Future Queens of England (21 page)

Ben frowned, “I still count that as surgery, so no.”  Bruce looked a little disappointed.

“You can wax them, pluck them, shave them, tone them up and, of course, dress them,” Ben explained, “just don’t inject any chemicals or involve a surgeon’s knife.  Understood?”

“Understood,” they all replied.

Ben continued to deliver his homily on style as the class hung on every word.  “Style becomes harder and more and more important as you get older.”  He paced up and down in front of the students speaking carefully and thoughtfully as he explained his philosophy.  “At twenty-five you can’t wear the clothes that you wore when you were eighteen.  At thirty you can’t wear the clothes that you wore at twenty-five.”  The expression on his face grew more pained, “And at forty, you can’t wear the clothes that you wore at thirty.”

Uwe interrupted him, “I would think that anyone over forty should just give it up anyway, Ben, they’ve had their life,” he said scornfully.

“Hah!  Spoken like a man in his twenties,” Ben replied with a sneer.  “Forty is the new thirty, Uwe.  It might seem like a lifetime away for you now, but in a blink of an eye you’ll be there yourself and you’ll soon feel differently.”

Uwe snorted with contempt, “The first forty years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it,” he declared.  “Quite simply, everything that was worth doing, you do before you’re forty, and then you spend the rest of your life boring people with the details.”

Ben stopped pacing and stared at the ranting German and furrowed his brow briefly before realising that that might encourage the onset of wrinkles.  “Have you just about finished with your verbal diarrhoea Uwe?”

“Not quite!  Just remember, once you're over the hill you begin to pick up speed,” Uwe said.  “One day you’re celebrating your fortieth birthday, and within the blink of an eye you feel yourself sliding towards fifty, and then what?”  Uwe said with passion.  “Suddenly you find yourself on the wrong side of fifty, a sad old queen looking for the lost!”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Uwe,” Ben said.  “I’ll be forty in a few years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at me,” he added vainly.  He deliberately left a pause, desperately hoping that someone would fill it with an affirmation or even a compliment.  When none came he gave a verbal nudge, “Would you?”

“No, Ben,” came the unified response.

“No, exactly,” Ben said, “and I certainly plan on looking as wonderful at forty, fifty and sixty as I do now.  I’d like to think that when I reach my twilight years I’ll be like a wonderful old leather-bound book, distinguished, ever so slightly wrinkled, but majestic and something quite beautiful in its own special way.”

“Or more likely you’ll be left on the shelf, covered in dust, with a musty smell, yellowing and forgotten about,” Uwe said with absolute derision.

Suddenly and from out of nowhere, a hairy knuckled hand slapped Uwe across the face knocking him from his cushion onto the floor. 

“Tony!” cried Ben in disbelief.

“What?” Tony said.  “He really needed a slap and I was closer to him than you, so I made the decision to save your shoe leather and do it for you.”

Keenan shuffled over to Uwe and whispered in his ear.  “You deserved that Uwe, now I suggest you take it on the chin on this occasion and act like a man.”  He helped a rather startled Uwe back onto his cushion, gently lifting him by his elbow. 

The room was completely silent as they waited for the fireworks.

Tony looked at Uwe.  “Sorry Uwe,” he said apologetically, “I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

Uwe looked back at Tony, deciding on his response, and Keenan gripped Uwe’s arm as a reminder.   

Finally, Uwe spoke.  “Being attacked by
you
is also like being attacked by a tissue.”  He looked at Ben.  “I apologise.  It appears that I got a little carried away.”

Ben spoke up, not quite knowing what had just happened, “Well, quite.  Apology accepted Uwe.”  He fumbled for words, “Well … err … I suppose this is as good a point as any to finish the class.  So off you go guys and work your magic.” 

The class silently stood and exited the room, Uwe and Keenan turned left and Hugh and Tony turned right whilst the rest of the class hovered outside the room.  As soon as they were out of sight the gossip factory started production.  By the time the story reached Louise via the grapevine she was shocked to hear about Uwe losing a tooth and Tony’s forehead needing stitches.

Later that evening in their dormitory everyone was busying themselves pottering about after the day’s excitement.  Tony sat on the edge of his bed and tapped out a rhythm on his thighs.  Hugh was trying to read his book.  His eyes went over the same line time and time again and he grew more irritated by Tony’s tapping.  Tony’s drumming grew faster and louder the longer he played.

“Tony!” Hugh blurted out, unable to contain his irritation any longer.  “Stop that bloody tapping.”  Hugh’s breathing quickened, he was shocked at his outburst.

Tony hastily beat about a final drum roll in an attempt not to lose face before stopping.  “Well excuse me.”  He stood up and walked over to him, “I’m just so bored.”  He started to flip through Hugh’s CD collection.  “Mind if I put some music on?” Tony said after he had picked out a couple of CDs.

Hugh gave Tony a guilty look and surveyed the room.  “I’d rather you didn’t.  I’m trying to read.”

Tony ignored this, “Right then, what have we got here?” he said with a smirk as he waved the Village People CD in front of Hugh’s face.  Hugh reached out to snatch it from Tony, but Tony was too quick and pulled it out of Hugh’s reach.  “The Village People.  This will be good for laugh.”  He opened the CD case and removed the CD.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” Hugh protested, trying to take the CD from him.

“Quiet, Bruce!” Tony said immediately without even looking around. 

Bruce looked disappointed at another missed opportunity for an innuendo and shook his head before going back to sorting out his dirty washing.

