by Patrick Gale
‘How do you feel about them,’ she asked, ‘about your parents?’
He ate a walnut, staring into the nearest candle. ‘It disgusts me,’ he said.
She could not hide her dismay. ‘What?’ she exclaimed.
‘They’re too old, and they should know better.’
‘But if they’re unhappy, then surely …’ This priggishness would make her task a great deal easier.
‘I mean that they’re too old to start afresh; they’ll only be lonely. Besides, marriage is a Sacrament.’
‘You don’t honestly believe that?’
‘Yes. Of course I do.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. The way he raised his eyes to hers as he spoke confirmed the plainness of his faith.
‘Sorry. I’m not mocking or anything,’ she assured him, refilling his glass, ‘it’s just that my parents separated when I was about your age, and all I could think was how happy they were going to be. I only wondered why they hadn’t split up before.’
‘Why hadn’t they?’
‘They were “protecting” me.’
‘You say “separated”, did they actually get a divorce?’
‘No. Mamma’s too devout.’
‘She believes marriage is a Sacrament?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But you didn’t laugh at her?’
‘Of course I laughed. I laugh about it whenever we meet, because there were so many dishy men lining up to run off with her, and I know she wanted to run but was fooling herself that her duty lay with my father.’
‘What did your husband make of your attitudes?’
She refilled her glass and topped up his. It was vital that he drink more swiftly than her; she must do all the talking.
‘Oh, cut the crap, Quin. You know I’ve never had a husband.’
‘What?’
‘Look. You left the key in your bedroom door and I let myself in and nosed around and found that file by your bed.’
His face blanched, then reddened. His eyes flicked away from her. She was certain he was about to spill the wine.
‘Oh dear,’ he said.
‘Since you knew who I was, why did you string me along like that?’
‘I … I suppose I rather liked the person you were being.’ He looked up with one of his crushed-in smiles and she had to throw back her head and laugh.
‘Oh Christ!’ she declared. ‘I’m a silly fool, and you’re so sweet.’
She cut herself a slice of Bleu de Bresse and discovered that she was getting drunk. She should never have had that strengthening gin before her bath. She chewed on the cheese, picked off some grapes and listened to the crooning blues number that was playing.
‘So how does it feel to be eating in the bedsit of a prizewinning playwright?’
‘I’m honoured. I’ve seen every one of your plays, you know.’
She laughed. ‘You haven’t! Really? But they’re tripe.’
‘No they’re not. They aren’t pretentious, that’s all. They’re humane and they make me laugh.’
‘And they’re tripe.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s a secret.’ She cut off a piece of Brie and refilled his glass. ‘No. Actually, I’ve just split up with my boyfriend. We’d been living together for years now, married in all but name, and I thought I’d move in here while I found myself somewhere new to live.’
‘You liked it for its anonymity?’
‘Huh. Yes. That’s right.’ The boy had a sense of irony after all. She didn’t want him to ask about the new play, so she swung the subject around. ‘Quin?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you really believe what you said about your parents’ divorce?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t you – forgive me if I sound patronizing – aren’t you a trifle young to be so dogmatic?’
‘I don’t think so. Dogma’s only an outsider’s word for faith.’
‘Did Brother Jerome tell you that?’
‘Yes. But that doesn’t make it any less true.’
‘You know his name isn’t really Jerome?’
‘Of course. It used to be Sebastian, but he changed it when he took his vows. People often change their names to strengthen their sense of starting afresh.’
‘Do you mind me cross-examining you like this?’
‘Fire away, only child.’
‘What do you want to do when you leave UCL?’
‘I’ve applied to go to the Holy Cross Seminary in Massachusetts. It was a choice of there or Athens, and I’m hopeless at learning languages.’
‘So you really want to be a priest?’
‘Well, I want to be a monk, then see what happens. I don’t think I’d be terribly good at pastoral work – I’m not very good at understanding people’s problems. As you would say, I’m “dogmatic”. I went to see Jerome after lunch today. I’d barely got back from there when you knocked on my door.’
