In The Tent

by David Rees

  ‘It’s quite stimulating.’

  ‘If it’s real,’ Aaron said, ‘he’s luckier than I’ve been, or anyone else I’ve ever heard of.’

  ‘It’s a laugh,’ John repeated. ‘People don’t behave like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, they don’t. My dad’s mate is a window cleaner, and he had to rescue a woman once who’d locked herself in the lavatory. She couldn’t get out. But all he got for his trouble was a cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s all you know.’

  ‘Ah, come on.’

  ‘You don’t know!’

  ‘No,’ said John, yawning, bored with the conversation.

  ‘The women in the book are just objects,’ Tim said. ‘Sexual receptacles.’

  ‘Tim doesn’t love women,’ Aaron said.

  John laughed. ‘Then we’d better all watch ourselves. I’m going to bed.’ Silence followed this. They don’t really mind; that’s the extraordinary thing, Tim said to himself, as he lay in his sleeping-bag, later, listening to Ray talking about the siege of the Alcázar. He wished he did love women: it would make life much less difficult. Everything else would then be in harmony. It would be so much easier to live, not wasting hours and hours in this neurotic self-analysis. Yet he was accepted by these three, for these moments in time. He was grateful. Another voice inside said it was absurd to be grateful, almost a betrayal. It was Uncle Tom-ism. Why shouldn’t Aaron be equally grateful that he, Tim, accepted, without comment, the sungod’s heterosexuality? Black people didn’t exactly tug forelocks to all the whites in this country. Most of them—he hoped it was most of them—were proud to be Kenyan or Nigerian or whatever. The same went for Jews. And Catholics. (That was an irony!) ‘When we’re out in the streets,’ Father Sullivan said, years ago, at the start of the Corpus Christi procession, ‘remember we’re Catholics. Be proud to show to all those people, Protestants, atheists and the like, who will stop and stare and may well be laughing at you, that you believe in the Holy Catholic Church!’ So why shouldn’t homosexuals think similarly?

  Ave! Ave! Ave Maria! It was the day of his first Communion. Aged seven. Little girls with white veils, little boys with white bands on their arms. All singing, round the streets, in a procession of quite respectable size someone said. The grown-ups at the back holding banners: the Guild of the Blessed Sacrament, the Legion of Mary. People had stared, harmless housewives with shopping-baskets. It made him feel foolish. Ave!Ave! Ave Maria! His mother with her folding Kodak, taking his photograph.

  John and Aaron were asleep, their breathing even and restful. Ray tossed and turned. In the Spain he hated, in every town and village, on the feast of Corpus Christi, Ave! Ave! Ave Maria!

  Ray got up and went outside. Tim heard him pee. Drenching already sodden ground. He came back, shone the torch at Tim. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I shift my sleeping-bag nearer?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘All right.’ Though Tim could not follow the logic. Ray moved closer. The side of his sleeping-bag, Tim noticed, was unzipped. What was all this about? Ray switched the torch off.

  ‘Tim.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you . . . what Ron says?’

  Why not admit, he thought with beating heart. The question didn’t sound unkindly, and, anyway, Ray knew. There was nothing to lose. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘What!!’

  ‘Sssh! Don’t wake them up!’

  ‘But. . . you never ... I mean, you and Ron, your talk of girls . . . Ray, is this a joke?’

  ‘No, it certainly isn’t a joke!’

  ‘But ... I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll explain, another time, not now. It would take ages; the others might wake up.’ He was unzipping Tim’s sleeping-bag.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s wrong.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Ray’s hand was touching him, softly stroking his skin. This can’t be happening! It’s a dream! I’ll wake up in a sweat, and Ray’s sleeping-bag will be where it always is, Ray in it, asleep. Wrong, wrong: mortal sin, God’s anger. The fires of Hell, an eternity of it unless there is repentance. Father Sullivan, shocked, on the other side of the confession grille. Wrong, too: Ray is not ugly, but I don’t love Ray. I couldn’t kiss him. It would be easier, he decided with almost Jesuitical precision, to repent it with Ray. Afterwards he would feel only remorse, disgust. With Aaron it would be much more difficult to experience regret, impossible in fact: he would in that case for ever be cut off from God. This, with Ray; it was nothing, just another boy tossing him off.

