by Patrick Gale
‘Here,’ Roly said, gently raising him and slipping his jacket from off his shoulders. Seth felt suddenly cooler. His back had become sweaty and the sharp feeling of the air playing across it stirred him for an instant. He defied the wine and tugged Roly back on to him. The unexpected passion amused Roly and as they kissed again he rolled over, wheeling Seth around and above him. Seth ached to relax, to lose himself in the appropriate manner, but now a new sensation began to stir from his depths and his lust ebbed before it. With each fresh touching of lips or laying on of hands came an intensifying of the knowledge that he was about to be violently sick.
‘Oh no!’ he groaned and began to sit up. ‘Is there a window, I …?’ He rose unsteadily to his knees and rocked towards the door that led out on to the platform outside. Roly was there before him and swung open the door with seconds to spare. He held Seth by the shoulders as, beneath a starry sky and brushed by a rising sea breeze, the boy vomited generously over the railings into the foam. Seth clutched the bars when the attack seemed to have stopped and tried to say that he was sorry, but was checked by another spasm.
‘Sssh. Poor boy. It’s all right. Come on. You’ll feel much better when it’s all out.’ Roly made kind noises and held a supportive hand across Seth’s forehead. After a couple of minutes all was silent again. Seth swayed where he leant, gulping, dribbling, shivering, and staring miserably ahead, then was meekly led indoors.
‘I’m sorry, Roly …’ he managed at last.
‘Don’t be stupid. Look, come down to the kitchen and wash your mouth out.’
‘I always forget how vile it feels. I haven’t been sick for years. Actually, I think I must have had too much to drink.’
‘Don’t try to talk in case it starts it up again. Poor old boy.’ They walked back to the kitchen. Roly handed him a glass of cold water, then offered him a toothbrush and paste when he had rinsed out his mouth. Seth hesitated.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Don’t be a twit. Use it.’
‘Thanks.’ Seth brushed his teeth and felt a little stronger. Roly draped his suit jacket across his shoulders.
‘We’d better get you back home to bed,’ he said.
‘Oh but this is awful,’ wailed Seth, and blew his nose. Roly took him by the arms and said,
‘Listen. We’ve got all the time in the world. You’re here for another week and after that I’m moving to London.’
‘But I wanted it to be tonight.’
‘Right now you’ve got a mother and an impending hangover to face.’
Seth tried to laugh but only mustered an aimless grin. Roly handed him the old cardigan.
‘Pull this around you for the way back. Pull on your shoes and I’ll get your present.’ So saying, he turned to climb back up the stairs.
‘Does my breath smell so very foul?’ Stopping, Roly turned with a surprised grin.
‘No, but I thought …’ He was silenced by the look on Seth’s face.
‘Could you … could we have the light out?’ asked Seth, letting the cardigan fall to the floor. Roly turned out the light and came across to the bed.
There was still a glow from upstairs. The window had been opened to let out the smell of cooking, letting in the rhythm and scents of the sea. Seth was aware for the first time of the habitual heaviness of his lover’s breathing; also, when they kissed standing up, of the difference in their heights. They tumbled quickly on to the bed, then had to get up again because of the difficulty of removing trousers while lying side by side on a narrow single bed. Roly’s body was more muscular than Seth had expected, his skin less smooth. He had formed few definite preconceptions, but had expected, dreaded perhaps, something more spiritual. He was pleasantly reassured.
Seth kept quiet on the journey home. As they drew up outside La Corveaurie he saw that all the lights were out and, glancing at his new watch, found that it was very late.
‘Should I come in and apologize?’ asked Roly.
‘No. I think they’ve all gone to bed. I’ll face them in the morning.’ He tapped the angel in his lap. ‘This’ll pacify her, anyway.’ Seth bent across and kissed him lightly. He paused with his hand on the door handle.
‘Tonight.’
‘What?’
‘When you said I should go home earlier … you weren’t just using my being sick as an excuse?’
