by William Boyd
‘It’s all very well for you. I’ll get the bloody boot.’
‘Come on, Quentin. Think of the orgy we can have. I’ve got blankets, booze. Look, I promised the girls we’d have a party. They’re expecting one. We haven’t got much time. It’ll all be over after Saturday night. Gone. Finished.’
Niles was pondering Holland’s use of the word ‘orgy’.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it. But I’m not promising anything, mind.’
Alison wore a long flouncy dress that looked as if it were made out of mattress ticking, and a bonnet. Niles stood beside her in the wings. He could hear the audience taking their seats.
‘Like the costume,’ he said. ‘Nervous?’
Alison cocked her head. ‘No, I don’t think I am actually.’ Niles looked more closely at her. She grew daily more inscrutable. They had seen more of each other during the final run-up to the play but he felt that the bizarre intimacy of their first encounter had never been approached. The prospect of inviting her to the party seemed an awesome task.
‘Listen,’ he began. ‘Some of us are having a little “do” after the cast party on Saturday night. Wondered if you’d fancy coming. You know, select little gathering.’
‘Saturday night? After the cast party? Yes, okay.’
‘And I want you lot to think about me this time tomorrow night,’ Niles told his cowed and quiescent dormitory, ‘because,’ he paused, exultation setting up a tremor in his voice, ‘because this time tomorrow night I shall be making love. Got that? Making love to a real girl.’
Niles gazed transfixed across the stage at Alison. The final performance of HMS Pinafore was almost over. Mr Booth, the physics master, as Captain Corcoran sang to Buttercup – a pre-pubescent boy called Martin – that wherever she might go he would never be untrue to her.
‘What, never?’ Niles and Alison and the company wanted to know.
‘No, never,’ asserted Captain Corcoran.
‘What . . . never?’ the cast repeated.
‘Well . . .’ ad-libbed the Captain. ‘Hardly ever.’
‘Hardly ever be untrue to thee-ee-ee . . .’ the cast echoed at full volume.
‘I mean, be honest,’ Holland said to assorted members of the cast. ‘It’s pretty bloody really. I mean, how these people turn up year in year out and pay good money to see that crap I’ll never know.’ He ate some more of his cream bun and put his arm round Helen. ‘Ah, Quentin, old son,’ he said as Niles came into the dressing room with a paper cup of Coke for Alison. ‘A word in your ear.’ Niles came over. ‘I think we can make our move now. Discreetly though. See you outside the squash courts in five minutes.’
‘Be careful,’ Niles said to Alison. He held her arm supportively. ‘Watch out for these paving stones.’ Alison’s high heels seemed to ring out with unpropitious clarity as they walked across the courtyard to the squash courts. It was cold and dark and their breath hung in the air long enough for them to walk through the thin clouds before they dispersed. Alison’s hair was down and Niles thought she had never looked so beautiful. Her proximity to him and the thought of what was waiting suddenly seemed to make the simple act of walking hideously complicated. He felt as if a sob were lodged in the back of his throat ready to spring from his mouth at any moment.
‘I’m okay,’ Alison said, and he released her arm.
Holland and Panton were already there with Helen and Joyce.
‘At last,’ Holland said. ‘What’ve you two been up to? Couldn’t wait, eh?’ Everyone giggled. Niles bent his head more than he needed to unlock the door into the squash courts.
Inside number three court they spread rugs on the boards and sat in a circle round a solitary candle placed in a jam jar. Holland unpacked the picnic. There was some Gouda and Ryvita, a piece of Stilton, slices of salami, gherkins and two long, knobbled Polish sausages. From his coat pockets Panton produced a bottle of South African sherry and half a bottle of gin. Paper cups were distributed and the drinks passed around.
Niles drank some neat gin. ‘To Gilbert and Sullivan,’ he toasted the company.
‘Ssh,’ Holland said. ‘Keep it down, Quentin. Your voice I mean.’ There were sniggers at this. Niles didn’t dare look at Alison’s shadowy face.
