Read The Boy I Love Online

Authors: Marion Husband

The Boy I Love (7 page)

BOOK: The Boy I Love
6.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

‘Down the hatch.' He clinked his glass against hers.

‘I've never been in a public house before.'

He lit a cigarette. ‘They're usually a bit nicer than this.'

She looked around her again, at the dark brown walls, the spluttering gaslights that made the absence of comfort or warmth even more obvious. Too lightly she said, ‘I suppose you've been in lots of places like this.'

‘A few.'

‘In France?'

‘They're different over there.'

‘How?'

‘Just different.'

‘You don't want to talk about it. That's all right.'

He laughed. ‘Over there they call them cafés. They put tables on the pavements outside and serve wine and food.' He looked at the barman slowly twisting a dirty cloth into a pint glass. Turning back to Margot he said, ‘You can order a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac and sit and watch the world go by.'

‘And French women go by?'

He took a long drink. Wiping away a beer froth moustache he caught Margot's eye and smiled. ‘Thirsty.'

‘You've almost finished it!'

Draining what was left in the glass he stood up. ‘I'll have another while you finish that.'

As he returned with a second pint Margot asked, ‘Have you ever been to Paris?'

‘No. I haven't been anywhere, really.' He laughed shortly, lighting another cigarette. ‘Nowhere exciting, anyway.'

‘I've never even been to London.'

‘Then one day we'll go. Perhaps if you're with me I won't get so lost.'

‘You got lost?'

‘Hopelessly.' He smiled at her. ‘Didn't you go on holiday when you were a little girl?'

‘Once. We went to Scarborough for a week.' Quickly she said, ‘What did you do in London? Were you on your own?'

‘Yes, on my own. I was on leave, early in the war, ages ago. I didn't have enough time to get home and back so I got lost in London.'

‘All on your own.'

He laughed. ‘Yes, completely. Very sad.'

‘But on your other leaves, what did you do?'

‘I didn't have many. There was that one, in London, one other when I came home and slept for two solid days, and that last one, when I met you.'

‘But the army sometimes held receptions for officers, dances, that kind of thing …'

He frowned at her. ‘Who told you that?'

She blushed. ‘Robbie.'

‘I think that was before the war.' He gazed at her, her sweet embarrassment making him smile. ‘Margot, I left school and like an idiot joined the army almost at once. Unlike Rob, who was his regiment's pride and joy, I was never invited to balls or the general's parties.' Gently he said, ‘You were the first girl I danced with in my life.'

She looked down, running her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘But you're such a good dancer.'

‘We were made to dance together, at school. I was usually the girl.'

She smiled at her drink. ‘May I have another of these?'

As he took Paul's money the landlord jerked his head in Margot's direction. ‘On honeymoon, are you?'

‘Visiting.'

The man laughed. ‘Visiting, eh? We don't get many
visitors
this time of year.' Handing him an overflowing pint he said matter-of-factly, ‘We've a room here. I do a nice cooked breakfast if she's up for it.'

Paul sat down and Margot said, ‘What were you talking about with that man?'

‘The weather.'

She smiled, closing her eyes as she took a long sip of her drink. ‘I feel quite light-headed.'

‘We should get you something to eat. You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.'

She smoothed her skirt over the small bump. After a moment she said, ‘That man was talking about me, wasn't he? Saying what a hussy I must be for drinking and smoking and …'

‘And?' Paul smiled.

‘And going out with soldiers.'

‘Soldiers?' He looked around the darkening, shadow-filled pub. ‘I don't see any soldiers.'

‘You.' She sighed. ‘You know what I mean … anyone can see you were a soldier … especially when you wear that coat.'

Finishing his drink he hauled her to her feet. ‘I think we'd better go and find you something to eat.'

Along with everywhere else, the fish and chip shop was closed and they walked towards the station, both sobered by the cold evening air. Margot looked at him sheepishly. ‘He wasn't talking about the weather, was he?'

‘He thought we were on honeymoon.'

‘Honeymoon? Here?' She looked at him, astonished. ‘Who would come here on honeymoon?'

