by JL Merrow
It occurred to me Mr. Mason might, in lieu of accusations, prefer to just thump me. It further occurred to me I might even prefer that myself. He could probably knock me out with a single blow. A nice long stretch of unconsciousness wasn’t totally unappealing right now.
Mr. Mason shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at my brogues. “Do you wear, like, dresses and stuff?”
What? I choked off a laugh as the icy feeling inside me was washed away by a heady surge of relief. “That’s a, ah, quite a personal question. Can I ask why you feel it necessary to know?” Oh God, I was still fighting the urge to giggle. If he was about to ask me to don a suspender belt and stockings for him, he was in for a disappointment. Fascination only went so far.
Besides, I’d looked ridiculous, the one and only time Fordy persuaded me into drag.
“Charlie. He…” Mr. Mason scratched his head again.
I was in a fever. Charlie what? Had been telling his dad I taught in women’s clothing? Thought I’d look pretty in a frock?
“He likes to wear girls’ clothes. I mean, just when we’re at home, mind. He don’t wear ’em out the house.”
Oh. “Oh.” I wrestled my thoughts back to an appropriate level of sobriety. “And, er, can I ask how you’ve been handling this?”
Mr. Mason heaved a mountainous shrug. “Well, I’ve not been encouraging him. Just, you know, he had his heart set on that Snow White outfit for his birthday… I told him straight, if he wears it around the village, he’s going to get teased. I don’t want my lad getting bullied,” he finished, glowering.
“No, of course not. St Saviour’s has a strict policy against bullying.” Except, of course, of the teachers by the Head and, on occasion, Mrs. Ormley. “Well, I’m sure you’re doing the right thing here—letting him express himself but warning him it could have adverse consequences.”
He frowned. “Yeah, but what I want to know is, what’s it mean? Is he going to do it all his life? Is he going to be wanting a sex change when he’s older?”
I thought about Charlie as I knew him. “He’s never said anything to me about feeling he’s really a girl,” I said slowly. “I mean, he mostly plays with the girls, but I think that’s more to do with not being fond of rough games. And, obviously, enjoying dressing up, and playing with, ah, more traditionally feminine toys. But it doesn’t have to mean anything, except that that’s the kind of boy Charlie is.”
“So was that what you was like?” Mr. Mason’s weathered face reddened. “What I mean is, is Charlie going to be one of them gays too?”
“How would you feel about that?” I asked cautiously.
Mr. Mason’s face got, if possible, even redder. “Well, it’s up to him, innit? Who he wants to go out with. I don’t want my lad getting beat up for it, mind,” he added in tones that would have put the fear of God into any possible gay-bashers who might have been listening.
“I’m glad to hear it. It’s good to know Charlie will have your support if and when he decides that’s where his, ah, interests lie. But don’t you think it’s a bit early to be worrying about that?”
“I just want to know how to treat ’im, that’s all.”
“I think, really, you have to be guided by Charlie here. I mean, you seem to be doing a good job so far,” I said encouragingly. “Although perhaps you could work on getting to school to pick him up a few minutes earlier? Charlie can be an anxious little chap.”
Hammer-like fists shoved into trouser pockets, and Mr. Mason looked away. “Yeah. I’ll work on that.”
“And maybe try and give him as much of your attention as possible? He obviously adores you, and the more you strengthen that bond, the more able he’ll feel to talk to you when he’s a little older and might have questions about, well, things.”
The deep-set eyes looked hunted. “Can’t you do that?”
“Mr. Mason,” I said firmly. “I’m very fond of young Charlie, and I’ll be very happy to help in any way that’s appropriate. But I’m not his father. In a few short years, he’s going to be moving on to secondary school, and I won’t see him again. And that’s the time he’s going to need your support the most. Whatever his eventual decision about his preferences.”
Mr. Mason nodded slowly, still looking unhappy. “What’s it like?” he asked finally.
“Um, meaning?”
“Being gay. What’s it like?”
