Mum came in the front room and gave me a worried look.
“Don’t you think you should stop now,” she said, softly. “It’s getting late, love.”
I looked up from the table strewn with file paper.
“Just Palmerston’s Foreign Policy, and that’s it,” I told her.
“Dad says it’s silly to cram,” she told me, hesitantly, one hand straightening a fold in her dark green skirt.
I took no notice.
“Are you nervous, love?”
I faced her, responding to the gentleness in her voice with the truth.
“Yes, I am. Exams always scare me.”
I reached out and took the hand that rested on her hip and squeezed the bony fingers quickly. For once Mum didn’t move away. Instead, she stretched out her free hand and stroked the hair back from my forehead.
“Your big day tomorrow,” she said, quietly.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on her, savouring the peaceful moment between us that had come out of nowhere, and made words redundant. We could be friends, Mum and I. We wanted to understand each other.
Then I remembered she knew nothing about what I felt for Richard, believing only in the relationship with Margaret that I’d masqueraded before her. A sense of separateness, of being entirely on my own filled me and, cold inside, I let go of her hand and returned my gaze to the papers in front of me.
Dad threw the white envelope within my reach. He hesitated, waiting for me to open it and I paused, yawning, waiting for him to go and leave me alone.
“Make sure you do all the questions,” Dad said. “And don’t rush anything. Take your time.”
“I will.”
“Keep your eye on the clock.”
I nodded my head, my hand stretching out for the envelope, turning it face up so that I could see the handwriting. I recognised it at once.
“Good luck, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’ll do fine … ”
We looked at each other, our eyes meeting and for a moment I saw how tired and vulnerable he was inside. It was like seeing into a dim room that was cold, without light or fire. Only there was a thin figure sheltered in the gloom, afraid to move either forward or backward. He could only stare with beseeching eyes and wait for help. I wished I was able to move towards him as Mum could. I wished I could offer him some warmth, but he always turned away from my reaching arms as if he was afraid of my touch, afraid that he was a man at all, someone who needed other people.
Then he walked away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. I heard him call out to Mum.
I picked up the letter and stared at it, forgetting about Dad, aware of the sunlight streaming in through the window. Ripping open the envelope I pulled out the Good Luck card, and sure enough, inside was a message from him.
All the best. Thinking of you.
Richard
10
My exams were finished, school was over, and I’d walked out of the school gates for the last time. I felt happy, I suppose. All those weeks of work were behind me. I could forget about Forster, Chaucer and Auden and British Foreign Policy from 1850 to 1914. I didn’t need to burn my books, it was enough that I wouldn’t have to look at them again.
I wanted to be free from school. The boy who had grown up there no longer existed in quite the same way. I wanted to bury Jumbo forever and discover who was Martin Conway.
When I thought of Richard, when I gave my feelings freedom, it was like I’d let a thousand birds out of their cages and, surrounded by the beating wings, I knew I was alive. If I shut that life away, then I could sleep with Margaret, I could use her like a doll that passively allowed me to take my pleasure without crying out. But I couldn’t make love to her as a person. The only thing she’d asked of me was that I stayed, and I had left her.
Leaving school I faced an unknown world with unknown possibilities, a future whose blankness filled me with dread as well as anticipation. But even half-afraid, I still wanted to break my ties with the old world, and walk forward unashamedly holding the hand of the person I cared for. I was determined to be the young man that I truly was, and not some manufactured personality that lived up to others’ expectations and denied my own real desires. I didn’t want to pretend any more, to be a puppet pulled by other people’s strings. I wanted to be free to be myself.
I didn’t realise how hard it was to be free, to behave the way you wanted to. The world prefers tidiness, it prefers everything and everyone to be labelled and put away in boxes. Free from school, feeling as if I was free from everything, I was determined to reach for what I wanted and wander where I pleased.
But it was only a matter of hours before the world changed again, everything arranged along straight lines that made no room for me.
First of all, Linda rang.
“You are going to the dance tonight?” she asked.
“Of course, I’m celebrating. Meeting Steve in the Weavers at eight.”
“What about Margaret?”
I hesitated, unable to tell her what was in my mind. I was sure Richard would be at the dance. I wanted to meet him there. It had been weeks since we’d been together and yet I could still recall my longing, the rising desire to reach out and touch him.
“I’ll see her at the dance,” I said at last, and I sensed Linda hesitate at the other end of the line.
“You won’t hurt her, will you, Jumbo?”
I felt guilty then, wishing I was on my own, that no one reached inside me, no one demanded anything, no one cared.
“I can’t … ” The words stuck in my throat.
“Jumbo … ” Linda began, but I interrupted her.
“I’ll hurt Margaret as little as I can,” I said quickly, and there was a pause while Linda realised what I meant.
“You haven’t been seeing Richard, have you?” she said.
“No … I haven’t. I’ve been busy. Exams and everything.”
“I told you to forget him, Jumbo,” Linda said gently. “I told you …”
And then I put the phone down. In the silence I could hear Linda’s words repeated over and over again inside my head. The hopes of freedom disappeared, the memory of my ideals mocked me, painted me a clown’s face, frozen in my mind with a sickly grin, the helplessness dark in the brightly made-up eyes.
