Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

by David Brining

  28: Everybody's Free

  SNOW, to me, was romantic, cleansing and purifying. It made the familiar different, concealed and disguised the world, obliterated everything. There's a certain silence that comes with a heavy snowfall. The normal noise of the world is muffled as Nature, suspended, holds its breath in expectation of something new. By 6.45 that morning, when my alarm went off, the back lawn was buried under three feet of the stuff. Local radio was churning out lists of cancellations, closures and transport issues on a 'Snow Special', along with updates from the Met Office, the AA, the City Council and the bus companies, but there was no mention of my school. We never cancelled. After porridge, beetroot juice and beans on toast, I emptied my hot-water bottle and opened the fifteenth window on the Advent calendar for a yellow toy trumpet.

  ''Come on, son.'' Dad tossed me my parka. ''We'd better dig the car out.''

  Wrapping myself in my gold and navy school scarf, I put on my gloves and wellies and plunged into the weather armed with a spade and moaning bitterly 'cos I hadn't doubled my socks. Anyway, 15 minutes later we were skidding and sliding away to Terry Wogan's seasonal selection 'Simply having a wonderful Christmas time.'

  As I said, I liked the snow. I fantasized I was Captain Peters VC, Antarctic explorer, nearing the depot which housed food, warmth and the vital supplies that'd fortify me for Base-Camp where Lieutenant Rose was waiting in a howling blizzard for relief (ha ha). Since the huskies and sledge had vanished through the ice into a crevasse, I'd carried all the equipment and charts on my back with the precious scientific surveys for Professor Trent and the Royal Society contained in a special case in my gloved hand. When the glare of sun on snow blinded me, I wished I'd taken Dr Paulus' goggles before he'd valiantly sacrificed himself in the swirling snowfall saying he might be some time. Sinfonia Antarctica swelled in my mind as a couple of penguins dodged into a bus-shelter and I reported into my Walkman that, on Stardate 80151.2, the Rigellan fever had worsened, the Ryetalyn antidote was in my briefcase but the Borg were on my tail. I needed immediate beam-up but the snow was interfering with the transporter. I might have to fight my way past the penguins.

  The blanket covered everything, flattened everything, a never-ending, unbroken plain studded every so often by semi-igloos. Things looked desperate for our hero as he struggled on, gasping for breath, frostbite nipping his fingers, cold worming into his bones, staggering forward, on his last legs… he scooped up a handful of clean, cleansing purity and felt it burst on his tongue, broke off an icicle, better than any ice cream… we all scream for ice cream…

  ''Have a good day, darling,'' said Dad over Slade's shrieked 'so here it is, merry Christmas, everybody's having fun…' Ho bloody ho bloody ho. The Sierra's rear wheel span as Dad slewed away through melting orange grit.

  Just five of us made it in, me, Arnold, Burridge, Collins and Fosbrook. Even those who lived within easy strolling distance like Stewart and Morreson had opted to stay in bed, which was particularly galling for Collins, who lived in the depths of the country in the Arse-Cheek of Buttwipe and had had to leave at six in a Land Rover. ''Well,'' he said, ''My folks don't want us lot hanging around the farm all day. Alfie'll wrap his presents, get covered in glue and stick his arse to his elbow and Eddie'll tease the chickens…''

  Knocking the snow off my wellies and taking my shoes from a Sainsbury's bag, I foolishly asked how one teased chickens and was given an impression, slightly hilarious, actually, of young Eddie Collins stalking round a hen-house making fox noises.

  ''Blimey, JP,'' said Arnold, ''Why didn't you bring your snow-shoes as well?''

  Action Man had snowshoes. They were like bloody great tennis rackets. Not cool.

  'Don't mock, mate,'' I muttered darkly, ''Do you know how deep it is where I live? You might just wish you had more than those fancy tasselled pumps by this afternoon.''

  Could've been worse, mind. Collins had these green Hunter wellies with buckles, which were cool enough, but Fosbrook, the loser, had these bloody great red and silver Moon Boots from the Stardust range, ha ha. They had red drawstrings round the top and a picture of an astronaut on the side. Ha ha. One small step for Man, I told him, one giant leap for Ferret-Kind.

