by S. C. Howe
Joss’s eyes widened. ‘No, we’ve never got on.’ His face grew serious. ‘I’m sorry Tom; I hadn’t thought how our behaviour was affecting you.’
Tom coloured up. ‘I don’t mean that... I mean would it be easier if I stayed somewhere else?’
‘No, it bloody well wouldn’t!’
‘We could have stayed at Durnley, if I still had the house.’
‘I don’t quite know how we’d have fended for ourselves.’
‘Yes...’ His expression drew in a little. ‘I think your brother suspects we’re...together.’
Joss laughed. ‘I think my parents do as well, not that they’re going to walk in on anything the state we’re in... Stop worrying Tom. As long as no-one catches us at it, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘It’ll all be much easier when we’re on the farm.’
‘Yes... I was just daydreaming about that.’ Joss glanced over and his eyes rested on the cuff of Tom’s jacket. Every fourth strip of fibre was picked, as though with a needle. Conscious of it, Tom pretended to scratch the back of his head to hide it. Joss caught his look.
‘It helps relieve the anxiety,’ Tom said, and took the tunic off and rolled up the sleeves of his coarse, collarless shirt. They fell silent.
‘Heard anything about Nico?’ Tom asked at length.
‘Oh Nico’s working his charms with the kennel staff at Hackbridge – when I’m on my feet again I’ll visit him.’
‘How long’s it been now?’
‘Nearly three months. Another three months and he can join us here.’
‘Joss, you do know that I’ll have to go back as soon as I can fetch and carry again?’
Joss folded his arms, his expression closed in. ‘Do you have to be quite so honest all the time?’ he quipped. ‘Just make it up a bit, lay it on.’
Tom gave a wan smile. ‘It’s not up to me. As soon as I’ve healed up, they’ll me send back. It’s not my decision.’
The days of sun, of healing went on. Spring flowers emerged in fountains of colour and the leaves of the beech in the hedgerows were bright candy green. Tom and Joss had grown tanned and, little by little, the bandages came off and white, healing skin emerged, naked in the sunlight. Tom was now walking around without crutches and the gash across his left cheek had left a red, jagged line that was blending into his sun-tanned face. The wadding over his left shoulder had been removed, revealing a dip by his collar bone with purpling and fierce edges showing where it had been stitched together roughly. These stitches had been taken out, and, for a while, Tom hardly dare move much in case the seam split apart, but somehow it held. They were examined by doctors who ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ over Joss, who did his best to play everything down, pretended that he could walk easily, but failed painfully and in frustration. The doctors were straightforward with Tom and he knew he would soon have to leave this leafy, sun-filled bliss. After the doctors had left one day, they were alone in the bedroom in the early evening. As it was June, it was still warm and sunny. Joss beckoned Tom over after asking him to lock the bedroom door.
‘Help me have a look at my back will you?’
Tom eased his shirt up, held a mirror up so it angled into a mirror on the wall. The sight of Joss’s smooth white skin moved him unbearably. Joss looked carefully into the mirror.
‘That’s a relief,’ he murmured. ‘I wasn’t sure what the back of me was like. Help me with my trousers will you?’ he asked as he struggled to his feet, flailing a little, and Tom pulled his pyjama trousers down. Again, Joss seemed not to notice the sensuality of the moment, but studied the view in the mirror. There were a number of tiny red blood spots at the base of Joss’s spine.
‘That’s all there is to show for the feeling of being kicked repeatedly in the back, is there?’ Joss said.
‘What?’
‘With the disc pain it’s what I imagine being knifed in the back feels like.’
Tom touched his back tentatively.
‘That feels all right,’ Joss said.
Tom started caressing his back, gently kissing his shoulders, letting his hands fall to Joss’s waist, and his arousal seemed natural. Joss turned to him. They started kissing, savouring their closeness. Very slowly, they edged toward the bed. Joss lay back; Tom undid his pyjama jacket and revealed his chest was still padded and bandaged. He made Joss comfortable and stripped quietly, watching the sunlight play on the light hair of Joss’s naval, on his abdomen. There, in the play of the open curtains, which were caught by a gentle breeze, and with the song of evening birds in the air, they made love with a tenderness which, for the moment, dispelled any fear.
