Friendly Fire

by Patrick Gale

  ‘How should her lying protect you?’ the Headman asked.

  ‘Maybe not protect exactly,’ Lucas stammered. ‘I … She … She’s just jealous on my behalf, because of Charlie being Oberon and getting all the attention. Mr Compton has favourites, sir. Most of the dons do. And he, invites us to his house for tea and to listen to music and discuss things but I swear he’d never –’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I love him. I thought he was leaving. I’d heard he’d been asked to leave. So I had to tell him. I told him I loved him. I laid myself completely open to him and he didn’t lay a finger on me, sir. He was very kind and helpful and told me he was flattered but that I’d get over it and I had to see it was out of the question.’

  Mrs Somborne-Abbot let out a kind of slow snort. Its violence was enough to make her pearls move against her blouse.

  ‘I see,’ Dr Twyford said. He betrayed nothing as he folded the letters neatly and slid them into a large brown envelope but Sophie was sure he was as startled as the rest of them. ‘Thank you, Lucas. I appreciate your honesty and your courage.’ He handed the envelope to Mrs Somborne-Abbot. ‘These belong with you,’ he said.

  ‘He’s a good man, sir,’ Lucas said. ‘An excellent teacher.’

  ‘Yes, Lucas. Thank you. And thank you, Sophie. You can go now.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Lucas rose and turned to join Sophie, who had her hand on the doorknob to return to the hall. But Mrs Somborne-Abbot was standing too, in a white fury.

  ‘Is that it? You take the testimony of … the bastard and the Jew as gospel and –’

  ‘Please wait until we’re alone again.’

  ‘My son’s fine friends! I wouldn’t be surprised if –’

  ‘Mrs Somborne-Abbot, please!’ he silenced her and turned to the door. ‘Thank you.’

  Sophie nodded and held the door open for Lucas. They walked out and her relief was so immense she wanted to hurry on out into the sunshine of Lawn Quad but Lucas grabbed her arm and stopped her. He opened the outer door then closed it with a firm thump then gestured for Sophie to follow him back to the study door so they could listen.

  ‘… gone to the County Constabulary,’ she was saying.

  ‘I’m very glad you didn’t,’ Dr Twyford said.

  ‘Of course you are. Your precious school …’

  ‘Actually I was thinking of your precious son. This way will do far less harm. You can confront him, if you like. I’ve no doubt you will. And if he confesses then you’re at liberty to take whatever action you choose. If, however, you approach a respected member of my staff simply on the thin evidence of those letters, which reveal nothing more criminal than affection for your son and a certain lack of respect for yourself, you might find yourself being sued for libel by an institution that can well afford it.’

  There was a terrible pause. Sophie was all for hurrying away in case they had been detected but then they heard Mrs Somborne-Abbot ask, ‘Are you going to do nothing?’

  ‘Of course not. I shall speak separately to Charlie and to Mr Compton and tell them that their friendship is inappropriate and that they are to see no more of each other so long as Charlie is a pupil at the school. If either disobeys – either – I will have them removed. To make it easier for them, I propose moving Charlie to a higher div, regardless of his academic performance this term. Will that satisfy you?’

  She must have nodded.

  ‘Good. Now perhaps you’d like to come across to the concert hall to watch Charlie’s dress rehearsal first …’

  Aware that the door might open any minute, Sophie dragged Lucas away. They opened and closed the outer door in silence then sprinted off around the edge of the quad so as not to be spotted.

  ‘I didn’t say a word,’ she panted, when they finally stopped running.

  He laughed. ‘I know! I knew as soon as I started talking. I knew he’d tricked me but what the hell. Do you think he’ll throw me out now?’

  ‘Why? What have you done?’

  ‘Well, I … I told him.’

  ‘It’s perfectly legal to be a poof and in love. You just mustn’t act on it. You heard him. He respected your honesty. What do you think Compton wrote about her in those letters? You’ll have to ask Charlie. It must have been something wild!’

  They hurried back to the concert hall and in through the wings. Far less time had passed than Sophie realized, or there had been some musical hitch that had caused a long delay, for as she slipped onto the stool beside Kimiko she found the dress rehearsal had progressed only as far as the fifth number.