  The bell rang for Registration. Bunny didn't appear. Hurrah. No Maths. Instead we played table-football with coins, Collins, Arnold and Burridge played poker, Fosbrook read a profile of the incoming new Doctor in Doctor Who Magazine and I finished two pieces for the school magazine, my story 'Depression' and the report for the Wargames Society. I also got this fabulous pencil-drawing off Niall Hill which showed a melting Rubik's Cube. I loved it. The upper face resembled churned-up battlefield-mud, some of which dripped down the other two visible faces. He said he'd melted one with a blowtorch and copied the effect. Seemed the best thing to do with the bloody things.

  'Depression', I'd decided, would finish optimistically. I had left my protagonist staring despondently into the gloomy waters of the treacly canal. Now I flitted a bright yellow bird before his eyes, 'one that had appeared from nowhere. It perched on the stonework near him, watching him suspiciously. It made a remarkable contrast with the darkness and misery. Just then, the clouds parted and the rays of the sun streamed down.' It needed a last line.

  Sucking the end of my Waterman, I moved onto the Wargames report and scribbled 'Firstly I should thank the cleaners for their patience, trying to do their job without overturning Martian battle-fleets or Hitler's Russian campaign. I should also like to thank our President Mr Bleakley for the use of his room. This is the perfect club for finding out who one's friends really are. Is the quiet, polite Mr X opposite really as he seems or is there a megalomaniacal Caesar lurking beneath that cool façade? Is Mr Z next to you a second Napoleon who will stab you in the back without another thought? And, as in all things, are you good enough and ruthless enough to win? Do the ends justify the means? In Wargames Club, they do!'

  I shoved the top back on my pen and retrieved Mr Corbett's Ghost from my backpack. In this Leon Garfield story, a teenage apprentice murders his apothecary master by having a mysterious man tie a black ribbon round something the target has touched, in this case a jar. [SPOILER ALERT – why bother? You haven't read it anyway]. The man had, in his house, like a gazillion pigeon-holes containing personal items, a fan, a comb, a hat, all wrapped round with black ribbons, and all representing someone who cursed to die.

  ''Bloody hell,'' said Fosbrook, ''Imagine if you could really do that. Who would you do in? Bob Stewart? Or Herbidacious.''

  ''Herbie's all right,'' I said.

  ''Herbie's a cunt,'' Fosbrook responded sourly. And indeed, when we arrived at his lab to find him absent, our rejoicings were cut short by Oggie Ogden handing out a bunch of questions. Although we groaned and said it was the last week of term and pointed out there were only five of us and the other fifteen lazy sods were skiving off and why were we being punished, Oggie told us to stop moaning and get it done. ''Told you,'' said Fosbrook.

  'a) More glucose is taken in as food and the glucose concentration therefore rises. To compensate for this adrenaline production is cut down and insulin production is raised. The insulin causes the blood glucose concentration to return to the normal level.' (Herb wrote 'how? Give reasons!' after this, underlining the opening phrase and scrawling 'in what form?'

  'The concentration of blood glucose goes down when a person fasts. Adrenaline increases the respiratory rate and causes glucose to be taken in in respiration. It also converts liver glycogen to glucose. Therefore [blood glucose] rises. Adrenaline leads to raised blood glucose for increased body activity. Also thyroxine is secreted converting more glycogen to glucose.' ('Wrong end of the stick!' wrote Herbie.)

  ''Got a black ribbon?'' scowled Fosbrook. ''I'd cheerfully tie one round his neck.''

  Herbi-fucking-dacious indeed.

  In History Hellfire actually attempted to teach us, which was foolish since U6L, his tutor-group, Ali's tutor-group, had already marked the festive season with paper-chains
, balloons, streamers and 'Merry Xmas' sprayed on the windows with this vile-looking fake snow. At last, I managed to get into Ali's seat near the blue-painted radiator which, as usual in winter, was off. Freezing to death was, apparently, character-building.

  ''Where is Catarro anyway?'' Hellfire was scouring a map. ''Montenegro, maybe?''

  ''Where's that?'' called Collins.

  ''Near Serbia.'' Hellfire clicked his tongue. ''I thought you did Geography, Andrew.''

  ''We did Russia, not the Balkans,'' Collins rejoined.