It was later that week that Tom had to stand to one side again to let Roger Deerman pass but Deerman stood in front of him, blocking his way. Tom repeated the gesture, unsure if Deerman had understood. He had, and merely smirked at Tom’s awkwardness. Tom walked away, wordlessly. The incident played on his mind, sucking at any moments that might have been light-hearted, like a darkness that was edging into the middle. Joss noticed the change and asked what was wrong but Tom shook his head, denying anything was troubling him. Joss had frowned in confusion and asked him about a proposed farming topic but Tom hadn’t really listened – and had to ask him if he could repeat the question. If he had told him what his brother had done, it would only cause trouble, and the incident was small. Yet it was not. And he knew that, so he remained silent and watchful.
The next afternoon he walked down one of the unused tracks that used to link the estate farm with the lane; the doctor had urged him to do so to ready himself for the return to the Front. It was a track that had long since been superseded, and now it was a tunnel of green. The hawthorns and elderflower hedges were clotted with creamy blossoms and gave a heavy, sweetish scent that brought back nauseating memories of no man’s land. Yet this was a place he could be quiet in and get his mind attuned to facing the prospect of the trenches. No-one was at Woodham Hall when he left and, if he was truthful, it was a relief not to have to make pleasant conversation. It was at times like this that his natural shyness crippled him most, made him feel awkward and inadequate in a way Joss and his family would never understand. But the loveliness of this morning, with the strong sunshine, made him feel almost happy and he wondered if there would ever really be a time when he and Joss could walk in such a place and be free, from the war, and their exposure. His mind retreated from this thought, of possibilities, especially the good ones; they were the most painful to consider. Pausing in a clearing created by the collapse of an old tree, he stood in the sun and saw how it picked out the pink of campions and the white of dog roses jewelling the verge and hedges. He sat down and tried to empty his mind of the sights of the Front. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned the top few buttons; it was getting warmer. He noticed how the verges were alive with bees, hoverflies and damselflies – it was a damp area, which exhaled like a misty breath in the sun. Getting clumsily to his feet, he began walking and came face to face with Roger Deerman. Tom’s insides clamped. The path was narrow.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as casually as he could, but knew immediately it was the wrong question. Dangerous.
‘To get to know you, that’s all,’ Deerman answered equally nonchalantly, flicking a long seed head against his hand; it was a wild grass with fattening, fertile seed heads.
‘I want to get past,’ Tom said, his heart banging away in his ears – he was sure Deerman could hear it.
Deerman smiled and looked expectantly for a word.
‘Please,’ Tom felt the word drag out of him.
‘That’s better.’ Still he blocked the way.
Tom didn’t move. Knew this was the confrontation Deerman had wanted.
‘Why did you follow me?’
Deerman looked around innocently. ‘It’s my land. I can walk where I wish.’
‘I need to get by,’ Tom repeated. ‘So if you’ll let me pass.’
‘You can pass if you want to.’ Deerman was looking at h
im playfully, amused, but his pale blue eyes were lizard-like.
‘You know why I can’t push you out of the way.’ Tom moved forward a step, hoping this might induce Deerman to move, but he only stood straighter, planting his elegantly booted feet further apart.
‘Well, you can’t really turn and run back, as you did last time, can you?’ Deerman quipped. ‘That would look so feeble, so if you want to get by, you’ll have to push past.’ He grinned.
Tom swallowed. Molestation seemed inevitable. Don’t show any anxiety, he kept thinking. Don’t show any agitation. He knows I can’t tackle him. I’m a guest of his parents, and he’s a senior officer; I’m a private. If I touch him, I could be up on a court-martial. So he turned round and began to retrace his steps but Deerman sprang in front of him.
‘Oh spoil sport!’ Deerman insinuated himself by Tom’s side. Tom sat. Deerman sat. So close, Tom could smell the slight tang of new sweat rising up from his jacket. The morning was getting hotter and heavier as the sun made the vegetation steam. Tom was glad he was in shirtsleeves. And then was not. Deerman traced a line on his exposed area of chest with the grass strand. Tom tried to stand. Deerman held him firmly by the arm.
