Love Hurts

by Malorie Blackman

  ‘Hey, faggots.’ I didn’t realize at first that the Yank outside the naval club was talking to us. ‘What did ya mama say when you told her you was queer?’

  Frankie whirled to face him. There were three of them, all bigger than us. They were sucking on fat, oaky cigars and puffing smoke doughnuts into the night air. ‘You talkin’ to us, mate?’

  ‘Frank, ignore them.’

  The mouthy one stepped forward, his shoulders like mutton. ‘You wanna listen to your girlfriend, sailor.’

  Frankie lunged for him, giving the Yank the fight he so desperately wanted. It was brief. Painfully so. A couple of ugly pig grunts and a scraping of boots and Frankie was flat on his back. I pulled him up and away so fast it’s a wonder I didn’t rip his arm out of its socket. Luckily, the Yanks didn’t chase us.

  I could only hope it looked worse than it actually was. This time I dragged his floppy, half-conscious body up the gangway. ‘Dear Lord, you’re heavy.’ He looked a state: red teeth, blood crusting on his chin and all down his shirt. ‘Let’s get you to Matron.’ Matron was our name for Dr Lawson, the ship’s medic. He was known for his ‘busy’ hands.

  ‘No! No! I just wanna sleep.’

  ‘Act right in the head. You might have a concussion.’

  ‘What?’

  I sighed. ‘Come along, Frank. Come along.’

  At this time of night, there were no feet clanking up and down ladders to cover the creaking of metal plates as they cooled. Down below was quiet and it almost felt like there was only Frankie and me on the whole ship. Not wanting to wake those who were sleeping, I did as best I could to carry him through the narrow passageways to the sick bay.

  Lights were dimmed, but I could see the infirmary was empty. Where the bloody hell was Lawson? I elbowed my way in. The desk lamp was on and the room smelled of recent cigarette smoke, but the doctor and indeed the nurse were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t even that late, damn them.

  I rested Frank on the nearest bunk. Ironically the beds in the sick bay were by far the nicest on the ship, I often wondered if being ill might be something of a treat. I pulled his boots off his feet and swung his legs up onto the crisp, mint-green sheets. ‘Gerroff! Leave me alone!’

  ‘We need to get you cleaned up or you’ll be in the cells,’ I said sternly, echoing my grandmother who’d cleaned us up when we’d fallen out of the orchard as boys. ‘Now, button your lip and take off your shirt.’

  A sly smile crossed his lips but he did as he was told while I filled a kidney-shaped metal tray with warm water. I found towels easily enough and carried them back to the bunk. I knelt before him to get a better look. His nose was bruised black and swollen twice the size it should be. ‘I think he broke your nose.’

  ‘I’ll square with ya, Reg, that’s what it feels like.’

  ‘Pipe down.’ I delicately bathed his face with a damp flannel, avoiding his nose. During rugby we’d be given ice packs, but there was no freezer here and I couldn’t very well break into the galley. Instead I returned to the sink and gave him a cold flannel for the swelling.

  ‘That oaf was right . . . you’d be a bloody brilliant wife, Reg!’

  ‘Don’t you start.’ I carried on cleaning him up. Without all the blood, he didn’t look too bad. I wiped his chest and collarbone with my now pinkish flannel. His body was taut and muscular, not an ounce of spare fat. My eyes lingered.

  ‘What would I do without ya, eh?’ And then his hand was on the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. He put his flannel to one side.

  His eyes were on mine and so sincere I had to look away. ‘You’re drunk, Frankie.’

  ‘Drunk and brave, Reg. Drunk and brave.’ He leaned down and kissed me. I shivered to my bones. He was not the first boy I had kissed, but it was the first time I’d felt a kiss in my toes.

  I hooked my hand behind his head and pulled him closer, kissing him deeper. There was a familiar stirring inside. But I knew I had to stop it. If we were caught . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Frank, stop.’

  ‘No . . .’ he said petulantly.

  ‘We have to.’ I kissed him again, fleetingly, allowing myself a second taste – one to remember.

  He shuffled over to make room for me on the bed. ‘Lie with me.’

