“All right,” I said. “I’ll go.”
Dad thumped me on the back as if we were friends again.
“You won’t regret it,” he said. “You’ll have the time of your life.”
“What’s that?”
It was Mum at the door. Dad and I both started and looked at her as if she was a ghost. I could see her face go all puzzled, sensing something was wrong.
“What was that?” she asked again.
“He’s going to college,” Dad said, sounding cheerful, but I could tell from his eyes that he felt just a little guilty.
When the face and the voice lie, you should look into the eyes. Dad wasn’t so sophisticated a liar to pretend with those. But the words themselves were enough to satisfy Mum. Her whole face lit up, the lines momentarily smoothed away in a smile. She raised one hand to her hair, putting a curl in place as if she was a girl, again aware that she was beautiful. And she had been lovely. I’d seen the old photographs. I never could believe it was her, not until she let herself go like now, when her happiness made even her worn face radiant.
“Martin … ” she said, and it was like I’d given her some kind of precious gift. “I’m so pleased.”
I glanced at Dad automatically, saw him staring at his wife, and for a moment something in his face was softer, more gentle than before. Then he spoke and the softness was replaced by the familiar hard lines.
“You’ll get your acceptance in the post,” he said. “Won’t you?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
I looked at Mum because the gift, if it was that, was hers. She smiled at me, then glanced away quickly, almost shy.
When she was gone Dad and I didn’t look at one another. Neither of us could find anything to say. In the quiet I wanted to tell Dad something, even if it was that I was sorry for what I’d said. But Dad sensed I was about to speak, and didn’t trust me. He moved quickly to the TV and turned it on, settling back in his armchair, shutting me out.
“Perhaps we’ll try the BBC,” he said. “For a change.”
But he said the words like it was from a distance. There was nothing personal in his tone. His words were, like so much he said to me, stones in the wall he’d built between us.
Steve always beat me at squash. He was lighter on his feet, faster around the court, and he had more racket sense. He’d played tennis when he was a kid and the rhythm of racket and ball movement had stayed with him, helping him to put the tiny rubber ball beyond my reach.
“You still snatch the ball,” Steve told me as I sweated weary-footed on court. “You should take your time.”
“I’m slow to the ball,” I said. “That’s why I snatch it.”
“And bend your knees,” Steve advised. “You’re not an old man, Jumbo.”
I tried not to let it show that I didn’t like my nickname. It was Steve who’d started calling me that. I hadn’t minded, not at first.
“I’m losing by six games to nil.”
“You’ll just have to try harder, that’s all.”
So I did try. For a while I led by seven points to two, but then Steve, scared I might actually steal a game off him, made an extra effort, coming home to win by ten points to eight.
“You see what you can do if you try,” Steve said.
“I still lost,” I said, disappointed.
“But only just.”
“Next time,” I warned, and Steve grinned, confident in his supremacy. I was irritated suddenly. Tired of being the Loser or the Goon. As usual, when I was annoyed or hurt, I went very quiet.
Steve won the next game by nine points to two, and we didn’t say one word to each other the whole time we played.
“Eight games to nil,” said Steve, pocketing the ball. “Shall we call it a day?”
“Yeah. ” I picked up my wallet which was kept safe with my watch in one corner and left the court for the changing-room, annoyed with myself for being annoyed and in a thoroughly bad mood.
Steve followed, aware something was wrong, uncertain of what to say. Normally he played safe and ignored my moods, knowing sooner or later they’d go away.
We peeled off our clothes, wet with sweat, in silence.
For some reason I wouldn’t look at Steve white and naked beside me. I was afraid to stare. Steve still regarded me uncertainly, aware only that my mood hadn’t passed.
Two of the three showers were occupied by two round-bellied men in their forties who’d just galloped round the court in order to keep their arteries free from fat. “C’mon,” said Steve. “We’ll share it.”
It was something we’d done countless times before. But I stood there reluctant, and my wariness shocked me. Since my first year at school I’d shared showers with a host of other naked boys, bumping and knocking into each other, and yet all of a sudden I felt inhibited by my and Steve’s nakedness. I was scared. I suddenly knew for certain that I just didn’t want to stand so close to Steve’s smooth, well-muscled body.
Steve glanced at me, thinking I was being a bad sport and brooding about my defeats.
“Come on, Jumbo,” he said. “Room for two.” Gingerly, as if I was walking on sharp nails, I stepped into the shower. I was intensely aware of his body, the shape of his back and the curves of his thighs. My excitement, rising like desire, panicked me and I turned my back on him. My hand grazed against his leg and I jumped. Steve carried on soaping himself unmoved and I closed my eyes and just tried to concentrate on the sensation of the hot water pattering over my body. Steve slapped my bottom and asked me to move over so he could rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Again the touch of his hand startled me. I couldn’t help remembering how a few years ago we had come back late from training and found we had the showers to ourselves. Fascinated by the developments in our bodies we had touched each other, excited by our juvenile erections, shattered by the pleasure we gained from shedding our sperm on the shower-room floor. It was the kind of fooling around kids did, there was nothing in it, only it frightened me remembering now when our adult bodies were so close together that they almost touched.
