Out of Bounds

by Mike Seabrook

  “I’ll be there for nine”, said Stephen excitedly. “Pity Graham can’t be there, isn’t it? He’d jump at this.”

  “Why, what’s the matter with him? He’s next on my list of well-known local idiots to ring.”

  “He’s gone to France”, said Stephen. He felt a cold stab of pain in his lower abdomen at the thought of Graham. “He’s in France”, he said, striving to keep the sudden chill of loneliness out of his voice for Bill’s benefit. “He always goes there in the Christmas holidays.”

  “Oh. That’s a bit of a bugger”, came Bill’s voice. “I had him down as one of my dead certs. Thanks for telling me, Steve. See you Tuesday. Don’t forget, nine o’clock, and tell your people not to wait up for you. There’s enough booze here to keep us goin till next Christmas. See you, and have a dismal Crimble, son.” He rang off.

  Stephen put the receiver down and went back to his armchair feeling joyous relief at the thought of the cricket match, and at the same time missing Graham with a poignancy that was almost unbearable. The cricket match, he felt, was the solitary good thing that had happened so far this Christmas holiday, materializing as it had out of nowhere to rescue him from having to endure a deadly Boxing Day immediately after what he had little doubt was going to be a deadly Christmas Day. He watched seasonal inanities on the television with a jaundiced eye, and waited for his parents to return from one of their four trips to church that had characterized each day of the Christmas period for as long as he could remember. Christ, he thought to himself, I’d even have been better off going to church with them than sitting here moping about on my own. At least there’d be plenty of other people as miserable as me there for moral support.

  In some ways he had been glad when the holidays had begun. They put an end to the pain of encountering Graham every day and having to pretend they were nothing more than a schoolmaster and a bright, personable pupil. He saw more and more of Richard Fitzjohn, and the better he knew him the fonder he became of him. Richard never again let his surface glitter drop from him as he had in the extraordinary conversation in his bed when Stephen had asked him, almost seriously, if he was God. On the other hand, for Stephen he never completely re-erected the curtain of superficiality which he was careful to keep in place for most people. For Stephen he was just clever, funny, sexy, permanently randy — in short, wonderful company, and the best possible thing to keep Stephen’s mind off Graham, so far as such a thing was possible at all.

  Richard himself loved Stephen deeply and simply. With the decidedly mixed blessing of his penetrating insight he knew that however much he gave of himself to Stephen he could never give enough to make up for Stephen’s real love, for the good reason that he didn’t have enough to give. Knowing this, he gave all he did have unconditionally. Stephen loved him for it, too, though with a love of a very different kind from his feelings for Graham; and it seemed to be enough for Richard, though Stephen suffered periodic torments of guilt for allowing Richard to shower him with more affection and devotion than he could return. When he tried to explain the feeling Richard simply laughed at him and then deliberately deflected the conversation by saying something sexy, flippant or, more often than not, both.

  A character like Richard was, of course, as conspicuous as a peacock among his dowdy hens in the school, so there was no chance of their friendship not being noticed. But no-one appeared to suspect that there was more to them than two inseparable friends of the kind that flourish in boys’ schools. If the sexual nature of their relationship had come to light Stephen knew very well that Richard could not have cared less, and a fair bit of this insouciance rubbed off on Stephen as they became closer and closer. Although Richard’s flamboyant character took many forms they did not include parading his private life in public, and if it had he would have been too respectful of Stephen’s more private nature to do so.

  One result of this was that Graham never suspected how things stood with the two of them. He was very glad to see that Stephen had made one very close friendship, suspecting that it afforded him some relief from the unflagging sense of loss — which Graham could understand very well, suffering as he did from the identical feelings himself. But he had no idea that Stephen regularly shared Richard’s bed. Nor would he have understood the significance of a map pinned to the inside of Richard’s desk lid. It was a large, scale plan of the school buildings and grounds, which Richard, whose fertile talents included draughtsmanship, had drawn and inked in the school art room in his spare time. Marked on it in red ink were several neat little crosses like the crossed swords marking battlefields on Ordnance Survey maps. Each cross was accompanied by a date in tiny, neat figures, and from time to time Richard added another. The map was a mystery to all who saw it, and a source of much speculation among the boys and masters alike, but no-one ever came close to suspecting its real meaning.