‘What do you mean?’ There was an encouraging chuckle in his voice.
‘Well … well I thought perhaps you were nervous because I’m under age – only just sixteen.’
‘Did you honestly think that?’
Seth thought a moment then smiled, hugging the angel to his chest.
‘No. Not really.’
‘Now go to bed.’
‘Bye. Thanks for supper.’
‘Go to bed.’ Seth got out and shut the door. ‘Seth?’
‘Yuh?’
‘Well played, birthday boy.’
‘Idiot!’
Seth walked, smiling to himself, up to the front door and heard the car pull away. He let himself in and climbed the stairs. As he turned on his bedroom light he saw at once that his mother was asleep on his bed, in her dressing-gown and slippers. The sudden light woke her quickly. Her anger was foggy only for a moment.
‘What? Oh. Seth.’ She sat up. ‘Would you mind telling me where you’ve been exactly?’
‘Sorry. Didn’t you find the note on the car?’
‘Of course I found the bloody note.’
‘Oh.’
‘J was very hurt. She didn’t say anything but then, she never would.’
‘I’ll telephone her in the morning.’
‘Oh will you? That will be nice. Have you been to the lighthouse again?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s happened to your suit? It looks as if it’d been rolled up.’
‘I had dinner with Roly MacGuire.’
‘Tête-à-tête?’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw you go off last night.’
‘I thought perhaps …’
‘Wasn’t it rather irresponsible, the night before a concert?’
‘Yes. I suppose it was.’
‘Lucky for you you played so well.’
‘Thanks. He gave me this.’ Seth held out the sculpture for her to see.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, less harshly. ‘He’s very talented. Can I see?’
He passed it to her and sat at her feet on the bed. She held it, running her fingertips over the ridges as he had done, and weighing it in her palms. Then she placed it on the bedside table and looked down at her hands as they returned to her lap.
‘Was supper all you had tonight?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say.’
He spoke at once. ‘No. I had sex. We made love.’
Evelyn flinched minutely, her eyes firmly down.
‘Is he the first man you’ve, er …?’
‘I’m not a virgin, but he’s the first man … the first man I think I could love.’
‘Does it worry you?’
‘Why should it?’ He reached out and held the back of her hands as they lay. ‘I’m more worried about you. Does it worry you!’
‘I don’t know. I’m not shocked. Perhaps I’ve always known and not spelt it out to myself. You know it’s against the law?’
‘You didn’t know until Jemima spelt it out to you last night.’
‘Well, I know now, and you’ve just broken the law.’
‘It’s not a law I choose to respect. Besides, who would hand us over to the police? We’re not going to walk around hand in hand.’
At last she looked up.
‘When I found you’d gone off again tonight, I was so worried.’ He saw at once that all the anger was gone. He hugged her to him.
‘But why?’
‘For God’s sake, because you’re my baby, that’s why. I’d worry if Neesh rushed off like that with someone, too.’
Seth rocked her gently and sai
d, ‘Well there’s no need to worry any more.’
‘You have grown up in a hurry. I thought it would be at least another summer.’ Her tone was wistful. ‘He’s awfully nice.’
‘I’m glad you like him.’
‘Can he come to stay?’
‘Now you’re not going to take us on like some cause.’ They laughed, still hugging. Seth looked across her at the angel and smiled privately.
‘Thank you for my lovely watch,’ he lied. ‘Made my evening.’
THURSDAY three
She’d left her bike at home and come on a double-decker. She’d sat on top to have a smoke. It was a warm night and sitting up there, with the narrow window wound down, the warm city draught in her face, the mounting tension had grown intense. Saturday night had been unexpected and strange, and the drink had fogged her feelings, but tonight was sharp, and announced. Despite the high number of the address, there were hardly any other buildings in the street. The old office block stood incongruously among fenced-off sites. It was hard to tell whether the area had been badly bombed and left undeveloped, or whether the demolition was new. The long stretches of corrugated iron were daubed with names and slogans. ‘I may be Jewish, but I still like sticking Pigs.’ She stood at the foot of the building in the light of a street lamp and gazed up. No lights, but perhaps squats had no supply. She had never been sent to one before, never had the bad luck to be called out to help on an eviction. A piece of paper was pinned to the door. ‘Come in before the big, bad wolf gets you. I’m at the top.’
