Breaktime

by Aidan Chambers

  ‘I was with a bloke yesterday,’ I said, needing to clear my throat before I could speak with confidence, ‘who said that we are all users, that everybody uses everybody else. I suppose he meant there’s no such thing as altruism.’ I ran my hands over her breasts, down her bending sides: a tactile fragrance of flesh. ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘And don’t want to?’

  Her eyes were closed. She shook her head. Waving hair. All of her body focused.

  ‘Don’t talk any more, word child,’ she said.

  She shifted her position, sitting so that

  Don’t talk, she says, but the mind

  she could undo the buttons of my

  goes on. Why won’t it stop? Give up.

  shirt, which she accomplished slowly,

  Give up itself to what is happening?

  laying the shirt from my chest. Her

  It damn well thinks, damn well goes on

  cool, tender hands then moving over me,

  thinking, watching what is happening

  soothingly inflammatory, a beginning

  like a spoiled indulged child. Shut

  of physical crescendo.

  up, damn you, shut it.

  Her hands ran down my chest,

  There is dazzle-blue sky above

  across my stomach. Found the clasp of my

  framed in the tent door opening flap

  jeans. Undid it. Drew down the zip.

  door peak. Shut it. Say the nine times

  Pushed jeans and pants below my knees.

  table once nine is nine two nines

  Cooling air feathered my loins.

  are eighteen three nines are twenty-

  A delicious greeting to my nakedness.

  seven four nines are something or other

  And Helen’s hands, coming with the

  five nines are more than that

  breeze, hardly heavier of touch.

  ten nines are ninety is easy

  Searching, fondling, encouraging.

  you just put the nought on o god

  For moments that were

  the pleasure shut it shut head

  endlessly short this was all

  close down off the air off in

  I wished for, all I had ever

  the air ha o god don’t laugh

  wanted.

  laugh please don’t laugh it’s

  But then rising in me, a

  not done not done not in the oven

  gathering of every lusting sensation

  yet ha o please don’t laugh

  flowing from every cell of my body

  under my spread arm spread hands I feel

  to that straining centre, wanted

  grass knife-blade-sharp, coarse

  body on body, a clutch of source

  soil beneath grasp the crystal

  of pleasure to whole possession.

  earth no grasp her grasp shut it

  I grasped at her. For a fearful

  enjoy enjoy enjoy enjoy enjoy enjoy

  moment she was gone. But then

  shut it words are like boulders

  was back again.

  thoughts are like broadsides fired

  And naked.

  against my bodypleasure why?

  As I was

  o why? o sylvan wyeswale

  And as eager

  is this what makes body

  As blind

  is this the howdyado the I’m all

  As grasping

  right jack the deflowering of ditto

  As clinging

  the cider rosie had

  As sinuous of body

  is this the stars in

  As flooded with strength

  my eyes my eyes close my eyes

  And energy

  in excelsis

  And fire.

  shut it

  She pulled at me,

  is this the way

  turning me over upon her, urgently,

  aboard the lugger

  as she fell back upon

  and now let

  the ground.

  battle commence

  And gave me entrance

  just shut it

  with a deep delighting sigh.

  shut it

  And then there were

  shut it

  no more

  shut

  words

  it

  no more

  it

  thoughts

  It

  Nothing but movement

  Body on

  Flesh on flesh on

  Mouth and hands and legs and

  thrusting

  driving

  wild

  relief

  felt

  during her

  high

  long

  scream

  Patterns of Lovemaking

  There is not much point in trying to describe lovemaking—whether it is hand-holding, embracing, fondling or intercourse. It is experienced as a matter of emotion and relationship more than action.

  Though we think of lovemaking as instinctive, as indeed it is primarily, the patterns of expression vary widely in different parts of the world. This shows that we learn many aspects of it while growing up—from books, movies and TV, from what we notice in parks and on beaches, from what we see our parents doing and not doing. . . .

  In the more drawnout love-making, lips, tongue, hands may make loving contact with lips, tongue, breasts or genitals—for several minutes or for many. Each couple after months and years of variation tends to settle on patterns which give the greatest mutual pleasure. A few couples even progress all the way to the climax of orgasm while engaged in the forms of lovemaking which most people consider only preliminary—because in this manner they reach ecstasy more surely or more pleasurably than by genital intercourse. For most couples, however, the ultimate desire is for intercourse, in which the man inserts his erect penis into the woman’s vagina. Her labia and vagina have been made more moist than usual by her excitement, so the penis can slip in more easily. The man has the instinct to thrust his hips rhythmically backwards and forwards to move the penis partly out and in again, to increase the sensation for both. Intercourse can last fifteen seconds or a man can learn to hold back his orgasm so that intercourse lasts for fifteen minutes or more. As the couple come nearer to orgasm, both partners usually want the rhythmic motion to become more vigorous and the woman may participate in it too. At the moment of orgasm—and generous, experienced lovers try to make their climaxes come simultaneously—they are overwhelmed by five or ten seconds of intense, pulsating pleasure while the ejaculation occurs, and they cling tightly together. After orgasm there is usually a feeling of complete satisfaction and peace which often leads to sleep.

