Forever Young

by Ray Connolly

  At home Mary made cocoa for herself and her two children. Having recovered from her initial surprise Cathy was now in joking mood, but Paul had become very quiet.

  ‘He looked very glam to me, Mum,’ said Cathy. ‘D’you think he fancies you?’

  ‘Now let’s not have any of that nonsense,’ said Mary, although she was warm from the flattery James had bestowed by spending the evening dancing with her. It was years since anything remotely romantic had happened to her, and, although she protested, she wanted an excuse to talk about James, if only with Cathy. ‘He’s just a very old friend of Father Michael’s who got lumbered with me because he didn’t know anybody else there tonight.’

  ‘He didn’t actually take much trouble to get to know anyone else there tonight once he’d got off with you,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Oh I think he was probably a little bit shy. Remember he hadn’t seen Father Michael for years and years. He was just killing time with me until the band had finished playing.’

  ‘So why did he want you to go to one of his lectures?’ asked the girl mischievously.

  Mary gave up. ‘Just politeness, Cathy,’ she said without believing it herself. ‘You’ll find that men don’t always mean what they say. Now come on, both of you, time for bed.’

  Reluctantly Cathy made her way to bed, still chattering and teasing as she climbed the stairs.

  ‘You’re very quiet tonight,’ Mary said to Paul as he finished his cocoa and rinsed his mug in the kitchen sink. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Good night,’ and went off up the stairs by himself.

  He’s a funny boy, Mary thought to herself as she washed the dinner dishes which had been neglected in the haste earlier in the evening. And then as she looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the sink she wondered just why James had spent the whole evening dancing with her and talking to her. He was a handsome, sophisticated man of the world: a fancy free cavalier who drove a dashing sports car, just like a twenty-one year old. And she was a mother, weighed down by the burdens of responsibility and difficulties of her isolation. Putting soapy fingers to her cheek bones she pulled back the skin, tightening the shape of her face, and staring at her reflection she wondered how this handsome stranger could possibly feel attracted to a woman as dull as she was. It wasn’t possible, she thought. But she wished it, all the same.

  Going upstairs she called in on her two children to wish them good night. To Cathy she said: ‘Will you turn that stupid radio off and go to sleep?’ and to Paul she said: ‘You were very good tonight. You really looked like one of the group.’ But whether Paul heard or not she could not tell, because he did not answer.

  In her bedroom she undressed. She was strangely restless, and yet anxious to get to bed so that she might relive in the cosy dark of her duvet, the events of the evening, and fantasize things that could never be. As she undressed she caught sight of her body in her dressing-table mirror, and paused for a moment to examine it. She had put on weight since she had been a girl, not a lot, but she was bigger now around the tops of her legs and across her tummy, which showed a light blue smearing of stretch marks, her memento of being pregnant with Paul. No man could possibly desire someone so unattractive, she mused, as she perused her breasts, now sagging slightly. Surely that part of her life was over for ever. But then refusing to spoil the most exciting evening for longer than she cared to imagine, she quickly pulled on her nightdress and, climbing into bed, turned out the light and turned on her fantasies.

  12

  May 1962

  Later no one would be able to remember too clearly how the game started, or when it took upon itself such provocative penalties, but it was a night that all four participants would certainly remember for many, many years.

  It was a Saturday evening, four weeks before the examinations, and James’s parents had gone away on a weekend conference for small town provincial bank managers and their wives, a Lloyds Bank way of encouraging loyalty and team spirit in their dispersed employees. James was an only child, and earlier in life when his parents had wished to take a couple of days away he had always gone to stay with Michael. At seventeen, and with A-levels only weeks away, he had claimed this would be both unnecessary and distracting, and had been given permission to stay in his own home on the strict understanding that he spent the entire two days in study. James’s father was a disciplined man, and he wished his son to follow in the same path.