She pushed on the door and it swung open with a creak. She peered around her awhile to accustom her eyes to the darkness, then started up the broad staircase. There was a dim smell of dust, but no damp. She hoped the stairs were safe. From above came the swelling blare of a sax. Stranger on the Shore. She glanced up inside the stairwell but could see no light. At the top of the stairs a heavy curtain hung from the ceiling as a rudimentary door. She pushed through this and found another ‘door’ made of two sheets of translucent plastic. A candle burned in a bottle on the other side and lit the words ‘Hope’s Place’ slashed across the barricade in dark paint. As she came between the sheets the sax was clearer still. She could see very little by the candlelight. She picked up the bottle and held it higher. It showed her a ladder leant against a skylight opening. The sax came from on the roof. Afraid of fire, she snuffed the light, and climbed.
By the wash of the stars and the amber glow off surrounding streets, she could see more clearly than in the murk below. She turned around and found a barbecue glowing and spitting on the gravel. Behind it, sitting on a mattress against the chimney stack, was Hope, playing her sax. There were two old fruit boxes pulled together as a rough kind of table, and plates and mugs and a bottle of wine. Hope carried on playing the familiar song. Unable to contain her smiles, Mo came forward and crouched on the other side of the embers, watching her. Hope went through the refrain once more, raising her eyebrows in greeting, then crooned to an end.
‘Brilliant,’ said Mo.
‘Hi. I’m sorry I called you a piglet.’
‘Don’t worry, it suits me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’
‘Well, it was quite a surprise. I could have done anything.’
‘I’m only a piglet on duty. I’d probably have joined in.’
Hope laughed. She held out her hand and the other came around to join her. They kissed tenderly, muttering apologies between mouthfuls, then falling about in helpless mirth at some remark of Hope’s about cowboys and Indians.
‘This is amazing.’
‘What?’
‘You, this roof, the view, the sax, the food. Everything.’
‘The food. Shit!’ Hope jumped up to poke around in the barbecue.
‘Is it all right?’
‘Yeah. Done to a turn, Superintendent.’
‘I’m only an Inspector.’
‘OK, Porker. You’ll get your promotion soon enough.’
‘What is it?’
‘Guess.’
‘Is it … it isn’t pork?’
‘Straight up. A fresh joint of copper.’ Mo started to laugh. ‘That’s why I had to nick a bluey.’
Mo’s mouth watered at the charcoal-flecked smell as Hope lifted the pieces of meat on to the plates. Baked potatoes were raked out from the embers and salad tossed from a Co-Op bag. Hope produced a bottle of sauce, Mo poured out some wine, and they started to eat.
‘You’re marvellous,’ said Mo.
‘Shut your gob, Wonderwoman, and eat.’
‘I got you a present.’
‘What for? You’re the one with the birthday.’
‘How did you know?’
‘That cow with the hair asked if it was a birthday card. I told her to mind her own.’
Mo laughed. ‘Good on you,’ she said, ‘she’s a right slag. Here.’ She tossed a package to Hope, who caught it with a whoop.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Open it.’
She tore off the paper and gasped at the silver trophy.
‘Blimey! Where d’you get it? It’s beautiful.’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘Where? What? It must’ve cost the earth.’ Hope giggled at Mo’s grinning silence. ‘Go on. Tell us.’
‘Well,’ said Mo, with affected cool, ‘I was in this dead bird’s fancy pad, checking out a burglary case, and she had loads of the stuff to spare …’
‘You never! Shit! That’s the best present I’ve ever had; a silver hip-flask nicked by a genuine copper!’ she whooped and, laughing, kissed the metal. ‘Oh Mo, you’re fantastic. I take it all back, you know, I take back everything I thought and nearly said.’ She laughed again and went on, ‘You know it’s just like what you said about Trace, my friend who turned piglet and that, about … what was it?’