They ate their meal with a certain urgent decorum, conscious of the fact that it had to be got out of the way – but in no unseemly rush – before the night’s real business could commence. Eventually, after a pre-arranged nod from Holland, Panton said, ‘Quiet. I think I can hear someone outside.’ Then he leant forward and blew out the candle. This act was followed by a muffled squeal from Joyce and a flurry of whispered instructions, scuffles and collisions as Holland and Panton, Joyce and Helen, gathered up rugs and paper cups and groped their way out of the door to their respective squash courts, leaving number three to Alison and Niles.
Niles sat in a darkness so total it seemed solid and shifting, like deep water. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. He peered intensely in front of him, a screen of blasting mental supernova and arcing tracer bullets exploding before his eyes, brightening the absence of vision. Only the unyielding firmness of the court floor beneath his buttocks anchored him to the dimensional world.
He heard Alison move. How close was she?
‘Are you all right?’ he whispered. He stretched out his hand, encountering nothing.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone?’
‘I don’t think so. False alarm. Just Panton panicking.’ His hand touched her shoulder. ‘Sorry. Can’t see a thing.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Oh.’ The darkness began to retreat. He sensed rather than saw Alison. He moved across the rug, closer to her. ‘Bloody dark.’
‘Yes.’
He moved his head towards hers, gently, almost blindly, like two docking space craft. After some soft bumps and readjustments, their lips connected tenuously, then sealed. Niles felt his heart swell to inflate his chest as he felt her thin cool lips beneath his. This was the fifth girl he had kissed properly. It remained as thrilling and exciting as the first time. He wondered if he would always feel this way. With little grunts and discreet pressures he managed to lie Alison down on the rug. Her long hair caught across his face, strands filling his mouth which he had to pull free with his fingers. They kissed again. Niles felt enormously humble and reverential. The accumulated sensations of triumph and release in a kiss were almost enough for him really, but he promptly banished such heretical thoughts from his mind. He managed to get both his arms round Alison and he felt her hands move on his back. His head was resting comfortably on his own left shoulder, Alison’s head nestled in the crook of his left elbow. Their knees were touching, her face was perhaps three inches away from his. Some faint source of light picked out a curve on a cheekbone, a glimmer in an eye. The warm breath of her exhalations grazed his cheek. What should he do now, he wondered? Had he much time? What would she like him to do? What was she expecting? Perhaps she wanted to make love too? The novelty of this last idea came to him as rather a shock. He felt suddenly vulnerable and insecure: he sensed the alien presence of her femininity descend on and enfold him. He became immediately aware of his vast ignorance about Alison – the person, the girl – separating him ineluctably from her. Despite the fact that they were lying in each other’s arms they might have been facing each other across some great river estuary. The figure on the far bank was a girl’s, yes, but that was all he knew.
He felt a gentle shaking. He woke up with a start. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. He sat up. His left arm was dead. It flopped lifelessly at his side.
‘You’ve been asleep,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just gone eleven. I’ve got to get the last bus.’
‘Jesus. Asleep? You mean I . . . How long was . . .?’
‘You just drifted off. You’ve been sleeping about half an hour. I didn’t want to wake you.’
Niles felt
shame and disgrace cause tears to prickle at the corner of his eyes. He picked up his left hand and started to massage it. In the darkness it was like holding an amputated limb. To his right hand his nerveless left felt rough and calloused, like a stranger’s.
‘Can you find the door?’
They went outside. Alison wondered about the remains of the picnic. Niles told her he’d clean up in the morning before anyone came.
He was about to lock the door. ‘What about the others?’ he asked, fighting to keep the bitterness from his voice.
‘They left about ten minutes ago. I heard them going.’
Niles locked the squash court door. He gazed bleakly around him. Alison stood patiently, knotting her scarf at her throat. It was a sharp, frosty night. The school buildings loomed on either side, dark and unpeopled.
‘I’d better go, Quentin,’ Alison said.
‘I’ll come with you to the bus stop.’
They set out together, Niles looking nervously back over his shoulder. He was taking a calculated risk. The bus stop lay half a mile beyond the school gates. If he was caught out of bounds with a girl at this time of night he would be in serious trouble. But equally he felt that whatever happened nothing should prevent him from being with Alison at this moment. They walked on in silence. Niles’ mind was a tangle of conflicting emotions. Sentences formed in his head only to split into whirling separate words like some modish animated film. He felt he should say something, explain that he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, allude to his romantic plans, but his tongue and his mind refused to co-ordinate. His brain seemed to lock into an imbecilic stupidity. He couldn’t do anything right.
