Caught!

by JL Merrow

  I took a small helping, trying to avoid the limp green bits. “Not really, no.”

  “Not really what—oh, you mean posh? Bloody hell, I was joking. By whose standards are you not posh? The Queen’s?”

  I shrugged. “We’re really very middle-class. Mother would have liked me to go to somewhere like Winchester, but, well, it just didn’t happen.” Father’s death when I was ten had had quite a few unforeseen consequences. “And anyway, I don’t think I’d have really fitted in.”

  “No? Aren’t they all a load of young fogeys there?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Well, come off it. You wear all that tweed, and honestly, bow ties?”

  “Bow ties are cool,” I said, confident of this at least. “Doctor Who said so.”

  “Yeah, about three incarnations ago, wasn’t it? Not that Matt Smith was cool in the first place. Sweetheart, you need a new style icon.”

  I had horrible visions of being dragged around Burtons in an upside-down version of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. “I’m fine how I am,” I said stiffly.

  She shrugged and forked up a pork ball. “Your funeral.”

  When I was sure she wasn’t looking, I glanced down surreptitiously at my checked shirt and corduroys. What was wrong with my clothes? Lots of people I knew dressed like me. My stepfather dressed like me.

  Hmm. Possibly that was her point? “So what do you think I should be wearing?” I asked. “In the purely hypothetical event I might want to change my image.”

  “Well, that long coat of yours is okay—quite swish, actually, very Sherlock—but what’s underneath could definitely do with an update. Have you ever even owned a pair of jeans? And try wearing shirts without ties. Especially bow ties. You know. Just normal stuff.”

  “Jeans are uncomfortable.” And they made me feel alarmingly like I was on display.

  “Not once you’ve worn them in, they’re not. Or you could start slow, maybe with a pair of chinos? But ditch the bow ties.”

  “What, all thirty-one of them?” Quite a lot of them had been presents.

  “Oh my God. Only you, Robert, could literally have a bow tie for every day of the month. Do they have little numbers on, so you know which one to wear each day? Or do you wear them all in strict rotation, so numbers twenty-nine to thirty-one don’t feel left out when it’s a short month?”

  “They don’t have numbers!” I told her indignantly. “I just wear what I happen to be feeling like on the day, that’s all.” So what if I occasionally wore my least favourite ones on purpose so they didn’t feel neglected? “Anyway,” I said, rallying, “I bet you’ve got at least that many pairs of shoes.”

  “No. Nowhere near.” Rose stopped eating for a moment, though, her head on one side. “Actually, I haven’t got a clue.”

  I stared at her. “How can you not know how many pairs of shoes you’ve got?”

  “Because I’ve never counted? Anyway, you know what it’s like. There’s always a few pairs that get kicked under the bed or shoved to the back of the wardrobe, and when you find them you think, oh yeah, I remember you, let’s take you out for a stroll.” She smiled fondly, visions of kitten heels presumably dancing in her head.

  I tried to imagine what it must be like to have hitherto forgotten pairs of shoes popping up all over the place. And failed.

  Rose served herself an abstemious portion of monk’s vegetables. “So how many pairs of shoes have you got?”

  “Seven,” I replied promptly. “There are my black dress shoes, my best brogues, my other brogues, my walking boots, my gym trainers—”

  “Bet they’re bright white without a speck of dirt,” Rose interrupted.

  “Well, obviously I don’t wear them outdoors. Then there are my running shoes—”

  “I tried running once. Nearly killed me.”

  “And finally, my cricket shoes. I left my tennis shoes at Mother and Peter’s house.”

  “Do you seriously have a different pair of shoes for every single sporting activity?”

  “You mean you don’t?”

  “Robert, look at me. Does this figure scream sporty at you?”

  For my sixteenth birthday, Mother arranged for me to go deer stalking. It was horrible—not because of all the blood and gore, because there wasn’t any. It was spectacularly unsuccessful, as deer hunts go. No, the worst thing about it was the man leading the hunt. He’d been a gamekeeper on one of the big estates, and I could tell he didn’t think much of the plebs who paid for a day’s hunting “experience”. Oh, he was all politeness when he thought anyone was watching, but I caught him laughing at Mother behind her back just because she said something that wasn’t quite right.