  ‘Okay?’ Kimiko whispered.

  ‘Fine,’ Sophie said. ‘Fine.’ And adrenalin began to make her shake at last. ‘You’re a star, Sukie. Thanks.’

  Mrs Somborne-Abbot was not a woman to be outman-oeuvred by a bastard and a Jew and not even by a man as notoriously unflappable as Dr Twyford. She came across to the concert hall with him. Sophie saw them sitting towards the rear during the interval, Mrs Somborne-Abbot looking daggers at the back of Mr Compton’s head. She stayed to the end and clapped along with the technical crew and wardrobe mistresses. By six o’clock, however, she had loaded Charlie into her little green car and was driving him back to Fulham with a week of term still to run.

  Lucas took his place as Oberon, although he was slightly shorter than Titania, because he already had the speeches by heart from the hours he had spent testing Charlie on his lines. His performance was good, melancholy, different from Charlie’s. His manner was less naturally arrogant, verging on petulance at times in a way that was almost a parody of his friend’s worst moods.

  Heidi was beside herself with pride, Mr Compton grateful, if subdued, in his praise.

  SUMMER HOLIDAYS

  (sixteen years, seven months)

  Sophie teetered up the perilously steep staff stairs with a laden tray and swore as a knife slid off its plate and smeared the front of her apron with cream and blackcurrant jam. Ratty’s Tunnel was a purple-painted basement beneath a kitchenware shop. Its booths were decorated with illustrations to The Wind in the Willows. The lack of windows made it hugely popular with underage smokers and illicit couples. The lack of ventilation meant that its atmosphere on such high summer days was a toxic blend of nicotine, cheap scent, hot scones and milkshake flavouring. It was run by André, a world-weary former hairdresser who avoided all dealings with the public by staying in the kitchen and back yard, and staffed entirely by teenagers because they were cheap, had the stamina necessary to cope with the endless running up and down stairs from tables to kitchen and could be kept sweet with unlimited slices of the house Black Forest gâteau. When she had worked there the previous summer, Sophie had been wary of André and guarded in what she revealed of herself but during the last weeks he had won her over and she had confided in him about all manner of things from spying on Lucas and Mortimer to losing her virginity. Since he knew nobody who knew her, she was enjoying the luxury of trying opinions and characters on for size with him playing conversational looking-glass.

  André was perched on his stool in the small patch of yard outside the kitchen that caught the sun from two to four. He was flicking through the Daily Mail. He was ageless, permanently tanned and shockingly unprincipled. The restaurant offered a narrow range of things that could be stored for days and safely reheated in a microwave: two types of quiche, fish pie and something with mince, pasta, tinned peppers and grated mousetrap cheese called Beef Italian. The gâteau was the bestseller, along with the teapots of red wine the waitresses served outside licensing hours for a suitably fat tip. André had perfected the art of fitting most of his work into the two hours before lunch. Every day he cooked and iced a gateau and made a week’s worth of one of the menu staples. And that was his day, apart from dishing up orders, collecting gossip and giving the odd free haircut to favourites. It was his restaurant, he was fond of saying, he could do as he liked.

  He glanced up as Sophie emptied the dishwashe
r, filled it and tipped in a glug of bleach.

  ‘What star sign are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Pisces, and I already looked.’

  ‘Yeah but I didn’t. Hot date, it says.’

  ‘Fat chance. All I want to do is go home and flop in a tepid bath.’

  ‘So snatch a breather.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s mayhem down there and table three want their quiche.’

  ‘Tell them it’s teatime.’

  ‘André!’

  ‘Fuck! I dished it up, doll, but I forgot to stick it in.’

  ‘Okay. I’m there.’

  He made no move so she slung a plate of three quiche slices into the microwave. She didn’t like the microwave. Along with the bleachy steam from the dishwasher, it was one of the things she was sure made the tiny kitchen dangerous. She set the timer then stepped outside to wait in safety.

  Sophie was now one of André’s favourites. (He had admitted in passing that he was a Barnardo’s Boy, which was partly why he had a soft spot for her.) He had cut her hair after work the previous night. He was itching to peroxide it, which she refused, but she let him have his way with the cut and she now had a feathery crop that felt deliciously cool. He had also weaned her off the tar shampoo to a mild brand for babies and her scalp no longer raged to be scratched.

