by David Rees
My fellow-workers accepted me, despite the fact that my body was puny compared with theirs. They admired my swimming ability, I think. In any case, they were more interested in persecuting the cashier than in taking the piss out of me. Robin, they said, was a poofter.
Whether he was gay or not I didn’t know. He was about twenty-four, slightly built, with short fair hair and blue eyes — very piercing blue eyes, with long lashes. He wasn’t at all camp or effeminate, but anyone would look a bit effete beside the hairy apes we worked with. Robin was a loner: hardly ever leaving the booth where he took the customers’ money and gave out admission tickets, and he spoke only when he had to. He didn’t join us in our tea-breaks. On the few occasions when he left the turnstiles and went on some errand to another part of the pool, Dave, the most loud-mouthed of the lifeguards, would mince grotesquely in front of him, waving his arms and flicking his wrists, and make stupid comments like ‘Lost your handbag, dearie?’ or ‘Watch it, everybody! Don’t turn your backs to him!’ Robin would walk on, pretending that Dave didn’t exist.
These incidents left me with confused emotions: anger and disgust, but chiefly annoyance with myself for being too scared to protest. If Dave grinned and winked at me after he’d said ‘She’s lost her lipstick’ or some other similar inanity, I’d grin back at him. I was frightened, I suppose: frightened that if I didn’t respond, I’d receive the same treatment. On one occasion when I laughed at something Dave had said, I looked round and saw Robin staring at me, his cold blue eyes blazing with hatred. I blushed, and turned away. Why, I wondered as I went about my duties, did he look at me like that, whereas he regarded his tormentor with studied indifference? Because he thought I should know better than to collude with Dave? I did know better, of course: but what could I do? Perhaps it was something more subtle, though. If Robin was homosexual, he had perhaps guessed that I was, and that I was behaving like a traitor to myself. As a Jew might pretend he was a Gentile to escape torture during a pogrom.
One morning there was a lot of silly giggling and whispering between Dave and his mate, Trevor. ‘I’ll take it over to him,’ Trevor said. ‘He’ll smell a rat if you do it.’ He walked towards the turnstiles, carrying a cup of coffee. I followed; I had to get a key that had been left in Robin’s office.
Robin looked up, surprised, when we came into his room. ‘Here you are, darling,’ Trevor said. ‘A little refreshment. Make your short and curlies grow.’ He laughed, and went out.
The saucer was on top of the cup. Robin removed it: warm urine. We looked at each other. Then I said ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
Robin’s eyes blazed. ‘You can sod off,’ he said. I stared at him, hurt to the quick.
Two mornings later I had to clean out the lavatories. I heard the murmur of conversation coming from one of the cubicles: Dave and Trevor. I put my bucket and mop down, as quietly as I could. The cistern was filling, so it wasn’t easy to catch what was being said, but when it was full the words were hideously clear.
‘All you’ve got to do is to admit you’re a poof,’ Dave was saying. The tone of voice was eminently reasonable. ‘Then we’ll let you go.’
Silence.
‘Lusting after little boys.’ Trevor was speaking now. ‘No wonder they have to keep you in the cashier’s office. Just think what would happen to those poor kids if you supervised the changing-room!’
Silence.
‘Hit him again,’ said Dave.
Fist on flesh. A strangulated gasp. ‘Fucking queer!’ Thud. ‘Fucking faggot!’ Thud. ‘Fucking fairy!’ Thud.
‘Pull the chain again. That’ll cool him down.’
I banged on the door with the mop. ‘I want to clean in there,’ I shouted.
‘It’s only Ewan,’ Trevor said. ‘He won’t say anything.’ He laughed. ‘If he wants to clean up, he can start on this creature.’
The door was unlocked. They emerged; Dave said to me ‘That’s what I’d like to see happen to all of them.’ They went out.
Robin was upside down, his feet tied to the cistern. His hands were tied behind his back, and his head was dangling in the water of the lavatory pan. ‘Christ!’ I exclaimed. ‘What shall I do?’