  The two boys had always intended to take Maureen and Alison to the cinema to see Wild In The Country, but when Alison suddenly announced that she had seen it and had no wish to see it again, the four had decided, instead, to buy some beer and cider and retire to James’s house for the evening.

  At first they had danced together in the sitting room of this attractive modern detached house over looking the golf course, and then as the daylight had faded the girls had found themselves sitting upon the knees of the boys, snogging, while in the background James’s Dansette played series of ten singles without anyone having to change position. It was hot and sultry: the boys sweated in their cotton shirts, while the girls felt clammy under their skirts and blouses.

  In romantic terms neither James nor Michael could be considered fast, their behaviour towards the girls being courteous rather than conquistadorial. Nor did they go in for boasting talk of sexual delights, real or imagined. Their education had taught them that such behaviour was wrong, and although for James Catholicism no longer seemed quite so inevitably the one real truth in life, his psyche was, just as much as Michael’s, still governed by the catechism.

  It was then almost accidentally that they found themselves playing a game of ‘strip flip-side’ with Maureen and Alison. The snogging had broken up when both girls decided that they wanted more to drink, and when Maureen had begun to tease the boys about their encyclopaedic knowledge of rock and roll a competition had been suggested.

  ‘That’s boring,’ Alison had complained, looking through the records.

  ‘Not if you have to take off your clothes,’ James had murmured, more as a joke than out of any sense of real expectation.

  Michael looked up. ‘What d’you mean?’ he demanded. The two girls had suddenly gone quiet.

  ‘Well, I saw this film once where everyone played strip poker,’ said James, suddenly embarrassed by what he had suggested, and anxious to appear casual about the whole thing. ‘They do it all the time in America.’

  Alison looked at Maureen. It obviously appealed to her very much. ‘Can we trust them, Maureen?’ she giggled, waiting for a lead.

  Maureen considered the two boys. ‘All right, but don’t make them too hard. And definitely no touching.’

  The boys had agreed and the game was begun, the four of them sitting in a circle on the carpet, asking each other such easy questions at first that the revealing of any flesh seemed extremely unlikely. And so they worked through the whole of the early careers and most obvious hits of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly and the Everlys, until the girls began to toughen the questions, asking the boys about English singers like Adam Faith and Marty Wilde and other people about whom they, as purists, knew little.

  First Michael lost his shoes, and then, as James was already in his stocking feet his tie went, followed by one of his socks. The girls giggled unceasingly as they turned the tables on the boys.

  ‘What was Cliff Richard’s second record?’ asked Maureen.

  It was Michael’s turn to answer. ‘Cliff Richard? God knows,’ he came back. He didn’t even consider Cliff Richard to be part of rock and roll any more.

  ‘High Class Baby,’ said Maureen, and Michael’s second sock came off.

  It was James’s turn. ‘Who had a big American hit with “The Fool”?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea,’ giggled Maureen and began to unfasten one stocking from her suspender belt, modestly turning away from the embarrassed but fascinated eyes of the boys.

  And so it went on, but with the boys now putting on the pre
ssure, and reducing the girls garments, which were promptly deposited in a frilly pile in the centre of the carpet.

  ‘Whose plane was “way overdue”?’ asked Michael.

  ‘What? Give me a clue?’ Alison was down to a particularly vulnerable state.

  ‘He “went inside to the airlines desk and said, sir,” dee-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah,’ said James, giving her a chance.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re even talking about,’ Alison came back.

  ‘Our point,’ chorused the boys. ‘It was the Everly’s “Ebony Eyes”.’

  ‘What are you going to take off, Alison?’ asked Maureen, viewing with amusement her friend’s shoes, stockings and cardigan on the carpet.

  ‘There’s not a lot left.’

  ‘Suspender belt. Take off your suspender belt,’ Maureen suggested.

  Coyly Alison put her hands under her skirt and pulled down the piece of nylon and elastic.

  The boys watched with growing anticipation. This was developing into the most decadent night of their lives.

