I smiled feebly.
“And after that college, isn’t it? You’re going to be a P.E. teacher. Follow in my footsteps.” Tom half-laughed. “Hull, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ll have the time of your life. I did when I was at college. The other lads were great. And the girls … I remember, the time of your life.”
“I expect so … ” My voice wavered. All I could hear was Tom telling me he couldn’t remember their faces, just the score. Eight.
9
It was Saturday night and I badly needed a drink to steady my nerves. Standing in my bedroom, dressed in fresh clothes, I closed my eyes and willed myself to think of Margaret white and naked in front of me. I thought of the narrowness of her fragile shoulders and trim waist, the broadness of her hips. I thought of what it would be like to be inside her, to bury my head between her breasts like a nervous child.
Then someone knocked on the door and I started. Dad came in, gave me a quick glance and I reassured him with a cheap smile.
“Out tonight?” Dad always began with the obvious. “Yeah.”
“Margaret with you?”
“Later on,” I explained as casually as I could. “I’m having a drink with the lads first.”
“I see.”
There was an awkward silence. I checked my hair was tidy in the mirror.
“You don’t need anything, do you, for tonight? I could give you something.”
“I’m well supplied, thank you,” I said, shocked at the smooth confident tones in my voice, though sure enough I did have a pack of three Extra Sensitive Midnite contraceptives in my jacket pocket.
I turned and looked straight at Dad and something in him shuffled away. It was like I could see the lonely man inside him, frustrated with the emptiness he’d created in his own life. Though it wasn’t all his own fault. Without an education or any special talent he was stuck in a routine job, delivering messages, sorting post, being ordered about by people half his age with their university degrees. Then I thought of Tom and the shabby, unhappy man that lay inside him, coming out painfully in the solitude of the lonely house. I wondered if Dad appreciated how Mum saved him from himself, sacrificing areas of her life to keep him safe. Yet Mum’s sacrifice was freely made. Perhaps that was love?
I nodded to myself, knowing it was love that Mum gave Dad, love that she had given him all these years without any outward show of thanks. I remembered a poem written by Blake, who we’d studied for ‘A’ level. It said how love should be given unselfishly, and that amid the Hell in our lives, love could create a Heaven, a place of peace. It helped me to appreciate how important love was, and how without it life would be miserable and empty.
But standing there with Dad, I was just like Tom sitting alone in his dark front room with a whisky bottle. I didn’t want to think about what I was doing. I wanted to run away.
“Well … have a good time,” Dad said at last, unnerved by my thoughtful silence.
I shrugged away my worries and straightened up to my full height, aware of my broad shoulders and the clothes that hung attractively on me. Before the evening had ended I would have left my nightmare virginity behind and proved to myself, and the rest of the world, that I was a man.
Later, I would hate myself, realise the selfishness of my pride, the foolishness of my desire, and become aware that as a man the only thing I had to show was that I could be a feeling human being with no desire to deliberately hurt others or myself.
“The tits on Nancy Peters,” Gordon said, breathlessly. And then he smiled, his flushed face creasing into smug lines. “And I’m in there boys,” he assured us. “It’s me in there.”
“You and whose army?” said Jim.
“Come off it, Gordon. She wouldn’t look at you,” Steve said, his voice loud with beer. But we were all drinking hard that night.
Steve caught my eye and grinned. Ever since I’d started going out with Margaret our friendship had gone on as before; squash and the odd evening drink. But tonight Gordon irritated me.
“One of your wet dreams, Gordon,” I said, being mean, and everyone laughed.
Gordon gave me a sharp glance, his eyes annoyed in his red acned face.
“Got your leg over yet, Jumbo? Maggie’s classy, but she’s a tight arse.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Sure I have,” I said, shakily aware that Steve was listening hard.
“About time too,” Gordon went on, exploiting my uncertainty. “A virgin like you.”
“Now then,” said Steve, and rested a hand on my arm as if expecting me to knock Gordon bloody into next week, though nothing was further from my mind.
“At least Martin’s got taste,” said Jim, helpfully. “He doesn’t offer it to anyone.”
“Not the tarts you get,” Steve added.
Gordon gave us a hard stare as if he hated every one of us.
“Slags or not,” he said. “I make them, don’t I? That’s more than he can say. A white elephant Jumbo is, virgin white if you ask me.”
“Well, we’re not,” said Jim, in a voice that silenced Gordon, and Steve made sure, leaning over and grabbing Gordon’s shirt-collar in a pseudo-friendly manner.
“Shut it,” Steve said. “Right?”
Gordon looked at me and kept quiet. For an awkward time no one said anything.
I thought what a sham thing friendship could be, and then Steve made it all worse. As we were walking unsteadily back to his car, Steve grabbed my arm, hissing in my ear so that no one could hear.
“Have you laid her?” Steve said, and because I didn’t want to see the curiosity gleaming in his eyes I walked off, pulling my arm roughly away.
“Jumbo … ” he called after me, but I pretended not to hear, stuffing my fists deep into my pockets, twisting the lining with my fingers, wishing I could be alone.
