This Is All

by Aidan Chambers

  Why do I sing

  for you with such joy?

  While Will was shopping, I set the scene. Imagine:

  First, using utensils brought from home in anticipation, I cleared the dust from the area of the floor immediately in front of the altar where I will make our bed.

  Next a ground sheet laid down. Then a double-sized blow-up mattress stuffed into one of Doris’s old linen duvet covers, chosen for its yellow sunshine appeal. Both ground sheet and mattress ‘borrowed’ from Will’s camping-mad brother.

  After blowing up the covered mattress to a nice squashiness, I spread it out on the groundsheet, head to altar, and finished it off with two crisp white pillows and a lavish duvet from my bed at Dad-home, spring green in colour over which was printed a scattering of golden autumn leaves.

  Spring, summer, autumn, winter made our bed.

  On the altar and underneath it I arranged sprays of ivy and sprigs of red-berried holly cut from bushes in the churchyard.

  When Will returned with the things I’d sent him to buy, I piled a confection of oranges, apples, bananas and grapes at the head of the bed, where we could easily reach them. Along with three bottles of Woodchester Water.

  I placed a line of seven incense candles on the altar and clusters of unscented ones here and there around the church where I thought their light would be pleasing and throw interesting shadows. Of course, I didn’t light them. Doing that would mark the beginning of our ritual.

  And I meant it to be a ritual. This was the inspiration that had come to me as I looked at the church through Will’s eyes, showing me how to set the stage for the performance of this once-only event in our lives.

  Perhaps this same thought had occurred to Will, because when he returned he called through the door, forbidding me to come into the vestry, just as I had forbidden him to come into the church till I told him to. He handed my things round the door so that I couldn’t see what he was doing in the vestry.

  When I’d finished my own arrangements, I called to him that I was ready, but that he was to close his eyes and keep them closed till I told him to open them.

  He shuffles through the door, arms outstretched, searching the air, hamming the part of a man struck suddenly blind. I take him by his groping hands and guide him to the west wall, where we had stood before. And say, ‘Open.’

  ‘Ah!’ he says, half in dry jest, half in glad surprise.

  ‘You approve?’

  ‘I approve.’

  ‘Kiss me, then.’

  And he does. Tenderly, gently, as never before. A new kissing. A different kind of intimacy. Something has moved between us, something has grown. The sight of our bed has brought it about.

  ‘Now,’ Will says. ‘Stand with your face in a corner while I add a touch or two.’

  ‘I’m not standing in a corner like a duncy child!’

  ‘Then stick your head in a bag or blindfold yourself with your bra. Whatever. But don’t look.’

  I hit him a mock slap. ‘You’re disgusting. I hate you. Is this going to take long?’

  ‘As long as short is long.’

  ‘Well, it better not,’ I say, looking for somewhere to hide. ‘I’ll sit inside the pulpit and read. And if I get to a good bit it’ll be you who’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Drama queen.’

  ‘Bully boy.’

  And he kissed me again, only this time it was the meat-eating variety.

  Little C wanted to take him to bed there and then, wanted to eat him and be eaten by him, but Big C said no, no, not yet, not yet, don’t spoil it.

  I was always melted by his sillinesses, his faked machismo, his pretended butchery, while his hazel eyes mocked us both from behind his glasses. If it’s cool to be cool, Will could sometimes be a refrigerator. But if he thought cool was required he could turn into a pretty good arsonist.

  Whatever words I read while squatting in the pulpit were unread. However long Will took he took longer than he took. I felt as if I were in a womb, hearing the sounds of the world outside and that it was my time to be born. Do you, my baby, feel like that as you lie curled inside me so near to the time of your own delivery?

  *

  At last at last I hear the sound of Will playing a quiet happy woody piece I don’t recognise (Donizetti’s solo for oboe). I didn’t know he’d brought his instrument and am touched. But I do know this is my cue to look. I stand in the pulpit and see:

  Flowers. Flowers flowers flowers. Bunched in containers filched from the churchyard. (I put them back with the flowers in before we left.) Frost-white and blood-red roses. On the altar, at the foot of our bed, on the floor against the walls, on the window ledges. And in the very centre of the room, a lichen-covered stone urn that must once have topped a tomb, on which Will has placed a large cauliflower.

  The music ends.

  ‘Lordy, Will!’ I say, reduced to banality by his thoughtfulness. ‘How lovely!’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘Mega plus. But where did you get them, at this time of year?’

  ‘Undertakers and florists have a symbiotic relationship.’

  ‘Which clearly is blossoming.’

  ‘And the mobile phone is a useful device. As usual, it’s not what you know but who you know.’

  He begins to meddle with the potbellied boozer.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Lighting the stove.’

  ‘Didn’t you say the smoke might give us away?’

  ‘In this fog? And’ – he turns and taps his temple with a finger – ‘there’s such a thing as smokeless fuel and firelighters. BBQs? So even if the fog lifts, we should be okay.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘Besides, it’s all right to be flowery, but the male dinger rings the bell better when it’s warm and not chilled.’

  ‘Then we’d better make sure it’s properly heated.’