  ''That's why you wrote in your exam that Georgia was in South-East USA,'' said Burridge. ''I mean, have you ever heard of an American town called Tbilisi?''

  ''Always thought Geography was a load of old Balkans anyway,'' said Collins.

  ''Aha!'' Hellfire's painstaking search had finally paid off. ''Found it. Catarro.''

  ''Sir, do you suppose they speak Flemish there?'' I said.

  Before Hellfire could respond, Arnold cut in saying it was a sickening joke.

  Hellfire shook his head in mock-despair and chucked some papers at us.

  ''You guys are so funny you should be gagged. Here, have a worksheet.''

  Fosbrook groaned. ''Not another one.''

  ''You've only had five on the Balkan Question,'' said Hellfire.

  ''I fear a 'so far' lurking behind that statement,'' said Collins. ''How many to come?''

  ''Wait and see,'' said Hellfire. ''A few, if you must know.''

  ''Like twenty?'' said Fosbrook, ''So not too many this time.''

  ''Three, actually,'' said Hellfire haughtily.

  ''What happened?'' said Arnold. ''Did your hand seize up or something?''

  ''Let's have 'sir' tagged on the end, if you don't mind, Mr Arnold,'' said Hellfire.

  ''Blimey.'' Fosbrook was squinting at the faint print. ''I can hardly read this. When did you photocopy these, sir? 1935?''

  ''Nothing wrong with the 1930s, David,'' Hellfire countered cheerily. ''Trams, trolley-buses, early days of cinema, the emergence of jazz and swing, wireless radio…''

  ''You forget the other attractions, sir,'' I said, ''All the other things that cheered people up, recession, depression, mass unemployment, Hitler, Stalin… great days, the Thirties.''

  Hellfire grinned. ''You should get out more, Jonny. Pipe down and do the questions.''

  Despite the snow, or possibly because of it, we elected to play our usual break-time football on the field, the five of us plus Vesey, Coleman and Lloyd from U5B and Austen from U5S. It was absolutely mental. The snow was about a foot deep and, having changed back into wellies, I had no ball-control whatsoever but I was better off than Arnold. Not only his shoes but his trousers too were soon soaked through. The ball, accumulating inches of snow, became so heavy it hardly shifted, except to smack Fozzie in the face. Laughing, I settled my scarf round my neck and inside the V of my grey sweater and straightened my Thinsulate gloves. I'd chucked my parka down as a goal-post so just had my blazer, lapels turned up. The cold nipped my nose and my breath clouded in the air. Struggling upfield, I tried to cross over Austen for Collins, who was showered in snow. The ball plopped a yard in front of me.

  ''Bloody hell, Peters!'' he grumbled. ''Call that a cross?''

  Coleman swung at the ball and fell on his arse then, with a drunken-sounding bellow of 'I put my finger in the woodpecker's hole and the woodpecker said 'Gawd bless my soul…' by Swinging Dick and the Rudeboys, the staff arrived, in tracksuits, scarves, gloves and proper footie boots, though when I say 'staff', I mean Hellfire, Cedric, Don Donovan, Bush-head, Oggie and Frank. A crowd was gathering on the sidelines. Well, Collins' brothers and some Sixth Formers, including Leverett and a smirking Alistair Rose.

  ''Fozzie, Fozzie, give us a game, Fozzie, give us a game!'' chanted Frank.

  ''Collie, Collie, give us a game, Collie, give us a game!'' roared Hellfire.

  ''Jenny, Jenny, give us a game, Jenny, give us a game!'' bellowed Bush-head, much to the others' amusement.

  ''Don't call me Jenny!'' I barked angrily.

  ''Oooh,'' cried a chorus of staff and class-mates, ''Shut that door.'' But it was warm.

  Ali kissed my frozen cheek and said ''Learn when you're loved, love.'' So, in Frank's phrase, the Super Staff played the Feeble Fifth whilst my boyfriend wrote notes for a review.

