The Bishop folded his arms and became ‘the tough interrogator’, a role he obviously relished.
‘I’ve been doing a little bit of thinking. You set the whole business up, didn’t you? Don’t tell me that you needed the toilet in the middle of the night. Oh no! You were doing your Beaconsfield Shower Act, weren’t you? That’s why you were cavorting round in your underpants. You saw that Jason was susceptible to your charms and you thought you’d have a bit of fun. Tart about. Get him all worked up. Not difficult, I’m afraid. But it all got out of hand, didn’t it? Ended in tears. Now you’ve invented this little farrago to cover your traces and get a little kudos as well. Go on, admit it!’
The floor giving way beneath me and sending me hurtling down… to where? To what? Now I really am in the shit. What did happen on Saturday night? I don’t know. Does anybody know? It could have been like he says it was. How do I know that it wasn’t?
Desperate plea: ‘Please, I didn’t! Honest, I didn’t! Swear to God!’
Is he going to start on me with that rattan cane? The humiliation! But I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear it. No choice. He’s probably going to have me sent back to Greenhill.
Despite himself, and to his enormous shame, he began to cry. He knew he shouldn’t. Proper lads didn’t cry. But it just went and happened.
Then deliverance came crashing through the door as Isabel exploded into the room. ‘Don, leave him alone! You know it’s not true! If you must know, I told the Boldonbridge Journal about the fire. I told the reporter everything that is in that article!’
‘But it’s simply not true!’
‘In the details, perhaps not. But the essence is true. If it hadn’t been for John, the whole house would have been burnt down, and us with it! Why can’t you see that? You seem determined to deny obvious facts.’
Another of those awkward silences. The two antagonists eyed each other. Eventually the Bishop backed down with a bad grace. For Donald Macnab, accepting any kind of defeat was about as palatable as swallowing a bowl of liquid cement, especially defeat at the hands of his wife. Digestion of unpleasant realities took time.
He turned his guns onto the squashed mess that was John. ‘All right, you can stop snivelling. I’ll believe you. I was just stirring the pot a bit to get you to face up to what people will start saying if you let yourself get big-headed. Anyway, I’ve got news for you.’
‘Oh?’ John felt a spurt of alarm running through his body like an electric shock.
‘You’re leaving us this morning.’
Doom! You’ve messed your nest!.They’re chucking you out! Yobbos. Greenhill.
‘Oh, please, no!’ he gasped.‘Please give me another chance!’
‘Don’t be an ass! It’s all been sorted out. Watson’s having you back. You’re back at Beaconsfield again.’
An overwhelming feeling of relief. Curtains drawn back. Sunlight flooding into the darkened room. Heavy rucksack falling off your back. Uncontrollable surge of emotion surging up. Those yukky tears started again.
‘Thank you! Thank you! I’m so pleased.’ Sniffle… Wiffle….
‘Don’t thank me!’ snorted the Bishop. ‘Thank God. He’s the one who makes people want to help the likes of you. So what are you going to say to him, eh?’
John knelt down on the carpet. ‘Thanks, God. Thanks a billion! I really will try to be good. I’m so grateful!’
The Sermon on the Motorway
The Bishop drove him back to Fern Avenue in his souped-up BMW. In the few calm intervals of the adrenaline-filled, fighter pilot style battle with the traffic, he delivered an impromptu and disjointed sermon.