  ‘All right, my turn,’ said Alison swinging her legs around to the front again. ‘Who sang “Blueberry Hill”?’

  That was almost too easy. Michael could have listed at least five versions of the song. ‘The hit was by Fats Domino, but Elvis did it on the EP “Strictly Elvis” and Rick Nelson, and …’

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ James broke in. ‘Now you Maureen. Who made the first ever record of “Singing The Blues”?’ he asked.

  Maureen smiled. ‘Well, I know it wasn’t Tommy Steele,’ she said. ‘So it was Guy Mitchell.’

  ‘Wrong,’ both boys chimed. She had walked into the trap. ‘It was Marty Robbins,’ said James. ‘Tommy Steele did a cover of a cover when he copied Guy Mitchell. Marty Robbins had a hit on the American country charts with it on the Epic label,’ he added for good measure.

  But by now Alison and Maureen were locked in a giggling little huddle, not listening to him. James and Michael looked at each other, and then looked quickly away. In front of Maureen was quite an array of underclothes which had been slipped off under her blouse and skirt.

  ‘What are you going to do, Maureen?’ Alison was becoming increasingly excited.

  Maureen looked gravely at the two boys. They were watching her and waiting. Very slowly she began to unbutton her blouse. Stopping she said: ‘No one look.’ Immediately the boys looked away, and with a quick pull Maureen had taken off the blouse and was sitting with her arms crossed in front of her trying to hide her breasts from their gazes. ‘Now you can all play on among yourselves until you catch up, because that’s as far as I’m going to go,’ she said, slowly lowering her arms and resting back on her hands, revealing herself for the first time before two boys who had never in their wildest dreams imagined that the evening could end in such a way.

  For a short time after that the game stumbled on and before very long Alison was topless, too, sitting there in her knickers, giggling from having drunk too much. But it had been the sight of Maureen taking off her blouse which was to stay in the boys’ memories

  She had a beautiful, flawless body. And she was provocative. Neither boy had dared gaze too long at her, although both could hardly drag their eyes away

  The real excitement had come from the surprise. She had seemed the most unlikely girl in the world She was a princess among schoolgirls. Who would ever have thought it of Maureen McMahon?

  At eleven o’clock the girls announced that they would have to go home, and began pulling on their clothes again. The game had not, as at one time seemed likely, developed into anything more physical. True to their word the boys had looked, but never touched.

  Later that night after they had taken the girls home Michael and James sat together over their guitars fiddling with songs half-written and soon to be forgotten. Now they were almost shy in one another’s company, James even jealous and angry that the girl he loved should have betrayed him by allowing Michael to look at her. But neither mentioned the incident, or the game. Both needed time to reflect upon what had happened and what it meant to their friendship.

  13

  After the band had gone home James followed Michael across the yard into the priests’ house. He was struck at once by its rough and ready comfort. No attempt appeared to have ever been made to make it look attractive, and money had obviously never been available for central heating. But the glowing, pungent-smelling paraffin heaters in the hall and the coatstand with its large selection of heavy coats, hats and Wellington boots, suggested the presence of two men used to making themselves at home with the adversity of the weather.

  Putting a finger to his lips and indicating the top of the stairs Michael led James down the hall and into the living-room.

  ‘Oh sorry, Father, I thought you’d gone to bed,’ he said, as he almost bumped into Father Vincent.

  Father Vincent gave a sardonic little smile. He was carrying a copy of Hatter’s Castle in one hand, and a small glass of whisky in the other. He was an abstemious man, but had recently been told that a small whisky at bedtime helped both sleep and circulation, advice which had seemed to him like the bestowing of a gift. ‘That’s all right, I’m just off,’ he said, looking over the young priest’s shoulder at James. ‘Some of us have to be up for early mass, so I hope you aren’t planning keeping the bats away with any of your boogie-woogie tonight.’

  ‘Oh no, we’ll be as quiet as the proverbial …’

  ‘That’s all right then. Good night,’ broke in the older priest and pushed past them at the door.

