Caught!

by JL Merrow

  “How do you even know that? You’ve only just moved here.”

  “I have a ’satiable curiosity.”

  Rose frowned. “If that’s a quote, I haven’t seen the film.”

  I tsked. “It’s from a book, actually. Call yourself a teacher, woman? Rudyard Kipling, the Just So Stories.”

  “A book? That’s so old, it’s practically a stone tablet.”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “You mean one of those books everyone’s heard of and nobody wants to read? Ooh, look—isn’t that Sean Grant up ahead? Looks like he’s going for a Chinese too.”

  My stomach went tight. There was a streetlamp right by the takeaway, and the flash of red hair above that black leather jacket was unmistakable as the lean figure disappeared into the old bank building. Then I frowned. “What do you mean, too? I thought we were going to have an Indian.”

  “I changed my mind. Got a sudden craving for crispy duck. And prawn crackers.” She grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me along the street, past the bright red lights of the Indian and towards the old bank building.

  I had a sinking feeling this would not end well.

  Chapter Two

  “Hello, Sean,” Rose chirped as I stumbled up the three shallow steps into the Chinese takeaway. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  He turned. “Oh—hi. You all right?” he said, looking right at me. His hair was all mussed and flattened in odd places, as if he’d taken off a motorcycle helmet and then run his fingers through his hair. Which, on reflection, was probably precisely what he’d done. He looked dangerous and inviting, like a sleazy club on the bad side of town with a half-price drinks offer you know you’ll end up regretting in the morning.

  I swallowed. “Fine! Just—you know. Having a takeaway.”

  He nodded, straight-faced. “Yeah. That’s what most people come here for, actually.”

  I opened my mouth to make a snappy comeback, then shut it again quickly when I realised I didn’t have one. Damn it. Rose, treacherously, snorted. She cleared her throat. “Not looking after the twins tonight, then?”

  “Nah, I took ’em to the park after school and wore them out with a kick-about, so Debs reckoned she’d be fine with them tonight.” He leaned against the wall, all easy relaxation.

  Rose cocked her head to one side. “So that means you’re on your own, does it?” she asked, her voice innocent.

  What on earth was she playing at?

  “We can’t let him eat on his own, can we, Robert?” She turned to Sean and gave him a honeyed smile. “You’ll have to come to Robert’s. We can all share. It’ll be great.”

  Oh. Oh… I just managed to stop myself slapping my forehead in front of everyone. Of course. Just because I’d sworn off men didn’t mean Rose had.

  Sean shook his head. “Cheers, but I don’t want to be a gooseberry.” He gave the two of us a significant look.

  Rose snorted again. She really ought to try and break herself of the habit. “Come on! You honestly think him and me are together?”

  I hoped I’d just imagined her lip curling as she gestured towards me. “I’m not sure I’m altogether flattered by that remark,” I protested.

  She smiled at me, looking more toothsome than a crocodile. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t believe in cradle-robbing.”

  Icy shock lanced through my chest—then I realised she just meant I was too young for her. Idiot.

  “You all right, mate?” Sean was staring at me, concern crinkling the corners of those perilously green eyes of his. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I—yes. Of course.” I forced a smile. “I’m quite all right, I mean. Not that I’ve seen a ghost. Hertfordshire’s really not that haunted. Not like Gloucestershire. Or the Isle of Wight…” I caught myself. “We should order. Will you be joining us?”

  I wasn’t sure what I hoped his answer would be. I’d been looking forward to a cosy, relaxed meal with Rose, but damn it, the demands of friendship were clear. If she was after him, it was my duty to help her. It’d do me good too to concentrate on someone else for a bit. If nothing else, it’d be a constant reminder to me that I was not looking for anyone for myself.

  Even if it would be hard to watch them getting closer…

  “Nah, thanks,” Sean was saying, “but it’s been a busy day. Think I’ll just have a quiet night in with the telly.” He grinned suddenly. “’Sides, Wills and Harry’d never forgive me if they found out I’d been fraternizing with the Enemy.”

