‘Bloody Mobo,’ he said quietly and venomously. ‘Didn’t you get the message? No queers allowed. What are you bloody doing here? It’s girls we’re singing with. Not lushmen, Mobo, no little lushmen.’
‘Frig off, Holland,’ the boy said tonelessly. ‘I’m in the choir, aren’t I?’
‘Bloody choir,’ Holland repeated, his face ugly with illogical aggression. ‘Bloody frigging choir.’
Then the girls came in.
No one had heard the bus from town arriving and the room, to Niles’ startled eyes, seemed suddenly to be filled with chattering uniformed females. He heard laughter and giggles, caught flashing glimpses of cheeks and red mouths, hair and knees as the other half of the chorus sat itself down opposite. The boys fired nervous exploratory glances across the two yards of floor between them. Niles studied his score with commendable intensity. He noticed Holland brazenly scrutinizing the girls. Cautiously, Niles raised his eyes and looked over. They seemed very ordinary, was his first reflection. Dark blue blazers, short skirts, some black tights. There was one tall girl with a severe, rather thin face. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate twisted bun and at first he thought she was a mistress, but then he saw her uniform. He scanned the features of the others but their faces refused to register any individuality – he might have been staring at a Chinese football team.
Holland bowed his head.
‘Mm-mm. I’ve seen mine,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The blonde in front.’ He gave a whimper of suppressed desire. Some boys looked round and smiled, complicity springing up instantly, like recognition.
‘Right, everybody,’ Prothero shouted, banging out a chord on the piano. ‘Page twenty-three please.’
‘And I’m never ever sick at sea,’ Prothero sang.
‘What never?’ boomed the chorus of sailors.
‘No never,’ replied Prothero.
‘What never?’ the chorus sceptically inquired again.
‘Hardly ever,’ Prothero admitted.
‘He’s hardly ever sick at sea . . .’
‘Fine,’ Prothero called. ‘Good, that’ll do for today. Thank you, ladies. Your bus should be outside. Scores on the end of the piano as you go out, please.’
The bus was late and the girls had to wait for five minutes outside the chapel. Niles took his time finding his coat in the vestibule and when he went outside Holland and Panton were already talking to four girls. ‘Niles, Niles,’ they shouted as he emerged into the watery sunlight of a February afternoon. ‘Over here.’ He walked over, the blood pounding in his ears like surf. Holland stood behind a slim blonde girl with moles on her face, Panton by a cheery-looking redhead. Niles approached. One of the two remaining girls was the tall sharp-faced one he’d seen earlier. The other was small with wispy fair hair and spectacles.
‘This is Quentin,’ Holland said. ‘Hero of the rugby field, captain of the squash team. Master flogger extraordinaire.’
‘Shut up!’ Niles exclaimed, appalled at this slander. ‘You bastard.’
‘What’s a flogger?’ Holland’s girl asked. Panton was doubled up with mirth. The tall girl looked on expressionlessly.
‘Never mind,’ Holland said. ‘Sorry, Quent. Little joke. Now, this is Joyce,’ he indicated Panton’s girl. ‘This is Helen,’ pointing to his own. ‘And,’ he looked at the tall girl, ‘Alison? Yes, Alison. And, um . . .’
‘Frances,’ said the small girl.
Niles had moved round to stand beside Alison. Frances was clearly on her own. She stood undecidedly for a moment before wandering off without a further word.
Holland and Panton had instinctively sensed out the kind of girl they were after. Innuendoes were already being exchanged with a wanton suggestiveness. Niles looked at Alison. She was tall. In her high heels slightly taller than him. She appeared older, in her twenties almost, but the severity of her face was partly an illusion caused by her schoolmarmy bun. Her skirt was not as short as Helen’s or Joyce’s; it stopped two inches above her knees. Her legs were long and shapely. On the lapel of her blazer were numerous badges: three Robertson’s gollies, a small Canadian maple leaf, a yellow square, and a blue rectangular one with ‘monitor’ written on it in plain silver letters. She wore a white shirt, and a tie with the smallest knot in it Niles had ever seen.
He had to say something. He cleared his throat. ‘Campaign medals?’ he said, pointing to the badges. He realized his finger was two inches from her right breast and he snatched his hand away. He thought she gave the thinnest of smiles in response but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Cold though,’ he said, huffing and puffing into his cupped hands.