Tony turned his back on Hugh to stop him from taking the CD away.  “Oh, come on, Hugh, I thought you benders loved this sort of thing.”  He stepped back and formed a ‘Y’, then an ‘M’, and backward ‘C’, followed by an ‘A’ with his arms whilst he hummed the tune.  He switched Hugh’s stereo on and opened the CD drawer.  But as he placed the disc in the drawer he frowned, “Hugh, this isn’t the Village People, you’ve left the wrong CD in the case.  This is Iron bloody Maiden.”

“Is it really?” Hugh said, his voice slightly higher than normal.  “That is strange; I don’t even own an Iron Maiden CD.”

At this point Keenan leant over.  “They’re all in the wrong bloody boxes, Tony.  I tried to put on a CD the other day, but I gave up.  There was an Aerosmith CD in the Pet Shop Boys case, a Megadeath CD in the Erasure case and Bad Company in the Communards case.”  Keenan sat up.  “What you need is a system, Hugh,” he said sagely.

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion.  “Can I come in?” a soft voice spoke, “Are you decent?”

“Ah, Louise, come in, come in,” Hugh said with a certain amount of relief.

Louise walked in sheepishly, “Hi all,” she said as she glanced over at Tony.

Tony adopted his most casual pose.  “Alright?” he said leaning on Hugh’s CD player.

“Yes, fine thanks,” she said as she gawped at his hands to see if there were any bruises.  When she saw none she studied Tony’s head looking for the fabled stitches.  Tony rubbed his forehead self consciously under Louise’s gaze.  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Louise said.

“Really?  Why’s that?” he asked.

“Well, I thought that you’d still be at the hospital,” she explained to a room of confused faces.

“Hospital?” Tony said incredulously.  “Why the hell would I be at the hospital?”

Louise quickly realised that the story of Uwe and Tony’s altercation may have been subject to a little exaggeration.  “No reason, no reason,” she said with embarrassment, annoyed at herself for believing the gossip.  Why had she believed this so readily? she wondered.  “Anyway, the real reason that I am here is to deliver your post,” Louise said, changing the subject.

“Really?” Bruce said.  “When did that change?  Normally we have to fetch it ourselves.”

Louise blushed.  “Oh, is that the time?  I can’t stand around here chatting all night, I have to go.”  She threw the post onto Tony’s bed.  “Night all,” she said as she dashed out of the room.

“Night Louise,” Tony said calling after her.  He craned his neck to stare at her arse as she left the room.  “Damn, that girl’s got a beautiful butt,” Tony said to the others.

“Hmm, the blood must have rushed out of your head to other parts,” Gareth laughed.  “Have you forgotten that we don’t share the same passion as you about women’s arses?”

Tony didn’t even hear Gareth speak as his stare remained focused on the door.  Eventually he looked over to his bed and walked across to pick up the letters.  He gathered them together and flipped through them.  “Hugh, Hugh, Hugh,” Tony said slowly, “surprise, surprise.  They’re all for you again.”

“Are they?” Hugh said with a smile, sitting bolt upright.  He trotted over to Tony to collect them, “I love to get a letter, don’t you?”  Hugh said to no one in particular.

“The only letters that I ever get are bills and court summons,” Tony replied assuming that Hugh was talking to him.  He handed Hugh the letters and Hugh returned to his bed with them.  “Who are they all from anyway?”  Tony enquired.  “The handwriting and the postcode are the same on all of them.”

“They’re from my lover, George,” Hugh said in a soppy voice.

“Erghh,” Tony spat, “sometimes I forget about you lot being queer.”  Tony shook himself at the thought, but before the conversation could continue Uwe burst boldly into the room.

All eyes turned to Tony, then to Uwe and then back again.  Uwe walked silently to his bed and removed his shoes. 

Gareth looked up from his book and gestured at Tony.  “Go on,” he urged, “remember what we talked about earlier,” he said with a whisper.  Tony frowned back at Gareth and shook his head.  “Do it!” Gareth said through pursed lips. 

Tony hesitated slightly before standing and walking across to Uwe.  Tony rubbed his hands down the side of his jeans as he walked over.  He stopped next to him and searched for the right words.  “Erm, Uwe?” he mumbled unsure of how to go on. 

Uwe ignored him. 

Keenan looked up at Uwe and coughed. 

At this prompting Uwe reluctantly turned to face Tony.  “Yes, Tony?” he said stoically.

“It’s been a bad day,” Tony said.  “Really bad, actually.  Perhaps we should clear the air.”

Uwe nodded, “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed.  “It has been a bad day.  I for one am really suffering from
weltschmerz
.”

“Velt Smurts?” Tony said slowly, trying to repeat what Uwe had just said.  “What’s Velt Smurts?”

Uwe straightened his back and sighed heavily, “Oh, Tony.  As an Englishman you will never truly understand or experience
weltschmerz
so I guess there is no real point in explaining it to you.”

Tony began to scowl as Uwe patronised him, but Gareth gestured over to Tony to relax.

“The feeling of
weltschmerz
is entirely reserved for the German nation, particularly Prussians.”

Tony frowned, unsure how the conversation had led to this, “What do you mean Uwe?” he said, trying desperately not to lose his temper.

Uwe smiled and clicked his heels.  “Ah, I am glad that you asked this question.  You see, we Germans are great thinkers and within us all is a brooding genius, a Beethoven or a Goethe, if you will.  We are tortured souls and with that we carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony said with growing impatience, “so I will never understand whelk smurfs or whatever it is.”  He paused for a moment, “Look,” he said trying to get the conversation back on track, “I shouldn’t have slapped you today Uwe, I just thought that you were going too far.”  He broke eye contact with Uwe, “I’m just not very good at expressing myself, that’s all.  I just did what comes naturally to me.”  He stopped mumbling before adding, “It won’t happen again.  Sorry!”