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘Aw, come on . . . just lie with me.’

  I kicked off my boots and lay alongside him, scared rigid. Scared we’d be caught, scared of what might happen. I didn’t trust myself and I certainly didn’t trust him. I looked over and his eyes were already closed. He was passing out – I prayed from drink rather than concussion. ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘I will,’ I said to his ear and wrapped my arms around him.

  I don’t know precisely what time it was when I woke, but sun poured in through the porthole and Dr Lawson was standing in the doorway. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’

  No man has never moved so fast. I was off the bed in a flash, disturbing Frankie as I leaped up. My mouth blubbered like a goldfish as I composed my lie. ‘I . . . we . . . Frank got into a fight. I brought him to find you, but you weren’t here.’

  John Lawson was a fox-like man with a full ginger beard and ruthlessly clever eyes. He knew. Oh, he knew all right. ‘We have more than one bunk.’

  ‘I . . . I had to watch him. To make sure he didn’t swallow his tongue. And you weren’t here.’

  It’s hard to say what the greater sin was: sleeping with another man or abandoning your post. And John Lawson knew that as well as I did.

  His eyes blazed for a moment before he drew his lips thin. ‘Does he require further attention?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Frankie said, sitting up. He was now sporting two black eyes, each with a yellow rim.

  ‘You don’t look fine. You’ll stay here and rest. Hastings, is it? I suggest you return to the mess at once.’ He positioned himself between Frankie and me so I was left with little choice but to obey.

  Frankie stayed in the sick bay for the rest of the day and I busied myself in the wireless office, throwing myself into my duties. As I did every evening, I sought him out in the galley for dinner. As I sidled onto the bench next to him, he stiffened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just don’t sit so close. Give me room, mate.’

  I’d seen this before. Alfie Reed, Upper Form Prefect. The coldness that followed his kisses.

  ‘How’s your nose?’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘Hurts. And I can hardly see out of my eye.’ And, just like that, everything returned to normal.

  Or so I thought.

  But a few days passed by, during which everyone heard about the three Yanks he’d singlehandedly fought off, and though I ate and drank and played cards with him, Frankie, it became clear, was actively avoiding being alone with me. One time, I passed him in the tight corridor leading down to the shell store and he squeezed himself into a corner, doing everything he could to avoid pressing his body against mine. ‘Frank,’ I said, reaching for his waist.

  He recoiled. ‘Don’t!’ he snapped. He leaned in. ‘Just forget about it, Reg. Just forget it ever happened.’

  I won’t lie, that hurt. A physical pain, a lump in my chest like my heart had got itself knotted. But what else can you do? You can only have so many sleepless nights – and I did – before the tiredness catches up with you. I consoled myself in the knowledge that the next time we docked and he’d had his skin-full of sake, we would no doubt relive the exhilaration of that night in Sasebo.

  Over the coming weeks, things returned to some form of normality and, like a timid puppy, I could feel the closeness creeping back.

  In the April of ’52 the Unicorn was ‘adopted’, if you like, by the Middlesex Regiment. Having a ship full of land troops changed everything. We were even more cramped than before and it rather felt like we were having our ship taken away from us. They were cuckoos in the nest. We were just to ferry them to Korea but their
presence unsettled everyone.

  There was a natural division between the army and the navy, except of course for Frankie. He welcomed them aboard, almost acting as tour guide – settling them in to their new home with poker nights and dominoes tournaments. He even taught them our songs! I couldn’t help it. I felt like day-old bread.

  I did not own Frankie Cain, for no one ever owns another, but on the night of the 3 May 1952 when I found him coming out of the punishment cells with a square-jawed lieutenant, he broke me.

  It was late and I’d gone searching for him, almost knowing what I would find. Sometimes you just know.

  There were two cells, both empty of detainees, so they had been unmanned.

  Being proven right was a hollow victory. I stood, gormless, as they slunk out.

  Frankie’s eyes widened. ‘Reg!’ At least he had the grace to look appalled.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ I turned and headed for deck, not once looking back. It was spring, but it was cool and a wind sliced across the open deck. I made for the back of the ship, where I knew it’d be quiet at this time of night. I gripped the rail and looked to the furthest point of the horizon where the black sea fell off the edge of the world.