  It had been Richard’s idea to see how many different places they could find in the school to achieve full sexual union; but Stephen, when he had managed to stop laughing in slightly scandalized delight at the idea, had gone along with it enthusiastically. By the end of term the map bore seventeen crosses.

  On the last day of term the school was virtually deserted by eleven in the morning. Graham found Stephen as he was gathering books for holiday revision, and they walked round the boundary of the cricket field one last time. It was a melancholy stroll, with both of them too choked with frustration and yearning to take any real pleasure from the other’s company, and they ended it by tacit agreement after a couple of circuits. When they parted — Graham to finish off loose ends, Stephen to go to Richard’s house — they wished each other a happy Christmas formally, almost like strangers, each knowing privately that though the wishes were sincere they were so futile as to be meaningless. Graham told Stephen of his plan to spend the holiday in France as he always did, and Stephen’s face fell. Though he had little expectation of restoring their relationship, the certain knowledge that it was now beyond his power depressed him more than he would have believed. When they finally turned away from each other to go in different directions Graham saw with a pang of pain as sharp as angina that Stephen’s eyes were wet and glistening. He hurried out of sight with his head down, lest any other master should see the tears in his own. They both felt more thoroughly wretched than they had ever felt in their lives.

  Richard, waiting by the school gates for Stephen to walk home with him, saw them part. When Stephen came up to him he saw the tears, too. His eyes widened in wonder. “So that’s who it is”, he said as Stephen came up. “Christ! I’d never have thought of him, if I’d guessed for a fortnight.”

  Stephen stared at him in horror. “You saw?” he said dully.

  Richard glanced round and saw that there was no-one in sight. He swung round into Stephen’s path, put his arms round him and hugged him, his fingers stirring Stephen’s thick dusty-blond hair. “It doesn’t matter if I know, Stevie”, he said softly, nibbling Stephen’s ear. “I wouldn’t say anything, you know that.”

  Stephen did, and allowed his friend to comfort him as they walked through the streets to Richard’s house. Richard saw immediately that he didn’t want to talk about it, and set himself to entertain him and distract his thoughts from his sorrows. By the time they reached the house Stephen had brightened up. “Come on up, Stevie”, said Richard. “They’re all out till tonight. I know how to take your mind off things.” He bounded up the stairs, already stripping his pullover, tie and shirt off. By the time Stephen reached the bedroom, which was now as familiar as his own at home, Richard was already naked, and waiting with his arms open, and an expression on his face of pure love, softened by a deep pity. And Richard — pretty, randy and generous — seeing that Stephen was still in part unmanned by his misery, for once took the lead, and gave his body and all his ingenuity to comfort Stephen’s troubled mind.

  Richard too was going abroad for the holiday, leaving with his parents for Malta the following day, and so it was a depressed and lonely Stephen who
trudged home to try to get on with his parents that evening. Even the recent memory of Richard’s firm, muscular, sweet-smelling body faded rapidly from his mind.

  He tried hard to make himself agreeable to his parents, whom he didn’t want to hurt if he could avoid it. They too, having begun to reconcile themselves to his new spirit of independence and his striking out on paths they didn’t especially like, were anxious to be on as friendly terms with their son as possible, so over the next few days he did cheer up somewhat, and they rubbed along reasonably well. But Christmas itself was the usual dismal affair, and he found himself almost counting the minutes to the cricket match on Boxing Day. His parents exchanged glances when he told them of the arrangements he had made; but they accepted it without any fuss, and his father even managed to hope, in a slightly chilly manner, that he would enjoy himself. He would have been a good deal chillier if he had known just how his son was destined to enjoy his midwinter match.