  The staff were predictably vicious, sliding tackles, barging off the ball and shoving snow down the backs of our necks. Finally someone, and I was never sure who, got so fed up a snowball caught Frank squarely on the shoulder. Frank's eyes gleamed joyfully and before we knew it we were engaged in this full-on snowball fight involving everyone, and I mean everyone, about sixty men and boys. I laughed as Frank was battered so much he looked like a walking snowman. Then Cedric got me like right in the side of my head, you know? Don and Bush-head yelled congratulations, even though they were fending off full-frontal assaults by Fosbrook, Austen and Burridge whilst Arnold and Lloyd were targeting the prefects and Collins was pelting Oggie. I flung a snowball at Don, got him in the chest, uttered a whoop of delight then suddenly screamed as Hellfire rubbed a handful of snow in my face and shoved some down my collar. Shrieking, laughing and yelling for him to get off 'cos he was cheating, I collapsed in the snow. Then Cedric grabbed my ankles.

  ''Jenny Peters for the snow-drift, did you say, Mr Langdon?''

  ''Certainly did, Mr Yates,'' Hellfire confirmed, seizing my wrists. Together they lifted me bodily from the ground and carried me across the field towards the cricket pavilion and this four-foot deep snow-bank.

  ''Crikey, Mr Yates,'' said Hellfire, ''It's like carrying a feather.''

  ''He'll hardly make a dent in the snow-drift, Mr Langdon,'' said Cedric.

  ''May even bounce off. We'll have to chuck him extra-hard,'' said Hellfire.

  ''Noooo!'' I shrieked, struggling and laughing like a hysterical hyena.

  Now everyone stopped. Frank and Oggie started chanting 'Snow-drift, snow-drift' and pursued us in procession with my class-mates, the prefects and a load of gimps.

  ''ALI!'' I shrieked. ''HELP ME!''

  ''One,'' went Cedric, swinging me backwards.

  ''SIR! Mr Gallagher! SIR!''

  ''Two,'' went Hellfire, swaying me forwards.

  I wriggled again, screaming ''Ali! ALI!''

  ''Three!'' cried Ali.

  Arms and legs flailing, I flew through the air to a loud cheer and flumped into the snow. Cedric, grin plastered over his face, helped me up. I looked like I'd been dipped in a vat of icing-sugar. Ali and Hellfire, whooping like kids, were hurling snowballs at each other. Oh God, I loved him. Following my gaze, Cedric gently brushed snow from my hair.

  ''You and Alistair,'' he said, ''I knew it would happen one day. Ever since Oliver, there was like this… sizzle between you?''

  ''I know. I felt it. But I never thought we'd be together.'' I sighed. ''He's so amazing.''

  Cedric smiled. ''You're both amazing, Jonathan. Stay with him, yeah? You fought demons, monsters and the world for him. You fought your friends, your folks and yourself. And he's worth it, yeah? So you keep him. For those of us who love you.'' He waved at Hellfire, Bush-head and Frank, Collins, Fosbrook and Arnold. ''For us, yes? For all of us?''

  Then we were off, closed at lunchtime with buses at one, and clapping 'cos we'd be home in time for Bagpuss. The driver somehow managed to move off up the hill without stalling, slipping or crashing his gears, and won a burst of applause from the lads downstairs.

  The bus ploughed steadily through the grey slush that had replaced the virgin-white snow, slipping several times on the ungritted road and wheezing like an asthmatic old woman carrying four insanely heavy Carlton Shoppers up Pen-y-Ghent. Cars crawled up the inside as the bus paused, gears grinding, engine whirring as the driver tried to get it moving. Then Ali appeared behind me. I threw my head back.

  ''You look funny upside-down,'' I grinned, dragging his school scarf off him.

  ''You look cute.'' He plonked himself next to me.
''Can't wait for tomorrow. What are you doing?'' he added impatiently as I tied a knot in his scarf.

  ''A forget-me-knot,'' I said, hitting him with it.

  ''You're feisty today, Supermite,'' he said, ''Let's see how you are when you're wrapped up in this,'' and he tugged my fur-trimmed hood over my face.

  I laughed and wriggled, kicking and flailing his scarf in the air as he pinned me to the seat and started tickling me. When he finally let me up for air, I scampered away yelling at him to come get me then I smacked some gimp with the scarf and lobbed it down the stairs. Eyes shining, he stomped off to retrieve it. While he was gone, I hid his bag under a seat and stared out of the window, arms folded, innocently whistling. Slapping my arm, he scrambled on the floor to recover it before wrapping me in my hood again. Then, as the bus lurched forward again, he gave me like this gentle squeeze and said ''This is going to be the best Christmas ever.'' I lost myself in him once again. Breathing on the glass, I wrote I LOVE YOU with my finger. He enclosed it in a heart.