  ‘No.’ But it sounded feeble.

  ‘You’re all screwed up, Tim. You’re crying out for it; I’ve seen it in your eyes. You’re so frustrated!’

  ‘Maybe. But not for you.’

  ‘Ron.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d love it with him too. But it’s useless, begging for the impossible.’

  ‘It’s stopped me sinning.’

  ‘Sin! That’s absurd!’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘You’re so screwed up. Have you never done it before?’

  ‘Only by myself.’ Losing my virginity. An appalling way to lose it, sinning with someone I don’t fancy. But he was shaking with excitement.

  ‘I’m coming in with you.’

  ‘No.’

  Ray’s legs on his, his body on top of him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  All four gates of the city were open, but Fairfax had decided that his conquering army should enter from the east. Cromwell, still obliging his commander-in-chief, obeyed orders and remained on the far side of the river, and his men spent the day repairing the blown-up section of the bridge. Sir Hardress Waller came through the south gate. It had been open since dawn, but there was no sign of Anthony. When Tim woke the other half of the bed was empty, but it looked as if he intended to return, for he had not removed any of his possessions.

  Tim walked with Jake up to the High Street, and from there to Rougemont Castle, the headquarters of the garrison and the civil administration. Berkeley, it was thought, would officially hand over the city when Fairfax arrived at the castle; a proclamation would be read out from the steps giving the terms of surrender. The streets were filled with people. Puritan sympathizers who had remained quietly in their homes for months, and those released from gaol that morning, felt free to move about, and the expressions on their faces reflected their happiness; at last a cruel and arbitrary despotism had been defeated. It was no wild carnival of celebration, however; their religious beliefs prohibited any vain enjoyment. They simply went about their business, greeting old friends not seen for weeks, trying to impress Royalist neighbours (who mostly remained indoors watching from upper windows) that they were honest, sober, and industrious citizens.

  Tim and Jake found a place from which they could view the proceedings, high up on a wall that marked the edge of the castle gardens. Shortly after noon the first soldiers of the New Model marched into the city. They could not be seen from where Tim sat, but the sound of tramping feet and the thump of drums drew closer and closer, followed by the clopping of horses’ hooves. Most of the troops dispersed to the main cross-roads, to the houses of the more notorious Cavaliers, and to strategic positions on the walls and the roofs of the gates. Foot-soldiers appeared in the castle grounds, then the cavalry, and finally, on a white horse, Sir Thomas Fairfax himself.

  There was a long silence, and the great concourse of people watched and waited.

  Sir John Berkeley emerged, alone. Fairfax dismounted and climbed the steps. The two opposing commanders, relentless enemies for so many years, politely doffed their hats to each other. Berkeley handed over the keys of the city, the keys of the castle. Fairfax summoned a herald, who, after a fanfare on his trumpet, read out the surrender terms. The whole city, its castle and fortifications, and all weapons, supplies and p
rovisions were to be handed over to the officers and men of the New Model. The Princess Henrietta Maria and her household were free to go wherever the King should decide. The Royalist garrison was to leave as soon as the reading of the proclamation was finished; they could go to their own homes or depart for the continent. Citizens who were known to have supported the King would be fined, but their property would not be confiscated. The cathedral, the city churches and their clergy, were granted special terms of protection. (There was some muttering in the crowd at this point; this edict was not popular: Dissenters remembered their own chapels, locked up or destroyed by fire.) All charters, property and privileges enjoyed by the people of Exeter and its corporation were to be safeguarded for the future. There would be no prisoners and no hostages.

  Such terms were generous beyond the wildest expectations of even the most optimistic of Royalist supporters. ‘He can afford to be generous,’ Jake said, ‘but it doesn’t mean there won’t be reprisals. There’s many an old score to be paid off’ Tim gazed at Fairfax. Slight in build, modest in appearance, his face stern. He had an air about him that suggested that, if he had needed to, he could have driven a much harder bargain.

  A horse was fetched for Berkeley and a way cleared through the crowd. The ex-Governor raised his hat once more, and rode out of the city. The remnant of the Royalist cavalry followed, then their infantry. Anthony was not among them.

