The guilty feeling returned to me a couple of days later when I was in the paperback department of the biggest bookshop in town.
Gingerly I took the book I wanted from the shelf and waited for some secret alarm system to go off, making everyone else in the shop turn and look at me.
It was absurd really. E.M. Forster was regarded as one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. I was studying him for my ‘A’ level — and yet, holding the novel he’d written in secret all those years ago, I felt as if I was intending to buy pornography.
The novel I so badly wanted to read was called Maurice, the title being the name of the central character who was in love with another man.
I picked up two other Forster novels, Howards End and Where Angels Fear to Tread, hoping they would serve as camouflage. The sales assistant would just think I was interested in the art of Forster, possibly studying him for a university course. I looked a year or so older than I was. She’d never know.
All the same I was trembling inside when, as casually as I could, I put the three paperbacks face down on the counter, hoping that all she’d look at was the price.
When she’d calmly taken the money, treating me no different from any other customer, and not giving me the slightest suspicious look, I picked up the bag she’d put the books in and left the shop as quickly as I could. When I stood outside, the noise of the town traffic loud in my ears, I couldn’t help smiling at myself. It was as if I’d smuggled top secret documents out of a Russian embassy.
There was no reason why I shouldn’t read Maurice, only I was afraid of what other people might think. I realised then how strong an influence What People Thought was on our lives. Steve was afraid to be gentle with Linda when the lads were around in case they thought he was soft. Dad had used to ice-skate in competitions when he was my age, but he never admitted this to Tom or the sporting lads at school, in case they thought he was a poof.
We shouldn’t be afraid of ourselves, I thought. Shouldn’t be ashamed of what we are. But then I remembered the stranger inside me, recalled the look in Richard’s eyes, imagined us holding each other, and what my parents would think if they knew. I roughly pushed the stranger back into the dark and tried to forget who I was.
At ten past eight on Thursday evening I walked into Cinema One of the Classic to see the latest space adventure. With a large packet of Maltesers in my hand, I settled down in the darkness and tried to black out my thoughts and become absorbed in the spectacular special effects and the familiar rugged profile of Sean Connery, seen this time through a space helmet.
The film might have been exciting, but I couldn’t concentrate on it, my eyes continually returning to my wristwatch, the quartz-powered figures glowing luminously in the dark.
It was two minutes past nine. Richard would have been waiting for me in the Weavers for over an hour now. I wondered what he was thinking and feeling, if he was still sitting there in the bar waiting. I hoped he’d gone home, but I couldn’t remove from my mind the picture of him sitting alone on a stool in the corner, the hurt in his eyes.
Trying to forget, I turned my attention back to the screen as Sean Connery rejected the pleas of a tearful lover and walked out to do battle.
I sat there until the very last credit had vanished from the screen. Nearly everyone else had filed out already. Taking my time I walked up the red carpeted aisle to the Exit light, ignoring the cry of an aged usherette who urged me to hurry up. “We’re not paid to stay here all night,” she complained to her assistant.
Walking out into the cold night air, I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. I looked around quickly, worried that I might bump into someone I knew. Crossing a road,
I took a turning that led into a winding back-street dimly lit by antiquated street lamps.
Gradually, I slowed my pace, listening intently, relaxing when there were no footsteps, nothing except for the faint murmur of night traffic from the main road behind me.
I turned my face up to the stars, but found no comfort in their brightness. I felt as if they were a thousand glittering eyes intent on me, aware of my betrayal.
I hated myself then. Hated what I was. Hated what I was trying to be. I couldn’t destroy the stranger inside me, I could only ignore him, shutting my ears to his pleas for freedom. I tried to pretend that everything was all right, that I could be complete without him. But even in the silence, I could hear the stranger’s cries, plaintive like the entreaties of a child shut up in darkness.
5
Mum always knocked before coming into my bedroom. It would have horrified her to catch me in a state of undress. “You’re a young man now, not a boy,” she’d said once, dodging my affectionate arms, as if that meant we couldn’t touch, even though as a baby she’d hugged me naked in her arms.
“Come in,” I called out, pulling back the blankets and trying to sit up.
“I brought you your cup of tea,” she said, resting a mug on my bedside table. “Sleep well?”
I nodded, bleary-eyed.
She hesitated at the bedroom door, Dad’s mug of tea balanced on her tray.
“Someone rang for you last night. Twice they called.”
I was too worried to look in her direction, uncertain what my eyes would betray.
“Richard it was. He wanted you to ring back some time.”
“I see.”
I swallowed, feeling guilty and ashamed. What I felt for Richard had grown through the way he was attracted to the stranger he alone perceived inside me. There was an openness about his actions, a sense of trust that I’d betrayed in breaking the arrangement I’d made to see him.
“Did you have a nice time last night?” Mum said.
“It was okay,” I lied.
Again, I despised myself for being afraid of my feelings for Richard. I wanted to hold his slim dancer’s body and be comforted by the gentle person inside.
Mum half smiled at me, lost in my thoughts.
“You youngsters,” she said. “Don’t know how to enjoy yourselves.”