  “My name’s actually Emeny. Em. En. Ee.” I sounded it out with resignation. “But to ninety-nine percent of the school, yes, I’m the Enemy. And that’s including the teachers. Still, it could be worse,” I added more optimistically.

  “Yeah?”

  “I was a supply teacher for a week in a London secondary school, where the year elevens delighted in dubbing me Mr. Enema. It was the longest week of my life. Also, quite possibly, the most educational. Although not in matters I’d care to elaborate on.”

  Sean laughed. All right for him, with a gift of a name like Grant. “Guess it’s not easy being gay and teaching in a place like that.”

  I blinked at him. He knew I was gay? Who’d told him? No. I must have misheard him. He hadn’t said that. Had he? “Pardon?”

  Sean took a step back. “Uh, sorry, mate. No offence. It’s just you look… Sorry.”

  Oh. “That’s quite all right,” I muttered to my brogues. My face was hot. I supposed it was only fitting that it should turn a fetching shade of pink, seeing as the rest of me apparently proclaimed my sexual preferences to the world at large. That year-eleven joke on my name took on a whole new meaning.

  “We’re not really used to someone like you here,” he said, which made me feel even worse.

  “Shamwell has hitherto been a queer-free zone, has it?” I snapped.

  “What? No, you got me wrong. I just meant, you’re a bit of a cut above, you know?”

  “A cut above what?” I asked, suspicious. If there was a circumcision joke in the offing, I was…I was getting paranoid, I decided.

  “Well, the way you talk—the way you dress, come to that—I’d have thought you’d be teaching royalty at Eton, not slumming it here with us.”

  My blood ran cold. “I don’t know what you mean. Why shouldn’t I be here? There’s nothing sinister about it.”

  Sean had stepped back, his hands raised. Why was he smiling? “Whoa. Hold on, who said it was? Just surprised, that’s all. You got family in the area?”

  Oh. “Er, no.” I essayed a nonchalant shrug, and something in my neck twinged painfully. “Ow. I just saw the post advertised and thought it sounded interesting.”

  “You all right there?” Sean asked as I rubbed my neck, which had reached the pins-and-needles stage.

  “Quite fine. Thank you.” I rolled a shoulder gingerly.

  His mouth quirked in a suit-yourself sort of way. “So do you live in the village?”

  “Um, yes. Thank you. And yes. I’m renting the Old Hatter’s Cottage. Just down the road. You know it?”

  “Yeah? Hey, that’s great.”

  He seemed a tad more pleased than I’d have expected. “Why?”

  “He was my great-great-grandad. The Old Hatter, I mean. He lived in that cottage all his life—least, that’s what my mum always said. Big industry in this area, hats used to be.”

  I had visions of the village in days gone by, half the population high on mercury fumes. And the other half, of course, drunk on beer from the proliferation of pubs. It’d certainly explain one or two architectural idiosyncrasies, like the strangely undulating wall just down the road from the church. “Oh—so your family is my landlord?”

  “Nah, the house was sold way before my time.” He raised one eyebrow a couple of millimetres. “You know, you probably ought to order your food, if you
want to eat tonight.”

  “Done it,” Rose interrupted. “Hours ago.”

  I’d wondered where she’d got to. “Oh? What are we eating?”

  “Oh, the usual. Sweet-and-sour pork balls, cashew chicken and crispy beef. And monk’s vegetables, ’cause you look like you could do with getting your five a day.”

  “What happened to the crispy duck?”

  “I decided to let it live to quack another day.”

  Sean grinned. “Don’t want to disappoint you, but I reckon it was dead already. I don’t think they just run down to the river and nab one of the ones the kids like to feed.”

  “Dunno why not,” Rose said with a shrug. “There’s enough of them.”

  I frowned. “I’ve never seen more than twenty-eight, and that was only the once. Usually it’s between twelve and seventeen. That wouldn’t keep this place going for more than a fortnight.” I realised they were both staring at me. “What?”