  —A Young Person’s Guide to Life and Love,

  by Dr Benjamin Spock,

  Bodley Head,

  1971.

  Thought returns

  A sense of place

  Of being

  exhausted flat-out quenched desireless body able still to pleasure in the aftertaste of body on body made poignant by a reasonless sense of loss sweet with gratitude but still no words to speak no wish to say

  1 The worst case of unexpected sex education I have so far heard of was told me by Simon Feldman, who claimed that Lisa Pringle, whose father was an undertaker, trapped him in the workshop behind her father’s office one Saturday afternoon, backed him into an upright coffin and there molested him. Had the coffin not been de luxe lined, Simon said, he did not think he would have survived the ordeal, which has understandably left him with a strong prejudice against undertakers, whose profession he was at one time considering as a career because, he said, as an undertaker he would never be out of work.

  END GAME

  After Helen

  WHEN I WOKE, the sun was setting. Egg yolk in deepening blue.

  My sleeping ba
g covered me. Helen’s doing, I supposed.

  I looked for her. Found not her, but her note lying by my side weighted by a dalestone.

  I read it.

  Then lay back. Wordless thought.

  Then, impulse:

  I had to go back home. Whatever I had come for, I now had. But had yet to sort out.

  I felt good as soon as I moved, being busy again with purpose. Whatever I am to be, I am not to be a drifter, a taker-or-leaver of life. I know that now, if no more.

  I ate the remains of our lunch, being hungry: stale bread, evening dew moist; a mouthful of herring, acid in my dry sleep mouth; a morsel of cheese; all washed down with water, plastic coated from my aging bottle. Then sat again, feeling calmed, reflective; gazed at the view as though wishing to cherish it, the day, that time-and-place.

  Till darkness fell. Ten thirty or thereabouts.

  I was ready for off. I would have to walk. No buses now, no money for private hire. Fifteen miles. But I wanted to walk.

  Penance, payment or pleasure? Who cares?

  I was going somewhere. Home.

  The only one I have. For now.

  I laughed.

  An owl hooted. A barn owl. He was sitting on Willance’s cold grave stone. As I watched, he took off and ghosted into the valley.

  Tramping

  Down into Richmond, silent dark town, through Skeeby. On up to Scotch Corner, across the slice of motorway and along the back road to Barton. Then Stapleton and the roundabout, junction of old road and motorway spur into Darlington. Across the bridge humping Yorkshire into County Durham. Then by Blackwell down to South Park, along Geneva Road’s dull, stale mile. And home.

  Roadwork at night is a kind of torture by monotony. Thoughts adopt a steady repetitive stomp to match your mechanical feet.

  My thoughts that night tramped through Jacky and Robby and Helen and me.

  Pedestrian stuff; all here, preceding.

  Home

  Hello, love.

  Hi, Ma. Didn’t mean to wake you.

  I wasn’t asleep. How’ve you got back?

  Walked.

  Walked? Where from?

  Richmond.

  At this time of night! It’s nearly four.

  I’d finished what I had to do so I came straight home.

  I’m glad. But you must be worn out.

  A bit.

  And hungry. I’ll cook you something.

  No, no, Ma. Just a cup of tea, eh?

  Are you sure? You ought to have something.

  I’m okay, really.

  Well, a cup of tea, eh?

  How’s Dad?

  Much better.

  Good.

  Not right yet, you know. Never will be, I suppose. But he’s sitting up and taking notice again.

  That’s good.

  Thought I’d lost him.

  O, I’ve a letter he gave me for you.

  A letter?

  Wrote it yesterday. Said if you rang I was to get an address where you could collect it. If you weren’t coming back soon, like.

  He’s never written me a letter before.

  He’s hardly had need to, has he? You’ve not been away long before, not on your own.

  But he didn’t need to now, did he?

  What’s in it?

  I don’t know, love. You’d better read it and find out.

  I’ll take my tea and drink it upstairs, Ma. Okay?

  All right, love. And get some sleep. You’ll be worn out tomorrow.

  Free Gift

  A small, black, firm-bodied box, no bigger than a wallet, edges worn, as though from much handling. Inside, red silk plush. Laid in the plush, two medals, pristine, with bright red, gold and blue striped ribbons. On the medals, raised in bas relief, the picture of a racing motorcyclist. On the reverse an inscription:

  NATIONAL TRIALS CHAMPIONSHIP

  JUNIOR CLASS

  FIRST

  NATIONAL TRIALS CHAMPIONSHIP

  ALL COMERS CLASS

  THIRD

  Each also inscribed with Dad’s name and a date.

  He would have been eighteen.

  Kitchentalk

  You’re still up, Ma.

  I’m not tired, love.

  He’s given me these.

  Yes? Very nice.

  Why?

  He wanted to, I expect.

  They mean a lot to him?

  They do.

  He’s never mentioned them. I’ve never seen them before.