Carefully Paul asked, ‘Would you have liked a honeymoon?'

‘I don't know.' She blushed. ‘I suppose I thought it wasn't appropriate somehow.' Brightening, she smiled at him. ‘I'd like to go dancing at New Year, though. I think that would be nice.' She laughed slightly. ‘Remember when we danced together at my party?'

He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her body so stiff, as though he repelled her. Although he'd bathed in almost scalding water he'd imagined he stank, that itchy, lousy smell, sweet as decay. She had smelt of steamed roses. He smiled to himself, remembering how much he had wanted to lead her away to some quiet place just so he could breathe her calming scent in private.

Margot was laughing. ‘When we danced you looked so pained and bored, I told Robbie I thought you were very rude.'

Recollecting himself he said, ‘And Rob agreed.'

‘No. No, he didn't.'

‘He told me I should buck up.'

‘It was a terrible party, anyway. You had every right to look bored.'

‘I wasn't bored.'

‘No. I realise that now. You're just shy, like me.'

She stopped walking and turned to face him, holding his gaze for so long he imagined he could see himself in her eyes, a slight, shy boy trying to live his brother's life. At last she reached up and touched his cheek. ‘You look so sad, sometimes. I'm so sorry, Paul, for all this.'

Her hand was cold and he pressed his face against it, turning to kiss her palm. She groaned softly, a low needy sound and he pulled her into his arms. He kissed her, tasting the sweetness of port wine as she held him tightly. She must have felt his erection through their clothes because she made that same raw noise again.

Holding her face so that she'd meet his gaze he said, ‘Let's go back there …' He searched her eyes, smiling because they were so bright and large. Kissing her again he said, ‘Let's have a honeymoon.'

‘Shall we?' She seemed shy suddenly, glancing away towards the dark sea and the distant lights of ships. Managing to look at him she said awkwardly, ‘I think you're terribly handsome, you know.'

Taking her hand he led her back along the street towards the lighted windows of the King George public house.

The bed was hardly wider than a single bed, its sheets smelling of rainy back streets. There were thin, satin-trimmed pink blankets gathering in deep furrows at their feet and trailing on to the floor. The room was too warm for blankets; it seemed to have sucked up the heat from the room below, drawing it through the cracks in the floorboards just as it drew the laughter and chatter from the bar. Naked, with only a sheet covering her, Margot lay still, listening. Laughter rose and fell; greetings and insults were exchanged. Paul slept on, mumbling anxiously at a sudden burst of noise.

The landlord had been deadpan when they arrived back at his pub. Taking a key from a hook behind the bar he had led them up a steep flight of stairs and along a short corridor, its carpet as sticky as his pub tables. His swinging lantern cast his huge shadow on the wall ahead of them, a hunched, scary monster, intensifying her nervousness. Unlocking the room he'd stood back, smiling broadly at Paul only to resume his poker face as he handed him the key.

Paul turned to her as soon as the man had left. ‘You don't have to go through with this.' Taking out his cigarette case he sat down on the bed and lit two cigarettes at once. He handed her one and she noticed his hands were shaking. ‘We can still go home, if you want to.'

There was a chest of drawers beside the bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Balancing the cigarette on its wooden edge she took off her hat and began to unbutton her coat. Without another word Paul got up, keeping his back to her as he began to undress. Naked, he climbed into the bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling until she climbed in beside him. The sheets were cold and she shivered.

He turned on his side, drawing her close to him. His erection nudged her belly and she was shocked into stillness, afraid as she remembered the hot, tearing pain of that first time with Robbie. From the pub came a shout of laughter and he held her even tighter.

He smelt of musk, nothing like his usual scent. The smell made her want to bury her face in his chest and the pits of his arms. He was hairier than she had expected, his chest covered in coarse, springy hair, jet-black against the paleness of his skin. She curled her fingers into it and he pressed her hand flat against his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath her palm and he kissed her.

‘You taste sweet, of port and lemonade. It's delicious.'

‘You taste of cigarettes.'

‘Sorry. Such a filthy habit.'