‘There’s a knife in my trouser pocket,’ he croaked. I was about to cut the knots that bound him to the cistern when he said ‘No, no! I’ll crack my head on the porcelain! Hands first!’
When he was free and the right way up, I said ‘Shall I call the police?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ He was shaking uncontrollably; all of him, legs, arms, his torso. ‘Fetch me a towel. It’s opening time in five minutes; I can hardly let the public in looking like this.’ His hair was saturated, and water dripped all over his clothes.
I found one in the men’s changing-room. While he was drying his hair, I said ‘What are you going to do? You can’t allow them to get away with it! You can’t!’
‘Give up the job? Go back on the dole?’
‘There must be something!’
‘There isn’t.’
‘But why. . . why are they doing it? Why you?’
He sighed. ‘I was in the pub one evening, having a quiet drink with some friends. Yes. . . you know the place; you’ve been in there. I didn’t know who you were then, but I recognised you when you came here to work. Anyway, some yobs paid us a visit the night I’m talking about. Started being very offensive, making rude remarks about poofs and queers. . . They got turned out, but it was quite a scene: they smashed a dozen beer-mugs on their way to the door. The landlord should have phoned the police, but he didn’t. So they came back later, with reinforcements. Including Dave and Trevor. The landlord did summon the police then, and they all went off, quiet as mice. Nothing happened. But for me the damage was done; Dave and Trevor had seen me and. . . that’s it.’ He shrugged his shoulders, a gesture of hopelessness. ‘You can imagine what I thought of you grinning and laughing at what they were doing to me.’
‘I didn’t feel particularly good about it. I’m sorry. Very, very sorry.’
‘Well. . . I suppose it’s easy to say you should be honest and open, but when the chips are down it’s bloody difficult. I might have acted as you did if I’d been in your shoes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
He looked at his watch. ‘If I don’t open up I’ll get the sack. There’s always someone waiting to come in, dead on the hour.’ He squeezed my hand, then touched my face. ‘See you in the pub?’ He smiled, a rueful half-smile: neither of us felt on top of the world at that moment.
When I arrived the next morning, Robin was not in his office. Nor was there any sign of Dave and Trevor. I hurried into the lavatories; the same cubicle door was shut: Trevor and Dave uttering the same obscenities. This time I must do something, I said to myself. But what? I ran out, hoping to find the superintendent. That could be difficult: he wasn’t always on the premises, which was probably why the two lifeguards had found it easy to bully Robin and remain undetected by anyone in authority. The superintendent didn’t often turn up when we did, at nine a.m.; sometimes he wasn’t there till noon, and if business was quiet, he would leave after an hour. I was in luck, however: he had just parked his car and was coming through the turnstiles. ‘There’s been an accident in the men’s toilets!’ I shouted.
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s the cashier!’ I rushed off, not wanting to answer any questions.
I waited by the entrance to the lavatories. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ he asked when he caught up with me.
‘In there,’ I said, pointing at the locked cubicle.
As soon as they heard our voices, Trevor and Dave came out. There was not much else they could do; staying inside would have seemed even more suspicious. Robin was kneeling on the floor, looking like a drowned rat. They hadn’t tied him up this morning, just shoved him to his knees and pushed his head into the lavatory pan.
‘You two — into the men’s changing-room,’ the superintendent barked. �
�And you’d better have a pretty good explanation!’ They shuffled away. ‘Robin! get up and dry your hair. Then go to your office. I’ll have a word with you later.’ He turned to me. ‘You! Get a bucket and mop and swab this place out. It doesn’t look as if it’s been touched for a month!’
‘I cleaned it yesterday!’
‘Well, you can do it again today!’
I did as I was told, but very quickly; I wanted to find out what was going to happen to Dave and Trevor. Dismissed on the spot, one of the other attendants said; perhaps they went over the mark with Robin, just a little bit, but people like that cashier deserved everything they had coming to them; didn’t they?
The superintendent was walking over to Robin’s office. I followed, anxious to know what they would have to say to each other.