Unaware of my thoughts, Steve stepped out of the shower and shook himself like a dog. He handed me his shampoo. We shared things like that, it was easier in the long run.
I lathered my hair and then rinsed the soap away, keeping the foam out of my eyes. I was so occupied in trying to stop thinking about anything that I didn’t hear Steve call out to me.
“Going to be there all day?” he said again.
I turned away, wanting to stay under the hot water for hours. But there were other people waiting to shower and so I stepped out, again inhibited by Steve’s innocent glance.
He threw my towel at me and then fiercely seized it and rubbed my shoulders dry. It was the nearest he could get to saying he was sorry about what was bothering me, reassuring me and reminding me I was his friend.
“Now cheer up,” he said, draping the towel over my head.
I didn’t apologise for my mood. I couldn’t explain my feelings, not even to myself, not properly. Had I been excited by the closeness of a naked man? I didn’t want to think about it, but I was aware of Steve perturbed by my awkward silence. I wanted to say sorry, but I knew Steve would think that was soft. So I flicked my towel at him, and watched him grin at the stinging pain.
“You’re a good sport, Jumbo,” he said. “Though you have to be, don’t you, playing with me.”
“Until the next time,” I told him. “Just you wait and see.”
“Time for a drink?”
“Of course,” I said. “The Albert?”
“Fine.” Steve stepped into his purple underpants and reached for his shirt. “Last day of term tomorrow,” he said.
“Shame.”
“I thought you’d miss school,” said Steve, suprised.
“Not likely. I want to get away,” I told him, thinking that what I said was true. It startled me because I never used to mind school before, preferring it to home and the silent battles with Mum and Dad.
“I expect so.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Steve said. “I can borrow Dad’s car.”
“What about Linda?” I asked him, and he was irritated by the concerned expression on my face.
“She can get there under her own steam,” he said, shortly.
“But there’s room for four in your car.”
“That’s right.” Steve slipped his feet into his training shoes. “Gordon and Jim are coming too. We’ll pop in at the Roebuck first, before the dance.”
I looked at him, quiet for a moment.
“Lads’ night out,” he told me. “Next term with the exams it won’t be the same, will it?”
“It’s a bit early to start celebrating leaving …”
Steve interrupted me.
“I’ll see Linda at the dance, won’t I?” he said quietly. “So there’s no need to play Mother Goose. I’ve told her what I’m doing.”
I buttoned up my shirt.
“Eight then?” I said.
Steve nodded, borrowed my comb from my trouser pocket and made himself tidy at the mirror. As I looked at him, dressed and distant again, the feelings that had risen inside me seemed foolish and unreal. I ignored the call of my worries and pretended I couldn’t feel the touch of the stranger inside.
I don’t think any of us liked dancing much, so we lingered in the Roebuck until it was nearly ten o’clock, supping deeply on our Dutch courage. Naturally we all danced better with a few pints inside us and, light-headed with beer, no one was so worried about asking a girl to dance and having an experimental grope when the lights were low.
Gordon claimed to have wriggled three fingers down Nina Spilburn’s knickers at the Christmas dance, but the rest of us didn’t think much of that story and even less of Nina Spilburn come to that. Still beggars couldn’t be choosers and Gordon, with his watery eyes and purple acne, was definitely in the beggar category. Of course his case wasn’t helped by his insistent whispered demands that the girl he danced with, even if she was a perfect stranger, should straight away go outside and spread her legs for him. Subtlety was not one of Gordon’s strong points and though we chatted, I didn’t like the poor guy much.
Tonight Gordon insisted on bragging about his wicked intentions, and he took out a pack of contraceptives to convince us he meant business. When he opened his mouth to explain to us in detail another sexual ambition, my temper suddenly flew out of the window.
“Put a sock in it, Gordon,” I said sharply, and they all started at me suprised. Normally I was the last to stick my oar in at anything.
“I was only … ”
“Shut up.” This time from Steve. “We’ve heard it all before.”
“I really am going to … ”
“Gordon, for Christ’s sake.”
Again they stared at my raised voice, only this time Gordon did shut up. I’m normally a very placid guy, but when I lose my temper the windows sometimes rattle. I’d broken Stuart Hill’s nose in the fourth year at school. His blazer had been covered with streams of blood that would never wash out. Everyone at school remembers things like that for years. At the time neither the headmaster nor Stuart Hill and his parents were very pleased with me. My own mother was shocked but my father, I’m sure, celebrated the event in secret.
“Take it easy,” Steve cautioned softly as we all trooped off to the Manor dance hall.
The music was loud even in the crowded bar. Two steps below, the dim-lit dance floor was filled with shadowy figures all trying to boogie on down as impressively and sexily as possible. The air was hot and filled with expectancy. Everyone rushed around like nervous toys that had been wound up too quickly, their scent and aftershave struggling to overpower the smell of their perspiration.
The four of us pushed our way to the bar, ignoring the cries of complaint from those younger and smaller than ourselves. When we were their age the same thing had happened to us. I did less of the pushing than anyone else and it was Gordon whose voice was raised in an order for four pints.