  ‘Reg.’ He’d followed me. I didn’t reply. ‘Reg, that was nothin’.’

  I could only bite my tongue for so long. ‘It doesn’t feel like nothing, Frank. It feels like a lot.’

  He moved as close to me as he dared. I stood my ground. He lowered his voice and I could only just hear him over the engines and the waves. ‘Reg, people were startin’ to talk. That doctor. He knew.’

  I shook my head. ‘And sneaking out of the punishment cells is your idea of discretion?’

  ‘He’s no one! That was just . . . passin’ time. That’s completely different . . . you and me . . . you and me are somethin’ else.’ His fingers were touching mine on the safety rail. ‘I’m sorry, Reg.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. I am sorry I ever met you.’

  Pain flickered through his eyes and for a second, I was glad. He deserved it. ‘Aw, you don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Everything was easy before I met you and now you’re all I think about. When I close my eyes, all I see is you.’

  His hand was now on top of mine. I looked over my shoulder to make sure there was no one watching us. ‘Me too. This wasn’t meant to happen, you know. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way, Reg. But I do.’

  For a long time I stared out to the ocean without saying anything, content to feel his hand on mine. He was there. With me. ‘So what are we to do?’ I finally said.

  ‘I dunno. But I am yours.’

  I looked him dead in the eye. ‘And only mine?’

  ‘If you say so. You’re the guv’nor.’

  I nodded and gripped his hand. We stood where we were until the sea birthed the sun.

  He was true to his word. Now when we met at ladders or in quiet storerooms, we would make the most of every spare second. The fear of getting caught, if I’m honest, only made it more arousing. Sometimes after lights out we’d meet in the chapel or the punishment cells if they were free.

  I was happy, so happy my face ached. When I woke, I woke with the sun in my face even if it was cloudy.

  It wasn’t to last. Nothing ever does.

  In the summer we were sent to assist HMS Ocean, a larger carrier to assist aircraft landings. Damaged planes were to come with us so as not to disrupt the operation.

  You know how you just know when something’s wrong? I think it’s a tribal thing, a race memory – I sensed something was afoot at once. I was in the wireless office when I became aware of officers scrabbling around, practically throwing themselves down ladders or running out onto the gun platform. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Smoke on deck!’ someone shouted back. I ran onto the bridge to see what the fuss what and was greeted by a thick black mushroom of smoke. And I saw. A plane had come down badly.

  Frankie was on deck, working on damaged planes. He was down there and we were on fire. The alarm screeched. I ran.

  By the time I reached the deck, the fire was out but it was carnage. There was a body laid out, battered and bloody – the pilot. But others were injured too. I couldn’t find him – I couldn’t see him. Half the ship had come out to assist.

  I pushed through the crowd. ‘Where’s Cain?’ I grabbed a junior officer. ‘Frankie Cain?’

  The boy’s face was covered in blood and I released his arm. ‘Over there – he was over there – with them.’

  I ran to where he pointed. Frankie was splayed on the deck, but he was alive. He writhed and howled with pain. There was so much blood. There was nothing I could do. I froze. A jagged chunk of fuselage jutted out of his middle. ‘Oh, God. Frank!’

  ‘Stand aside!’ Hands picked me up and moved me out of the way. ‘Get him to the infirmary!’

  All I could do was watch as, screaming, he was stretchered inside by four men. ‘He’s not going to make it,’ said a captain, far too casually. He would. He would make it.

  I didn’t care any more. I loitered around the sick bay and Lawson tolerated my presence. They got the shrapnel out and stitched him up but Lawson told me with medical school sympathy that Frankie was unlikely to survive the night. If his wounds didn’t kill him, the morphine might. ‘Can I stay with him?’

  Lawson regarded me. ‘You may. He shouldn’t be alone. Should I call for the priest?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think he’d want that. Doctor, you have to save him. You have to.’ He regarded me sadly and shook his head.