‘You were smoking the first time I saw you. Just standing in our garden, staring out into space, smoking. You looked so sophisticated.'

‘And you thought “What an arrogant boy”.' For a while he was silent and she shifted in his arms until her head rested on his chest. He stroked her hair steadily. At last he said, ‘I feel clumsy, a bag of sharp bones.' He hesitated, then, ‘Should I just hold you? Would you prefer it if I just held you?'

Her disappointment surprised her. Carefully she said, ‘We're married, now.'

‘I've never done this before.'

He shuddered and she sat up a little, causing the sheet to fall away from her. Daring herself to be bold she took his hand and pressed it against her breast. Her nipple hardened against his palm and he closed his eyes, before pulling her down on top of him.

Going home on the train Margot fell asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. Paul avoided eye contact with the other passengers. Dishevelled and unshaven, he imagined he stank of sex, that everyone must surely be able to smell it on him. He closed his eyes, Margot's body a weight against his. She smelt only as she always did, of fat, blowsy roses.

As the train trundled towards Thorp, he thought of Adam, feeling the same guilt he always felt on the very few occasions he'd been unfaithful to him. He opened his eyes, staring out of the window, remembering.

He'd been sleeping in a chair beside his hospital bed, and had woken, startled at the sound of Adam's voice.

‘I'm sorry,' Adam said, ‘I didn't mean to make you jump.' He'd stood over him, smiling with all the awkwardness of any visitor to an asylum, although he'd visited often. ‘Here.' He held out a package. ‘I bought you some sweets.' Pulling up another chair Adam sat down, watching uncomfortably as, one after the other, Paul ate all the toffees he'd brought.

‘You'll be sick.'

‘Would you like one?'

‘No, I bought them for you. I just didn't expect you to eat them all at once.'

As though he thought he wouldn't be heard above the rustle of wrappers, Adam waited until the last sweet was finished. ‘I heard about Rob. I'm so sorry, Paul. I don't know what to say.'

The toffees had made his tongue raw. All the same he craved another. He looked down at the empty wrappers on his lap, feeling through them for one he might have missed.

‘Paul? Did you hear me?'

‘Yes.' He looked up at him. ‘Robbie's dead. There's nothing to say.'

After a long silence Adam said, ‘How are you?'

He lit a cigarette, wanting a contrast to the burning sweetness. Pinching a stray strand of tobacco from the tip of his tongue he said, ‘You know how I am. They cut my eye out. Other than that, I'm fine.'

Adam sighed. ‘I'm still missing you, counting the days until you're home.'

‘Do you really miss me?'

‘What kind of a question is that? Of course I do! I love you, you know that.'

He thought of Jenkins, his body slumped against his own. At last, remembering Adam's presence, he said, ‘You wouldn't love me, if you knew what I'd done.'

‘What? Paul, I can't hear you if you mumble.' Frustrated, he said. ‘Paul, won't you
try
to pull yourself together?'

The train began to slow. Fellow passengers folded their newspapers and collected coats and briefcases. Margot smiled at him, sleepily. ‘Are we home, already?'

He nodded. Getting up he busied himself with buttoning his coat so that he wouldn't see the fragile happiness on her face.

Chapter Eight

H
ER MOTHER FOUND THE
gloves Patrick had forgotten on Christmas Eve. She laid them on the kitchen table in front of Hetty, silently waiting for an explanation. Unable to keep the exasperation from her voice, Hetty said, ‘If you must know he carried the chicken home for us on Christmas Eve.'

‘Who did?'

‘You know who. You know they're Patrick's gloves.'

‘Oh, it's Patrick, is it? Not Mr Morgan any more? I suppose you're all free and easy with him now you've asked him into our home? Well, next time, Madam, you ask me if you can bring men into this house. You don't do it behind my back.'

‘It would have been rude not to ask him in. Especially after he'd given us the chicken.'

‘I didn't ask for his charity. Tough as old boots, anyway. I've told you before I don't want meat from that shop.'

Hetty picked up the gloves, turning them over in her hands, wanting to press them to her face to see if they still smelt of him. He hadn't missed them, as far as she knew. Planning to return them to his house each evening, each evening her courage failed and the gloves remained in their hiding place.