  Rose patted my arm. “Just so’s you know, most people don’t count the ducks every time they walk past the river.”

  “Oh.” I thought about it for a moment but decided not to ask why not? They’d only have given me funny looks again, I was sure of it.

  There was a brief silence, thankfully broken by the Chinese lady behind the counter. “Order for Grant.”

  Sean pushed himself off the wall. “Right, that’s me. I’ll see you around, all right?”

  “If you’re sure you wouldn’t like to share our, um, pork balls?” I said, making an effort for Rose’s sake.

  “That’s okay. Wouldn’t want to get between a man and his pork balls.”

  Sean grabbed the carrier bag from the lady, smiled at us and left.

  “Bloody hell, have you never heard of playing it cool?” Rose muttered to me as the door closed behind him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He already said no once. You don’t have to act all desperate for his company.”

  “So-rry.” I jammed my hands into the pockets of my jacket and turned to examine the cards and flyers from local businesses on the windowsill, which hoped to persuade me into parting with my cash for, variously: tree surgery, computer services, and bikini waxing in the comfort of my own home. I winced. Not that I’ve ever been waxed, but I have a very good imagination, and I wasn’t sure where the comfort part was supposed to come in.

  Rose peered over my shoulder. “Ooh, that’s quite a good price for a Brazilian. I’ll have one of them.”

  I handed over the flyer for Ruby’s Waxing. “You know, I could have lived without the knowledge of exactly how you cultivate your lady-garden.”

  Rose snorted a laugh. “Lady-garden? Ew. You make it sound like it’s got things living in it. So what about you? I’ve heard gay blokes are all into manscaping.”

  “Some of us prefer to buck the trend. And why am I even telling you this?” The door opened, and I got another crick in my neck turning to check if it was anyone from the school. “Ow,” I said, rubbing my neck.

  The man who’d just walked in (fifties, unshaven, thankfully a total stranger) gave me a funny look.

  “Order for Wyman,” the lady at the counter announced. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally I could escape to relative privacy before Rose got it into her head to ask if I had any intimate piercings.

  I didn’t, by the way. Mother thought piercings were common. Which meant, naturally enough, that when I was fourteen, I got my best friend at school to pierce my ear for me with a sewing needle.

  At least, Fordy had said it was a needle. I wasn’t altogether sure he knew the difference between needles and pins. Or, for that matter, sharp and blunt, or sterile and more germ-laden than a rat with bubonic plague.

  One very nasty infection and two courses of antibiotics later, I’d decided that (a) this particular rebellion wasn’t worth the upset it caused to Mother and (b) over my dead body would anyone ever get near my intimate bits with anything sharp and pointy.

  I had, as it happened, allowed Fordy near my intimate bits, although not with anything sharp and pointy. That hadn’t ended particularly well, either.

  “Do you think I’m really that obvious?” I asked when we were safely back inside the Old Hatter’s Cottage. Rose took off her anorak, one of those padded ones that look like sleeping bags with sleeves, before I could offer to help her, and slung it over the banister. I tried not to be too pointed about removing my greatcoat and hanging it on a coat hanger.

  “Obvious about what? Being posh? Being a bit eccentric? Fancying Sean?”

  What? “What? No, about being gay. Obviously. I mean, from what Sean said…”

  “Well, it’s your gaydar, innit?”

  Oh. Oh. “He’s gay?” I blurted out. Had I got this all wrong?

  Rose seemed blithely unconcerned. “Well, I couldn’t say for sure, sure, but I’m pretty certain he swings both ways. I’ve seen him around the village with men just as much as with women. Are we going to eat or just stand around in the hall yakking?”

  “They could be just friends,” I said, grabbing the takeaway bag from the hall table. “The men, I mean.”

  “Yeah, right. The sort of friend you see all the time for a few months and then never hang around with ever again?” Well, she might have a point there. “Front room?” she carried on. “Or are we going to be all posh and sit at the dining table? Again.” We’d used the dining table, which was large, sturdy and scratched, to do our marking on.