Oh God. Was he actually asking what gay men did in bed? “I think I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific, Mr. Mason.” And I was absolutely reserving the right to refuse to answer any questions I chose.
“Well…” He turned and stared out of the window for a long moment. “You get beat up and stuff?”
Oh. Thank God. “I haven’t been that unlucky, no.” Although there had been one or two terrifyingly close calls. “It does happen, but please try not to worry too much. After all, we don’t even know if Charlie’s actually gay yet. He may yet surprise you and bring home a girlfriend.”
Mr. Mason looked frankly dubious. “He brings home a girl, it’ll most like be so they can paint each other’s nails. Well, I won’t keep you, Mr. Enemy. Thanks for, well, you know.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll go and see if Charlie’s finished in the library.”
I found him curled up on a beanbag, frowning at a copy of Princess Smartypants. “Ready to go home, young Charlie?”
He nodded and clambered to his feet. “I’ll put the book back, Mr. Enemy.”
“You can take it home with you, if you like.”
“No, thank you. I don’t like it much.”
“Oh? Why’s that, then?”
He held out the book, and we both stared at the jolly-looking princess on the front, her blonde hair streaming behind her as she rode her motorbike, clad in bizarrely frumpy black leathers. “She’s weird,” Charlie said firmly. “And silly.”
“Why do you think she’s silly, young Charlie?”
“Well… She’s a princess, but she just wears jeans and does gardening and stuff.” He shelved the book decisively.
“Well, not all princesses like keeping clean and wearing pretty dresses,” I said, as I shepherded him back to the classroom.
“But why not?” Charlie’s eyes were round, and he sounded as if his world view had just been shaken to the core.
“You know, that would be an excellent question to discuss with your father.” I smiled and pushed the lad firmly towards Mr. Mason.
Once they’d gone I sank onto a table, my knees suddenly more than a little wobbly.
Oh God. I felt like a cricket ball that had been launched from the arm of a spin bowler on steroids, knocked for six by a gorilla and was now lying trembling in the grass, waiting for a fielder to scoop it up and lob it back into the fray. I’d thought for a horrible, gut-wrenching moment my life here was over.
My hands still shook as I closed the classroom door behind me and set off home. Sean. I was supposed to be seeing Sean tonight. In two hours, in fact, when he’d come round for our cosy fish-and-chip supper. I’d been looking forward to it all week; now it loomed ahead of me like my impending execution. Self-doubt gnawed at my innards like a particularly vicious rat. Or squirrel, as it might be. Had I been mad to think I could have this? Would I never escape my past?
I couldn’t let Sean see me like this. He’d be bound to ask what was wrong, and if the truth came out… But I couldn’t cancel either. That would look even worse.
I’d just have to pull myself together, that was all.
And make absolutely certain Sean didn’t suspect a thing.
The evening went about as well as might have been expected. Which was to say, not well at all.
When Sean turned up on the dot of six o’clock, he found me still edgy, nervous and in the throes of a severe headache. I should have cancelled, or at the very least suggested we go out where there
would have been some distraction, but I’d been too bloody weak. I’d wanted to have his strong arms around me, reassuring me that all was well.
Instead, after I’d mangled my fish, dropped half my chips and ruined my shirt with ketchup, I got his large, troubled eyes gazing at me, and his sombre voice asking me what was wrong.
“Rob? Come on, you can tell me.”
I couldn’t. How could I possibly explain I’d thought I was about to be accused of improper relations with a pupil—for the second time? “It’s nothing. Really. I…I just have a bit of a headache, that’s all. Been a long day.”
I wasn’t looking at him, so I couldn’t see his expression as he stood up. “Right. Well, it’s getting late anyway.” It was seven eighteen, actually, which wasn’t even late if you were a seven-year-old, but I didn’t point that out. “I’ll leave you in peace.”
“All right, then,” I said, judging it the lesser of two evils. I wanted to ask him to stay—but I knew it’d be better to let him go. Less risk I’d crumble and tell him what he thought he wanted to know. I was a little hurt he hadn’t even offered to fetch me an aspirin, though.