‘Did you talk to him about your parents?’
‘No. Not much, anyway. But having talked to them has helped me make up my mind. I’m taking my first vows next week.’
‘Which? Monastic ones?’
‘Sort of. Strictly speaking I’m not meant to until I’m several years older, so these would be unofficial, preliminary ones. They’ll be just as binding, of course; a sort of personal preparation for me.’
‘On approval,’ said Domina with bitterness.
‘Quite.’
‘Quintus, don’t you think it’s a terrible waste?’ She saw him hesitate. His delay could not be mistaken. The boy was a suicidal idiot.
‘I don’t see why. I’ve no other ambitions. I’ve no particular skills. I like history, and as a monk I could still study. My faith is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘Better than flying?’
‘Oh that. I’d give that up.’
‘Why? You enjoy it.’
‘I couldn’t afford it, for one thing.’
‘And you wouldn’t mind that?’
‘Of course I’d mind at first, but that’s irrelevant.’
She poured him another glass and felt her hand quiver. ‘What exactly are the vows?’
‘The ones I’ll take next week? Chastity, primarily, then abstinence. I’ll give up meat and probably alcohol, too.’
‘But why?’
‘Why not?’
She was tempted to ask if he knew what he’d be missing. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to get married?’
‘No. The idea appeals, of course, like the ideas of eating and drinking, but just because appetites exist doesn’t make it necessary to feed them.’
‘OK. So you won’t starve without alcohol, and vegetarians can be healthy, but just how long can you do without sex?’
He took a hasty mouthful of wine. ‘I’m still a virgin actually.’
It was Domina who blushed.
‘Well … Oh God … I suppose one can’t say wait until you’re not before you give it up,’ she said. ‘Quintus, it’s only that I hate that kind of finality. It’s like the castrati. There’s something immoral about asking a twelve-year-old choirboy, whose head is only full of Allegri, bells and smells, whether he minds awfully giving his balls to Jesus.’
‘I’m not twelve.’
‘No, but you are a virgin.’ There was a pause while she poured out the last of the wine. Wish, she thought, as she gave herself the last drops. ‘Are you really?’
‘Yes.’
She watched her wine for a moment, swirling it in the bottom of the glass.
‘Has Seb, I mean Brother Jerome, told you he was at Cambridge with me?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he was. We were in the same year. He came to my twenty-first birthday party.’
‘I wonder why he’s never mentioned it. He doesn’t talk about his past much. I haven’t told him you’re here, actually.’
‘I think I can tell …’
‘Domina, please …’
‘I think I o
ught to tell you why.’
Quintus set aside his glass and started to stand. His knees had gone stiff and he had some difficulty.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I think you’re going to say something malicious, and I’d rather not hear it. Thank you for …’
‘Sit down.’ She was encouraged by the firmness of her own voice in the sordid little room. She stared up at him until his gaze, gingerly, crept round to meet her own. ‘Quintus, sit down.’
Slowly he lowered himself back to the floor. Still by the bed, but closer to the armchair now. When he spoke, his voice was uneven as a thirteen-year-old’s.
‘Well, tell me and then I think I should go back to my room and let you …’ In crossing his legs, he kicked over the bowl of walnuts. They scattered across the carpet. ‘Oh sorry,’ he stuttered, reaching out an ineffectual hand.
‘Never mind them. Now listen. I was at university with your Brother Jerome when he was still called Seb Saunders and was a notorious homosexual.’
‘No. He …’
‘He was witty, intelligent, vociferously irreligious, and quite open about his taste in men. He liked them tall, pale and thin. He’d have liked you.’
‘Well, that was then. When he converted and took his vows he left all that behind him. I expect he prays for atonement every day.’