She said, ‘You shouldn't go looking through my things.'

‘Looking through your things?' Her mother laughed scornfully. ‘Tidying up after you, don't you mean? Putting
things
away. If you want to keep secrets you should keep them more carefully.'

Hetty put her coat on, thrusting the gloves into the pocket.

‘Where're you going?'

‘I'm taking them back to him.'

* * *

She would say, ‘You left your gloves at our house on Christmas Eve. I'd forgotten all about them until this evening, and as I was passing your house anyway …'

Hetty sighed, nervously fingering the gloves in her pocket. With luck he'd be home. If she missed all the cracks in the pavement he would smile and ask her in and his brother would be safely tucked up in bed.

Outside his house she stood at the gate, surprised to hear music coming from the lighted room that looked out over the small front garden. A man spoke above the music that came to a sudden end with the sound of a gramophone needle being scratched across a record. Another voice, unmistakably Patrick's, decided her. Walking up the path she pulled the front door bell.

‘There's someone at the door, Patty. Go and see.'

‘I'm not expecting anyone.' Patrick slipped the gramophone record into its sleeve and put it away. ‘They'll go away if we ignore it. It's time for your bath, anyway.'

The bell rang again and Mick wheeled himself over to the window. Lifting aside the lace curtain he peered into the darkness.

‘It's that little shop girl of yours.'

‘Are you sure?' Patrick caught sight of Hetty over Mick's shoulder. He groaned. ‘I'll get rid of her. Wait there.'

Hetty said, ‘Oh, Mr Morgan … you're home, then.' She looked surprised to find herself there. Her usually pale face was even paler against the dark scarf wrapped around her throat. Awkwardly she said, ‘I hope I'm not bothering you.'

Behind him Mick said, ‘Hello, Hetty. Please, come in. You must excuse my brother keeping you on the doorstep. He's not used to visitors.'

Patrick ignored him. Still standing in the doorway he said, ‘There's nothing wrong, is there?'

‘Oh, no. No!' Hetty laughed as though the idea was outrageous. ‘I was passing and …'

‘For God's sake, let the girl in. You can see she's freezing.'

‘It's all right. I'll go if it's inconvenient.'

Patrick stood aside. ‘You'd better come in.'

Mick poured her a glass of sherry; he even cut her a slice of the last of the Christmas cake. He talked too much, as he always did when he felt others were embarrassed. Eventually, as Hetty calmly sipped her drink, Patrick realised that it wasn't Hetty who was embarrassed, but Mick himself. His stream of words had dried up and he smiled desperately at Patrick, willing him to end the silence.

Patrick cleared his throat. ‘That's a pretty scarf, Hetty.'

‘Thanks. It's Mam's. I bought it for Christmas but she lets me borrow it.'

Mick said, ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?'

‘Quiet.'

‘Ours was quiet, too. Wasn't it, Patrick?'

‘Very.'

Mick laughed, a short, embarrassing burst of noise. ‘We should all have a rowdy New Year to make up for it. We should go dancing …'

‘That would be lovely.' Hetty grinned. ‘Somewhere posh with a nice band.' She looked at Patrick, adding, ‘Somewhere they let balloons down from the ceiling at the stroke of midnight.'

‘The Grand used to do that kind of thing, didn't it, Pat?'

‘I don't know.' Turning to Hetty he said, ‘I was just about to help my brother to bed, Hetty.'

She fumbled in her coat pocket. ‘Oh! Nearly forgot.' Handing him a pair of gloves she said, ‘You left these at our house the other day. I was passing and I thought …'

‘It was kind of you.' He stood up. ‘Well, if that was all.'

‘Yes. Right.' Placing her glass on the table she smiled shyly at Mick. ‘Thank you for the drink, Mr Morgan. And the cake.'

‘My pleasure, Hetty, and call me Mick, please.'

Patrick held the door open. ‘I'll see you out.'

As Patrick came back into the room Mick glared at him. ‘You shitty, bloody bastard.'