  But I’m getting off track. What I meant to say was, right at the end of the day, when we were all about to give up, I sighted down my gun and a young stag just walked into view—and turned to look right at me, his antlers curving proudly over his fine-boned, regal head. I swear those sensitive brown eyes could see the danger he was in, but he just stood there, staring death in the face.

  I didn’t shoot him, obviously. I’d rather have shot the hunt leader. From the look on his face when he realised I’d let one get away, I gathered the feeling was mutual.

  But anyway, right now, I knew exactly how that stag had felt. I only hoped Rose would show me the same mercy I’d showed the stag when I, inevitably, said the wrong thing. “Well, you do have a touch of embonpoint.”

  She frowned. “Is that like cellulite?”

  “Er… It means you’re voluptuous.”

  “Like Nigella Lawson?”

  “Yes?” I said, hoping it was the right answer.

  “Oh. Cool. But yeah, I’m not really into sport. Doing it or watching it. The one thing I don’t miss about Bastard Shitface”—I assumed this was the new pet name for the ex-fiancé—“is the endless hours of TV football. I mean seriously, what’s the big deal about watching a load of blokes chase a ball around a field?”

  “It’s not just the game itself. It’s…” I struggled to express the concept and stalled for time by serving myself some more cashew chicken, although since Rose’s repeated depredations, the second half of the dish’s name was largely inaccurate. “It’s symbolic.”

  “What, of men playing with their balls?”

  “No. It’s a battle for supremacy. Men competing to prove themselves better, stronger, more skilled. It’s a primeval urge.”

  “So it’s basically comparing dick size?”

  “There’s a bit more to it than that. Men united in hard, physical struggle—”

  “Oh, it’s an acceptably straight way for men to express their repressed homosexual urges. Gotcha.”

  “Well, you might have a point there. But it’s about camaraderie, team spirit, honour…” I gave up. “Noted. No sport-viewing marathons while you’re in the house.”

  “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? So what did you think of Sean, anyway?” she asked me in what was probably supposed to be a casual tone.

  I wasn’t fooled. “He seems nice.”

  “I mean,” she went on quickly, “I know he’s probably not happy-ever-after material, but he’d make a good rebound fling, wouldn’t you say?” She crunched on some orange sticks.

  I felt she was being a bit callous. Still, maybe she’d change her mind if they ever got, well, involved. “You don’t think he’s a bit young?”

  “What, seriously? He can’t be that many years off thirty, for God’s sake.” She frowned. “Why, do you?”

  Uh-oh. I was firmly in Faux Pas City tonight, taking up residence in Foot-in-Mouth Mansions, on the corner of Oops Avenue. “No, no. Absolutely not. More, um, beef?”

  “No, ta, I’m stuffed. No, I’m pretty sure he’s in his late twenties at least. Him and the twins’ mum are twins too. Runs in the family.”

  “Like the hair
.” I looked at the container of crunchy, sweet sticklike things masquerading (not very successfully) as beef. It’d be a shame to waste it. I tipped the rest onto my plate.

  “Yeah. Although I heard the twins’ dad was a ginge, too. Poor little sods had no chance.”

  “Are you implying there’s something wrong with having red hair?”

  “Depends, dunnit? Some blokes make it look good. Sean, fr’instance,” she said with a sly look at me. “But others, you just look at them and think ew, gingernuts.”

  “I never realised that when a lady looks at a man, she’s picturing his, ah…”

  “Man-garden?”

  “Thank you. Not. I think I preferred not knowing.” I pushed all inappropriate images of Sean firmly out of my head and looked down at my plate.

  Unfortunately, the orange tangle of crispy beef was just a little too suggestive for my peace of mind.