As I waited for the drink to be passed back I turned and saw Richard Ward among the crowd which surged impatiently like an angry sea around the bar. He was dressed in a pale yellow tee-shirt and matching trousers and looked breath-taking. My own throat went dry as I stared at him. His clothes fitted tightly enough for me to be aware of the slim body beneath. I blushed as he caught my eye and smiled uncertainly.
“Hello,” he said, and I shied away from his gaze, wondering what he thought of me. The Rugby Duffer.
“Hi,” I managed. Then I remembered what Minty had said about reading his essays. Tomorrow was the first day of the Easter holidays. Tonight was my last chance to ask for them. But the words failed me. It was as if I’d forgotten how to speak.
“Crowded, isn’t it?” Richard said, and I thought he was just being polite. Then I noticed his mouth open and close, as if he too was struggling to find words. I saw the helpless look in his eyes and realised that he too wanted to talk to me. Then someone at the bar called out to him. He began to move away and then, pausing, he looked back over his shoulder and smiled at me before he was lost from view.
Suddenly I felt the most important thing in the world was to speak to him, but then Steve pushed a brimming pint in my hand and, helpless, I followed him and Gordon through the jostling crowd.
Linda, looking extremely attractive in a dark blue sleeveless shirt and tight-fitting jeans, tried to drag Steve onto the dance floor. When she had failed in that attempt she turned to me.
“Come on, Jumbo,” she said, tugging at my hand.
“I can’t dance,” I protested.
“With me you can,” Linda said and smiled, flicking back her long blond hair.
I could see though, from the expression in her eyes, that she was upset about Steve.
“All right.” I put my drink down and tried to ignore the jeers.
“Watch out for your feet, Lyn,” Gordon called. “It’s an elephant you’re dancing with.”
“Better an elephant than a boozed-up wallflower,” Linda countered, turning her back on Gordon and the others. She led me down to the bustling dance floor like she was the sighted leading the blind.
It was a nondescript disco number on the turntable and I did my best to hobble from one foot to another, though I knew, self-consciously, that I looked like a crippled goat with a ruinous case of piles.
“You’re doing fine,” Linda assured me, reading my thoughts.
But one dance was enough. After the record finished I pushed her gently to the side of the dance floor for a breather and a chat.
It was then I noticed Richard Ward dancing, and noticed was the word. Practically everyone, on and off the dance floor, was gazing at him as he side-stepped, turned, twisted and spun all in perfect time, flexing his body in step with the rhythm of the music. Though it was more than just getting the movements right. He didn’t dance like a well-oiled robot who’d been programmed with the correct moves, but like the very alive spirit that had invented them. Unselfconsciously, carelessly even, he used all his body as he danced, turning the stiff gestures of the other slick dancers into flexible, expressive movements that were all his own.
I held my breath. I was shaking because to me he was beautiful, and just minutes ago he had smiled at me.
“That man there wins the prize for being the best,” said Linda, half to herself.
I nodded, not really listening. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Richard, but when the record finished he moved away, vanishing into the crowd, an uncertain figure again, uncomfortable with the admiration.
I wanted to follow him. Perhaps if we had the chance to be alone to talk … Then I realised that I wouldn’t know what to say. How does a man tell another man he’d fancied him when he’d seen him dance? My desire confused me, kept me silent until Linda took my hand.
I manufactured a smile, tried to mask my feelings.
&n
bsp; “Now why couldn’t I dance like that?” I said.
“It’s natural timing, that’s all, Jumbo. Something he has and you haven’t.”
“Like an instinct?”
“That’s right,” she said and smiled, and then was serious. “And what about my boyfriend?” she asked.
“He’s getting just a wee bit drunk,” I said, not meaning to be disloyal, but preparing her for the truth.
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Go and ask him to dance,” I said, thinking again of Richard, wondering if I’d be able to find him in the crowd again.
“I tried that.”
“Try again,” I said softly.
Linda gave me a quick sad look.
“Oh, Jumbo … ”
“I can’t dance with him for you, can I? I’d be thrown out. And you wouldn’t like it either.”
“I’d be deadly jealous,” she protested. “ You’re a lovely young man.”
“Tell me another … ” I said, my complex about my looks getting the better of me.
“You may not be a matinee idol,” Linda said seriously, squeezing my hand, “but you’re not ugly either. Distinctly nice to look at I would say.”
I kept my silence, my complex not convinced, and then saw a gleam come into Linda’s eyes. I could tell what was coming next.
“Now a little bird told me … ” she began.
“A little bird?”
“Yes, it told me, very confidentially of course, that if you asked Margaret Turner to dance the answer just wouldn’t be no.”
I liked Margaret. She was one of Linda’s friends. Red hair cut short and wide green eyes. I had admired her in the past, never with any hope.
“You didn’t tell her … ” I said, horrified.
“Of course I didn’t,” Linda protested, quietly outraged. “You can trust me. I’m discreet. I just found out, to my surprise as much as yours, that the special secret person that she happens to like is little old you.”
“But she’s too pretty,” I said, and Linda rolled her eyes.
“Jumbo,” she said. “You are the limit. Perhaps Margaret’s blind, perhaps she’s mad, but she likes you.”
Who Lies Inside Page 4