Gripping the arms of the wheelchair Patrick brought his face up close to his brother's. ‘I told you I'd get rid of her, didn't I? But no, you had to ask her in
and
show me up as well! Thanks, Mick. Was that little charade worth it?'

Mick took his cigarettes from his pocket. His hands shook as he struck a match. ‘You were rude.'

‘Rude!' Patrick laughed. ‘That's bloody priceless coming from you.'

‘She's a nice girl.'

Patrick stood up straight. ‘I don't want to encourage her. She's an employee, not a friend.'

‘Of course! God forbid we might have any friends!'

Patrick gazed at him, his anger slowly ebbing away. ‘You're tired. She could see how tired you are. She wasn't going to stay long, anyway.'

‘All the same you had to remind her how bloody helpless I am.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, you're not. You like everyone to know you do everything for me. Well, what a great big bloody selfless bastard you are! I wish you'd left me in the hospital. At least there …'

‘Go on. At least there what?'

‘I had people to talk to.' Sullenly he said, ‘I wasn't alone all day, every day.'

‘Shall I take you back there? You can take up basket weaving again. So, seeing as you miss it so much, first thing in the morning off we go.'

‘All I'm saying is she could have stayed a little longer.' He bowed his head. ‘She could have stayed. We were getting along.'

Patrick sighed. ‘She came to see
me,
Mick. You know what she's after.'

‘So? Marry her. Once she finds out you can't get it up for her maybe she'll find her way into my bed.'

‘Don't be so disgusting.'

‘You're disgusting. A lovely girl like that showing an interest and all you can think about is buggering some whey-faced, lisping boy.'

‘He doesn't lisp.'

Mick laughed. ‘Doesn't he? I could have sworn …'

‘What do you know?'

‘Oh, we've met,
Paul
and I.'

‘When? When did you meet?'

‘Oh, sometime. Can't remember.'

‘Liar! Fucking liar!' Patrick seized Mick's arms, digging his fingers into the flesh. ‘You're just lying now.'

‘Let go.'

‘And what can you do about it if I don't?'

Drawing his head back Mick spat in his face.

‘You filthy bastard.' Patrick wiped the spittle away, glaring at his brother as he stepped back. ‘I think I will take you back to that hospital. I really think I will.'

‘And close the shop for a day? I don't think so.'

‘No? Well, wait and see.'

Mick tossed his cigarette stub into the fire. He smiled slowly. ‘I suppose you could always dump me there on a Sunday when the shop's closed. Bit of a bugger getting there on a Sunday, though. And on Sundays there'll be no one at the hospital to do the paperwork. They're very strict about their paperwork.'

‘Well, they can just leave you sitting in the drive until Monday, then, can't they?'

‘Oh dear.' Mick lit another cigarette. ‘You
are
cross. Poor me.'

‘You're pathetic.'

‘You and me both.' He looked up at Patrick through a haze of cigarette smoke. ‘I bet Hetty's got gorgeous tits. Not too big. Just nice. You didn't have to be so off-hand with her.'

‘Yes, I did. Now, do you want that bath or not?'

They were identical twins, a novelty act dressed up in matching outfits: sailor suits with beribboned caps, blue velvet breeches with white knee socks. Their mother spent too much time brushing their hair, smoothing it into exactly matching neatness. She wanted others not to be able to tell them apart, a trick she played on the world until even their own father couldn't be bothered to tell which was which.

Patrick stooped over the bath, dipping his hand in the water to test its temperature.

Mick smiled at him. ‘Just the right degree of boiling?'

‘Just. Ready?'

Mick nodded, putting his arm around Patrick's shoulder as he was lifted from the chair. He closed his eyes, sighing as the water covered him.

‘Hot enough?'

Mick nodded.

‘Call me when you've finished.'

‘Pat … don't go for a minute. I've been thinking …' He laughed, frowning down at the water. ‘What have you put in this bath? It smells like one of Mother's handkerchiefs.'

‘Lavender. It's supposed to help people sleep.'

‘People? How about bad-tempered cripples?'