  Chapter Three

  Going out of the house the next morning, I was accosted by Hanne, my small Norwegian neighbour. Milly and Lily, her two giant schnauzers, strained at their leashes, inexplicably failing to pull their mistress along the street after them. “Did you enjoy your takeaway last night?” she asked with a smile, holding back Cerberus’s sisters with no apparent signs of strain.

  Why I’d thought moving out of boarding school to teach in a village would make a scrap of difference to everyone knowing my business, I couldn’t presently imagine. “Yes, thank you,” I said politely, trying to get past her without getting tangled up in the dogs’ leads. Milly, or possibly Lily, took the opportunity to get a good sniff at an area a well-brought-up dog, I felt, would have had the delicacy to avoid.

  “And your friend, she works with you?”

  “Rose? Oh yes.”

  “She looks very nice. Will she come again?”

  “Er, probably, some time.” I wasn’t quite sure what Hanne was getting at.

  “You tell me when she’s coming. I’ll show you how to make lamb-and-cabbage stew. It’s easy, you can’t go wrong.” I was baffled by Hanne’s apparent faith in me. Still, she didn’t know me all that well. “And maybe deer antlers. They’re very tasty, and fun to share.”

  Deer antlers? You couldn’t actually eat those, could you? Wouldn’t they be rather, well, chewy? Or maybe crunchy? “That’s very kind, but you really don’t—”

  “A nice young man like you shouldn’t be alone all the time.” She smiled again and effortlessly pulled the dogs to heel as she walked on by. Maybe she power-lifted in secret.

  I strode on up the hill and towards the school. I wasn’t alone all the time. I saw people every day. At work, and in the village shops, and… All right, so I didn’t have much of a social life, but I was far from a hermit. I just didn’t know many people in the village yet.

  And it was entirely my business, I decided firmly, whether or not I made any effort to get to know people. Checking my watch to find that yes, it was eight thirteen, and no, the church clock still wasn’t telling the right time, I quickened my pace. If I didn’t get a shift on, there would be parents outside the classroom already by the time I got there, eager to offload their little darlings for the day.

  They tended to get a bit stroppy if you kept them waiting.

  When, having armed myself with a cup of coffee from the staff room, I opened the classroom door to let in the marauding hordes, I soon spotted three matching flashes of orange. Sean was dropping off the terrible twins. He shot me a grin as they got to the front of the higgledy-piggledy line. “All right?”

  I’m never sure what the correct reply to that is. Should one say yes, thank you, I’m fine or does one just repeat the greeting? After all, nobody who says how do you do ever expects to be told how, in fact, one is doing. Perhaps it would be safer to go with a simple good morning. I opened my mouth—then a plaintive chorus of “Mr. Enemy” sounded from behind me, and I was forced to turn away from Sean.

  Obviously not recovered from the previous day’s ill-advised excavation, Charlie’s nose had started to bleed again. By the time I was able to look up from him, Sean was long gone.

  I did my best to quell the rising disappointment. There would be plenty of opportunities to talk to him again. For the purposes of getting him together with Rose, I reminded myself sternly. I did a quick head count, closed the classroom door and got out the register.

  At lunchtime, I once again sat next to Rose in the staff room. “What’s in the sandwiches today?” she asked, peering at them as if she expected the filling to crawl out from between the slices of bread and start doing a song-and-dance routine. Probably to something like “Thriller”.

  “Just butter.” I’d decided to play it safe, after yesterday’s debacle.

  “Just butter? Robert, two slices of bread and butter wouldn’t keep a baby sparrow alive.”

  “I’m still full from last night,” I protested.

  “You can’t be. That was yesterday. Your stomach reboots itself when you go to sleep, everyone knows that.”

  “Sounds nauseating. Anyway, I had three Weetabix this morning.”

  “Ugh. Don’t know how you can eat that stuff. You put a drop of milk on it, and it turns to complete mush.”

  “It was on special offer,” I defended myself weakly. “Tesco had family packs going for half price.”

  “So leave ’em for the families who’ve got kids who actually like mush. And anyway, since when do you have to keep your hand on your ha’penny?”

  I threw her a startled look. “I think you mean ‘watch the pennies’,” I said cautiously. At least, I assumed she wasn’t talking euphemistically about my in any case long-departed (and not in the least mourned) virginity.