  Fairfax returned to his horse and entered the castle, accompanied by several of his officers. A great cheer went up from the crowd.

  ‘It’s peace!’ Tim shouted. ‘We’re free!’ He felt a surge of joy. ‘We can release Saint-Hill!’

  ‘Yes, we can do that,’ Jake answered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The next few days will show how free we really are.’

  ‘But you heard the proclamation!’

  ‘Just wait, that’s all.’

  ‘Hush! Ssh, ssh! They’ll wake up!’ The whisper roared in his ear. Tongues touching. Tenderness. Ray uncoiling, a deep satisfied sigh, resting in his arms, trusting him like a baby would trust a mother. The beating of his heart. Falling asleep.

  Tim and Jake were surprised by the raucous din coming from inside the cathedral. At the west door an elderly clergyman, held back by two men, was shouting angrily at a group of soldiers lolling against the wall of St Mary Major. ‘Are these our special terms of protection?’ he cried. ‘Stop them! Stop them!’ But the soldiers only laughed.

  ‘Shall we see what’s happening?’ Jake suggested.

  ‘Is it safe?’

  Jake looked scornful. He walked up to one of the soldiers and spoke to him. The man, apparently, had no objection, and Jake went into the cathedral. Tim followed. The Puritans had probably indulged in worse orgies of destruction than this; the troops of the New Model were not decapitating the corbels, or throwing whitewash at the wall-paintings, or smashing up what might be considered graven images. They were dismantling the organ, and piling the wood on to a cart. A horse waited patiently in the shafts. Tim had never seen a horse inside a church; it was grotesquely out of place, a repulsive insult. The organ pipes were being stacked in a corner, presumably to await collection when the load of wood had been delivered. But things were getting out of hand, and the officer in charge merely stood by and smiled. The men had picked up some of the smaller pipes and were blowing a deafening cacophony of rude noises out of them. A few louts had decorated their heads and bodies with altar cloths, copes and chasubles; one even dared to wear the Bishop’s mitre, tilted back at a rakish angle. They started to dance down the nave and out of the west door.

  The virger, an old man with white hair, stood in the shadows and watched. He was far too terrified to intervene, even though the desecration of the building he had loved and worked in for years scandalized him as nothing in the whole of his previous life had done. ‘They are going to build a brick wall at the crossing!’ he whispered to Tim. He was trembling. ‘This has been the House of God for five hundred years, and they are destroying it! A brick wall at the crossing, where the organ stood! So they can have two temples, yes, temples, for I will not call their profane tabernacles places of worship!’

  The officer strolled nonchalantly down the nave. ‘Stop muttering, old man,’ he said. ‘Go down on your knees and give thanks to God. What is the usual behaviour of victorious armies, eh? They loot, burn, rape, and kill. You will see no such conduct from the New Model.’ He walked on, a supercilious grin on his face.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jake, and they left the old virger to tidy up as best he could. Across Cathedral Yard wove the strange procession of dancing men; it was like a parody of some ancient ritual: the gawky steps of the dance, the shrieks and howls from the organ pipes, the ecclesiastical robes fluttering in the breeze. Passers-by stopped, stared, and laughed; or else hurried away, shocked and horrified, thus betraying their sympathies for all to see. The Bishop’s mitre was lying in the mud. Tim picked it up.

  ‘Drop it!’ Jake said. ‘At once!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool! Drop it!’

  He let it fall, reluctantly. Though he had little time for the pretensions of bishops (they were, every one of them, of the King’s persuasion) the mitre was precious and beautiful. It would now be left to rot, like some old dish-cloth.

  They arrived at Holy Trinity and unlocked the door of the tower. Saint-Hill was eager for news, and overjoyed to hear that their would be no prisoners or hostages. ‘Freedom! Fairfax is a greater man than any on the King’s side!’

  ‘He had you whipped,’ Tim pointed out.

  ‘He had no option. He was trying to create something much more charitable, much more magnanimous, than anything I could offer him. I came at the worst possible moment. He had to present a show of strength in front of Berkeley, did he not? If Berkeley had thought him weak, his plans might not have succeeded so well.’