‘It might help. You never know.' Patrick sat on the edge of the bath. ‘So, what were you thinking?'

Drawing a deep breath Mick said quickly, ‘I was thinking maybe we could go dancing, Hetty and I. Oh, you could come too.'

‘Could I? Thanks. Where shall we go? Paris?'

‘The Grand Hotel.'

Patrick laughed. ‘The Grand Hotel? The Grand Hotel with all the steps leading to the doors?'

‘We could manage a few steps.'

‘You mean I could.'

‘All right. You could.'

‘You're joking, aren't you?'

‘They're holding a New Year Dance. I saw it advertised in the paper. And Hetty said she'd like to go.'

Patrick stared at his brother. The lavender-scented steam seemed to blur his features, making him look younger and less like himself. His eyes were wide with hope.

Shaking his head Patrick said. ‘She's made quite an impression on you, hasn't she?'

‘I can't stop thinking about her tits.'

‘Mick …'

‘Oh, don't
Mick
me. I don't want your sympathy. I just want to take a girl out.'

‘To a dance? You know how people stare at the best of times.'

‘I stare back.'

‘Hetty will want to dance.'

‘You can dance with her.'

‘Which will give her the wrong idea entirely.'

‘Not if you behave as you did tonight.' After a moment he said, ‘We still look alike, don't we? Even now. If she likes you …'

‘No, Mick.'

Mick sank lower into the water. ‘Fuck off, then. Fuck off so I can have a wank in peace. After all, it's the only relief I'm ever likely to get. I knew you wouldn't agree to it. So fucking scared of a few stares! Just keep me hidden away till I rot.'

‘You go out sometimes.'

‘And you wheel me back again.'

‘Because you get drunk and spew your guts all over me.'

‘Once.'

‘I get scared for you, when I'm not there.'

Mick looked at him. The cold tap dripped like the measured tick of a clock, timing the silence. At last he said, ‘Please, Pat.'

‘I don't know …' Patrick sighed, unable to think of a good enough reason why they shouldn't go. Knowing he would regret it he said, ‘All right. I'll ask her.'

Mick exhaled a long breath. ‘Thanks.' He closed his eyes and Patrick recognised this as his cue to go.

Cleaning the bath, hanging towels over the clothes-horse to air, Patrick tried to imagine asking Hetty to the hotel's dance. He saw her face brighten only to fall when he said,
‘Mick's coming
as well.
' He hoped she would turn him down, certain she wouldn't.

He ran cold water into the bath, sluicing away the last of the lavender suds. As children they had bathed together, their mother sitting where he had, on the edge of the bath, watching them with rapt indulgence.

No girl would ever have been good enough for her boys, but she would have hated Hetty more than most. So common, so coarse, with her rough hands and scrawny features. Such women didn't even wash properly. Involuntarily Patrick curled his lip in disgust. Hetty would smell of milk and blood and bone. All women did.

He remembered the whore's room, papered with a pattern of abstract flowers and Chinese dragons, hump-backed, serpent-like creatures with manic, goggle-eyed smiles. He had stared at them, counted their repeat around the walls and tried to imagine such creatures breathing fire as the girl worked on him. Her hands were small and brown with half-moons of dirt beneath her fingernails, her fingers surprisingly strong around his cock. She frowned over her task, tipping her head to one side so that he imagined her as a bird, poised over a half-buried worm. He'd closed his eyes. Reaching out he'd grasped her wrist and lifted her hand away. ‘I can't.'

‘Don't worry, pet, it happens.' Her voice was singsong Geordie. Into his silence she laughed. Lowering her voice she said gruffly, ‘Not to me it doesn't.'

BOOK: The Boy I Love
6.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Johann Sebastian Bach by Christoph Wolff
Guide Me Home by Kim Vogel Sawyer
St. Patrick's Day Murder by Meier, Leslie
Rush by Minard, Tori
The Killing Season by Pearson, Mark
Daddy Cool by Donald Goines
FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL by Tortorich, Vinnie, Lorey, Dean
Wilde Fire by Chloe Lang
The Reading Lessons by Carole Lanham
Longest Night by Kara Braden