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Authors: Marion Husband

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BOOK: The Boy I Love
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Chapter Seven

T
HE HEADMASTER HIMSELF SHOWED
Paul around the school.

‘Of course you realise you'll be teaching only the most junior boys.'

‘Of course, sir.'

The school smelt as his own school had, of sweaty plimsolls and damp gabardine and Paul wished he could smoke as he struggled to keep up with the headmaster's impatient quickness. A cigarette would at least be a distraction, something to keep the memories at bay. He remembered Jenkins lying in wait at the end of long school corridors and the bowel-loosening fear of what he might have in store for him. The memory made him feel ashamed but he willed himself forward, even as he imagined himself running back the way they had come, the startled headmaster staring after him.

Adam had arranged this interview with the headmaster. The man had opened the school especially for him, taking a day from what he called “the wasteland” between Boxing Day and New Year to interview him. He raced a few steps ahead of Paul, his shoes squeaking on the parquet floor of the corridors and from time to time he flung open an empty classroom door, briskly shouting out its form number. To Paul each room appeared identical to the last: rows of desks facing a huge blackboard, the teacher's desk raised on a low platform. He tried to picture himself behind such a desk, controlling thirty or so boys. Half of them would be on his blind side. Perhaps he could rig up a mirror.

In the headmaster's study Paul watched him shuffle through his references before tossing them down on his desk. The reference Adam had written was on top and he tapped it with his index finger, smiling at Paul.

‘Our Mr Mason thinks very highly of you. He seems to think you'll make a very good teacher.' He sat back in his chair, putting on a show of studying him. At last he said, ‘In the army for how many years?'

‘Three, sir.'

‘And you're quite well, apart from …' He waved his hand vaguely around his own left eye.

‘I'm fine.'

‘Well, that's good. A lot of my staff are past retirement age – certainly not as fit as they used to be. But with so many of you youngsters away … to be blunt, we need fresh blood pretty desperately. I've got classrooms full of boys with no one to teach them.' He got up and went to the window that looked out across the playing field. ‘You were in university for a short time, before the war?'

‘I was taking a medical degree.'

‘Yes, quite. Well, you're certainly educated. In normal times, of course, I would expect more, but these aren't normal times …' He sighed as though the seriousness of the decision he was about to make weighed heavily. At last he said, ‘I'm sure we can work something out, come to some arrangement … term begins again on January sixth.' He looked at Paul over his shoulder. ‘Shall we see if we suit each other?'

They had been married five days. Every night Margot lay stiffly in bed, waiting and listening. Every night Paul sat downstairs, reading and endlessly smoking until midnight or later when she would hear him climb the stairs. As he reached the landing her heart would pound so hard she imagined he could hear it. She wondered if he would stop and tap on her shut-tight door and she would tense, listening intently as she slowly counted to ten. It usually took around ten seconds before she heard his bedroom door close behind him. It seemed sometimes that he listened, too, standing outside her door as shy and awkward as she was, so that idiotically she had begun to imagine ways to seduce him, knowing she was too clumsy and gauche to make a success of such absurd plans. She remembered how tightly he had held her that evening in his father's house; she should have kissed him then and got it over with.

He had gone out that morning in his wedding suit, washed and shaved and shoes polished. As he'd combed his hair in the mirror above the sitting room mantelpiece he'd caught her watching him and smiled at her reflection.

‘How do I look?'

She had blushed, caught out in her act of spying, wondering if he realised how beautiful she thought he was and whether he would be offended by her use of such an unmanly word to describe him.

The house still smelt of paint. She wandered from sitting room to kitchen and back again, half-heartedly dusting the furniture Paul had brought from Parkwood: a table that dominated the little room, a sideboard intricately carved with bowls of fruit and flowers, empty apart from a cheap, wedding-present tea-set. The furniture was even more depressing than the dark, poky house and she trailed upstairs, only to pause outside the closed door of Paul's bedroom.