  He finishes stoking, lights a match, gets the firelighters going, and begins to feed fuel through the old boozer’s gaping mouth.

  I say, ‘Will? Are you nervous? A bit?’

  He pauses but doesn’t turn round.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You’re tense but pretending not to be.’

  ‘… You know me too well.’

  ‘And putting it off maybe?’

  He gives a shrug. The fire is well started. He closes the boozer’s mouth but still doesn’t turn to face me.

  The centre of gravity has shifted. Till now, I’ve felt I was in Will’s hands. Suddenly, I feel strongly the need to take the lead, bring everything together, and draw him to me.

  And it’s as if our spirit moves me. Words fly to me from the air.

  ‘Dearly beloved,’ I say, unthinking – the effect of being imprisoned in a pulpit, I suppose.

  ‘No no, spare me, not a sermon!’ Will says, laughing.

  ‘The congregation is requested to remain silent.’

  Dearly beloved. My text this afternoon is taken from the First Book of Cordelia, Chapter One, Verse One. ‘In the beginning was Will.’

  Let us consider this simple statement.

  What does it tell us about life and about ourselves?

  I would appreciate it if the congregation would not grin like that and hold its big finger up, it puts me off. Thank you.

  If it is the case that Will is the beginning then there cannot have been anything before Will. Before Will all was void and empty.

  If the congregation wishes to throw up, please do so outside.

  But this simple statement, ‘In the beginning was Will’, can mean that there is no beginning without Will.

  It is not necessary for the congregation to punch the air when agreeing with me.

  For anything to begin – for example, for our life to begin – we must will it to be.

  But if Will is necessary to all life, then it must also be true that will exists before Will and before everything. Even before we exist as ourselves. Before we are, we are will.

  No, I’m not sure I
know what I’m talking about. But at least I’m trying.

  In other words, dearly beloved, everything depends on Will, and on the strength of our will.

  But we must also remember—

  This is not the Church of the Upsidedowners. You need not stand on your head, a feat I admit I was unaware you were capable of, and which I note provides a tasty view of your torso because of your T-shirt falling over your head … Now you’ve made me lose my thread. What was I saying? … It was not bollox! … O, yes.

  We must also remember, as our revered Head Teacher often reminds us a great man once said, ‘It is not the beginning of any great work but the successful conclusion thereof wherein lies the glory.’

  Please stop imitating Mrs Headbutt. Thank you.

  In the beginning was will. But in the beginning of what? What is it that calls our Will to action? What is it our Will feels it worth willing for?

  As we all know, dearly beloved, where there’s a Will there’s a way. Let us consider what the way is.

  Incidental music is not required.

  In this place when it was the place it was willed to be, people used to say, ‘In the beginning was the word. And the word was God.’

  They also said that the God they worshipped in this place was the God of Love. In fact they said God is Love. And that the God of Love made all things. And that the God of Love was the beginning of everything.

  This must mean that the God of Love is will and the Love of Will is the Word.

  Which also means that all three are one.

  And that God must be called Wordwillove.

  Therefore, let us proclaim again, dearly beloved, the ancient ever-living truth that the Will of God is called to action by the word love and is itself love and the love of the word wills us to a new beginning.

  Thank you for your applause. It was pretty fit, wasn’t it?

  That is why today, dear dear beloved Will, here in this ancient place, which seems like it has been sent to Coventry by the rest of the world, I speak of my love of Will and my will to love Will.

  I fancy the Will I love like nothing I have ever felt before.

  I fancy him with my body, my mind, my whole being.

  I also want to tell you that my love of Will is not a passing whim. It is not here today and gone tomorrow. It might have been at first. But it has grown into something more.

  I think it has grown into what people call ‘being in love’.

  I have thought a lot about this. The other day, I even wrote a hymn about it. It’s crap, I know. But it says what I want to say, so I’m going to recite it to you. And maybe one day some magnifico composer will set it to brilliante musico.

  It’s called:

  What are you to me?

  What are you to me?

  Just a passing phase.

  What are you to me?

  A temporary daze.

  What are you to me?

  A picnic in the sun.

  What are you to me?

  Just a little bit of fun.

  What are you to me?

  A ship that never sails.

  What are you to me?

  A hope that always fails.

  But I wish that you were more

  Than a temporary score.

  O that you could be

  Everything to me.

  My Will is everything to me.

  My Love is everything to me.

  Words are everything to me.

  I say these words – Will, Love, Words – with capital letters.

  And I am here today to preach my love and to will my love to action.

  I am here today to express my love with the Will I wish were mine.

  Here ends the sermon. Communion will follow. But before that I shall present to you, William Blacklin, a life-saving charm that will protect us both from the perils of the pilgrimage on which we are about to embark.

  I leave the pulpit, go to Will, whose antics have been silenced by my last words, take his hand and place in it the carton of condoms Doris had left in the drawer of my bedside table weeks ago.

  ‘O Christ!’ he says inappropriately and losing his grip on irony for once. ‘I forgot!’

  ‘I was warned you would,’ I say, kissing the end of his spiky nose.

  ‘Warned? Who by?’ he asks with indignation.

  ‘Every girl’s mag I’ve ever read. And you forgot because you were too embarrassed to buy any. I understand, and I forgive you.’