“You’re both drunk,” Linda told us in the bar of the Manor Hall.
“Come on now.” Steve pulled clumsily at Linda’s hand and for a moment she resisted, turning her face to me so that I could see the flicker of pain in her eyes.
“You’re a bully, Steve,” I said, but he let go of her arm.
“You hurt me.” Linda’s lip trembled.
“I was playing, that’s all.” Steve emptied his pint glass. Linda turned and walked quickly away, disappearing into the crowd of young people.
I moved to follow her, but Steve stopped me.
“Leave her alone, Jumbo.”
“She’s upset … ” I protested.
“Leave her.” Steve wrenched at my arm and I winced with the pain. For a moment we stared at each other like two furious animals, before turning our backs on each other.
Everything was going wrong that evening.
Then Margaret reached out and laid her hand gently on mine. I felt too guilty to smile at her, was afraid to see the worry in her eyes.
“Another pint,” I said, to no one in particular.
“Martin … please.”
This time I turned and looked at her, read the anxiety in her face and was ashamed.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Margaret didn’t say a word then. Her face was pale, and the sudden silence about her upset me even more. I could see everything inside her intent on one thought, and then she made her decision and her waxen face came alive again.
As she smiled, I thought how much of a child I was compared to her, playing a game that wasn’t right for me, too selfish and too frightened to admit the truth.
As we pushed our way through the press of people, I took her hand and squeezed it tightly. Turning, she smiled at me, but it was an empty smile as if a part of her knew that I was no longer a friend.
Naked, we stared at one another uncertainly like strangers. Our clothes seemed the only thing familiar to us, the signs by which we’d known and recognised each other, and these lay discarded on the bedroom floor.
I turned the bedroom light off, afraid to see her. Perhaps it
was someone else pale across the other side of the room. She came towards me. The touch of another’s skin was a sensation novel enough to excite me, and I was aware of the hardness I pressed against her belly.
“Have you done this before?” I whispered.
Margaret didn’t answer, but I could feel her head nodding against my shoulder.
“I … I haven’t,” I said, and felt a little better, glad I’d voiced a part of the truth.
She kissed me very gently and slid her hands down my side and up my back. I copied her, moving my hands nervously over her smooth body, feeling the roundness of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples and the soft flesh of her thighs, the thick curls of hair between her legs. Then she moved away and I heard her lie down on the bed, waiting for me.
I cried out when I entered her, and then forgot the helpfulness of her guiding hands, the accommodating movements she’d made, and it was almost as if quite suddenly she didn’t exist.
Awkwardly at first I moved within her, concentrating on perfecting the rhythm of the thrusts of my body, forgetting everything but the hard column of flesh inside her, protected by the foul rubber contraceptive. I heard my breaths quickening, the rasping sound of air in my lungs and closed my eyes to everything else, thinking only of the pleasure and pumping, pumping like I had all those nights on my own. Barely aware of the person beneath me I kept on pumping, pumping, breathing harder now, feeling so good I couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. Jerking harder and harder, mild spasms of pleasure choked me, until at the last I cried out like someone scared of being alone.
I flushed the dripping contraceptive down the toilet, thinking how I’d done exactly the same thing months before after I’d masturbated using one of the contraceptives that Dad had given me. The horrible thing was, now it was over, I felt no different from before. Any pride and pleasure had evaporated. I stared down into the water in the toilet pan and felt nothing except a reluctance to return to the stranger I’d left worn and used in her own bed.
I told myself I was a man now, that Steve and Dad and Tom and everyone else would be pleased. I’d imagined that afterwards I’d feel as strong and successful as a giant, but as I looked down into the water it seemed to me I could only see the shaky reflection of a shabby little man who had nothing to hold.
I was glad of the darkness in her room, afraid to look at her lying in the bed, propped up on one elbow. I stumbled around trying to find my clothes in the muddle of garments on the floor.
“Aren’t you going to stay?” she said at last, and I wondered if she was going to cry.
“Mum and Dad,” I explained. “I have to go home.”
“Martin … ”
“They expect me back.” Anxiety made my voice loud and Margaret rolled over, her back towards me.
I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I was scared she’d seize me tightly in her arms and refuse to let me go. I felt better not seeing her face. I tried to tell myself that she was all right, that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I found my socks and slipped them on quickly.
“It’s always like this,” Margaret said in a very quiet creaky voice that made me panic. “They always go away. Won’t you stay?”
The pleading tones of her voice reached deep inside me, caused me pain, but increased my fear.
“Please … Martin, please.”
I backed away from the crying figure in the bed.
“I can’t, I’ve got to go,” I protested, and finding my shoes, I hurried to the door.
The muffled crying stopped and I hesitated, wishing I wanted to go back and hold her, but the silence accused me of murder, and the very last thing I felt like doing was touching the figure on the bed, a hopeless stranger I’d used but had no time for.
The bedroom door scraped open and I stumbled quickly along the landing, and down the stairs, listening anxiously for the sound of movement, but all was quiet. I turned on the hall light, checked I had everything and retied my shoelaces. I opened the hall cupboard where I remembered Margaret had carefully hung my coat. I realised that even then she’d been hoping I’d stay with her until morning.