She rummaged in her blazer pockets. ‘Cigarette?’ she asked taking out a packet and offering it to him.
Niles was taken aback by this unselfconsciously adult gesture. ‘Christ no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I mean, we’re not allowed.’
But she was already offering them to Joyce and Helen. Alison took out a box of matches and lit the others’ cigarettes. For some reason Niles was impressed by the capable way she did this – she obviously smoked a lot. Meanwhile Holland and Panton aped nicotine starvation. When Joyce and Helen exhaled they chased the clouds of smoke about, beating it into their gaping mouths with their hands as if it were vital oxygen. The girls laughed delightedly.
‘What I’d give for a fag,’ said Holland through gritted teeth.
‘Oh yeah?’ said lissom Helen.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Niles said to Alison with more accusation in his voice than he’d meant.
Alison laughed briefly.
Niles brushed his teeth, alone at the row of basins. He rinsed his mouth out and went to stand in front of the large mirror by the urinals. He looked at his square face. He rubbed his jaw. He’d need to shave tomorrow. He had to shave every two days now. Somebody shouted ‘virile!’ through the washroom door. Niles whirled round but he didn’t see who it was. When he turned back to the mirror his face was red.
He thought about Alison. Everything about her was maddeningly indistinct and ambiguous. All he’d heard her say was ‘cigarette?’ and ‘bye’. It wasn’t much to build a relationship on. He had an image of the back of her long legs in their tan tights as she’d climbed on to the bus. He wondered what her breasts were like. Her ‘soft bosoms’.
He sighed and belted his dressing gown tighter around him. He walked through the quiet empty house towards his dormitory. A junior came padding down the corridor in pyjamas.
‘Where are you going, Payne?’ Niles said tiredly.
‘For a slash, Niles.’
‘Where’s your bloody slippers and dressing gown then?’
‘Oh Niles,’ Payne moaned.
‘Get back and bloody put them on.’
‘Oh God, Niles, please, I just want a pee. I’ll only be a second.’
‘Go on, you little shit,’ Niles raised his hand menacingly. Payne turned and ran back up the corridor.
Niles walked on towards his dormitory. It was a small one, only eight beds. He opened the door quietly. It was well past lights out. The long room was quite dark. He closed the door softly behind him.
‘Okay, folks,’ came a voice. ‘Stop flogging, here’s Niles.’
‘Shut up, Fillery,’ Niles said. Fillery was fat and wicked. His mother was an actress who lived in Cannes.
‘What’s she like then, Niles?’ Fillery said.
‘Who?’
‘Who? The bloody bird of course, that’s who. Pinafore. What’s your one like?’
‘Yeah, go on, Niles,’ said another voice. ‘Tell us, what’s she like?’
‘Shut up. I’m warning you lot.’
‘Come on, Niles,’ Fillery said wheedlingly. ‘I bet she’s all right. I bet you got a good one.’
Niles got into bed. He lay down and put his hands behind his neck. ‘She’s okay,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’m not complaining.’ There were soft groans of envy at this. ‘Not bad, I suppose,’ he went on. ‘She’s got nice long legs.’
&nb
sp; ‘What’s her name?’
‘Alison.’
‘Oh Alison, Alison.’ People tried out the name on their tongues as if it were a foreign word.
‘Tits?’ Fillery asked.
‘You filthy bugger,’ Niles said. ‘Trust bloody Fillery.’ But Niles felt the lie rise unprompted in his throat. ‘They’re nice if you must know,’ he said. ‘Average size. Sort of pointy, if you know what I mean.’ There was a chorus of groans at this, deep and despairing. Someone jiggled furiously up and down on his bed causing the springs to creak and complain.
‘Shut up,’ Niles hissed angrily. ‘That’s your lot. Now get to sleep.’
* * *
He saw Alison at the next rehearsal a week later. Already people had paired off, Helen and Joyce making straight for Holland and Panton at the first break.
‘Fifteen minutes, ladies and gentlemen,’ Prothero called.
Niles wandered over to Alison. Again he was impressed by her mature looks.
‘Hi there,’ he said, as casually as he could.
‘Oh . . . hello.’ She smiled. ‘It’s, um, Quentin, isn’t it?’
Niles hated his name. ‘ ’Fraid so,’ he said.