Telling herself she didn't want to intrude on his privacy, she hadn't been in his room, shy of his underwear, his pyjamas, his shaving things, everything that made him real and ordinary and disappointed. Now boredom mixed with curiosity and she opened the door, hesitating only a moment before going in.

The room was freezing, the curtains drawn back and the window open. He had made the bed, turning back the sheets and blankets as she imagined he had been taught to in the army, so neat and precise it looked as though a ruler had been taken to the edges. Beside the bed a book lay open, face down on the floor, a stack of books beside it, bookmarks inserted between the pages. On top of the books was an ashtray containing a single cigarette stub and a spent match. His clothes, his shoes, everything was put away. The only things to be shy of were books and cigarettes.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, she remembered watching Paul at her birthday party. Standing next to her, watching too, her friend Edith – older and more worldly than she – had said, ‘He's so handsome, isn't he?'

‘I suppose so.'

Still looking at Paul, Edith smiled. ‘He's probably having a passionate, unhappy affair with a Parisian actress. She's very neurotic and threatens to kill herself if he ever leaves her.'

Margot laughed, but was ready to believe that some beautiful, willowy French woman would throw herself at his polished boots. When Robbie came back with their glasses of punch he frowned.

‘That's Paul over there. What's he doing on his own?'

‘Smoking.' Edith grinned and Robbie turned his frown on them.

‘He looks lost. Has he been introduced to anyone?'

‘He's only just arrived.'

It was the first time she had seen Rob angry. Coldly he said, ‘I'll go and fetch him.'

Her father had brought the gramophone out of the house and Edith and her other friends were gathered around it. Across the lawn she watched as Robbie embraced his brother, only to hold him at arms' length as through inspecting the correctness of his uniform. She heard them both laugh and as one they turned to her. She looked down, her face burning, knowing she had been the subject of their laughter. In a moment they both stood in front of her.

Robbie was smiling now. ‘Darling, this is Paul, my brother.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Margot.' Paul glanced towards the makeshift dance floor laid out on the lawn. The gramophone had begun to play a waltz and he smiled at her. ‘Would you like to dance?'

She was still blushing, aware of everyone watching them as he led her on to the floor. With his back to the on-lookers he bowed slightly. Only she could see his grin. Holding her in his arms he said quietly, ‘Are they watching?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. Happy birthday, by the way.'

She had tried to keep a little distance between them, keeping her body stiffly away from his so that she danced badly. All the same, she remembered that he had a pimple on his chin, that there were dark rings under his eyes, that his wrists protruded stick-thin from the sleeves of his tunic. He had smelt of coal tar soap and cigarettes and seemed too frail to wear a uniform. She had thought him vain and arrogant and was glad when the dance was over.

Duster in hand, Margot stared out of Paul's bedroom window. Girls turned a skipping rope in the street, their chanting carrying on the still air as the rope lashed the cobbles
.
She thought of Paul dancing with Edith, remembering how Robbie had squeezed her hand too tightly.

‘I'll start to get jealous if you don't stop staring at my brother.'

‘I wasn't!'

He laughed, his own eyes on Paul. ‘It's all right. He has the same effect on everyone.'

‘And what effect is that?'

‘You were the one staring at him, Margot. You tell me.'

Bristling she said, ‘I was only thinking how arrogant he seems – can't even be bothered to hide his boredom.'

Robbie lit a cigarette, shaking the match out slowly as he watched Paul dance. After a while he said, ‘He only got home yesterday. He goes back the day after tomorrow. I expect he's exhausted.' He looked at her. ‘I would expect so, wouldn't you?' After a moment he laughed. ‘Don't look so sulky. I want you to like Paul. I know you and he will get on fine.'

A week later Robbie was back in France. Just before the armistice he wrote to tell her Paul had been wounded.
Would you write to him? He gets so few letters. Dad tells me the nurses
read our letters to him and it's the only diversion he has.
I can only imagine how truly bored he must be
…

She had tried to compose a witty, entertaining letter fit for an unknown nurse to read to a bored, blind man. The task had been too difficult. The half-page she wrote had lain abandoned on her desk. Eventually she threw it on the fire.