I sat at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, waiting until I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me. I looked up and saw she was wearing a huge, shapeless dressing-gown. It made me smile because it was much too big for her.
“Martin … ”
“Your dressing-gown.”
She smiled thinly, trying not to be anxious.
“It’s Dad’s,” she said, quietly, and then her voice trailed off.
“I can’t stay,” I whispered, and then I reached out and very gently touched the side of her face with my fingers.
She put her arms around me holding me very tight, and I buried the desire to pull away. At last, she relaxed her embrace, and very slowly, I took her hands and rested them at her side and she made no sound.
I turned to the front door, reaching for the unfamiliar latch. Eventually the door came open.
“Thanks,” she said, and I flinched, turning away from her.
“For what,” I croaked. “Thanks for what?”
Margaret stared at me, puzzled, trying to see what I felt inside.
“At least you stayed a while,” she said, softly. “You waited on the stairs. That’s more than the others … ”
I put my hand up to stop her speaking, unable to bear the gratefulness in her voice.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and pulling the door wide open I stepped outside, shutting the door behind me.
As I walked down the path I could hear the sound of the door opening again, and I knew Margaret was silently watching me go.
After all the hours and hours of poring over my files of notes it was a relief to be on the squash court, not thinking about anything except hitting the ball as smoothly as I could, making it as difficult as possible for Steve to retrieve.
In the changing-rooms he told me my game had improved, and I smiled, not feeling the need to point out that I’d actually won three games off him.
We showered in separate cubicles and then sat side by side on the benches, drying ourselves with thick towels.
“Margaret’s helping your game,” said Steve, giving me a quick side-glance.
I nodded slightly and started drying my hair. It occurred to me that Margaret might have confided to Linda, and that Linda might have passed on the word to Steve. I supposed all three of them would be pleased now I’d proven I was a normal heterosexual male.
Someone inside me wanted to laugh at them. I remembered Charles talking about the misguided people in the bar of the Roebuck. They don’t even know they’re alive. Then I thought of the pain in Charles’ eyes, and the violent contempt of the pot-bellied man and his flint-eyed friend, and nothing seemed funny at all.
“Seen Margaret since Saturday, Jumbo?” Steve hesitated over the word Saturday and smiled slightly.
I wondered if he wanted me to draw pictures, to say exactly what I’d done and what it felt like.
“Too busy revising,” I said stiffly.
Steve smiled knowingly, nodding his head like one of those puppets you see in the backs of cars.
“That’s right, Jumbo. You keep your distance. That’s how to handle girls. You can’t be soft with them, can’t let them get too close.”
I reached for my shirt and said nothing. There was no anger inside me, no resentment, just a dull ache, as if I’d opened the lid on myself and, peering inside, had become aware of the cold, empty darkness there. I wondered if Steve and the others went around like this all the time, hollow shells with no wash of feeling, their lives dictated by appearance, what people thought of them, how they felt they should behave, being what other people expected them to be.
“You’ve got to let women know who’s in control… ”
“Isn’t that unfeeling?”
Steve looked at me, startled like a young boy.
“It’s not like friendship, is it?” he said quickly. “I mean, you don’t sleep with a frie
nd.”
But you should, I wanted to say. If men were friends with women the war between the sexes would be over.
I didn’t say anything, just buckled the belt of my jeans and reached down for my shoes.
“Sex is great, isn’t it?” Steve said, turning his face into a wide monkey grin. “Nothing beats a good lay.”
“Yeah … ”
The word came out easily enough and I saw Steve relax, the stiffness leaving his shoulders. I wondered how many times Steve had left Linda alone in her bed, pulling away as soon as his climax was over, avoiding the gentle arms that threatened to draw him close.
“Are you sure you can’t make it at the weekend?” Margaret said over the phone.
“Sorry … ” I felt guilty for hurting her. “I’m staying in revising. First exam next Monday and the last on the Friday after. I can’t believe it will be over so quickly.”
“Don’t you think you could do with a break from your books?” Margaret said quietly.
“I must press on.”
“Perhaps after the exams are over we can meet. We’ll have loads of free time, Martin.”
“Yes,” I lied. “Perhaps then. Take care.”
“And you.”
I could hear the quaver in her voice and something within me shivered.
“Bye, then.” I put down the phone.
I read through my notes on Gladstone and Disraeli for what must have been the hundredth time. I was sure I was going to get it all muddled up tomorrow in my first three-hour paper.
Candidate 107.
I thought of us all sitting there in the dead quiet, row upon row of small square desks strategically placed three feet apart so no one could cheat. The papers face down on the desk as you went in armed with only a pen and pencil, straining your ears to hear the instructions the invigilator was giving you, keeping your eyes on the clock and the blackboard with the finish time chalked on it in huge white letters. Everyone would be glancing around them, smiling nervously, trying to pretend it was all a joke. There would be the rustle of two hundred of us simultaneously turning over our exam papers, and then a peculiar silence would descend as we bowed our heads to the task in hand.
Who Lies Inside Page 10