The office was not a particularly private place. It was a one-roomed building, with windows on three sides. One faced the pool, one looked out into the car park, and the third was by the turnstiles. The weather was hot, so all three windows were open. It was ten to ten, I noticed; a queue of people was already forming by the entrance. As I approached, I could hear Robin and the superintendent shouting. What on earth was happening now? I stood against a corner of the building and listened.
‘Damn it, man!’ the superintendent was saying. They must have had some reason! What sort of provocation did you give them?’
‘I didn’t give them any!’
‘They told me. . . well, to put it bluntly. . . that you’re queer. That you like small boys.’
‘I’m not the least bit interested in small boys! It’s an outrageous accusation!’
‘Maybe, maybe. People can invent absurd excuses to defend themselves; I know that. But the point is. . . I can’t afford to take that kind of risk. This is a swimming pool, Robin. Paid for by the rate-payers; their money keeps it going. Suppose Dave was telling the truth? There could be a nasty scandal and I’d be held responsible. Now, I want to know. Are you a homosexual?’
Silence. Tell him you’re not, I begged inwardly. Tell him you’re not! It doesn’t matter, lying about yourself. Why chuck away a good job?
‘Yes,’ Robin said.
There was another silence. ‘Collect your cards on Friday. I’ll have your wages made up to the end of the month. Which is generous.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Robin shouted. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘I can’t afford the risk! I’ve told you already!’
‘What risk? There isn’t any risk! Do you think I can seduce half a dozen people in here while I’m selling tickets? That I’d even want to?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I shall appeal. I’ll write to my MP! I’ll go to an Industrial Relations Tribunal!’
‘That won’t get you far.’
I couldn’t stand it any longer. What I did next was without thought, the result of indignation I couldn’t restrain. I kicked the office door open and yelled ‘You can sack me while you’re at it! I’m one of those horrible, nauseating people you call queer! And I’m proud of it!’
Robin smiled.
The superintendent looked utterly bewildered. ‘I think the whole world’s gone mad this morning,’ he said. ‘What do you mean by bursting in here like that? What the hell are you doing?’ Normally he was a mild, not unpleasant man; indolent and easygoing. He expected his swimming pool virtually to run itself, without his having to check up and harrass his staff. But now he was flushed and breathing heavily; his hair had flopped forward over one eye, and a vein in his temple throbbed. ‘Get out of here at once, Macrae! Go back to your duties, or I’ll sack you for insolence and insubordination!’
‘You don’t need to,’ I answered. ‘I’ve already resigned. Jesus! Do you really think any decent person would want to work here now?’
I walked out, through the turnstiles and into the street. The queue of people had grown; some of them were becoming restive: it was gone ten o’clock and the doors were not yet open.
Robin came after me. ‘I certainly underestimated you,’ he said. ‘My God. . . you change quickly!’
I looked at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Last week you were joining in the laughter at my expense. Today you’ve talked yourself, I mean bawled yourself, out of a job when you could easily have kept quiet!’
‘I don’t know why I did it,’ I said, and leaned against a parked car. I felt sick. ‘Something just boiled up in me. Maybe I’ll live to regret it.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Well. . . we’ve been honest, I suppose.’
‘A good starting-point for leading a reasonable life. Listen. . . what are you going to do now?’
‘Back on the dole, I imagine. And you?’
‘I didn’t mean that. We’ve got the whole day ahead; that’s what I was thinking of. What shall we do with it? Look. . . come round to my place and have something to eat. I’ve had no breakfast this morning.’