I nodded my head, not really listening. All I could think of was that in Richard I’d found someone who brought alive feelings no girl had ever touched. For the first time I wanted someone, I’d found what I longed for, yet, despite my desire, I was running away.
Linda called unexpectedly and we arranged to meet in the town park. I was dreading meeting her, worried that she’d ask me awkward questions.
The last few days I’d wandered around the house hardly saying a word to anyone. Dad complained that I was in one of my moods. Mum didn’t say anything, but I could feel her eyes turned on me anxiously, and sense her unvoiced worries. For once her quiet display of concern irritated me and I wanted to push her away when she was near me. I couldn’t bear her silent watching.
In all this time Richard never rang. I told myself that I mustn’t see him, that I didn’t even want to see him, yet all the while there was the nagging hope inside me that he would call and ask to see me. Every time the telephone rang I started, half-excited, half-afraid. But it was never him.
I returned his essays by post, tearing up the dozen notes I’d written to go with them, telling myself it was better to say nothing, foolish to try and explain.
And then there was Linda.
We walked over the grass where young people played, chasing footballs and each other, laughing and shouting their own silly daring obscenities.
“And tits to you Mark Connor,” one angry little girl yelled at the top of her voice.
The small boy in question paused speechless, then pedalled furiously away on his miniature bicycle.
“Aren’t children lovely?” Linda said.
The sun beamed at us a little uncertainly, promising that summer was on its way. Leaves began to deck the branches of the trees that had for so long been naked.
“Don’t you like children?” Linda asked, when I said nothing.
“They’re okay,” I said, unconvinced.
“But you’re going t
o teach.” Linda was horrified.
“I know …”
“Don’t you want to go to teacher training college?”
The inevitable question.
“I’m not sure.” I looked around me vaguely, aware of the feebleness of my ambition. “There isn’t much else I want to do instead.”
“There’s tons you could do.” Linda paused in her step to think. “Banking. The civil service.”
“Nothing terribly exciting.”
“Jumbo … ” she sighed. “What about journalism then, or advertising? You’ll have your English ‘A’ level.”
“If I get it,” I said, feeling sorry for myself.
“Stop being a misery, Jumbo and think …
“I don’t want to think.”
The words came out with an uncharacteristic sharpness, and Linda stared at me with wide blue eyes.
“Sorry … ” she said.
“No, it’s me. I’m in a funny mood, that’s all.” I looked at the ground, not wanting to say any more.
“I thought you sounded odd the other night,” Linda said, quietly. “What’s up, Jumbo?”
Of course I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell anyone. But my secret kept me isolated. I felt then I’d be alone forever, that there’d never be anyone close, never be anyone to care for. Something was wrong inside me. Wrong. The word stuck in my mind, though it was foolish. Nothing was wrong with me at all, only I was afraid of what other people would think, how they’d treat me if they knew I wanted Richard, wanted to put my arms around him and hold him close.
I glanced at Linda shyly, wishing there was some way she could know without me telling her, without me having to explain myself. Though why should I have to justify my feelings? Linda didn’t have to explain what she felt for Steve. People accepted it, but would they accept what I felt?
Linda reached out and took my hand, her fingers small and fragile in my huge palm.
“If you don’t want to go to college,” she said softly, “you should tell your parents now. I’m sure they’d understand.”
I was disappointed with her for not realising that it was more than the prospect of college that was making me unhappy. I turned my back on her, turned my back on Richard, and took three steps forward.
“Race you to the swings,” I said, and began to run.
When I was a little boy I’d seen Craig Thomas, a friend from school, trap his left leg under the roundabout. It had been broken in three places and his shrill screams had filled the park. Even now I can remember the pain bright in his eyes. He was taken to hospital and his leg encased in plaster, but even years afterwards he’d walked with a slight limp.
After the accident I’d never gone on the roundabout again. No one suspected my cowardice because the roundabout was regarded as child’s play compared with the big slide and the swings. A boy had broken his neck coming off a swing at full tilt, I was told. And a little girl had bashed her skull falling off the slide. But I never listened. These were only stories and I’d seen what had happened at the roundabout. I’d heard young Craig Thomas’ screams. So I’d escaped from the horror of the roundabout to the dizzy pleasure of the swing, recklessly leaning back, confusing my senses with the sky rolling above me.
Now, as I reached the swings with Linda behind me, I could hardly believe my eyes. They were so small, so low off the ground. It seemed absurd that I could ever have felt I was flying when I was on them.
Linda saw the sad lines of my face.
“They’re so tiny,” I said quietly.
“You grew up, Jumbo.”
“I’d break it if I sat on it,” I said, unable to believe the thinness of the metal chain that suspended the red plastic seat just eighteen inches off the ground.
“We were kids, Jumbo. You were a little boy when you played here. You’re eighteen, you’re a grown man now.”
I was lying on my bed reading when I heard a peremptory knock at the door.
It was Dad. He stood there uncertainly, glancing at his feet, and then forced a smile.
“Reading, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“Good book, is it?” He seemed unusually interested, but I stepped unwittingly into the trap.