  I pulled up a chair and sat at Frank’s bedside all through the night. I held his hand and didn’t care who saw. In my mind’s eye I imagined that I was lending him my heartbeat, aiding his to beat stronger. I didn’t let go, and when I woke with my head on the edge of his bed, he was still alive. He’d made it through the longest night.

  As he improved, I was forced to return to duties, threatened with disciplinary. Each day after work, I returned to the infirmary to sit with Frankie. As you might expect, soon you couldn’t shut him up, but he was immobile. There was talk of him getting shore leave when we reached Japan in a week or so.

  One night, as he prepared to retire for the evening, Lawson took me to one side. ‘Hastings, this has to stop. You’ll get us all court-martialled. People are talking.’

  ‘People have a habit of doing so.’

  ‘I’m serious, Hastings. Go back to the Mess. He’s out of the woods.’

  ‘No! I’ve had enough. I don’t want to sneak around in shadowy corners any more like a rodent. I lo—’

  ‘Oh, pull yourself together, man. We’re not in a radio play.’

  I could feel my insides steaming. ‘Tell me, how do you do it, Doctor? How can you pretend?’

  He narrowed his eyes. His voice was terse. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  We reached Japan in August. Frankie was now up and about, but unable to fulfil his duties. He would leave the Unicorn until her return.

  And I was leaving with him.

  I told him in the infirmary. ‘Frankie. I’m coming with you.’

  He looked blankly at me for a moment as if I were joshing. ‘You can’t abandon your post.’

  ‘I can and I shall.’

  ‘Reg, no.’ He winced and held his side. ‘I mean, how?’

  ‘I don’t care. We’ll go home. Back to London. I’ve had enough of this ship, this war’ – I waved my hands around my head and at him – ‘all of this.’

  ‘Reg . . .’

  ‘My family have a cottage in Worthing. We could go there. Together. I’ve always wanted a dog – a springer or a setter or some such. Just imagine – you and me walking on the shore, far away from prying eyes. We could do as we pleased. It would be so peaceful. I could even get that grocer’s . . .’

  Frankie sat on his bunk, head hung. ‘Stop. Reg, Reg, Reg, Reg, Reg . . . you and me . . . we are this ship. We are this war. When I go home it’s b
ack to real life, ain’t it? My Jean’s waiting for me.’

  Have you ever felt like the world has fallen away from under your feet like a trapdoor? I fell. I almost tumbled into the sink, scattering metal trays and tools. ‘Your Jean? Your Jean? You . . . you kept her quiet!’

  He looked up at me, and so help me God, there was pity in those blue eyes of his. ‘I thought you knew, Reg. You must have . . . all those letters I get from home, who did you think they were from?’

  I couldn’t stop them. Bastard tears rolled down my cheeks. ‘I loved you.’

  ‘Reg, I . . .’

  ‘I am a fool.’ I backed towards the door. ‘And you are a stranger.’ And I left him.

  I watched him leave the Unicorn from the bridge. He limped onto dry land, looking over his shoulder onto deck, perhaps searching for me, perhaps not. There wasn’t to be a goodbye. He did not return to HMS Unicorn when we next docked.

  I don’t know what became of him and the war fizzled out a year later.

  As we set sail for Blighty, I was no longer angry, only full of a longing I couldn’t rid myself of. Frankie lingered in my veins.

  By the time I arrived back in London, things were changing, improving – slowly – but improving. Politicians talking, talking, talking, the way they always do. Life went on. I was strong enough to never seek him out, but sufficiently weak to remember him – even now.

  The memory of that man, Frankie Cain, outlived my ill-advised marriage. Poor, sweet Brenda. It even surpassed Hastings & Sons in Chiswick, which is now, naturally, a Tesco Metro.

  I am an old man now, and I was lucky enough to fall in love again. I survived a plague that killed almost everyone I knew. But he’s still there, like that feeble, pale anchor tattoo on my arm: always there, under my skin.

  ‘I ask those [homosexuals] to show their thanks by comporting themselves quietly and with dignity . . . any form of ostentatious behaviour now or in the future or any form of public flaunting would be utterly distasteful . . .’

  Lord Arran, 1967, after homosexuality was decriminalized

  FROM

  NORTHERN LIGHTS