  I think I am being amusingly smart, but see at once that I’ve got it wrong. His brow wrinkles, his eyes go down, then his head, and he fiddles with the carton. I sense I must recover him quickly or everything will be spoilt.

  Grasping his hands in mine, I say in careful tones, ‘Let’s light the candles.’

  Quite unlike himself, he mumbles, ‘Don’t you want to eat first?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘We were going to go for a walk and have a meal and do it tonight.’

  ‘We still can. But I think we should – Well – The first time, I mean for me, might, you see, might not be quite right. For me. Because of – Well – And we’re both a bit nervous, aren’t we? It’s only natural. But the second time, we’ll be, you know. Fine. So let’s do it now. Then we can eat and go for a walk. And tonight we’ll enjoy it properly … Eh?’

  He breathes out, heavily.

  The silly thought invades my head, It’s like persuading him to accept heart surgery without an anaesthetic.

  I’m awash with urgency, hard crashing waves of it. But know enough to know I must tread carefully, for I tread on my dreams. Which thought makes me wonder, Am I doing this only to please myself?

  ‘But if you don’t want to …’

  He shakes his head.

  I bend enough to look up into his declined face. ‘Is that a no you don’t want to or a no you do want to?’ And smile.

  He raises his eyes to look into mine. And, thank heaven, smiles at last, and says firmly, ‘Let’s do it.’

  We light the candles. The nests of nightlights around the walls first, then those at the foot of the bed, and then the tapers on the altar, Will and me taking turns as each match burns out. We say nothing while doing so. We don’t need to say that we mean it to be ceremonious, mean it to be a ritual. To light the tapers on the altar Will grasps my hand in his so that we kindle them together. At once the heady tang of incense flares my nostrils.

  *

  Incense. There’s something strangely intoxicating about incense. It doesn’t brew stupidity and disjoint your body like booze, or daze your mind with gaudy hallucinations like dope. It doesn’t offer a fraudulent way of escape, it doesn’t poison or distress the soul. Instead, its breath of woodland magic whets your senses and inspires your wide-awake imagination. It enlivens you to the colour of the world and invokes your deepest thoughts.

  For a moment we stand beside our bed and view our handiwork with pleasure. The stove has already cosied the room. The huddled candles charm the walls with their flickering glow. The bunched flowers smile. The fogged windows are veiled eyes. Our bed is inviting.

  I turn to Will. In the theatre of my imagination I’d performed the next scene often and always slowly. Will and I would undress each other, kissing and caressing after each garment was gently removed. Centimetre by centimetre we’d explore each other with eyes, hands, tongues. I’d gorge my nose on the incense of Will’s body. Already familiar with the aroma of his hair and the musk under his arms, I yearned to learn the smell between his legs. And so step-by-pleasurable-step we’d gradually excite each other until, entirely naked and ready, we’d complete the final act with tender passion. And afterwards, sweating and exhausted, we’d lie entwined in an elegant tangle of limbs, our heads face-to-face on the pillow, and wallow in the aftertaste of our love-making while gazing into each other’s raptured eyes.

  Mind you, I say the theatre of my imagination, but I have to admit these fantasies were not really all my own and were more film than theatre, being mostl
y based on sex scenes in favourite movies. After all, everybody’s fantasies require raw material, so to speak, and if you don’t have any from your own experience, you have to steal from wherever you find it.

  However – need I tell you? – on this occasion as so often, Real Life Productions didn’t quite follow the script devised by Cordelia’s Fantasy Studio.

  I turn to Will, expecting my fantasies to come to life. But instantly he catches hold of me, his hands gripping my head, and kisses me hard. I feel the skeleton of his teeth through his lips. For a second I’m shocked, as if by an attack. For the next second I want to say, No, it’s not meant to start like this. But in that same second I feel his body pressing into mine and thrusting against me through our jeans. (Which word shall I use for the male sex organ: polite penis, euphemistic member, one of the 365 slang names, purple-headed dragon perhaps? And which of the few for the female counterpart? Let’s not be mealy-minded about it, let’s use the words Will and I used between ourselves.) I feel through our clothes his cock, big and rigid, pushing against my yoni. I do not have to think twice. I want to give only one answer to the surging question his body poses. I hurl back fierce yes-saying kisses that cover his face, his eyes, his brow, his nose, and again his scrumptious mouth. We consume our tongues, and press our bodies together as if trying to forge them into one. However much we’ve practised – and we have a lot – nothing has prepared us for this. This is kissing in a different league. It is raw lust without restraint or finesse. Before, we always held something back. Now we’ve cut loose, our kisses aren’t satisfaction enough but are only preludes to a swelling scene.

  Our glasses snag in our tanglement. We part and flip them off. With thoughtfulness so touching it pours more wetness into my already flooded crotch, Will takes mine and places both pairs quickly but carefully facing each other on the altar, out of harm’s way. He returns urgently, his hands reaching out to claw at my clothes while he utters wordless whimpering noises so like a puppy dog unable to get at a bone that I laugh and say, ‘Wait! Wait!’ and begin to strip while whelping just as puppy-like, ‘You! You!’