‘Go on, woman, can’t you see the light’s green! Get your car into gear!… Let all this be a lesson to you, young man… That’s right! At last you’re moving!… Whatever you do, don’t forget about God! You’re going to need him. Don’t end up like your ridiculous father… Driving an Audi and he’s only doing thirty, for heaven’s sake!… Yes, I know I’m being tactless – ‘unprofessional’ they call it! – but it’s no use ducking reality. You get his line: God’s a fairy story, a load of garbage. He can do without God, but you can’t… Come on, man, it’s no use trying to chase me! I’ve got a BMW and you’ve only got a little Metro. Unequal contest, so don’t fret! There, that’s got him!… Remember the camel going through the eye of a needle. For “rich in money” substitute “rich in talent, rich in achievement, rich in friendship”. That’s your father… Go on, you idiot! Move over! You shouldn’t be doing thirty in the outer lane… Blind to reality he is. You, my man, aren’t like that. Your proclivities – and, I’m afraid, Professor Hindmarsh says, they could be permanent – are going to be a problem for you in this sex-obsessed age. Most people won’t understand you. A lot will despise you. The do-gooders will consider you a freak, a sort of endangered species to be cotton-wooled like a panda… Condescended to look in your mirror, have you, madam? Well done! You’re learning! You’re learning!… I wouldn’t get too closely involved with the so called “Liberated” hippies, if I were you. Narcissic exhibitionists, many of them, Think of poor old Cedric. Not your scene, my lad! You’ll just get labelled, pigeon-holed. Won’t do you any good. Anyway, to get back to the point, you know what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the boot. And that’s wisdom. Not something your father knows or is ever likely to know. Clear road ahead… Off we go! Whoa! There’s the police! Can’t be caught doing ninety! You know it’s quite possible that the Guy Upstairs could have made you gay for one of his odd little schemes. God’s a crafty old bastard, you know! Devious, underhand, springs things on you out of the blue.’
Not that Little Toad Again!
Perhaps God had arranged things for him. Or, maybe, it was just another of those mundane chains of circumstance. Who knew? Anyway, that Monday morning Dorothy had arrived at school to find a letter waiting for her on her study desk. Awesomely official and on House of Commons notepaper, it was from Dr Giles Denby MP, no less.
Nervously she read it. Dr Denby was ‘appalled by the inhumane treatment’ of his ‘cherished son, John’, etc., etc., etc. This was a new departure. Apart from the direct debit, which paid the school fees – a decidedly impersonal business, handled by his secretary – this was the first time in over eighteen months that he had condescended to communicate with the school.
Just what had caused this sudden eruption of parental concern for his superfluous son? God, perhaps? A sudden conversion, the Road to Damascus and all that? Hardly likely. Or, if at all, in a very roundabout sort of way.
On the Wednesday afternoon Giles had ignored Dorothy’s message on the answer phone. He had much more important things on his mind: a visit to Yorkshire to support the striking miners, the craven attitude of the T.U. C, what to say at Prime Minister’s Question Time…
The following Friday, Maggie Wright – who was now his partner and full-time secretary – handed him the letter formally expelling John from Beaconsfield for the homosexual abuse of a fellow pupil. It contained all the gory details; chapter and verse lovingly supplied by Briggs.
‘Giles, I really think you ought to read this.’
His first reaction was exasperated anger. Not that little toad again! He’d fondly imagined that with him installed in Ma Watson’s house the whole business had been settled. Out of sight. Out of mind. Swept comfortably under the carpet. But – oh no! – he couldn’t conveniently disappear, could he? He had to keep messing things up, hadn’t he? Christ, why couldn’t he just go and jump in the river or something? That would solve a lot of problems.
He shook his head dismissively. ‘He’ll just have to sort this one out for himself. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.’
Then Maggie fixed her large, watery eyes on him. She was a quite irresistibly lovely creature – that exquisitely shaped body, those wonderful bulbous breasts, that glorious flood of silver hair, that velvety skin…
and that impishly appealing smile, which was such an improvement on Mary’s analytical stare. And she was so calm and rational, too. Softly and gently persuasive.
‘You’re quite right, darling. But he’s a sad little scrap, isn’t he? It’s not his fault that he’s inadequate.’
‘I’m not here to deal with petty bourgeois inadequates.’
‘Aren’t you? Isn’t that what the Rainbow Coalition is all about? Concern for the casualties of Thatcherism?’
‘He’s hardly that. Spoilt brat, if you ask me!’
She sidled up to him and sat on the edge of his desk, every so often shifting her superbly shaped bottom to emphasise a point.