Margaret hovered at my side like a ghost that wouldn’t go away.
“Let’s dance, Martin,” she said.
“I can’t. I’m clumsy.”
“I don’t mind.” Her hand lightly touched my arm, but I didn’t relax.
“I look ridiculous,” I protested, and she turned her gentle eyes to me, not understanding.
“Please … ” she said, helplessly. I wanted to remove her hurt, but my touch would only have confused her even more. I kept my arms straight at my sides and turned half-away from her, surveying the milling crowds in the bar.
“I’m going to get another drink,” I said. “Want one?” It seemed all I could offer her.
Margaret shook her head, the disappointment dimming her eyes, and then lifted her face to me again.
“Haven’t you drunk enough?” she said.
“It’s celebration time,” I told her. “End of exams. End of school. End of everything.”
I pushed past her, wanting to lose myself in the press of dressed-up young people, shining hair and painted faces, the smell of sweat and perfume thick in the air.
“Martin …”
I ignored her cry, hating myself, and pushed my way roughly to the bar. Someone called me a rude bastard, but I didn’t contradict them, intent on catching the barmaid’s eyes. Another pint and I wouldn’t care about anything, anyone. I paid my money, took a draught from my pint glass and then headed for a side door which led in a roundabout way to the garden where I’d found shelter before.
I was sure he’d be there waiting for me, a pale figure standing quietly on the grass surrounded by the dark, cumbersome walls of tree and hedge. But no one was there. I walked r
ight round the garden, looking behind the tree where he’d been standing before. I even called out his name, but there was no sign of anyone.
It occurred to me for the first time that Richard didn’t understand or reciprocate my feelings; that he, innocent to my desire, offered friendship rather than love.
I thought how much the truth would disgust him, how he would turn away, the revulsion bright in his eyes. There’d never be another letter from him, never another card, never anything.
I was a freak, I thought. No one would understand or love me. I wallowed in self-pity like a huge hippopotamus up to his ears in mud. Perhaps it was all the drink that did it, the alcohol that threatened to bring tears to my eyes.
And then I heard footsteps and all my fears were buried under a brimming wave of anticipation as he came walking towards me, a slight figure in the pale yellow trousers and red tee-shirt.
“Richard…”
He looked startled at the sound of my voice, the emotion I’d betrayed in one word, and then he smiled awkwardly.
A silence left me empty, as if I was a lone figure standing waiting in a huge hall with a high, arching ceiling.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, and turned his face away from me. “I don’t know why I came. Silly, isn’t it, when you don’t want to speak to me.”
I tried to tell him how wrong he was, but though my mouth opened and closed no sound came, and I saw him move even further away.
“Everyone tells me you’re going out with Margaret Turner,” he said, lightly. “Congratulations.”
“I’m not going out with her.” My voice shook.
“Everyone says you are.” An anger crept into his voice. “You can leave me waiting in the pub, you can refuse to answer my letter, you can ignore me, but do you have to lie?”
“I’m not lying.”
Richard turned and faced me then, and I was sure he hated me.
“Really?” he said coldly, and began to walk away.
“Richard … ”
He hesitated, turning back to me, but his voice was still hard.
“You called me back before, remember. Look where it got me. Nowhere.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So sorry you couldn’t even write, couldn’t even pick up the phone.”
I stood there, uncertain of what to say.
“I wanted to … ” I began, and then my voice trailed off into nothing. For the first time I realised how hurt he had been.
“It just slipped your mind, did it?” he said, sarcastically.
“I was scared … ”
“Scared?” Richard turned round and took a step back to me.
“Worried,” I countered. “I was worried, that’s all… ” and then I was frightened that he would go before I could explain myself. “Don’t go, Richard. Please. I’m asking you, all right. Please, stay.”
All the hurt and anger was taken out of him, drained away by the emotion in my voice. I bowed my head, and when I looked up again he was so close to me I could have reached out and touched him. I felt his hand lightly on my arm and I shivered though the evening air was summer warm. Richard was closer still now, looking into my eyes, looking right inside me, aware of the stranger that no one else had ever seen.
“Why were you scared?” he said, and the gentleness in his voice called out to the stranger, called out to me.
And we both knew.
“I was scared of what I felt.” My voice quavered, and I swallowed hard, anxious that he should understand. “What I felt for you scared me … ”
For a moment there was silence, but inside me it was like the vast empty hall was full of people, feeling, bustling everywhere, excited, burning like the flames of candles on a birthday cake.
“I was frightened too,” Richard said, softly, and then his fingers reached up and traced a circle on my cheek.
Clumsily, I took his hand and clasped it tight, panic exaggerating the gesture, and he cried out. Immediately I let his hand go and turned my back on him, my face burning with shame. I felt so ugly I wanted to cry .Jumbo. Jumbo. I kept hearing everyone shouting and they were all laughing at me.