‘Phew,’ she said. ‘Any chance of us having a quiet smoke somewhere?’
They picked their way through the small wood at the back of the chapel. It had rained heavily that morning and the stark trunks of the beech and ash trees were wet and shiny. Alison puffed aggressively at her cigarette. Niles had declined again. He turned up the collar of his blazer and remarked on the inclemency of the season. Alison looked suspiciously at him, as if he were making a joke. Her hair was mid-brown and her skin was very white. She had a thin mouth but her lips were well formed, there was a deep and pronounced dip to her cupid’s bow. Niles found this detail endearing, as if somehow this validated his choice of her. His heart seemed to swell with emotion. Their elbows touched as the path narrowed. Niles checked his watch.
‘Better not go too far,’ he said, then paused before adding, ‘they might get suspicious . . .’
‘Sure,’ Alison said, flicking her cigarette away. ‘Smoking like a chimney. I’ve got Highers in a few months.’
‘Mmmm,’ Niles sympathized. ‘I’ve got my A’s,’ he said. ‘Then Oxbridge.’
‘Are you going to Oxford?’ Alison asked. She had a mild Scottish accent, she pronounced the ‘r’ in Oxford.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s the general idea.’ He wondered why he’d lied.
‘I’m going to Aberdeen,’ she said.
‘Ah.’
They walked slowly back to the music room. They were the last to arrive. Holland and Panton looked up admiringly at him as he regained his seat.
‘Quent,’ Holland whispered. ‘You bloody sex-maniac.’
‘Shagger,’ Panton accused. ‘Bloody old shagger, Quent.’
‘Quiet please,’ Prothero called. ‘If you’re quite ready, Niles. Now can we have the ensemble? Jolly tars, female relatives and Josephine: “Oh joy oh rapture unforeseen, for now the sky is all serene,” right? Two, three.’
‘What happened next?’ Fillery prompted.
Niles lay in bed. He could sense the entire dormitory waiting in quiet expectancy. Hands on their cocks, he thought.
‘We went round the back of the chapel,’ he continued. ‘Walked into the wood a bit. We sat down on a log. Chatted a bit . . . I could feel the atmosphere between us just building up. We were talking about work, but not talking about it, if you know what I mean. It was more just something to say.’
‘Who made the first move?’ Fillery asked.
‘I did of course. I was talking. Then I stopped, and looked up. She was looking at me . . . in that sort of way.’
‘Oh God.’
‘She was looking at me, as if to say . . . and we just sort of moved close together and kissed.’
There was a pause.
‘Get your tongue down?’
’Jesus, Fillery. One track bloody mind . . . Yeah, yeah, if you must know every detail. Not at first – the third or fourth kiss. But it got pretty passionate. Frenching just about all the time.’
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ somebody called. ‘I can’t stand it any more.’
‘What else happened,’ Fillery implored. ‘Did you . . . you know?’
‘We kissed mainly. Hell, we didn’t have much time. She was just sort of running her hand through my hair. I got a bit of a feel but not much. I’ll have to wait until next week.’
Fillery was quiet. ‘God you bastard, Niles,’ he said. ‘You lucky bastard.’
On Saturday, after lunch, Holland and Panton bicycled the three miles to the coast. Helen’s family kept a caravan on the caravan site by the beach. Helen and Joyce had arranged to meet the boys there. Niles was playing in a first XV rugby match. He heard all about their exploits later in the afternoon. He was in his study changing out of his rugby kit – the school had lost and he thought he’d pulled a muscle in his thigh – when Holland and Panton burst in.
‘Oh my God, Quent,’ Holland crowed. ‘I don’t believe it. It was incredible. They had booze too. I’m pissed.’ He held up his middle finger. ‘Sticky finger, Quent. First time.’
Niles plucked at his laces. An irrational hatred and resentment for Holland and Panton festered inside him. Holland he didn’t mind. Pete was screwing all the time by all accounts. But Panton? He was short-arsed and had spots. Why should he have any luck?
‘Get your rocks off then?’ he asked without looking up.
‘Not this time. They wouldn’t let us. But, my God, Nilo, we could, you know, we could. We’ve got to fix something up.’
Niles felt a vast relief. Just feel-ups then. Big bloody deal.
‘Here,’ Holland said. ‘Almost forgot. A message from Alison. Wey-hey!’ With a flourish he handed over a lilac envelope. Niles felt his throat contract. He opened it carefully.
