

  Hetty slowed her usual fast walk as she neared home. She turned, hearing footsteps hurry behind her and saw the midwife and Alfie Simms. The little boy grinned at her. ‘We’re helping Mrs Harris have her baby.’

  The midwife laughed. ‘That’s enough, Alfie. Mrs Harris won’t want the whole world to know.’

  Surprised, Hetty said, ‘I was only with her a couple of hours ago.’

  They had reached Margot’s open door. The midwife said, ‘Come in, if you’re her friend, then this young man’s Mammy can get back to her family.’

  Reluctantly Hetty said, ‘I don’t want to get in the way.’

  The woman laughed, already climbing the stairs. ‘Don’t worry pet, I’ll let you know if you do.’

  Margot had stopped asking for Paul and had begun to cry for her mother. Feeling useless, Hetty said, ‘It’s all right. She’ll be here soon.’

  Heaving herself up the bed, her chin pressing hard on to her chest, Margot clutched Hetty’s hand. She grunted, a deep, animal-like noise, her face red and sweaty with effort. The midwife smiled, looking up from between her splayed knees. ‘Oh, you’re a good brave girl! You’ll have your baby in your arms in no time.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Margot cried. ‘Oh God help me …’

  All at once the bloodied baby was laid across Margot’s belly, arms and legs flaying, screaming outrage at being forced out into the cold. Hetty laughed in astonishment and the midwife caught her eye and grinned with relief.

  Paul got up. Beside the bed, Patrick scrambled to his feet but Paul ignored him and went into the kitchen. He splashed cold water on his face. His eyes were sore and he took out his false eye and held it under the running tap. Replacing it, he remembered how he had woken in a field hospital with bandages around his face and how he had panicked because, for a moment, he’d believed he was back in school and this blindness was some new trick of Jenkins’s. Then he’d remembered that a shell had exploded as he and Sergeant Morgan were returning from the aborted raid and that suddenly he was covering his eyes with his hands and wouldn’t allow anyone to prise them away. He’d remembered too that Jenkins was dead and that the relief he’d felt when his tormentor’s body slumped against his had immediately become something else he had to keep at bay along with fear and cowardice and grief. It would be best to keep silent, he decided; there would b
e less chance of a breach in his defences.

  Patrick said carefully, ‘Paul? Are you going to be all right?’

  Paul could see how frightened Patrick was; Patrick knew as well as he did that Jenkins had wrecked everything. Because there were no words to help he simply kissed him. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Margot will be worried.’

  The midwife hesitated at the front door. ‘You’ll stay with her until that husband of hers shows his face?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman sighed. ‘The buggers like to keep out of the way until it’s all over. They don’t like to hear their wives suffering. It makes them feel guilty.’

  Closing the door behind her Hetty looked up the stairs. She had left Margot dozing, the baby swaddled and asleep in the great ugly cot. The midwife had said to make her a cup of tea and so she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, wondering if Paul Harris had thought to buy milk before he disappeared. She glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was only eleven o’clock. She’d been sure it was later.

  She heard the front door open and went out into the hallway. Paul Harris frowned at her. ‘Where’s my wife?’ There was panic in his voice and he looked past her into the kitchen. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She had the baby –’

  He was running up the stairs at once.

  His eyes were swollen and he looked like he had been crying. Half asleep, Margot reached out and touched his face as he knelt beside the bed. He really was the most beautiful man, even when he cried. She wondered why he’d cried but it seemed not to matter now that he was here. She felt euphoric with relief and laughed, but it was a weak little noise and she felt it should have been louder. Paul smiled at her, fresh tears in his eyes that she wiped away. ‘It’s a boy.’ Her voice was hoarse and too quiet so she repeated, ‘A boy. I think we should call him Robert.’