But Richard was quiet. His hands moved slowly up my back onto my shoulders and, gratefully, I let myself be turned round. He held my giant hands in his thin fingers and smiled up at me, looking straight into my eyes.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of now,” he said.
And at last I reached out, put my arms around him and drew him close. Resting my head on his shoulder I felt his breath soft against my ear. Aware of his body I drew him closer still, desperate for the peace I’d found in his arms. He trembled and I heard him sigh. He turned his face up to mine and we kissed, uncertainty giving tenderness to our embrace. As he slowly moved away, he took my hand.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” he said.
“Yes.”
Richard smiled.
“Let’s go somewhere different. The seaside. Let’s go to the sea.”
“It’s miles.”
“We’ll go early. I’ll pick you up at eight. I can borrow the car for the day. My father won’t mind. Please.”
And then someone called my name.
For an absurd moment we looked at each other as if we thought we should hide.
“Jumbo … ” the voice called again. This time I realised it was Linda.
Before we could do anything she walked into the garden and saw us.
“Hello,” said Richard.
But she ignored him. Instantly, I was so angry at her snub that I wanted to strike her. The violence of my feeling appalled me. Linda stared at me unaware. Richard broke the awkward silence.
“Eight, then,” he said brightly.
I nodded my head.
Richard smiled at Linda as he walked past and I saw the physical effort she went to not to shy away from him. She stood there like a waxwork doll and it was only as I moved to follow Richard that she came to life, stepping in front of me , her eyes alight with hurt.
“Jumbo,” she burst out. “After what I told you. You promised me.”
“I didn’t.”
“What would your parents think? Your Dad, your Dad would hate it, Jumbo. His only son a … ” Her voice faltered.
“Go on,” I said, brutally. “Say it. His only son a queer.”
“Jumbo … ”
“That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
“All right!” Linda shouted. “I’m sorry. Maybe I can understand. But some people won’t. However misguided they are, there are people that will despise you, that will want you put away. Your Dad, Jumbo, he’ll want you sent to a psychiatrist. I know he’s wrong, but he’ll try and change you. He couldn’t bear you to be … ”
“Bent… ” I offered. “Go on. Say the words. Say every single name you can think of.”
“Jumbo, please … ”
“It’s sick what you’re saying,” I shouted. “Sick. Perhaps it’s Dad that needs locking up, Dad and the rest of them that don’t understand.”
“I understand,” Linda pleaded.
“Do you? Look how you just ignored Richard. You treated him like he was shit.”
“Jumbo, please …”
“Please, what? Please go back to Margaret and pretend I’m normal, is that it? I screwed her, Linda. I screwed her just like any other man could. Are you satisfied? Does that make it all right, that I’m just like any other man? It doesn’t matter if I hurt her, if I pick her up and have my fun and use her. It doesn’t matter how many people I hurt as long as they think I’m a man.”
Linda stared at me, the tears shining in her eyes, and strained her face to speak.
“I’m sorry. Jumbo, I don’t think that. I don’t. I care, whatever you feel we’re friends and I care. Jumbo … ”
The tears ran down her face. I held out my arms and she came to me and held me tightly, shaking, the cries muffled against my shoulder. I stroked her hair and patted her back like she was a frightened child that needed comforting.
“I’m Martin Conway,” I murmured over and over again. “I’m Martin Conway. Martin. Linda, you must understand.”
The sobs subsided and there was quiet. We said no words to each other, but something in both of us made us refuse to let the other go.
I walked Margaret home that night, taking quick strides, avoiding the touch of her hand. I was too full of feeling, too uncertain to speak with her and so I kept my silence, holding my secret inside me, burying my hands deep in my pockets.
“Martin … ”
I ignored the crying sound in her voice until we stood apart from each other on the path outside her home.
“You could come in, Martin,” she said, quietly and reached for my hand.
I took a step backwards from her.
“I’m being a bastard … I’m sorry,” I said, managing a feeble smile.
“Don’t you want to see me any more?”
I closed my eyes to the hurt in her voice, and my silence answered her question.
Margaret turned away and I knew it was impossible for me to comfort her.
“We can be friends still… ” I began, and then my voice disappeared into nothing.
“I want you … ” Margaret said in a wavering voice.
“I’m sorry.” I half-reached for her arm then, but she pulled it away from me and stood there stiffly like a person someone had turned into ice.
There was nothing I could do now.
Slowly, I put my hands back into my trouser pockets and turning, without another word, began to walk away.
I stood in the hallway, feeling sure that he wouldn’t come, my eyes checking the wristwatch that said ten minutes past eight.
“He’s late,” said Mum, still in her faded pink dressing-gown. She handed me a package. “Something to eat,” she said. “Cheese and tomato rolls. You could put them in the bag with your swimming costume.”
A quarter past eight.
“Don’t fret, love. I expect he overslept.”
I smiled at the gentleness in her voice, and felt my shoulders relax. Reaching out, I squeezed Mum’s hand. She held onto my fingers and we looked at each other, sharing a precious moment of peace, before she let go.
Who Lies Inside Page 11