  “Pennies, ha’pennies, whatever. It’s not like either of them are worth tuppence these days. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I brought extra today.” She held out a plastic tub and a fork that looked like it had come from a picnic set. “Go on, take it. I’ve got another one for me.”

  I took it, not without reservations. “Is there some conspiracy among the women of the village to feed me up?”

  “Yeah, we discussed it at the last naked sabbat. We’re planning to fatten you up and roast you on a spit at the next solstice. Everyone’s looking forward to it.”

  “People warned me about moving to the country, you know.” I opened the tub. It seemed to be rice salad, with vaguely recognisable bits of vegetable and, because this was Rose, large lumps of meat.

  “So who else is feeding you for the slaughter?” Rose got out a matching tub and fork and tucked in.

  “My neighbour. Hanne. I think she thinks you and I are going out together, by the way. Or at least that we ought to.” I forked up a bit of rice salad.

  “You haven’t told her you’re gay?”

  “It’s never come up.”

  Rose smirked. “Maybe now you’ve met Sean, it’ll come up a bit more often.”

  I made a face at her and dug back into my rice. My fork halfway to my mouth, I smiled, suddenly realising something. “At least this means I’m not as obvious as all that.” Not that I’m ashamed of being gay or anything, but I was rather uncomfortable with the idea that everyone I met was speculating over what I got up to in bed.

  Especially seeing as what I got up to in bed these days largely consisted of sleeping.

  “Hmm. She’s not been in this country very long, has she? Maybe it gets lost in translation.”

  “And here I was, thinking the language of camp was universal.”

  “Meh. She probably thinks you’re just particularly British or something.”

  I swallowed my mouthful of rice salad. “I feel as if I should make a public apology to the rest of the nation’s manhood. This is very nice, by the way. Thank you.”

  Rose beamed. “Nobody starves on my watch. So, did you speak to Sean this morning? I saw him go past with the twins.” The classr
ooms for the infants at St. Saviour’s were arranged in a long line, with a glass wall and doors looking out onto the playing fields. Anyone hoping to pass unnoticed would probably need to dig a tunnel.

  “Didn’t get a chance. Well, we said hello.”

  “Men! You’re so useless. You need to strike while the iron’s hot.”

  Was the iron hot? I’d have thought lukewarm, at best. “What am I supposed to say?”

  Rose heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Do I have to breast-feed you?”

  I winced. “You mean spoon-feed, don’t you? Please say you mean spoon-feed.”

  “Oh, whatever. Get him talking about himself. Men like doing that.” I had the distinct impression she didn’t find this an altogether admirable quality.

  “And then what?”

  “Then you ask him out.”

  “Me?” Hang on a minute. Friendship was one thing, but was she really expecting me to do all the work for her?

  “Yes, you. Tell you what, that wine bar that used to be an antiques shop has just reopened after their refurb. Why don’t you ask him to meet you there for a drink Saturday night?”

  Ah. I realised where this was going: she’d get me to invite him for a friendly drink, and then oh-so-casually drop in to join us on the night. I could see a potential fly in the ointment, however. “I’m not sure he’s really a wine bar sort of person.”

  “Yeah, but you’re definitely not a pub sort of person.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Yes. Obviously. How long have we got to the end of lunch?”

  Having the tub in one hand and a laden fork in the other, I couldn’t easily look at my watch. “Um, about twenty-six minutes, I think?”

  “You do know you’re weird? Right, I’m going to love you and leave you. I’ve got to try and track old Arfur down and get him to do something about the loo in my classroom.” Old Arfur was Mr. Minnit, the only other male member of staff at St Saviour’s School. He acted as caretaker and general dogsbody. Having checked the school records and found out his first name was in fact Winston, I could see why he preferred to be known by his nickname. “Any day now the UN’s going to declare war on class 1W for stockpiling chemical weapons. Now, don’t forget: you grab Sean Grant at the end of school and don’t let go until he’s agreed to a date, got it?”