At the school gates he let Alison stride confidently through and go a little way down the road before he snaked beneath the lodge windows, squirmed through the side gate and made a sequence of zig-zag dashes from bush to tree trunk, like a commando behind enemy lines, before he caught up with her.
Alison stood in the middle of the road waiting for him. ‘That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’
‘I’m out of bounds, you see. If I get caught . . .’
‘I don’t want you to get into trouble, Quentin.’
‘Forget it, really. I don’t care.’ He took her hand. There was a small shelter by the bus stop . . . ‘Come on, let’s go.’ They walked briskly down the road.
The shelter was empty. A nearby street light threw the graffiti carved on its green wooden bench into high relief. Small drifts of cigarette packs, soft drink cans and wrappers were banked beneath it.
‘Alison,’ Niles began. ‘Listen. I have to say this, I don’t want you to think that . . .’
‘Here it comes,’ cried Alison, as the bus appeared round the corner. ‘That was lucky.’
The bus stopped. She gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, so swift it was almost a clash of heads, and got on. Niles looked at the single decker bus. Inside it was soft yellow and smoky. A couple of old women looked curiously back at him. On the rear seats some louts drank beer from cans. Alison stood at the top of the steps, her back to him, buying her ticket from the driver. Her long legs seemed twin symbols of rebuke.
‘I’ll phone,’ he shouted, louder than he meant. It sounded like a grievance, a threat. She turned, smiled, and walked down the bus to take her seat. Niles saw her thick dark hair on her blazer, saw her head toss as she sat down. She waved. The bus drove off. He didn’t wave back.
Niles walked morosely up the drive. He walked on the verge, ready to duck behind one of the beech trees that lined the road should a car come by. He stumbled over a root, stopped, turned and kicked savagely at it. In a sombre mood of reassessment he cursed his school, the closed society he was compelled to live in, his demanding, predatory, so-called friends. ‘Women,’ his father had once patronizingly told him, ‘are a lifetime’s study.’ He was off to a late start then, he observed grimly, and wondered if he would ever catch up. He felt suddenly exhausted by the daily, monotonous absorption with sex, disgusted by the lonely idolatry of masturbation. He felt that his sexual nature, whatever it might be, was irretrievably corrupted.
He paused and took a few deep breaths, trying to shake the mood from him. At this point the drive curved gently to the right, back towards main school. On his left and ahead of him lay a wide flat expanse of playing fields, fixed and still under a faint starlight. His house lay in that direction. It would be quicker, but he wondered if he dared expose himself on the open space. He made up his mind. He set off, breaking into a steady jog, feeling the frost cracking under his feet, puffing his condensed breath ahead of him like a steam engine. He loped silently and strongly across the pitches. He felt that he could run for ever. He would be back in the dorm before twelve. They would all be waiting for him. Fillery had said they’d stay up specially. They wanted to know everything, Fillery had said, every little detail. The bastards, Niles said to himself, smiling. His mind began to work. He’d give them a good story tonight, all right. They wouldn’t forget this one in a long time. He ran on, a strange jubilation lengthening his stride.
The Care and Attention of Swimming Pools
Listen to this. Read it to yourself. Out loud. Read it slow and think about it.
A swimming pool is like a child,
Leave it alone and it will surely run wild.
Who said that? Answer: Me. I did.
Wintering
‘Can I swim?’ says Noelle-Joy. ‘It’s a fantastic pool.’
Much as I would like to see her jugs in a swimsuit, I have to say no.
‘Aw. Pretty please? Why not?’
‘I’m afraid the pool is wintering.’
Noelle-Joy squints sceptically up at the clear blue sky. There’s not even any smog today. She exposes the palms of her hands to the sun’s powerful rays.
‘But it’s hot, man. Anyways, we don’t get no winter in L.A.,’ she argues.