  * * *

  It was still half-dark when he arrived at the ground on Boxing morning, only twenty-five past eight, but he hadn’t been able to wait, and had taken a chance that someone would be arriving early to get everything set up. All the lights were blazing out through the great picture windows along the front of the big pavilion, beaming a welcome through the gloom. His spirits had picked up the moment he had woken that morning, and now they positively soared. He trotted across the shaggy, muddy outfield, pausing out of unfailing cricketer’s instinct to inspect the square, then hastened on towards the cheerful, homely lights.

  “Hi, Stevie”, bawled Bill as he slipped through the doors and closed them quickly against the bitter east wind. “Good boy. You’re the first. Come and give me a hand with these shutters, will you?” Stephen joined him behind the long bar with its cage of heavy-mesh shuttering, and Bill’s first act was to stick an opened bottle of Heineken into his hand. “Beer for breakfast, our kid”, he said in his broadest Derbyshire brogue. Stephen felt oddly proud to find himself the first there, and to be asked to help and given beer at an unthinkable hour of the day as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He felt that it signified in some almost mystical way that he had really arrived.

  They had got the bar ready by the time Alan Hood arrived at twenty to nine. Bill started rolling barrels around, attaching gas nozzles and making a fearsome din, while Stephen stocked the shelves with vast numbers of bottles of beers and minerals. Alan tossed his cricket bag into the dressing room and began laying out crockery, cutlery and glasses on the two long tables. As others arrived they busied themselves with all the little jobs to be done, and the place was noisy and cheerful with activity when the opposition rolled up at five to nine. They piled into the pavilion, loaded down with cricket gear and cases of booze, and immediately started opening the bottles and passing them to each other and the Elderton players.

  The champagne breakfast was a happy, cheery business that did much to compensate for the glum time Stephen had had up to then. The supplies of champagne seemed endless; and when it finally did run out the president of the visiting side slipped unobtrusively out with a couple of his team, and returned a minute later with six cases of Mumm. There were cheers, and they had breakfast all over again.

  Stephen had only drunk champagne two or three times before, and never more than one glass at a time. Bill’s methods were uncompromising: he simply thrust pint mugs at everyone and told them to get stuck in. Every few moments someone would charge along the tables filling people’s glasses, with the result that by the time players were peering into the last few bottles to make sure that the final drops had been consumed, Stephen had nine tenths of a pint of champagne still to drink in his glass, and he was already feeling more than a little tipsy. He thought it was perhaps the most wonderful feeling he had ever experienced.

  He attempted to explain so to Bill, but found that for some strange reason he was having difficulty in finding the right words for what he wished to say. He also observed that he kept breaking into roars of laughter for no explainable reason. This would, he thought, have made him conspicuous, but for the fact that most of the others seemed to be afflicted in the same unaccountable way.

  He guzzled some of his champagne. Then it struck him that it was very unfair for him to have lots of it to drink while some of the others round him had empty glasses, so in a warm, cottonwool glow of generosity he offered the rest round. They fell on it like wolves, and in five seconds it was gone. Then they went out to start the cricket match.

  It was a good match, because the first half was played in a warm alcoholic glow, while in the second innings they had sobered up from the champagne, but restored themselves with huge draughts of port contributed by the Elderton Park president, reciprocating the visitors’ generosity at breakfast. Nobody scored many runs, but Stephen’s team managed to amass 103 before they were all out in the nineteenth over, and the town scored the winning run in the twenty-eighth, with the last pair together. It was over by three in the afternoon, when it was practically dark, and they herded back into the pavilion feeling refreshed and bright from the unexpected exercise and fresh air, but chilled to the bone and more than ready for further supplies of drink.

  Stephen trotted off the field feeling brighter and happier than he had for several days, skipped up the steps and through the pavilion doors, and ran straight into Graham Curtis. He was so surprised that for some moments he stood gazing at Graham with his mouth open. Graham smiled, a little tensely but with all the affection Stephen knew was there for him.