  ‘You know you made me look like a little boy,’ she said, looking at her reflection in the steamed-up kitchen window.

  ‘Suits you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a neck like Mia Farrow. You’ve got lovely skin, too.’

  ‘Balls.’

  He had met Lucas, who amused him, but typically he was raring to meet Charlie and had decided, purely on reputation, that he was what he called pounceworthy. While cutting her hair he had explained that she was a fag hag, or fruit fly; a woman who couldn’t help gravitating to gay men. She was fighting the idea.

  ‘You’ll never ever be short of friends or fun,’ he said, ‘even if you lose your looks or you’re over the hill. You’ll have lovely birthday presents every year and great decorating tips but you’ll have a huge phone bill and a crummy love-life.’

  ‘Well, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, doll, thank your lucky stars. Love is overrated. Friendship’s what counts.’

  Sophie didn’t want to be a fag hag. Or a fruit fly. Quite apart from the nasty name, she had no desire to turn into Maria. This was a former salon colleague of André’s who apparently typified the species. She was a hard-edged, sad-eyed person who, Sophie had noticed, ignored every woman around her to the point of psychosis and grew misty-eyed over the loves in André’s past and transparently aggressive towards any possible candidate in his present.

  André declared it was impossible to have a sex-life in a provincial city without forever encountering it while shopping so now confined his to three weeks a year of unbridled licence on Mykonos. Maria was never invited but, with low cunning, entrusted with the care of André’s precious restaurant instead.

  The microwave pinged and Sophie returned to the kitchen, distributed the quiche between three plates. Generous helpings from tired salads would be added downstairs.

  ‘Can you manage?’ André asked, not shifting.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t trip, for God’s sake. The insurance here’s a joke. Here.’

  ‘What?’ She paused, tray in hand.

  ‘You know that mate of yours that had your cherry?’

  ‘Wilf.’

  ‘That’s the one. Where’s he work now? Is he still on lorries?’

  ‘No. He was taken on by one of the mechanics at UBM who set up on his own.’

  ‘Oh.’ André turned a page, dismissing her.

  Lucas was standing at the foot of the public stairs looking about him as she came back down.

  ‘Find a booth,’ she told him. ‘Gateau or ice cream?’

  ‘Gâteau.’

  ‘Sit.’

  André paid them all so little that the staff thought nothing of slipping treats to visiting friends on the side. Knowing André was no fool, Sophie was sure he had factored this into their meagre wages. She served table three their quiches and salad, took two other tables their bills then served Lucas a slab of Black Forest gateau and a cup of nasty coffee that had been steadily cooking on the machine since the lunch-hour.

  ‘Try the cream first,’ she warned. ‘It could be a bit cheesy. They haven’t been selling so well in this heat.’

  Lucas dug in regardless. Since Simon had suffered a heart scare recently, Heidi had stopped all but the most penitential baking.

  ‘You look well,’ she said. He did. The sudden burst of glory, stepping into Charlie’s shoes at the end of term, had been a turning point for him. He carried himself with a new confidence, like a man with a secret. Well, a boy. He hadn’t changed so much. She envied him his shorts and cool, clean, white T-shirt. He always claimed to envy her having a job; Heidi forbade holiday jobs because they interfered with holiday plans and she preferred him to use the time to study. It could only have been for the excuse it gave to flirt with strangers since Sophie had never known him short of spending money and suspected he had a far more generous allowance than Charlie.

  ‘Have you heard from Fulham?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, glancing about at the customers.

  ‘I thought he might be pissed off at me doing Oberon but if you haven’t heard either …’

  ‘She’ll be tearing up our letters,’ Sophie said. ‘She’s that sort.’

  She didn’t tell him she had heard from Mr Compton. He was touring Sicily with Lady Droxford and sent a postcard of a Roman mosaic showing girl athletes in what looked remarkably like bikinis.

  Cruelly hot, he wrote. We were mad to come here in high summer. So sorry about your ordeal at the end of term. Your support much appreciated. May the sixth-form see you justly rewarded.