‘No, don’t go.’ It was a command, not a plea but he was looking up at Tom and his eyes had an odd longing look. ‘Take you shirt off, I want to see your shoulder wound.’
Tom was half standing. ‘I’d rather not.’
‘Are you refusing an order?’
‘I don’t like the way you’re behaving with me.’
Deerman snorted. ‘I’m your superior officer and I am telling you I want to see how your shoulder injury is healing. I have every right.’
Tom knew technically he could not refuse. Unbuttoning his shirt as little as possible, he revealed the healed wound.
‘I said take it off, Fielder.’
Staring directly ahead, Tom lowered his braces and pulled the shirt off over his head; he had never felt as naked or so sexually exposed. Deerman gave a low whistle of pleasure and walked around him slowly, appraisingly, then with open appreciation as the sunlight played on his sun-browned back, down the strong recess of his shoulder blades. Tom flinched as the grass strand tickled him like a fly down his back. Deerman traced his fingers between his shoulder blades as Tom tensed further, but he stood helpless with indecision.
‘No-one has to know,’ Deerman said quietly at last, his voice was low, solicitous. ‘We’re private here – no-one uses this track.’
Tom looked around for an escape, a way to run, but the undergrowth on either side of the track was waist-high and the thickets of woodland either side tangled.
‘I don’t want this.’
‘Come on Fielder, stop acting so coyly. It’s pretty obvious you’re being had by my little brother every night, so why can’t I have a piece of it, too?’
Tom stood stock still, staring ahead with his back to Deerman.
‘How do you like it, mm? Front to back, face to face, side to side even?’ came Deerman’s voice, and then gave a mocking parody of an orgasm.
Still Tom stood, frozen. Quickly he ran through his stay with Joss and their love-making in the early hours.
‘Go on, let’s do it,’ whispered Deerman into his ear.
Tom started moving away.
‘Oh don’t tell me you’re loyal to John!’ Deerman sneered. ‘It amazes me that you go for the human equivalent of a carthorse when you can have an athlete... Though I suppose you are a bit of a clodhopper yourself, aren’t you, Fielder? Tom Clomper... You do have a jolly good body, I’ll say that,’ he added, stepping forward and catching hold of Tom’s thigh; he swallowed as he felt hard muscle.
‘I could report you for this.’
‘And who’s going to believe you?’ The voice was not sarcastic, just matter-of-fact. Who indeed? A court martial if Tom hit him; a stain of complicity if he did nothing. His mind swam.
‘You’re not dear brother’s first, you know,’ Deerman said matter-of-factly. ‘From what I can gather he played quite a field when he was in London... Oh, and don’t tell me you were a virgin?’ he jeered as he caught the look of confusion on Tom’s face. ‘I would imagine he’s ploughed quite a few virgin arses in his time, don’t think you were the first!’
Tom tried to pull away but, with a quick movement, Deerman restrained him from behind, and started to massage Tom’s chest with more fevered, searching hands, pushing himself into him so Tom could feel his strong erection, feel his breath gaining momentum.
‘Come on, I’ll make sure you enjoy it too,’ he whispered. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
Tom’s heart was banging frantically in his ears. Deerman’s hands went down the inside of his trousers, over his buttocks, clenched them. To his horror, he felt an answering arousal and pushed violently backwards before Deerman could feel it. Deerman lost his balance and was dumped unceremoniously in the rank grasses.
Tom walked away, his skin flinching, waiting for an attack. He pulled on his shirt, snapped up his braces, not daring to turn round but feeling safer now he was fully clothed. But Deerman sat in the verge, gazing after him with an unwonted look on the thoroughbred face. It was only when Tom reached the lane that he slackened his pace, as he heard a cart in the distance. But then the yoke of anxiety and dread dropped like a stone around him and he no longer saw the many-coloured spring mornings, or heard the skylark singing high in the sky. All he could see was a world closing in, the dusty track and Deerman's ink-black shadow looming over him.