“See you,” he said, and left without kissing me good-bye.
Chapter Twenty
I spent a restless night, alternately dozing off in exhaustion and then waking up again with a start. Deep sleep must have finally overtaken me sometime in the not so early hours of Saturday morning. At least, I felt incredibly groggy when I woke up at 10:23 to a barrage of knocking on the front door.
Too sleep-fuddled to register at first that the aggressive summons wasn’t Sean’s casual knock, Rose’s sharp rap or Hanne’s soft rat-a-tat-tat, I staggered downstairs in my dressing gown to open my door.
And stared at the boyishly handsome if somewhat chubby face in front of me.
“Fordy?” He looked tired but still larger than life, with his beaming smile and mismatched yet expensive clothes that, as usual, strained to contain the breadth of his shoulders. I tried to blink some clarity into my vision and my mind. “What are you doing here?” Oh God, he hadn’t left Linette and the baby, had he? No, that was ridiculous. For one thing, he didn’t appear to have any luggage.
Fordy laughed, his dark hair flopping over his eyes. He tossed it back again in a bizarre imitation of a shampoo commercial. “Well, there’s a charming greeting. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Oh—of course. Sorry. Come in.”
Fordy strode into the Old Hatter’s Cottage, glancing from right to left, visibly sizing the place up. Somehow it seemed much smaller with him inside. “Very quaint around here, isn’t it? What on earth do you find to do with yourself? Still, I suppose London’s close enough. You know, I could murder someone for a coffee.”
I stared at him, then straightened my thoughts out with an effort. “Excellent idea. The coffee, I mean. Not the murder. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“No, no, don’t bother. I’ll pop down the road and get us a couple. The baker’s shop was advertising them. I’d have gone there first, as a matter of fact, but I wanted to be sure you were in.” He laughed again. Good old Fordy, I’d forgotten how easily he laughed. “In bed, by the looks of you. So come on, how many cups do I need to bring back?”
“Just the one. For me, I mean.” My face grew hot, to my intense annoyance. Surely one day I’d be able to allude to matters carnal without turning incandescent.
“Right-oh,” Fordy said, unconcerned by my embarrassment. Still, if anyone ought to be used to it, it was he, after all. “Won’t be a minute.”
Fordy’s departure seemed to suck all the vitality out of the house. I stared at the front door for a moment after he’d left, half thinking I might have dreamed him. Then I pulled myself together and raced up the stairs for some clothes.
When the peremptory knock came again I was at least more properly attired for answering the door. Fordy beamed at me. “That’s more like it. The Emsy I know and love, bow tie and all. Brought you breakfast, seeing as I dragged you kicking and screaming from the duvet.” He handed over a large takeaway cup of coffee and a paper bag which, upon inspection, proved to contain an enormous almond croissant. “Go on, dig in. I ate earlier. Much, much earlier.” Fordy shuddered. “Georgie’s clearly planning to be a farmer when he grows up. Or a postman, or someone else who gets up in the middle of the night to go to work.”
“How is he?” I seized the chance to get a word in as I led him to the living room.
Fordy flung himself down on the sofa. “Oh, he’s fine. Thriving, as they say. You must come down and meet him over Christmas. Get to know your godchild. Did I mention we were going to ask you to be godfather? It’ll be in the spring, haven’t set a date yet. For God’s sake don’t say no, or we’ll be stuck with some awful friend of Linny’s.”
“Um, thank you. I’d be honoured. Unless you think it’d be a bit—” I’d been about to say awkward in view of our mutually exploratory past, but Fordy interrupted me.
“Funny having a literal fairy godfather? I doubt that’ll be a problem. You should see our vicar. Well, you will, anyway. Queer as a three-pound pilchard. Offered to take me up the back stairs to the bell tower. I told him I’m a married man these days.” He sighed rather theatrically and took the lid off his coffee.
“Is everything all right?” I asked cautiously. “With Linette and, well, things?”