  It’s just the way he is.

  You know about them?

  Yes.

  Can you tell me?

  When he was young, he wanted to be a motorcycle racer. He went to the Isle of Man T.T. races every year to watch. ’Course, then it was bigger than it is now. I’m talking about thirty years ago. He got a bike of his own as soon as he could. Bullied his mother into buying him one on the H.P., I think. And he started trials racing on it.

  Racing across country?

  Yes. He did well. Won them medals the last time he did it. He was eighteen. He decided after that it was time for the real thing. But he needed a new bike for professional stuff. And he wanted to enter the T. T. Something like that.

  And?

  His father wouldn’t hear of it. Put a stop to it.

  Why?

  Said it was too dangerous and cost too much.

  But how could he stop Dad if he really wanted to do it?

  Well, for a start your dad didn’t have the money. Not for a new bike, fares, racing expenses, all that.

  And his father wouldn’t help?

  No.

  Wasn’t Dad earning enough?

  As an apprentice joiner? That’s what he was then.

  So he never did it?

  No. His father said he could do what he liked when he was out of his apprenticeship at twenty-one but that till then he’d do as he was told. And in those days you had to pay more heed to your parents than people do now.

  But didn’t he try when he was twenty-one?

  Too late then. He meant to. But he’d never have caught the competition by then. And anyhow, how could he do it all on a joiner’s pay? No, he had an old bike and roared round the streets like a madman and went to the T.T. as a spectator. But he never raced again.

  Does he regret it?

  Why don’t you ask him?

  Silly question.

  Perhaps. But I’d still ask him.

  Thanks, Ma.

  Get some sleep now, love. Goodnight.

  Making Room

  I sat a while in my room. Needing to. Not disturbed, but wanting quiet. Peace. Stillness.

  But soon the walls were falling on me.

  Unhurried, a deliberate act conducted with great care, I began to disrobe the walls of their covering of posters and pictures. Took them all down; piled them one on another in an old suitcase.

  Did not stop at the pictures. The ornaments, bric-à-brac, oddments of all sorts. All the left-overs of me. All into the suitcase.

  With surprise I found myself adding some of the books. Not all. Those which impulse told me were sloughed-off skins.

  Me, past. Other people’s me.

  Last of all, I placed Helen’s letter, her photograph, and Morgan’s Charges Against Literature into a large envelope. Sealed it. Placed it on top of all else.

  Shut the suitcase. Locked it. Stowed it neatly, at the back of a cupboard in the spare bedroom, among all the rest of the family’s lumber.

  Put the key into my father’s medal case beside his—my—pristine medals.

  Now my room was nude, but for some books, and, alone on my desk, the medals in their worn case.

  Coffeetalk

  ‘An odd concoction,’ said Morgan, coffee expectorating from his plastic mug on to the sixth-form commonroom floor as he and Ditto made for two empty seats in a corner.

  ‘We have discussed the inadequacy of the coffee before,’ said Ditto.

  ‘I mean your masterwork,’ Morgan said.

  They sat, p
ulling their chairs together, side by side, facing a window providing a view of the breaktime mayhem in the playground below.

  ‘Did you find it distasteful?’ asked Ditto.

  ‘Not that. But there are some points I want to argue with you.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Amusing sometimes, embarrassing sometimes, interesting sometimes.’

  ‘How generous of you.’

  ‘You had quite a time during half term.’

  ‘I did,’ said Ditto noncommittally.

  ‘But to be honest . . .’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘. . . I can’t agree that this curious document answers my Charges.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Morgan.’

  ‘Then demonstrate.’

  ‘What a laboratory mind you do have.’

  Morgan smiled with self-satisfaction.

  ‘All right,’ said Ditto. ‘Point by point but briefly. Point one: is it a story?’

  ‘Of a kind,’ Morgan conceded with reluctance. ‘The events of your week past.’ He chortled at his pun.

  Ditto allowed the ambiguity to pass apparently unnoticed. Two could play at double takes, and at sleight of mind.

  ‘Point two: you are only concerned with truth. Have you had truth?’

  ‘Allowing for the inadequacy of your skills as a reporter, yes.’

  ‘My modest work convinced you in this respect?’

  ‘Sufficiently for our purpose.’

  ‘Good. Point three: would you agree that my account does not pretend that life is neat, tidy, falsely logical—any of those things to which you objected, you’ll remember?’

  ‘Granted. It’s a right rag-bag!’ Morgan laughed loudly.

  ‘I’m pleased I amuse you.’

  ‘You do, you do.’

  ‘Point four: literature is only a game, an amusing pretence, a lie I think you said. Playing at life, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Is my poor effort?’

  Morgan sat up, as though springing a trap. ‘I thought that was where you were headed. False logic.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, matey, I was talking about fiction. Remember! And your little masterwork isn’t fiction.’

  ‘O?’ said Ditto.

  The klaxon sounded the end of morning break.

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ bayed Morgan, triumphant. ‘We’ve already agreed about that. It is a record of what happened to you last week.’