From the kitchen Paul called her name and she ran downstairs too quickly, making herself breathless.

Standing in the passage he frowned. ‘Are you all right, Margot?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Are you sure? You look pale.'

‘Never mind me. Tell me how you got on.'

‘I start next week. Scary, isn't it?'

‘It's wonderful. Congratulations.' She stepped towards him, only to stop, unsure of herself.

With sudden decisiveness he said, ‘I think we should go and celebrate.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know. We'll take the train somewhere. The seaside.'

‘It's winter.'

‘So? Come on, I'll buy you lunch in the Sea View Hotel.'

The sea was out, the beach a wide expanse of dull yellow sand they shared with only a few seagulls. She walked ahead of him, from time to time stooping to pick up a shell. Her dark wool skirt brushed the sand and a strand of hair escaped from her navy blue tam-o'-shanter. She tucked it impatiently behind her ear, turning to smile at him before looking out at the still, grey sea.

‘I feel like we're playing truant,' she said. ‘No one knows we're here and they'd disapprove if they did.'

‘I've felt like that all my life.' He lit two cigarettes and handed her one. ‘In the army, even at boarding school, I was always expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Harris, you idiot, what are you doing here? You should be somewhere else”'

‘I would've hated boarding school.'

He thought of Robbie holding on to the sleeve of his brand new blazer in the school hall. George had told him to hold his hand but that wasn't done. With each word Rob spoke he jerked his sleeve until he thought he would pull it from its seams.
Don't cry.
The others will think you're a baby if you cry.
He was seven. Despite Jenkins's best efforts over the next fourteen years he hadn't cried once.

They began to walk again, keeping to the firm, wet sand at the edge of the water and following a trail of spiky seagull footprints. When the headmaster had offered him the position he'd almost told the man he'd changed his mind, that the very thought of setting foot in a classroom again made him want to throw up. Instead he'd heard himself accept, meek as ever. He sometimes wondered if he'd agree to anything. Such a sense of duty he had! From the corner of his eye he glanced at Margot. He knew she'd be pleased that he'd got himself a nice, middle-class profession. He smiled to himself bitterly, hoping she was the type who could manage on the slave-wage he'd agreed to.

Above them on the front was the Sea View Hotel, its grand Edwardian façade shuttered for the winter.

Paul said, ‘Sorry about lunch.'

She glanced up at the hotel. ‘I was wearing the wrong hat for it, anyway.'

‘I imagined it would be decked up for Christmas, all lights and flunkies.'

‘Perhaps next year.'

‘The Grand Hotel is holding a New Year Dance. Shall we go?'

She looked down at her bump. Hesitantly she said, ‘Would it be seemly?'

‘Are you supposed to hide away?'

‘No, but …'

‘I think I'd like to go dancing.'

‘All right.' Avoiding his gaze she nodded. ‘I'd like that, too.'

‘Good.' He slipped her arm through his. ‘Now, let's find a nice warm café and have a cup of tea.'

All the cafés were closed, their windows opaque with condensation, their doors locked. They walked up and down the promenade and along side streets lined with little shops advertising candy rock and ices, their windows decorated with miniature Union Jacks for the victors' sandcastles. All were closed. The whole town seemed deserted, all life stored away for the winter beneath a dustsheet of grey sky.

‘There's a pub along there.' Margot smiled. ‘You could buy me a port and lemon.'

‘Are you sure? It looked a bit rough.'

She laughed. ‘That's all right. I've got you to protect me.'

* * *

The King George was as hostile as he'd suspected, the landlord eyeing them suspiciously as he settled Margot at a table furthest away from the men leaning against the bar. Taking off her hat and mittens and unwinding her scarf, she looked around curiously. Her face was pink from the cold sea air. She looked too young to be in such a place.

He bought a port and lemon and a pint. As he went back to the table, Margot lit a cigarette, shaking the match out and tossing it into the ashtray like a practised smoker. Picking up her drink she laughed. ‘Down the hatch.'

BOOK: The Boy I Love
5.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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