  Tim found the logic of this tortuous, but he made no comment. ‘Have you seen Anthony?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here he is now.’ Jake was looking out of the window in the direction of the gatehouse. He turned, and said, with surprise and alarm in his voice, ‘He’s just loaded his pistol!’ They heard the door open below.

  Rain, a high wind and swirling fog when they woke. To try and move off the mountain was impossible. An early news bulletin said that if the four boys were still alive (‘We are!’ they shouted) they should not attempt to leave wherever they had camped; the safest thing was to wait till the weather changed. There was an interview with Mrs Hewitt. Low, hurried voice, Suffolk accent, pressing the emotions down inside by sheer will-power. John put his hands over his eyes. Her son was a good boy, very sensible, not one to take risks. There was no evidence that there had been an accident; it was quite probable the boys were sheltering in their tent, just waiting for the cloud to lift. John, if you’re listening, and Mrs Suñer says Ray took his transistor, keep your chin up. There’ll be a hot drink waiting for you and your favourite dinner.

  John threw himself on to his sleeping-bag.

  The four mothers were staying at a hotel in Ambleside. They all sent their love; don’t give up hope for they hadn’t: keep warm and wrap up well.

  They looked at each other, moved beyond words by distress. Eventually Ray said ‘What a sodding flop it all is,’ and Aaron replied, in a choked voice, ‘Yes, isn’t it.’John, his eyes wet, said ‘If we get out of this we’ll all meet on Saturday night at home. We’ll have the biggest piss-up the town’s ever seen. Just the four of us. I feel... we have such a bond between us.’

  They nodded, agreeing. ‘If only I wasn’t so bloody hungry!’ Aaron said.

  By mid-afternoon they had not eaten for twenty-four hours, Ray gloomily told them. There was plenty of warm weak tea, and they drank it by the gallon; but they were beginning to feel light-headed. They spent much of the day in their sleeping-bags, listening to Radio One, not talking much.

  ‘Tea’s run out,’ Tim said, late in
the evening. ‘Water, hot or cold. That’s all now.’

  ‘I read somewhere about a man in a mine disaster,’ Aaron said. ‘He was buried alive for a month. Falling rocks had blocked the tunnel. A month he lived, and that was because he drank the water trickling down the walls.’

  No-one answered. The wind howled; the cloud rushed by but it did not lift.

  Tim was morose all day, lost in himself. The added pain of his mother anxiously waiting at Ambleside hardly affected him. He longed to talk to Ray, but it was not possible. Ray behaved as he always did, gave no hint of what had happened last night. He wondered for a moment if it had been a dream. When he woke the sleeping-bag was in its usual place and Ray was curled up in it. Tim couldn’t remember him leaving. Now there was the disgust he had expected, not just for allowing himself to do it, but for actually enjoying it. It didn’t even have the excuse that he loved Ray, that he had longed for ages to make love with him. It had been pure lust, and he had enjoyed it. Was it? It was tender, and sweet, too. Something more complex than he had thought, but not love, not the love that might be the only justification that, inside himself, would suffice, even if the Church called it mortal sin. The Church did not even bother to make a distinction between love and lust. He told himself he would refuse if Ray asked again; he would be strong, fight it: but he knew it would be a battle. One mortal sin was enough to send him to Hell. A second could not make it worse. The hanged-for-a-sheep-or-a-lamb syndrome.

  Confession on Saturday if they survived, did not die of hunger. If he did die, he would go to Hell. He stared at this fact for a while, then flatly rejected it. It was like the Aborigines’ reaction to their first sight of Captain Cook: so unbelievable that it couldn’t be so, wasn’t really there. If a flying saucer full of little green Martians landed in the school playground, who would believe their own eyes? God was not that merciless. The Church was wrong. Who was it compared the Catholic religion to a house of cards? Take one away and the whole thing collapses. It’s a structure so logical (accepting, that is, the illogical premise of faith; right down to its last tiny detail, that, if you remove one minute piece, it all begins to unravel. He knew he had started this perilous procedure, started it just now, for the first time. It was nothing to do with if, or perhaps, or but: he flatly rejected as impossible that he, if he died before he next went to Confession, would be cut off and cast into Hell.