‘But don’t you see he’s living a lie? When he took the vows of chastity, he lied. I know enough about Christianity to know about sinning in thought as well as deed, and I can’t believe Seb changed his spots to that extent. I simply don’t think you should be taking him as your spiritual guide. I’ve nothing against homosexuality – I expect you’re more severe about it than I am – but I do think you should talk to someone of more, well, of more integrity before you take any vows.’
‘You don’t know Jerome. He’s probably a changed man.’
‘Your spiritual father drove a young cousin of mine to suicide.’
‘No. You’re just saying that.’
‘He seduced him, made him fall in love with him, then threatened to wreck his career, and Gregory killed himself. Seb was only your age at the time; if he was like that then, I can only think he’s worse now.’
As she talked, Quintus had been struggling, trying to leave, trying not to hear, but she had seen the earlier hesitation, she knew his Achilles’ heel. Now he sat hunched against the bed staring down at the carpet. By the light of the candles she could see the glistening in his sea-green eyes. Secure in the knowledge that he was not now going to run away, she fell silent and waited, watching. After a moment he pushed the hair off his forehead and she saw that he was biting the inside of his lips. The time was right. She counted to ten, staring at the tremors of the skin below his mouth, and the clenching and pinching of his fingers in his lap. When she spoke, she made her voice as motherly as possible.
‘Oh Quin, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I …’ She waited for him to look up, despair in his eyes, then held out her arms. ‘Come here.’
With a sound approaching a yelp he half crawled, half fell across the small stretch of carpet between them and held her tight, his sobbing face in her breasts. She held one hand firmly against his shoulder blades and stroked his soft hair with the other, gazing at his long legs, laid so awkwardly out behind him, and murmuring, ‘There there, you poor sweet fool. There there. It’ll be all right. Everything’ll be all right.’
As his sobbing grew less convulsive, she could make out the words, ‘I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.’ The vibrations of his voice reached her ribs and made her shudder. She continued to stroke his hair and smiled down at him. His tears were beginning to wet her blouse. She could feel their hot wetness. She bent her head forward and sank her lips onto his crown with a low hum.
‘There there,’ she whispered, and kissed his hair again. It smelt of green apple shampoo and was as fine as a child’s. Slowly, as she knew would happen, the weeping stopped and his embrace grew more controlled, more searching. As she felt one of his hands travel gradually up her spine, she bent her face towards him in readiness. As he raised his own, tear-stained, she pressed a kiss onto his blood-stiffened lips.
The struggle was minimal, a token gesture. Her first virgin, he barely fumbled at all. She was faintly disappointed at the accuracy of his intuitive moves. After she had blown out the candles and taken him into her bed, after she had worked out her several angers, at Gerald, at Seb, at Randy’s infidelity, and at this young man’s sanctimonious self-negation, she was shocked that the lovemaking had been so pleasurable. In the final analysis her impulse had been a charitable one.
She found the matches and lit the candle she had left on the bedside table. She looked down on that face, attractive, only in a hopeless, ascetic way, of course. She smiled. He shut his eyes and sighed. In a darting movement, she took another fierce kiss from his mouth. Then she pulled back and her face was triumphant.
‘Go on,’ she murmured, ‘go on, Quin, say it again.’
The expression in his eyes was untroubled, empty.
‘You’re the Boss,’ he said, ‘no one else can do this but you ‘cause you’re the Boss.’
‘Good boy.’ She blew out the candle.
23
Domina was typing out a third act. It was inhumanely hot. She had a carton of pineapple juice on the table beside Ray and paused to take a swig from time to time, or to mop the sweat from her face and arms with a large red handkerchief. Even in these pauses her concentration did not lapse, her eyes remained on the emerging page. The telephone rang occasionally and she would ignore it. At one stage, a hand rapped smartly on her door and Mr Punjabi called out.
‘Mrs Tey? Excuse me. Mrs Tey, are you there?’