Patiently I explain that, four seasons or no, every pool has to winter. A period of rest. What you might call a pool-sabbath. I’ve lowered the water level below the skimmers, superchlorinated and washed out my cartridge filter. A pool, as I explain several times a day to my clients, is not just a hole in the ground filled with water. Wintering removes constant wear and tear, rests the incessantly churning pump machinery, allows essential repairs and maintenance, permits cleansing of the canals, filter system and heating units. You can’t do all that if you’re splashing around in the goddam thing. Most people realize I’m talking sense.
We walk around my pool. It’s small but it’s got everything. No-skid surrounds, terrace lights, skimmers, springboard, all-weather poolside furniture and a bamboo cocktail bar plus hibachi. I’ve got to admit it looks kind of peculiar stuck in my little backyard. (In this part of the city it’s the only private pool for seventeen blocks.) But so what! I busted my balls for that little baby. I got me a new vacuum sweep last month. I’m aiming for a sand filter now, to replace my old cartridge model.
I stand proudly behind the bar and pour Noelle-Joy a drink. She’s wearing a yellow halter-neck and tight purple shorts. Maybe if she were a little thinner they’d look a bit better on her . . . I don’t know. If you got it, flaunt it, I guess. Her legs are kind of short and her thighs have got that strange rumpled look. She stacks her red hair high on top of her head to compensate. She lights a Kool, sips her drink, sighs and hugs herself. Then she sees my hibachi and screams. I drop my cocktail shaker.
‘My God! A Hibachi. Permanent as well. Hey, can we barbecue? Please? Don’t tell me that’s wintering too.’
I ignore her sarcasm. ‘Sure,’ I say, picking up ice cubes. ‘Come by tomorrow.’
I work for AA1 Pools (Maintenance) Inc. We’ve also been ABC Pools and Aardvark Pools. I tell my boss, Sol Yorty, that we should call ourselves something like Azure Dreams, Paradise Pools, Still Waters – that kind of name. Yorty laughs and says it’s better to be at the head of the line in the Yellow Pages than sitting on our butts, poor, with some wise-ass, no-account trademark. The man has no pride in his
work. If I wasn’t up to my ears in hock to him I’d quit and set up on my own. Tropical Lagoons, Blue Diamond Pools . . . I haven’t settled on a name yet. The name is important.
Green Water
Down Glendale Boulevard, Hollywood Freeway, on to Santa Monica Freeway. Got the ocean coming up. Left into Brentwood. Client lives off Mandeville Canyon. My God, the houses in Brentwood. The pools in Brentwood. You’ve never seen swimming pools like them. All sizes, all shapes, all eras. But nobody looks after them. I tell you, if pools were animate, Brentwood would be a national scandal.
The old Dodge van stalls on the turn up into the driveway. Yorty’s got to get a new van soon, for Christ’s sake. I leave it there.
The house stands at the top of a green ramp of lawn behind a thick laurel hedge. It’s a big house, Spanish colonial revival style with half-timbered English Tudor extension. A Hispanic manservant takes me down to the pool. ‘You wait here,’ he says. Greaser. I don’t like his tone. One thing I’ve noticed about this job, people think a pool cleaner is lower than a snake’s belly. They look right through you. I was cleaning a pool up on Palos Verdes once. This couple started balling right in front of me. No kidding.
The pool. Thirty yards by fifteen. Grecian pillared pool house and changing rooms. Marble-topped bar. Planted around with oleanders. I feel the usual sob build up in my throat. It’s quiet. There’s a small breeze blowing. I dip my hand in the water and shake it around some. The sun starts dancing on the ripples, wobbling lozenges of light, wavy chicken-wire shadows on the blue tiles. What is it about swimming pools? Just sit beside one, with a cold beer in your hand, and you feel happy. It’s like some kind of mesmeric influence. A trance. I said to Yorty once: ‘Give everybody their own pool to sit beside and there’d be no more trouble in this world.’ The fat moron practically bust a gut.
I myself think it’s something to do with the colour of the water. That blue. I always say that they should call that blue swimming pool blue. Try it on your friends. Say swimming pool blue to them. They know what you mean right off. It’s a special colour. The colour of tranquillity. Got it! Tranquillity Pools . . . Yeah, that’s it. Fuck Yorty.