  The last half-day of term was always exciting. We got our reports, played games, exchanged exchange cards and chilled out. Those who'd been in yesterday teased the others for skiving while we decorated our classroom like U6L and U5B, with tinsel, streamers and cotton-wool spelling Happy Christmas glued to the windows. We admired our handiwork, even if Bunny was less impressed. He told us to strip it all down.

  ''Oh, sir,'' we groaned, ''Sir, Christmas, sir, Christmas,'' until he relented.

  I didn't get as many cards as usual. Maxton, Stewart and obviously Wilson had cut me from their lists but Gray, Paulus, Fosbrook and Collins stumped up. I was also pleased to get cards from Cooke, Hill and Pip Brudenall and one, rather touchingly, from Mark Sonning wishing me every happiness. Nick Shelton sent one with a robin on the front and the message 'You really helped me' whilst Leo's was predictably pink and glittery. 'To my very own superhero,' it read, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, faces like yours belong in the zoo! With love and thanks.' It was signed 'your loving lion, xxxx.' It brought a tear to my eye. I hadn't written anything like that, just 'Happy Christmas, Love Jonathan x.'

  ''Crikey, J,'' said Paulus, ''For such a romantic, you're a cold-blooded bastard.''

  ''So are you,'' I retorted. ''Who's Jessica? Like Jessica Rabbit, right?'' His face took on this stupid dreamy expression. ''Oh man! You're in love! Poorly's in love! Fuck me!''

  Apparently she was amazing. Her eyes were amazing. Her laugh was amazing. Paulus, the gayest kid in Christendom, had a girlfriend. I listened politely as he banged on about her then interrupted with questions, like how long had it been going on?

  ''Halloween?'' I shouted, battering Paulus round the head with his Christmas card. ''Why didn't you tell me?''

  ''Because,'' he said haughtily, ''Unlike you, Jonathan, my love-life isn't a soap opera. Besides, I didn't want you gayboys sobbing your hearts out. I know how much you fancy me…''

  Yelling and laughing, I chased him up the stairs two at a time then down the passage to Jacko's room and a wild, rambunctious house-meeting full of whooping and stamping.

  ''You guys made history this term,'' said Jacko, ''Mark, Mark, Jonny and Ali, our fabulous debating team, the brilliant cast of our play, Stuart, Harry, Bill, Sooty, Jason,'' Each name got a cheer, ''Andy, and, oo la la, our very own, wonderful Leo the Lion.''

  The cheer for him split my ears, especially when the Sixth Formers chorused in unison ''Bananas… with thick, thick custard!''

  ''And Jonathan Peters,'' Jacko indicated me, ''Actor, speaker and yet again, winner of the individual music competition in two classes. You had your own troubles to contend with but you came through them and we're very proud of you.''

  Zero to hero. Thunderous applause and stamping, except from Stewart and one or two others. Sonning stuck his fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle which Warburton echoed. This time it seemed affectionate. Even Bobby Rose was grinning.

  Leo and Sooty were presented with their green and blue house-ties and we cheered some more, shaking hands and smacking shoulders. Earning your tie in Murray was notoriously difficult, unlike Rowntree and Leeman, which seemed to chuck them around like confetti at a wedding. We joked they got theirs for just showing up on Tuesdays.

  ''Best day ever!'' crowed Leo, proudly tying his. I gathered him in and kissed his mouth then handed him to Ali who did the same. Sooty got a handshake and a hug.

  Back in the classroom, I played bridge with Cooke, Paulus and Huxley whilst Bunny talked us individually through our reports. Partnering Paulus, I'd bid us into three spades, holding in my hand the ace, king, jack, eight, seven, four and three, with the aces of clubs and hearts and a singleton diamond. I'd thought of no-trumps but it felt too risky, you know? Whatever, I needed to keep the lead.