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Duh. What do you think?”

  “Fine. You go on through and sit down, and I’ll bring some plates.” I detoured into the kitchen and grabbed the requisite crockery and cutlery. “But he’s definitely had girlfriends?” I asked, joining her in the lounge. Or front room, if one preferred.

  Rose had already made herself at home on the sofa and was flicking through the book I’d been reading, which happened to be a copy of Maurice by E. M. Forster. “God, is all your stuff a hundred years old?” She tossed the admittedly battered paperback onto my piano stool, then regarded the instrument itself, which had been an unexpected and touching moving-in present from my stepfather. “You know, I’m still waiting for you to serenade me with that thing. How about some entertainment while I eat?”

  “What, so you can steal all the pork balls? I’m not that much of an idiot. Now focus, please. Sean. Girlfriends.”

  Rose made a grab for the takeaway bag as I set out the plates and forks on the coffee table. “Oh, right. Yep. He went out for a while with Destinee’s aunt-who’s-her-cousin.”

  I goggled, arrested in the act of sitting down beside her. “Pardon?”

  I’d known they did things differently in the countryside. I hadn’t realised they did them that differently.

  Rose looked up from the bag, holding a prawn cracker. “Oh, you know. Her mum, that’s Destinee’s mum’s sister, had her when she was still at school, so she was brought up by the grandparents. So Destinee calls her Auntie Chelsea. Happens all the time.” She gave me a sidelong look. “Okay, whatever you were thinking, I don’t think I want to know.”

  “I…wasn’t thinking anything. At all. Do you know the family well?”

  “I taught your class last year, remember? Believe me, you’ve got off easy so far. You’re going to see plenty of Destinee’s mum in the next few months.”

  “Oh joy,” I muttered, opening up one of the little plastic tubs. “Um. What’s this one supposed to be?” The dish inside appeared to be mostly composed of bright orange grease, with a lot of sticklike things poking out.

  “Crispy chilli beef. Go on, have some. It’s yummy.”

  “Is it supposed to be this oily?”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad. Takeaways are always greasy. That’s part of the attraction.” She emptied out half the container of rice onto her plate and the rest onto min
e.

  “It is?”

  “Well, yeah. Knowing you’re being a bit naughty is always fun. And hang on, are you telling me you’ve never had a takeaway before?”

  My shoulders tensed. “Um, no? Why would I want to tell you something like that?”

  “Oh my God. You haven’t, have you? What, did Nanny always cook your dinners right up until you left home?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I muttered, my cheeks burning. “I didn’t have a nanny.” Au pairs were an entirely different thing.

  “And what about when you were at uni, for God’s sake? I mean, seriously?”

  “I always ate in Hall. Or at a restaurant, but that was only once or twice a term. And before you ask, my last job was at a boarding school, so I ate in, of course.”

  “And you never went out for a night’s drinking and got the munchies?”

  “I don’t really drink very much. And I always kept a packet of chocolate Hobnobs in my rooms. Sometimes I used to eat toast.”

  “Did you have a whatchamacallit, a fag to make it for you?”

  “Only very occasionally,” I said drily. “And then only in the pejorative sense.”

  “What? And, you know, what?”

  “Fagging, as in junior boys performing menial tasks for their seniors, is a school thing, not a university thing. And not at my school, in any case. The most the junior boys ever have to do at Loriners’ is serve tea and crumpets to the Masters once a term.”

  Rose made a face. “Public schools scare me. Why are they even called that? Why not just call them private schools? It’s more accurate.”

  “It’s a historical thing.”

  “Snob thing, if you ask me. Pass the chicken cashew thing.”

  I passed it, and she served herself a generous portion. “Anyway, I didn’t go to public school. Loriners’ is an independent grammar school. Half the pupils don’t even board.”

  “What, were you not posh enough for Eton? Mm, this is gorgeous. Have some. Go on.”