“Oh, she’s fine.” He sipped from the cup, closed his eyes briefly and sighed again. “Oh yes. That hits the spot. Linny’s fine, baby’s fine, everything’s sodding fine.”
“But?” I prompted. I took a bite of almond croissant, which, I decided, was the crack cocaine of baked goods. One flaky, almondy hit and I was hooked.
Fordy put his cup down. “Well, you know. It’s as if I’ve ceased to exist. Except when a nappy needs changing, or we’ve run out of baby wipes or that revolting stuff in jars she insists on feeding him. It’s all Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. No, we can’t go skiing this year because airline travel is bad for babies’ ears. No, we can’t have a night out because she’s breastfeeding. And God forbid I ever try and get frisky with her these days. I tell you what, when they cut that umbilical cord, they might as well have cut my bloody prick off at the same time. Linny’s certainly got no more use for it.” Fordy blew out a disgusted breath. “So how’s your sex life going? Found yourself a rustic bit of rough out here in the sticks? Been rolling in the haystacks, making babes in the woods, all that sort of stuff?”
“Um. I am seeing someone. Sort of.” I winced. Sean didn’t deserve a sort of. Even after last night. I hoped.
“Oh? What does he do? I take it it’s a he. If you’ve finally seen the light and come over to the distaff side, I’m telling you straight, it’s not bloody worth it. Breasts are all well and good until she drops a sprog and takes out a bloody restraining order to keep you from coming within three feet of them. So what is he? Another teacher?” He grinned. “Got the Head giving you head?”
I’d been dreading this. “Sean’s a, um, pest-control technician.” I turned my attentions to my croissant, but despite having excellent qualities in other respects, it failed to ward off Fordy’s remarks.
“A what? Christ, Emsy, when you’re after a bit of rough, you don’t piss about, do you? A bloody rat-catcher. What did you do, go cruising in the sewers?” He laughed out loud.
I didn’t. In fact, the paper bag crumpled in my hand as I barely restrained myself from walloping him.
Fordy snapped to attention, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh. Ohhhhhhhh. Stepped on the old toes there, have I? Pierced a nerve and shredded a something-or-other? Well, I’ll reserve judgement, then. Far be it from me to criticise an ancient and no doubt honourable profession. So what’s he got that the PE teacher didn’t have? He was all right, he was. A bit too obsessed with fresh air and exercise, but then you like that sort of thing, don’t you? Can’t think wh
y. Didn’t you get enough of all that when we were at school?”
“I like him,” I ground out, concentrating hard on picking fallen almonds out of the base of the paper bag and not, say, kicking Fordy out of my house. Figuratively speaking, obviously. Attempting to do it physically would have been rather akin to a gnat trying to steamroller an elephant. “He’s got twin nephews in my class, and he looks after them as if they were his own, and he never complains.”
“Where’s their father, then? Over the hills and far away, I suppose?”
I nodded. “And their mother’s got cancer. It’s so unfair; she’s ridiculously young to be thinking about dying. Maybe she’s not the, well, friendliest person in the world, but she doesn’t deserve to die. They don’t deserve to lose her.”
“Well, of course not. Poor little sods. Still, mustn’t give up hope. Miracles of modern medicine and all that rubbish. I mean to say, they’re still managing to patch my old man up just fine every time he has a heart attack, and I’ve lost count of how many hips Mother’s been through. By the way, and while we’re on the subject, your absence was noted from the old folks’ ruby wedding do last month.” He stopped talking and fixed me with a reproachful look.
I cringed a little. “Sorry about that. I mean, I did send your mother my apologies, of course, but…” I simply hadn’t been able to face fifty or so well-meaning acquaintances I’d seen neither hide nor hair of since the Fordhams’ last Boxing Day Brunch, all of them with nothing more to say to me than a polite enquiry as to how the job at Potter’s Field was going. Or, for that matter, my mother’s attempts to persuade me to give Crispin another chance, as if he’d actually wanted one. I wouldn’t have put it past her to have invited him along, come to that, but as her affection for him was completely unrequited, I sincerely doubted he’d have turned up.