He lived in an untidy attic on the top floor of a large, rambling Victorian house; it was the sort of room a painter might use as a studio, particularly as the view was magnificent: a picturesque clutter of roofs and chimneys of all shapes, angles and sizes, and — beyond — the Thames threading its way through what seemed like a vast expanse of trees which defended it from the incursions of the factories and houses stretching on, one would think, for ever. I was staring at almost the whole of West London. ‘There are some marvellous sunsets,’ Robin said. ‘Spoiled by aeroplanes, of course. Some nights the floor shakes with the noise.’ The room itself was badly in need of redecoration, and the furniture was old and shabby. The curtains looked as if they would fall to bits if you touched them. There was a double bed, a wardrobe, a table and chairs. An antique gas fire. On the mantelpiece, various ornaments and some framed photographs. Pictures on the wall: a still life and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Clothes, books, records, dirty plates scattered everywhere. The kitchen was tiny, off the landing, no bigger than a cupboard. Robin had offered me breakfast, but he didn’t appear to be in a hurry to start cooking. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands over his face, shivering.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Shock. I think. It’s just beginning to catch up with me. I was so struck by what you did it sort of postponed it.’ He held out his hand, and I put mine against it. ‘Come to bed with me.’
I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m not sure if I fancy you,’ I answered, after a moment’s silence.
He looked at me. The blue eyes were now sad and defeated.
‘I’m ugly?’
‘No.’
‘Haven’t you ever been to bed with someone for reasons other than sexual attraction? Out of affection? Or because the other person at that moment so desperately needs you to touch him and hold him he’d maybe lose any sense of reality if you didn’t?’ ‘No. I’m. . . how can I describe it?. . . very new to it all.’
I held him: he shuddered as if he were ill or freezing, and though he made no sound, his tears were wet on the skin of my throat and my shoulders. Gradually he calmed, and rested against me, just breathing, as if all the hurt he had experienced in the past few days was beginning to ebb. Now I did want to make love to him, not because I felt randy, but to tell him it was all right now, that not everyone in the world was vile, sick and brutal: I wanted to help heal the wounds. So I screwed him, because that was what he seemed to be asking me to do. The first time in my life I’d done that. Peace. I lay there, quite still, feeling sane and alive and clean. It was good to be Ewan, I said to myself, and good to be here doing this. I’m no longer a muddled kid: this is man’s estate. ‘Do you want to get dressed?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. But I must find some fags.’
I watched him walking about the room, and I wondered why it had never occurred to me before that he was beautiful. Slim, well-proportioned, graceful in his movements. A human’s toes, the curve of an arm, the knobs down
a spine, the way a shoulder-blade shifts under the skin, can make you stare because they each have something in them of perfection.
He came back to bed, and we smoked and talked. Talked for hours. The history of our lives. He was brought up in Woodford, on the other side of London, the third of four brothers all straight except for him. All married now. His parents didn’t know and he wouldn’t dream of telling them. School he hated, shining as the dunce of the class. Then a series of dead-end jobs. He liked disco dancing, classical music, reading. A solitary, but not from choice. ‘I remember when I was about fifteen,’ he said, ‘I was in the changing-room at school. We’d been playing rugby, which I loathed. I suddenly realised, Christ! I’m looking at these boys in the way I’m supposed to look at girls.’ And there was nothing, he said, absolutely nothing he could do about it, no one he could speak to; it all had to be smothered up inside. ‘I reckoned I was unique! A genetic mistake, like a mongol. Oh God. . . the misery of those years!’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Eventually?’
‘It’s a bit easier in London, I guess, than Bude.’
The knowledge, gained slowly from snippets of conversation accidentally overhead, that there were gay pubs and clubs and discos, that there was a newspaper called Gay News; but what made him ‘come out’(an odd expression, I thought ) was seeing a notice, a small round sticker in fact, on the window of a telephone kiosk, advertising an organisation called Icebreakers. Depressed, lonely and unhappy gay men and women, it suggested, should ring them; it printed the number. He did, after dialling it four times and putting the receiver down because he was so scared of what he might be doing. He laughed. ‘Was it an invitation to an orgy was my main fear. To be blackmailed. But it was almost unbelievably prim and proper. A very sweet, gentle, middle-aged man giving a Sunday afternoon tea-party in his elegant Regency house in Camden Town, trying to calm the nerves of a dozen extremely worried people, who were as terrified as I was at the thought of how vulnerable they might be making themselves.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve travelled a long way since!’