“Yes,” I said, not wanting to explain.
“Is that the book about the queers?”
There was a silence and I felt the blood run to my face. I almost lied, but then I realised he must have known what I was reading.
“I saw it on your bedside table,” he explained, and then looked at me nervously as if trying to read my thoughts, but he hadn’t the courage to look into my eyes. Perhaps he was afraid of what he’d see there.
“You’ve been poking about in my room,” I said, angrily.
“I was looking for the Castle book on rugby,” Dad said, and glanced at the bookshelf where he knew it was standing amongst my school textbooks and paperback fiction.
I knew he was lying, but I didn’t want to antagonise him further. I was scared he’d found me out. He was always keen to know about the girls I’d met at dances. I think it worried him that no girlfriend was forthcoming. He’d come into my bedroom like this once before, curious about my sex life.
It had been just after my sixteenth birthday, and I think he wanted to make sure I knew about the Facts of Life. Sex wasn’t easy, he told me in a guiltily whispered voice as if he was afraid Mum would hear. You could make a mess of it the first time round, he’d said, but there was no need to worry. If I ever had any problems he’d give me the benefit of his experience. He’d thumped me on the back. He knew I’d be all right. I was a normal, red-blooded lad, he was sure of that. Why, I’d probably been up to tricks already. I didn’t have to tell him, he assured me, disappointed when I said nothing: I was too ashamed of my virginity. The only thing that worried him, Dad had continued, was my getting a girl pregnant. You had to be careful, he said, and he’d put a packet of ten contraceptives down on the bed between us. They were for my own use, he’d told me, grinning like it was a late birthday present.
Later that night, when he’d finally left me alone, I’d opened one of the small foil packets and tried one on. The smell and touch of the lubricated rubber nauseated me slightly. I’d masturbated and then, dizzy with shame, stalked along the landing and flushed the obscene thing down the toilet.
I’d kept the box with the other nine small packets in a bottom drawer under some old jumpers I seldom wore any more. Then one day I noticed that the drawer was slightly open and the jumpers inside were rearranged. I couldn’t look Mum in the face at breakfast next morning, though afterwards it occurred to me that Mum never tidied my drawers. She left me to put my own clothes away. It was Dad who’d found the contraceptives, checked up to see how many I’d used.
Two days later I’d smuggled the box out in a Woolworths plastic bag and dumped the whole lot in a litter bin just outside the school gates. I used to wonder what Dad would’ve thought when he peeped in my drawer again and found them gone, box and all — whether he’d think he’d fathered a sex maniac.
Tonight, Dad didn’t ask me why I was so interested in E.M. Forster’s novel, Maurice. Instead he glanced again at the bookshelf and the large cardboard envelope balanced on the top of a mini-encyclopaedia.
“You never did put up the calendar,” he observed. It was one of those motorcycle ones where women in various states of undress were caught in frozen poses. Steve had given it to me for Christmas.
“I didn’t think Mum would like it,” I said, telling what was at least half the truth. I realised then that I didn’t like it either, but I kept this secret to myself.
“Mum wouldn’t mind,” said Dad. “It’s harmless stuff really.” He reached up and took the envelope down, taking out the calendar and sitting on the bed beside me, so that I could see it too. “It’s natural young men your age liking this sort of thing.” He half-smiled, intent on the glossy pages, the excitement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not too old for it myself.”
I didn’t say a w
ord, but fixed my eyes on the curvaceous Miss February, not wanting to meet Dad’s gaze.
Dad turned over the pages, chuckling.
“The tits on Miss July,” he said, and I nodded my head agreeing, embarrassed because my father was trying to show off his sexuality and I didn’t want to know. I thought of the little girl in the park who had shouted tits to impress, and Dad sounded just the same.
I thought of Mum and Dad in the same double-bed and I felt sick, because as I looked at my father gloating over the soft porn I couldn’t believe he loved her, not one bit. He might force his way into her, or she might be willing, but without love the whole sweating, grinding action seemed as obscene as the dripping contraceptive I’d flushed down the toilet all those months ago.
Dad had a last lingering look at Miss December and took a deep breath, then pushed the calendar over to me. I picked it up automatically and stared helplessly at the shiny pages, waiting for him to go away.
A few days later this letter came from Richard.
Dear Martin,
Thank you for returning my essays. I hope they were a help.
I’m still wondering why it was you didn’t turn up at ‘The Weavers’. I sat waiting there for hours. Why didn’t you come? It was your idea that we met up. I was looking forward to seeing you again.
I’m sure these are difficult questions to answer, but I’d like to hear from you sometime. You only have to write, call or come round.
Anyway, hope your holidays going well, revision and all.
Take care of yourself
Richard
I must have read it through at least twenty times. I couldn’t concentrate on doing any revision, and spent the day restlessly glancing at my books and out of the window. My fingers kept wandering back to the letter in front of me. I tried relaxing by playing records or listening to the radio, but it was no good. Nothing gave me comfort except thinking about Richard, forgetting all my fears and surrendering myself up to him and the stranger inside me.
Who Lies Inside Page 6