  Huxley, pushing his glasses up his nose, laid a nine of clubs on the table. Paulus set out his thirteen cards and my spirits rose considerably. He had five diamonds which I could cross-rough with so I pulled his three of clubs, watched Cooke toss down a two and took the trick with my ten. I played my lone diamond, the ten. Huxley, tabling the Queen, won the trick. 1-1. I frowned, reviewed my options as Huxley led the ace of diamonds. To trump or not to trump, that was the question. Then Cooke was called up about his report.

  ''You gonna watch The Merchant of Venice tonight?'' asked Paulus. ''I'll think of you.''

  ''Me? Why?''

  '' 'The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath','' quoted Huxley. ''Honestly, Jonny, you're such a barbarian.''

  I was actually planning to watch The Goodies and the Bean-stalk on BBC1, you know? Where this goose looses a bouncing bomb/golden egg at the Goodies while they're shinnign down the beanstalk and the giant is a dwarf in a massive boot shouting 'fee-fi-fo-fum' through a mega-megaphone. Man, insane! Much funnier than old Shakey an' all. Anyway, ' Huxley said I could watch both. The Goodies started at 7.25 and finished at 8.10, when the Shakespeare started. I scowled he was a walking Radio Times.

  ''You forgive very easily,'' said Paulus. ''They beat the crap out of you yet you send them Christmas cards and lie to protect them and I know it's not because you're scared of them. It's something else. It's as though nothing ever happened. No-one talks about it, about what they did to you. Brushed under the carpet, brushed out of history. It's a fucking disgrace, Jonathan, a fucking disgrace.'' His lips were quivering with sudden rage. ''They said they were your friends, yet they cut you and burned you, they made you drink piss, they really hurt you…'' He glared at Maxton, Stewart, Seymour, Brudenall, ''And you let them go.''

  ''Every day they see me,'' I said carefully, ''They'll remember what they did. Every time I smile and say hello, they'll remember how they tortured me. Every day I'm still here will remind them of the savage within.''

  Huxley grunted. ''Blimey, Jonathan, when did you become such a greybeard? You'll be wearing flowers in your caftan and beading your hair next.''

  ''I can't be bothered, Adrian,'' I said. ''Anger and hatred, they're exhausting. Some people choose to be bigots. That's up to them.'' I smiled at Paulus, rested my hand on his. ''And even though you basically dumped me for Jessica Rabbit, I still love you very much.''

  Huxley asked me to pass him a sick-bag as Cooke returned with a stack of As, Bs and glowing comments. I said he was a swot. He replied that I was a clot. I wondered why I'd never been friends with these guys before. They were really nice, you know? So if I'd lost friends like Maxton and Wilson, I'd gained friends like Cooke and Huxley. It was weird.

  Fortunately, the break had broken Cooke's concentration and he led out the queen of clubs. Restraining a whoop, I won it with the ace, seized the lead and played out all the spades in my hand, all the diamonds in the dummy, declaring with two over-tricks, sixty points over the line, and ninety under, and reducing our deficit to ten.

  Then Bunny was calling me and I was laying my cards face-down on the table, scraping back my chair, wondering if he'd look me in the
eye. Despite everything, I'd chipped in a quid for his bottle of whisky and even signed his Christmas card with my trademark JP signature, the two stems merged into one, and a smiley face in the loop of the P.

  Our reports came in these blue plastic-covered, hard-backed books. They covered our entire school careers. Mine was a little dog-eared now, the legend PETERS, Jonathan David and my date of birth, 30 May, under the crown-and-corn crest and 'invenire et intelligite', my current age, 15.7, on the open page.

  The positives were English: 'He has considerable ability and works keenly but sometimes fails to prepare his ideas in sufficient depth. His essays need to be fuller,' History: 'He continues to produce impressive work and should do very well in the summer' (cheers, Hellfire), and French: 'His approach this term has been most encouraging and he is a careful, conscientious worker.' That'll do, Benj.

  The negatives were Physics: 'He is still floundering. He finds the work difficult and must make a greater effort to get to grips with it,' Chemistry: 'His work is not good enough and he is still not trying. He must make an effort to learn the subject-matter' (tell it how it isn't, you Barney-faced pillock) and Biology, 'Very disappointing work all term. He seems to be satisfied always with the minimum,' (thanks a bunch, Herb).