  He had worded it carefully, she noted, so that it might be interpreted as a card referring solely to her work as his stage manager. She guessed he would not risk writing even innocently to either Charlie or Lucas so said nothing to Lucas for fear of hurting his feelings.

  ‘I’m not writing again,’ Lucas said.

  ‘No point. It’ll only enrage her. The bastard and the Jew, remember.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘Not really. She’d have voted Nazi on her way to church.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he chuckled. ‘Or she’d have collaborated and after Liberation they’d have shaved her little head.’

  ‘Her head is small, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought of it before.’

  ‘Tiny. It’s a clinically accepted sign of violent tendencies. Here. Guess what?’

  ‘Tell. Shit. I have to go and serve. Bev’s pulling faces.’

  He leant closer in the booth so as not to have to raise his voice.

  ‘Telescope Boy is gay!’

  It took her a second or two to realize who he was talking about. Then she recalled her first visit to his house and the family he had been spying on from his room.

  ‘Telescope Man, actually,’ he added. ‘He’s left home now.’

  ‘But he had a girlfriend. You used to watch them together.’

  ‘So? She’s probably his wife by now. He’s still gay.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I … I’d have to show you.’

  ‘Show me later. Gotta go.’

  She jumped up, not trusting her face to behave, and busied herself clearing tables, slinging tips in the jar and carrying another load up to the dishwasher. He had been so excited and eager for her to share in his news and all she could feel was irritation. She scowled as she glugged another dose of bleach into the dishwasher and slammed its door.

  ‘Careful,’ André tutted. ‘I paid for that.’

  ‘What is it with you people?’ she snapped. ‘Why does the whole world have to be gay?’

  ‘Only half the world, Sophie,’ he batted straight back. ‘Women hold up half the sky, remember.’

  He was jo
king, she knew he was, but she could only glare in response and carry two orders of scones back down. It was five o’clock. She hung up the closed sign firmly, without apologizing to the couple who were halfway down the stairs. She squirted cream onto the scone plates, which were still warm so it melted. She served with the minimum of charm so the cream-tea eaters would not feel encouraged to linger. Then she agreed that Bev could take two-thirds of the day’s tips in return for staying on to see the last people off the premises.

  Lucas was waiting for her upstairs, affecting an interest in a cake-icing kit.

  ‘So show me,’ she told him.

  He led her down the high street then off down a side road towards the river and a spot where she had run into him once before.

  ‘But this is just a public bogs,’ she said.

  ‘Wrong,’ he told her. ‘That,’ he pointed at the ladies’, ‘is a public bog. This,’ he pointed at the gents’, ‘is a cottage.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I’m really tired, Lou. I need a bath.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He slipped inside and she assumed he was using it but he came out seconds later and said, ‘Coast’s clear. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  ‘But I can’t! I’ll be arrested.’

  ‘Hardly. Come on.’

  Laughing, he tugged her inside. She had never seen inside a gents’ before and, although the smell of disinfectant cubes and dried-out pee was revolting, she was curious. Urinals were shockingly intimate.

  ‘So you actually stand here and pee alongside each other? How do you manage?’

  ‘Not everyone does. Stage fright can set in. But here. Look.’ He pushed her into one of the cubicles.

  At that moment someone else came in.

  ‘Quick!’ Lucas hissed. ‘Look your door!’

  The walls of ladies’ had graffiti – usually along the lines of X is a fat slapper or Y loves Z. She had assumed the scribbles in a gents’ would be cruder but nothing had prepared her for this. There were a few cartoons or references to women but the vast majority of what she could decipher was about men. looking for men. What exactly they wanted to do to them or have done to them. And when. It was a kind of appointments diary. I’ll be here 6–8 every Weds. 7 inches 7 pm. It was an erotic palimpsest, layer upon layer of commands, requests, warnings and descriptions built up over each other. Over years, to judge from the spread in the dates she made out. Some public-spirited soul had been busy with white paint at some point, not to clean it all away, apparently, but simply to clean just enough away to leave room for a fresh round of clearly legible doodles. Every available surface, including the back of the door and what could be reached of the ceiling, had been inscribed but some bits more than others. The scribbles were most concentrated around holes, some two inches across, that had been chipped away in the partitions between cubicles.