  “Graham!” he eventually blurted out. “You’re not supposed to be here. I mean, you were supposed to be in France. I told Bill, that’s why he never phoned you. I thought…”

  “Never mind, Stephen”, Graham said. “I was in France, but I had to come back prematurely. I got a message saying that a very dear old friend of mine was seriously ill. They implied that it was really very serious indeed—you know, possibly the end, so I had to come back to London to see him. He wasn’t as bad as they thought, it seems, so I didn’t stay; but it wasn’t worth going back to France for the rest of the break, so I came home. Got back this afternoon. Saw the game going on as I drove past, and here I am. You seemed glad to see me”, he went on, glancing round and lowering his voice.

  “Oh, God, Graham”, said Stephen in a low, urgent whisper. “I’ve been having a dreadful time of it. I’m missing you so badly…” He broke off as other players appeared. “Hallo, Graham”, said several of them. “Thought you were in France…”

  Stephen went to the bar and got two pints while Graham was repeating his explanations. He carried one back to Graham, who thanked him pleasantly, but with all the conspiratorial intimacy gone while the others were about. They drifted over to a corner of the bar together, and Stephen gave a brief account of his holiday so far. Graham laughed at his description of the horrors of a family Christmas, but sobered when Stephen asked him “How have you been lately?”

  “Well”, he said, “about the same as you, I should think. No point in kidding myself about how much I miss you. I do, desperately. This is the first year when I haven’t enjoyed going to France. I’ve loved the country and the people ever since I first went there as a boy younger than you are now, and I get withdrawal symptoms if I don’t spend a month there at least once a year. That’s despite having to teach the language to a lot of francophobic little Englanders. And Paris, which is where I was intending to spend this holiday, is a beautiful city. But my heart wasn’t in it this year. I kept on thinking how wonderful it would be to take you there, and show you the real France, off the beaten track — all the little towns that the tourists never go near. I was actually glad to get the recall — apart from poor Reggie being ill, of course.”

  “Is he a very good friend of yours?” asked Stephen, meaning something else, and feeling a jagged bolt of jealousy skewering through him. It was so acute and unexpected that he physically flinched, bending as if he had been smitten with a sharp stomach pain.

  “Are
you all right?” asked Graham sharply, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay”, gasped Stephen, feeling rather silly. “Just a twinge of indigestion or something.”

  “Yes, well, Reggie’s a very dear friend indeed. He’s a very wise old man, a doctor, retired now. He’s a sort of guru for me. I ask his advice when I’m at a loss, and cry on his shoulder when I’m in trouble because I ignored the advice.”

  “Was he…” Stephen broke off in the middle of the question as he realized how impertinent it sounded, but Graham smiled.

  “Yes”, he said gently, “he was — my first. For a few years, when I was a year or so older than you are. He was a very kind, gentle initiator, who taught me most of what little wisdom I can claim. Don’t be jealous”, he added with a grin, reading Stephen’s expression. Stephen looked sheepish, and they both laughed. Some of the tension ebbed out of them.

  Various people came up and joined them at intervals, and in between Graham talked about Reggie Westwood, remembering anecdotes from years ago, and recalling some hilarious goings-on in the gay pubs and clubs they had visited together. This rang a bell in Stephen’s mind. “When you go to Paris”, he asked, “do you go round the gay places ever?”

  Graham raised an eyebrow at him. “Occasionally”, he said. “Not a great deal. I’m not actually all that fond of pubbing and clubbing. Just once in a while, when I get lonely, and feel like a bit of company. When I don’t want to pretend for a change.”

  “So you get lonely, too?” said Stephen, wistfully.

  Graham stared at him. “Well, of course I do. What an odd thing to say. I’m human too, you know. I’ve been half out of my mind these last few months, missing you.” He lowered his voice and shot a quick glance round. “I’ve had no love in my life, no affection, no sexual comfort, no nothing, you know. The nearest I’ve been to a thrill lately is tossing myself off thinking about that quick cuddle we had on the marathon, or what we used to have going for us. Lonely? Christ”, he went on, with an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice, “I’m an internationally acknowledged expert on the subject. But I don’t suppose I need to tell you that.”