  ‘Father, this is James … a very …’ began Father Michael, but the door was closed before he could get the introduction out.

  James grimaced in amusement.

  ‘He’s all right, really,’ explained Father Michael, slightly embarrassed by Father Vincent’s rudeness. In the parish his bluntness was well known and accepted as eccentricity, but James could not have known that. ‘His bark’s worse than his bite,’ he went on. ‘He’s one of the old school. Doesn’t hold with changes. Behind that Roman collar there’s an eighteenth-century Calvinist fighting to get out. His tragedy was that he was born a Catholic.’

  ‘He reminds me of your mother,’ said James, remembering how she, too, had always struggled to get Michael to go to bed early, with reminders that he would have to be up for early mass. ‘How is she?’

  The priest laughed. ‘She’s fine. Just the same, I suppose. Still afraid that I’m going to throw my life away on “all that pop music nonsense”, as she calls it.’

  James flopped down into a chair by the wood-burning stove in the fireplace. It was warm there, and the aroma of burning wood was sweet and heartening. ‘But you haven’t, have you?’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be convinced until the Holy Father joins the Platters. Now let’s see what we’ve got to drink.’ And searching behind a large picture of the Annunciation hanging above the wood burner he produced a small key to a large, heavily varnished cabinet by the door.

  James looked around the room. It was desperately in need of redecoration, but was well equipped for creature comforts, with large, roomy armchairs and sofas, and heavy cushions standing on a carpet which had once been deep piled but into which now a path had been trodden leading from the door to the hearth. In front of him was a copy of The Universe. Absently he picked it up. He hadn’t read it since he left home.

  ‘Well, what’ll it be, Jamesons or Jamesons?’ asked the priest, looking bleakly into the cupboard.

  James glanced across to him. He was holding up two bottles of Irish whiskey. Obviously Michael was no drinker.

  ‘Anything’s fine with me,’ he said.

  Closing the cupboard the priest carried one of the bottles across to the wood burner, and poured two very generous glasses. ‘Well, here’s to …’

  ‘Maureen McMahon?’ The name came out before James could stop himself. Immediately he wished he hadn’t spoken.

  For a moment Father Michael was thrown off balance: ‘To who
… Maureen. Good heavens. I don’t think I’ve thought of her in twenty years. Whatever happened to Maureen McMahon?’

  James did not answer. Taking his overcoat off he hung it over the back of the chair, and swilled the whiskey around in his mouth.

  After a few moments Father Michael recovered his equilibrium, and pulled his mind out of the past. ‘You know, this reminds me of all those nights sitting in your sitting-room after your parents had gone to bed, trying to write the perfect song, neither of us daring to raise our voices in case your father came down and threw me out.’

  James pictured his father, as he always did, standing at the back of the bank, watching the younger tellers at their positions, always immaculate in his suit, his grey hair thick and wavy. ‘He’s retired now,’ he said. ‘He votes SDP and worries about his prostate.’

  ‘He had a terrible temper sometimes.’

  ‘He’s mellowed a lot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Michael and then went silent. Their conversation was now coming in fits and starts, as first one and then another avenue was opened and then closed. They had not shared anything for so long that it was difficult to know where to begin. And there were some areas which neither of them wished to uncover. ‘God, but it’s good to see you, Jimmy,’ the priest started a new line of thought. ‘When I heard your voice again, heard you coming up with the answers, just like you always did, after all these years, I thought I was hearing things. I thought I was the only person who ever remembered any of that nonsense.’

  ‘It was in a film, you know,’ said James.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘You know, the game. What was on the flip-side? Diner. Didn’t you see it? It was American.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not much for the pictures these days,’ said the priest.

  ‘No, well, there was this chap, just like us really. He knew all the answers. But his wife didn’t understand why it was so important to him. He was a fanatic, you see.’

  ‘Well, we thought of it first.’