She entirely agreed with him, but… well… Didn’t he realise what all this could lead to? He was a firm supporter of Len Bowman’s Rainbow Coalition of Oppressed Minorities: blacks, Asians, deprived youngsters, so-called druggies… that alienated proletariat that would ignite ‘objectively necessary social change’. And this did include gays, didn’t it? What would happen if it were to leak out that his own son was being persecuted for being gay and he was doing nothing about it – as it most certainly would? The Tories would have a field day for a start. And, more to the point, what would Red Len himself have to say about it? He wouldn’t be exactly overjoyed to learn that Dr Giles Denby, that champion of the underdog, had callously ignored his own son, would he?
Giles heaved a resigned sigh: ‘Yes, I suppose you are right! I hadn’t really thought of it in that way. But, Christ Almighty, he has landed us in it, hasn’t he?’
Maggie edged closer to him and wiggled her bottom deliciously. Christ, she was so beautiful! Couldn’t she take her knickers off now instead of keeping him waiting till after midnight as she usually did?
‘No, darling,’ she cooed, ‘He’s given you a wonderful opportunity.’
Here was his chance to show to the world what a truly caring and compassionate parent he really was. The champion, indeed, of all persecuted youngsters wherever and whoever they were. Red Len would just eat that!
The ice melted. The warm glow of righteous indignation filled Giles. (Briggs would have said it was the Holy Ghost.) How right she was! Now that he didn’t actually have to be next to his wayward son – and endure his squeaky voice, inane conversation and baby-nappy smell – he became quite fond of him. Strictly in the abstract, of course. What a glorious opportunity to parade his socialist ideals before the Unbelievers and, also, to put that stuck-up petty bourgeois baggage, Ma Watson, firmly in her place – down into her place! Then and there, he dictated an ‘outraged’ letter.
He was ‘appalled by the insensitive and inhumane treatment’ of his ‘cherished son, John’… When he had ‘so reluctantly’ entrusted her with his care he had naturally assumed that he was dealing with ‘a properly trained professional’. Never for one moment had he imagined that she was the sort of person who would let herself be dominated by a man like James Briggs. And as for ‘kow-towing to a semi-educated car salesman like Fleetwood’, and, moreover a person who let his son watch pornographic videos…! (And for this spicy titbit he had to thank the ever-assiduous Martha Merrins; God, or Providence, rot the old bag!) Well! She was nothing but a ‘weak and pliable woman’ who listened to ‘bird-brained religious bigots’ and ‘sleazy businessmen’! He, at any rate,was ‘not prepared to countenance the persecution of minorities, be they black, brown or gay’. He was ‘seeing a solicitor’, and, if this matter was not satisfactorily resolved, would ‘not hesitate to sue the school’. In the meantime, he was taking the matter up with the Boldonbridge Education Committee and was seriously questioning the whole business of local authority support for Beaconsfield School….
‘It’s Pretty Obvious, Isn’t It?
A stunned Dorothy called Meakin into her study.
‘Read this, Roderick. What are we going to do?’
Meakin read through the letter. ‘Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Obvious?’
‘You’ll just have to have him back. Should never have been expelled in the first place, if you ask me.’
‘But will that be possible? Will the boys accept him? They’re very hostile to homosexuals, you know. And what about Mr Fleetwood?’
‘I’ll sort that one out. I’ll get the seniors together and spin a line about the dangers of ogling at porno mags and Page Three of the Sun. Hypes you up so much that you lose control and go and do daft things in showers. So, don’t go for old Denby when he comes back. It could be you next time. Even old Fleetwood might swallow that one.’
A Visitation from the Almighty
That afternoon Professor James George Hindmarsh, M.B, B.S, PhD, DSc, F.R.C.S, F.R.S, etc., etc., descended on Dorothy in all his professional and academic splendour; perhaps the nearest thing that ordinary mortals might get to an actual visitation from the Almighty. He duly put her right on a number of things, and not very tactfully, either.
That evening Dorothy had telephoned the Bishop. ‘Yes, we’ll take him back.’
‘So Proud of You’
When the Bishop’s BMW finally screeched to a juddering halt in Fern Avenue, Dorothy rushed out to greet them. She was no longer Mrs Watson, Headmistress and hard headed professional, but Dolly, big, warm, affectionate shaggy sheepdog Dolly. Very much the Emotional Woman.