  German was ambivalent - 'He has ability in the subject but his work is rather erratic, at times of good quality, at other times surprisingly careless and some pieces recently have been most disappointing.' Wingnut said I was quiet in class. Vicarage had written 'A good term's work.' Perry, the fat-faced twat, had just written 'satisfactory' but Maths was interesting: 'I think he tries hard but his results are sometimes poor. He seems to be coping better, but needs to ask for help when he doesn't understand.'

  ''By which,'' said Bunny, ''I mean ask me, not Maxton.''

  ''I'm embarrassed when I don't understand and everyone else does,'' I admitted, ''I feel so stupid.''

  ''You are stupid,'' said Bunny, ''Because you sit there pretending to understand when everyone knows you haven't got a clue what's going on. What's happened to your German?''

  ''I had some stuff on my mind, sir,'' I said drily, noticing no-one'd commented on that. Jacko merely stated I'd taken part in the individual music competition, the play, the debating and swimming, and noted that I 'continued to support the Choral Society, the Chamber Orchestra and the Wargames Society,' all of which I kind of knew already? The Headmaster had simply written 'I don't suppose he will ever find Sciences easy; but as long as he continues to try we can have no real complaints about his attitude.' See? No mention.

  ''Not gonna do Sciences, sir,'' I said smugly. ''I'm gonna be a writer.''

  Bunny sighed. ''Come on, Jonathan. Get your feet on the ground, eh? Head out of the clouds, back down to earth, you know? Yes, you're a talented musician but this school's a very small pond. You may find that, out in the big ocean, you're just another minnow. Get your GCSEs, solid A-Levels, good degree… focus that butterfly brain of yours.'' He slapped the blue book shut. ''The way you dealt with the events of the last few weeks… well, if you approach your exams with the same determination, you'll be fine. Happy Christmas.''

  Final Assembly. 'O Come All Ye Faithful' was bellowed enthusiastically by nine hundred people, more rugby song than Christmas carol. Redmond read the opening lines of John's Gospel in his usual monotonous tree-like drone: 'In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. All that came to be was alive with his life and that light was the life of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has never mastered it.' That Light was Love and it radiated all around me, especially when the Headmaster, in his black gown and a scarlet hood, reviewing the Michaelmas term, awarded trophies to the winners of the inter-house squash cup, the City Cup for rugby, won by the First XV for the fourth year in succession, a magnificent shield to a guy called Linfield who'd won the county Under-19 squash title and the Montgomery Inter-House Debating Cup to Sonning and the Dunlop Drama Cup to Alistair. I swelled to bursting-point. I loved these guys. I loved all these guys. Paulus, on my left, nudged me and grinned.

  The Chaplain read the Prayer of St Teresa of Avila: 'Let nothing disturb you, Let nothing frighten you. All things pass away; God never changes. Patience obtains all things. The one who has God lacks nothing. God alone will suffice.' I thought he'd picked it for me.

  We launched into a boisterous 'Hark the Herald Angels, Sing,' and my eyes prickled with emotion. School would resume on Wednesday January 7th and I couldn't wait. This truly was my home. These people were my family, whatever our past, and I was so happy to be staying, even if Leo, in this lurid pink and orange ski-jacket and silver Moon Boots (was this another trend I'd missed out on?), and Shelton, in a black Superdry windcheater and snow-caked black Kickers, bawled 'Ant Music' for the half-hour duration of the bus journey.

  Don't tread on an ant he's done nothing to you,

  There might come a day when he's treading on you,

  Don't tread on an ant you'll end up black and blue,

  You cut off his head, Legs come looking for you,

  Ant Ant Ant Ant music…

  Next, 'Good King Wenceslas', 'I'm a wanker' by Ivor Biggun and The Red-Nosed Burglars, 'We wish you a Merry Christmas', and Ivor Biggun's version of 'Down by the Riverside':

  My massive dump made a great big clump, down by the riverside,

  It drifted with the tide, "Ahoy!" a sailor cried,

  "Would that be shite or the Isle of Wight I see on my port side?"