If he said nothing to Joss but Deerman did say something, it looked as if he was compliant; if he told Joss, it would put him in an impossible situation. And how far would Deerman have gone? He began to sweat as the impossibility of his situation dawned on him. Why had he taken his shirt off and stood there impassively for so long? Could that be interpreted by Deerman as wanting the attention? How could he have allowed himself to become aroused by him? Had Deerman sensed it? He rubbed his forehead and tried to think. If he left Woodham quietly, it would be meanly unjust to Joss, and unbearably discourteous to his parents. And was it true what he hinted about Joss’s experiences in London? Was it really any of his, Tom’s, business? And wasn’t this discord just what Deerman wanted?
Drawing a deep breath in, he turned and started walking back to the Hall to face whatever situation lay there, and was startled when Deerman met him by the gates and beckoned him over with an unusually open, friendly expression on his face.
‘Fielder, I should apologise, again,’ he said awkwardly. ‘What happened just now was wrong of me. You’re a guest here and I took advantage.’
Tom stared at him, too surprised to reply, and waited for a sarcastic denouement. There was none.
‘I hope you’ll forget about it,’ Deerman continued and tried to smile.
Tom nodded too readily. ‘Thank you. Yes, of course.’ In his head, he heard a voice: stop thanking him, stop being so bloody grateful. Deerman smiled a warm, broad smile and, for a moment, Tom could see he was very much Joss’s brother.
As Tom walked away, Deerman stared after him and felt an ache within him, which he knew sex alone would not dispel. Knew this something he was feeling about Fielder, despite his efforts to hide it, was new, like a raw seam of coal, recently hewn. Leaning back against the rails, he thought of John. In truth, he had no idea of his brother’s life in London, or his sex life, so why had he hinted that he did? But he knew why. People always preferred his brother, and John always attracted people, without having to try. He remembered how the crumpled pink baby had emerged one bright May morning, usurping him from his position as youngest. Remembered how his mother was unusually flustered after John’s birth, and how there had been mutterings of “a mistake” and “a surprise” between the servants; he had asked his mother what this had meant, but she had looked at him with distaste and sent him away.
Then he remembered the toddler emerging from babyhood, with his winning, dimple-cheeked smile. Recalled the blond-haired, cherubic little boy
who moved ever further away from him as Deerman had pinched him or tripped him up when no-one else was looking, and John had gazed up at him with those large, dark blue eyes, too young and too trusting to understand spite. There had been no feeling of victory for Deerman, just a pinched-faced sensation of somehow being all wrong. And now he thought of Fielder, and he tried to savour the afternoon’s new feeling, but its newness slipped away from him, like water through his hands, and, in its stead, something twisted emerged, deformed and halting.
It was almost a relief for Tom when he was finally ordered back for duty. A relief, because there would be no more uncertainty. In their last talk before he left for the railway station, he sat with Joss in the cooling garden. Joss’s arm was still in plaster but the padding around his hand had been removed, revealing the awkward healing of hurriedly stitched skin and set bones. He was constantly scratching the edge of the plaster cast with his other hand and this arm fell unblemished across his chest. Tom knelt down, holding onto his arm. Joss knew there was something he was struggling to say.
‘What is it?’
Tom pulled a face, glanced away. ‘I’ve got to say this – if I get killed, I’ve left everything to you. There’s a will with Mr Sturges in Worcester.’
Joss rebounded as though someone had slapped him savagely in the face, then he looked oddly defiant. ‘If you die, I’ll be joining you as soon as I find out,’ he said simply.
Tom stared at him.
‘Do you honestly think I’d want to continue without you?’
Tom considered. ‘That’s blackmail isn’t it? Don’t get killed, because you’ll kill me.’
Joss shrugged. ‘If that’s the way you want to see it.’ He paused, then, ‘I’ve been saving up the opiates bit by bit, just in case.’
‘I don’t want you to waste your life like that, John.’
‘Oh “John” now is it?’
‘You know what you’ve just said?’
‘That my life would have no meaning without you? Yes, and that’s the way I feel.’
Sitting back heavily on the evening grass, Tom shook his head. ‘Joss, I feel the same way but I can’t have that threat over my head. You know what it’s like out there.’