‘Any clippings?’ Holland asked with a snigger.
‘Hardly,’ Niles said. Holland had a French girlfriend who used to send him cuttings of her pubic hair. They were cherished and passed round like sacred relics. This fact had single-handedly boosted Holland’s reputation to near-legendary heights.
‘Dear Quentin,’ Niles read. ‘I was wondering if by any chance you would like to come and have tea tomorrow (Sunday). I realize this is short notice but if I don’t hear from you I’ll expect you at four. I hope you can make it. Sincerely, Alison.’
Niles felt his pulled muscle twitch spasmodically in his thigh. ‘I hope you can make it.’ That was good. But ‘sincerely’? really!
‘What is it, for Christ’s sake?’ Panton asked.
‘Tea,’ Niles said. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
Holland shook his head admiringly. ‘You got it made, Quent boy. You are home and dry . . . We must get something fixed up though. For all of us. After the last performance maybe. Jesus, the bloody show’s over in a couple of weeks.’
Alison’s house was a grey sandstone bungalow at the better end of the small Scottish county town near the school. Niles cycled the six miles there through a fine rainy mist and arrived damp and chilled. He met Alison’s parents – Mr and Mrs McCullen – and her fourteen-year-old sister Diane. They sat in a warm immaculate sitting room and ate scones and pancakes. The family were kind and genial and Niles relaxed almost immediately and made them laugh with anecdotes of school life. He was a great success with Diane. Alison sat quietly for most of the time, occasionally passing round plates or pouring out more tea. She was wearing jeans and a tight pale blue sweater that gave her a firm breasty look. It was the first time he’d seen her out of uniform and the first time he’d seen her with her hair down. It was long and wavy, dull and thick. It made her look less severe. He felt buoyant with lust and desire, as if he were over-inflated, as if his lungs were crammed with extra capacity of air. He had a sherry before remounting his bike for the long ride back. He reached the school in time for supper.
‘I undressed her very slowly,’ he
told the dormitory. ‘As if she was, sort of fragile, or very weak. I unfastened her bra and I kissed her breasts gently. Then . . . then I pulled down her pants and I told her to stand there while I looked at her. She was very slim. Her breasts were firm with almost perfectly round nipples . . .’ He swallowed, gazing up unblinkingly at the ceiling as he elaborated his fiction. Even Fillery was silent. ‘Then I undressed and we got into bed. I ran my hands all over her body. I wanted to make love but, well, we couldn’t because I . . . I didn’t have a johnny.’
‘I’ve got dozens,’ Fillery said. ‘If you’d only asked me.’
‘How was I meant to know it would happen?’ Niles protested. ‘That her parents weren’t going to be in? I thought it was just an invitation for tea, for God’s sake.’
Niles, Holland and Panton stood at the back of the assembly hall. They were wearing cadet force naval bell-bottoms rolled up to mid calf, singlets and red-spotted neckerchiefs. In front of the stage Prothero was trying to get the school orchestra into tune. On stage Mr Mulcaster, the art teacher, was applying final touches to his backdrop depicting the poop deck of HMS Pinafore. Mulcaster’s initials were T. A. M., Thomas Anthony Mulcaster. He was known as Tampax Tony.
‘Christ almighty, look at Tampax,’ Panton said scornfully. ‘It’s pathetic. I think he’s actually painting in a seagull.’
‘Ah, now that’s an original touch,’ Holland confessed. ‘Almost as good as his rigging and halliards.’
‘A seagull,’ Niles said. ‘What’s it supposed to be doing? Hovering in one spot for the entire course of the play?’
‘Oh no. He’s painting in a ship on the horizon. A three-master me hearties, ar.’
‘We’ve got to work something out,’ Holland said seriously. ‘We must have something arranged for after the cast party. Think of something for Christ’s sake.’
‘I’ve already told you,’ Panton said. ‘It’s got to be the squash courts. They’re ideal.’
‘Not a chance, mate,’ Niles said. ‘Do you know what would happen to me if we got caught?’
‘Yes. You’d lose your squash colours,’ Panton said with heavy sarcasm.
‘Jesus, Nilo,’ Holland pleaded. ‘You’re captain of squash. You’ve got the keys. We can lock the doors behind us. No one’ll know.’