She only fell silent and kept still until his steps descended the stairs once more, her eyes fixed on her work. Her alarm clock had run down, but she must have worked solidly for over five hours.
She had slept a sound and dreamless sleep. She had woken when Quintus climbed out of bed. She opened her eyes to see him pulling on his trousers. He saw her wake and smiled, putting a finger to his lips.
‘Ssh. Go back to sleep. I’m just going to make a phone call. Back in a sec.’
Only half awake in any case, she had fallen fast asleep again, holding last night’s scenario at a mental arm’s length as unfit for too immediate a scrutiny. She had woken later to the smell of fresh coffee. He had brought her up a tray: coffee, a petit pain au chocolat and a glass of orange juice.
‘Hello,’ he said, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
‘Angel,’ she murmured, and sat up to drain the sleep from her skull. She took the glass in both hands and sipped some juice, while he stared at her. He seemed to have tidied the room. At the moment, the only thing she could register was confusion. She was at a loss as to how she should be feeling. ‘Who did you telephone?’
‘How would you like to fly to the Isle of Wight for a picnic?’
‘Quintus, this is most unlike you.’
‘Don’t tease. Well? Would you come?’
‘I’d love to. But it isn’t a Sunday.’
‘That’s OK. I rang Brian and he said no one’s booked the Chipmunk all day. It’s all ours. Do you have to work?’
‘Well, no,’ she laughed, uncertainly. ‘But what about you? Surely … er … church?’
‘I said don’t tease. Hurry up and eat your breakfast and we’ll be off. I’ve put some petrol in the car.’
‘Is there an airport on the Isle of Wight?’
‘Of course. Not a big one, but it’s there. You used to be able to fly over from near Portsmouth. Shall I run you a bath?’
‘Please,’ she said without thinking, and he was gone.
When she determined to seduce him, Domina had spared no thought to the morning, indeed the mornings, after. There had been a blind, single-minded fury, then a glowing sense of victory that was somehow philanthropic, then she had fallen asleep. Did she love him? Surely not – Randy was the one she loved. Did Quin love her? Presumably he
was bound to be fairly infatuated, she being his number one and so forth. As she bathed, as she dressed, as she was bounced in the Morris beside him, Domina was amused and mildly alarmed that she was being presented with a romantic dilemma. Quintus was undoubtedly attractive, albeit only in an ascetic way. He had even proved potentially good in bed. Having taken it upon herself to rescue him from a living death, she couldn’t simply wave bye-bye.
There again she was almost twice his age. She found herself cast in a role that was at once maternal, sexual and vaguely divine. By the time they drew up in the car park at Biggin Hill, she had decided that it was not a part she wanted to play. They would have a lovely time at the Isle of Wight, then she would firmly, kindly, get the hell out of Bayswater. He was bright. He would survive. Perhaps she would let him make love to her once more before she left – for the memory’s sake.
They had bought a picnic in Notting Hill before setting off. Together they carried the bags and rugs over to the tiny, waiting craft. They loaded it up, then Domina stood below, watching, while the same technician finished whatever it was he did with the engine. He had just finished when Quintus turned to speak.
‘Domina, could you do me a huge favour?’
‘Yes. What?’
‘I’ve just remembered I’d arranged to have lunch with Brother Jerome.’
‘Do you want me to ring him and pretend to be Tilly or something?’
‘Could you?’
‘Of course. What’s the number?’
‘Damn. I can’t remember it offhand. It’s in my address book in the glove compartment. Here, I’ll give you the keys. There’s a pay-phone on the stairs to the spectators’ gallery.’
‘OK. I’ll tell the old bugger you’ve had to go home urgently.’
‘No. Just say that I can’t come. That’s all I’d have told Tilly.’
She walked back to the car and found the number. Then she climbed the staircase and found a pay-phone by the doors which led out onto the rooftop. She dialled the number. A man’s voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Brother Jerome?’ she asked, knowing it wasn’t.