  Bobby draped his arm round my neck and asked if I was coming sledging with him and Ali. ''My brother loves you very much, and I love my brother very much, so I guess I should love you too.'' Then, answering my expression, ''We talk, Jonny, we talk all the time. You are his world and I know now you'll never hurt him.'' He seemed quite emotional. ''After all, you bled for him, you died for him, and you saved him.''

  ''That's because I love him,'' I said simply, and told Bobby of the Cotswold cottage and Amadeus our marmalade cat, and said he could come any time. ''You see? I wanna be with him all the time, forever, till the day I die.''

  Guess what? Bobby hugged me. What did Huey Lewis sing about the power of love?

  The park resounded with the raucous cries of excited children. The steep slope that connected the Lake View pub to the lake itself, now half-covered with a thick sheet of black ice, was packed with sledges. Ali pulled Santa hats from his pocket and passed one to me with a ''Merry Christmas, sweetheart'' and one to Bobby then we charged up and down the slope, yelling and whooping, me on this clunky wooden red thing my Dad had kind of nail-gunned together and the Rose boys on this sleek, state-of-the-art, superlight silver-black aluminium job that would've been perfect for the Winter Olympics. Man, it was so flashy, you know? I was pleased I had something honest. Steaming breath, red cheeks, tingling fingers, sunlight glaring off the endless white wasteland, this is what everyone loves about winter.

  When we finished sledging, we chucked a few snowballs about then headed back to my house to make a massive snowman in the front garden using coal for eyes, nose and buttons, sticks for arms and a curved line of bright scarlet rowanberries for a mouth. Standing back, we warbled ''We're walking in the air, floating in the moonlit sky, I'm finding I can fly so high above with you.''

  ''That's how I feel,'' I told Ali, hugging him round the waist, ''When I'm with you.''

  Bobby, smiling, said we should get a room and that he was off home. I said he didn't have to. He said he did. He needed to pack for the school ski-ing trip, a week in Austria with Jennings and Leatherface. I mean, no-one deserves that. Even worser, Leverett was going, as captain of the ski team, along with the Seymour Brothers and Matt Robbins, who went every year. Sorry but no amount of glühwein would be enough. Besides, this Christmas me and Ali were making a magazine.

  ''You can feed my hamster while I'm away,'' Bobby told me, ''Give you an excuse to come round.'' He jerked his head at his brother. ''He still hasn't told Mum and Dad about you.''

&n
bsp; Ali shuffled unhappily and muttered something at Bobby's back. I didn't know how to feel, angry, upset, anxious, relieved? Whatever he thought best, I guess. His parents, I knew, had totally freaked out about him being gay as it was. They'd sat up all night screaming at each other and crying and when his Dad asked if he was seeing anyone, Ali said no. Then his Mum had confronted him over a rumour that he was seeing me, and if it was true, she would tell the police I had seduced him. In fact, he only said he was gay to be like me, 'cos for some reason I had bewitched him. I mean. No-one seduced anyone, you know? We kind of fell in love? What's so wrong with that?

  The front door opened and Dad, framed in light from the hallway, was peering uncertainly into the murky gloom where Ali and I were kissing.

  ''Oh,'' I said stupidly, ''I didn't know you were home.''

  ''Not much gardening I can do in this,'' he replied drily. ''I've come home to sort out the ice on the pond. It's frozen right over. How was school?''

  ''All right,'' I said. ''We could do the pond, lob a couple of bricks at it, you know?''

  ''The shock-waves would kill the fish,'' said Dad. ''You need to melt it slowly. I'm going to use a blowtorch. Hello Alistair. Happy Christmas. Nice hats. How are your reports?''

  ''All right,'' I said again, conscious I was still wrapped in Ali's arms.

  A momentary pause, then Dad said ''Do you want some hot chocolate? There's some banana-bread in the tin. Maybe stay for tea, Alistair? I'm gonna do my famous beef goulash. The secret is loads of paprika and a marbling swirl of sour cream. Melts in the mouth.''

  I squeezed Ali's hand. ''You'll love it. It's the best dinner ever.'' I smiled winningly at my father. ''Can we have marshmallows in the chocolate?''

  Dad smiled. ''You can have anything, my prince. And so can you, Alistair, my prince's prince. It's Christmas.''

  So we stepped into the warmth of the hall and he closed the door behind us.