She embraced John, clasping him tightly to her breast as if he were a cherished puppy, which had got lost and been found again; which in a sense he was.
‘Oh John!’ she gushed. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to have you back again! It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding. But it’s all water under the bridge and we’re back to normal.’
Overwhelmed with relief, John responded in like fashion. ‘Thanks! Thanks! I am going back to Beaconsfield, aren’t I?’
‘Of course, of course you are! Mr Meakin has talked to the boys and it’s all been sorted out. And I see from the Journal that you’re a hero! I’m so proud of you!’
So she gushed on for five or more minutes.
3
A New Start?
A Proper Lad Now
It was the start of the Easter holidays and a blissful period followed. It was the warm euphoria of sheer relief, relieved of that anxiety that had been weighing you down. And, also, the relief of being freed from the cloying tentacles of Isabel and from that terrifying high-explosive landmine, the Bishop; inspiring you with hope and confidence one minute and blasting you into grovelling smithereens the next.
Dolly continued to gush over him. He was invited to the Town Hall and given a Merit Award for his ‘bravery’ and duly appeared on the local television. The terrified little wimp who’d peed on the Bishop’s carpet and shat himself in the garden was no more. It was cool, caring, unselfish and fearless John instead.
But what was the truth? Which was the real John? Did such a thing as Truth actually exist? It all depended on which facts you chose to mention. It seemed that you could create your own truth.
Which was what he proceeded to do over the business of Danny in the shower. He’d got so sexed-up by gawping at all those bare female bums on Page Three of the Sun that when he’d seen Danny’s bare bum in the shower… well, he’d just exploded! He wasn’t called ‘Dirty Denby’ for nothing, you know!
All Back in Place?
So all was back in place. Or was it? Some truths seemed to be unalterable, firmly fixed no matter how artfully you juggled the facts. The dreams continued. But always about boys and never about girls. The Demon was still there. ‘Your proclivities… I’m afraid they could be permanent.’ Time had changed things and was pushing him down an unknown river.
Then there was that awful Wednesday afternoon tribunal. That was another unalterable fact: warm, friendly and loving Dolly, always so sympathetic and understanding, suddenly turning cold, pitiless and unforgiving. Could it happen again? Very probably. It was like a meteorite h
urtling down from a clear blue sky, wholly unexpected and wholly devastating. Things were not the same as before. Trust had gone.
For Dorothy, also, things could never be quite the same again. She’d duly swallowed the nasty medicine that the Bishop and Professor Hindmarsh had poured down her retching throat. She now understood that homosexuality was not a deliberate crime, but a normal part of the human condition. For those so afflicted it posed serious problems in a sex-mad and homophobic world: rejection, harassment, loneliness, self-disgust and perhaps even suicide. Was she equal to the challenge of guiding a homosexual youth towards a stable and productive adulthood? Wasn’t she aware that God could well have set the whole situation up just to test her mettle? Was she going to be like that young man in the Bible who, faced with a tough challenge from Jesus, had gone ‘away sorrowful because he had great possessions’? Not monetary riches in her case, but her so-called professionalism and her complacent self-esteem. As a Christian, of course she wasn’t!
But… deep down, she still found the whole notion of homosexuality strange and unnatural- indeed, deeply repulsive. What John had done to Danny in that shower was both incomprehensible and downright revolting. It took all her self-control to accept it let alone forgive it.
If only it had never happened! It was all such a brutal disappointment. She’d allowed herself to fantasise about John’s getting married and giving her grandchildren to enrich her declining years, and banish for ever the awful prospect of her sinking into an empty and unwanted old age. Now this hope was probably gone. Try as she might, she could never quite look at him in the same light again.
Problems Remain
It all came to a head over supper one evening.
She suddenly looked at him with an intense stare: ‘John, you must never do a think like that ever again.’
John stared sulkily at his mince and dumplings. ‘What are you on about?’ he eventually muttered.
‘You know perfectly well. That business with Danny Fleetwood in the shower. You’ve no idea of the trouble you caused.’
Far, Far the Mountain Peak Page 12