‘Subverting from the inside?’
‘Yeah. That’s what you’ve been and done, in a way, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’ Mo glowed.
‘Brilliant!’
‘That reminds me. I’ve got to get up at dawn tomorrow and go on a trip to the seaside.’
‘Why? Business or pleasure?’
‘Bit of both, my lovely. A bit of both.’
BIRTHDAY
The first thing Seth saw was Roly’s statue. It summoned a clutter of images, and with them, the recollection that he was now sixteen. He could have lain in as it was a free morning, but he wanted to open his presents, and meet his new, enlightened mother. He dressed, and walked to the bathroom. He washed his face and, as he was patting it dry, heard the door bell, and his mother talking to someone. He listened and caught a woman’s voice moving with Mother’s across the sitting room and into the music room beneath him. Too deep and slow for Jemima. He returned to his bedroom to find his shoes and put on his watch. It was late, nearly twelve. Shocked that he could have slept so long undisturbed on a birthday, he hurried downstairs.
Venetia was lounging on the sofa with a cup of coffee and a biscuit tin.
‘I see you’ve finally stirred after the excesses of last night,’ she murmured. ‘Happy Birthday.’
‘Thanks. Why didn’t anyone wake me?’
‘We thought you might need a lie-in. You obviously did. Was it good?’
‘Not bad,’ he said, and found he didn’t blush. ‘How was yours?’
‘As a matter of fact, Harry and I spent a civilized evening together and he’s insisted I go to New York and work for him after next summer term.’
‘But that’s brilliant!’
‘Isn’t it.’
He dropped into a chair. ‘Aren’t you excited?’ he pursued. ‘Well yes, of course I am,’ she sighed, ‘but I’ve got exams to think about first.’
‘Oh yes. Finals.’
‘Aren’t you going to open your cards?’ He stared at the pile of cards and presents on the table.
‘I will in a moment when Ma comes out. Who’s she talking to?’
‘It’s a policewoman. With a scar.�
�
‘But she didn’t send for one, did she?’
‘How the hell should I know? I was in the kitchen and just saw her letting her in at the front door and walking into the music room. I doubt it, actually. She respects that what you do with that grubby body of yours is your own affair.’
With a slight frown, Seth stood and walked through to the kitchen to make some breakfast. With the informed confidence of the post-liberation male, he assumed that her period had started again with a vengeance. He happened to be right. He turned on the kettle to make some coffee and poured himself a bowl of muesli. Trying to conjure up some birthday spirit, he gave himself some black cherry yoghourt on top of it. He switched on the radio and ate his cereal, perched on a stool rather than face the unappealing atmosphere by the sofa.
‘The headlines again. A public enquiry has been demanded by the Home Secretary into the narrow escape at the Havermere Nuclear Plant in the Peak District, where, through the apparent negligence of the night staff, a radioactive core was allowed to overheat to far beyond regulation level. The danger was only spotted within minutes of an explosion, say the specialists.
‘At the end of last night’s session in the House of Lords, the startling debate on the Age of Consent Bill ended in favour of a reform to the existing laws governing homosexuals of both sexes. Following a lead from the European governments, the debated private members’ bill suggests that sixteen, not twenty-one, is the fair age of homosexual consent. In addition, the bill suggests an unprecedented law be brought to bear upon female homosexuals, or lesbians, preventing sex before sixteen. At present there is no law governing lesbianism. A considerable number of complaints at the bill have been raised, not least from the extreme Right who say that society could never be the same again in the event of the present laws being changed, I quote, “for the decadent worse”.
‘And finally, we have just had word that Dame Audrey Fox, the novelist unanimously crowned the Queen of crime fiction, died peacefully in her Sussex home last night after a week-long illness. She was eighty-four.’
